And, going to that now silent square,
He found the mark his knife made there,
And quietly with many a stroke
The pavement of the place he broke:
And so, the stones being set apart,
He 'gan to dig with beating heart,
And from the hole in haste he cast
The marl and gravel; till at last,
Full shoulder high, his arms were jarred,
For suddenly his spade struck hard
With clang against some metal thing:
And soon he found a brazen ring,
All green with rust, twisted, and great
As a man's wrist, set in a plate
Of copper, wrought all curiously
With words unknown though plain to see
Spite of the rust; and flowering trees,
And beasts, and wicked images,
Whereat he shuddered; for he knew
What ill things he might come to do,
If he should still take part with these
And that great master strive to please.

But small time had he then to stand
And think, so straight he set his hand
Unto the ring; but where he thought
That by main strength it must be brought
From out its place, lo! easily

It came away, and let him see

A winding staircase wrought of stone, Wherethrough the new-come wind did

moan.

Then thought he, 'If I come alive
From out this place, well shall I thrive,
For I may look here certainly
The treasures of a king to see,

A mightier man than men are now.
So in few days what man shall know
The needy Scholar, seeing me
Great in the place where great men be,
The richest man in all the land?
Beside the best then shall I stand,
And some unheard-of palace have;
And if my soul I may not save
In heaven, yet here in all men's eyes
Will I make some sweet paradise,
With marble cloisters, and with trees
And bubbling wells, and fantasies,
And things all men deem strange and rare,
And crowds of women kind and fair,
That I may see, if so I please,
Laid on the flowers, or mid the trees
With half-clad bodies wandering.
There, dwelling happier than the king,
What lovely days may yet be mine!
How shall I live with love and wine
And music, till I come to die!
And then who knoweth certainly
What haps to us when we are dead?
Truly I think by likelihead
Naught haps to us of good or bad;
Therefore on earth will I be glad

A short space, free from hope or fear;
And fearless will I enter here
And meet my fate, whatso it be.'

Now on his back a bag had he,
To bear what treasure he might win,
And therewith now did he begin
To go adown the winding stair;
And found the walls all painted fair
With images of many a thing,
Warrior and priest, and queen and king,
But nothing knew what they might be.
Which things full clearly could he see,
For lamps were hung up here and there
Of strange device, but wrought right fair,
And pleasant savor came from them.

At last a curtain, on whose hem
Unknown words in red gold were writ,
He reached, and softly raising it
Stepped back, for now did he behold
A goodly hall hung round with gold,
And at the upper end could see
Sitting a glorious company:
Therefore he trembled, thinking well
They were no men, but fiends of hell.
But while he waited, trembling sore,
And doubtful of his late-learned lore,
A cold blast of the outer air
Blew out the lamps upon the stair,
And all was dark behind him; then
Did he fear less to face those men
Than, turning round, to leave them there
While he went groping up the stair.
Yea, since he heard no cry or call
Or any speech from them at all,
He doubted they were images
Set there some dying king to please
By that great master of the art;
Therefore at last with stouter heart
He raised the cloth and entered in
In hope that happy life to win,
And drawing nigher did behold
That these were bodies dead and cold,
Attired in full royal guise,

And wrought by art in such a wise
That living they all seemed to be,
Whose very eyes he well could see,
That now beheld not foul or fair,
Shining as though alive they were.
And midmost of that company
An ancient king that man could see,
A mighty man, whose beard of gray
A foot over his gold gown lay;
And next beside him sat his queen,
Who in a flowery gown of green
And golden mantle well was clad,
And on her neck a collar had
Too heavy for her dainty breast;
Her loins by such a belt were pressed
That whoso in his treasury
Held that alone a king might be.
On either side of these, a lord
Stood heed fully before the board,

And in their hands held bread and wine
For service; behind these did shine
The armor of the guards, and then
The well-attired serving-men,
The minstrels clad in raiment meet;
And over against the royal seat
Was hung a lamp, although no flame
Was burning there, but there was set
Within its open golden fret

A huge carbuncle, red and bright;
Wherefrom there shone forth such a light
That great hall was as clear by it,
As though by wax it had been lit,
As some great church at Easter-tide.
Now set a little way aside,
Six paces from the daïs stood,
An image made of brass and wood,
In likeness of a full-armed knight
Who pointed 'gainst the ruddy light
A huge shaft ready in a bow.

Pondering how he could come to know What all these marvellous matters meant, About the hall the Scholar went, Trembling, though nothing moved as yet; And for a while did he forget

The longings that had brought him there
In wondering at these marvels fair;
And still for fear he doubted much
One jewel of their robes to touch.

But as about the hall he passed
He grew more used to them at last,
And thought, 'Swiftly the time goes by,
And now no doubt the day draws nigh.
Folk will be stirring; by my head
A fool I am to fear the dead,
Who have seen living things enow,
Whose very names no man can know,
Whose shapes brave men might well af-
fright

More than the lion in the night
Wandering for food;' therewith he drew
Unto those royal corpses two,

That on dead brows still wore the crown;
And midst the golden cups set down
The rugged wallet from his back,
Patched of strong leather, brown and
black.

Then, opening wide its mouth, took up
From off the board a golden cup
The king's dead hand was laid upon,
Whose unmoved eyes upon him shone,
And recked no more of that last shame
Than if he were the beggar lame,
Who in old days was wont to wait
For a dog's meal beside the gate.

Of which shame naught our man did reck,

But laid his hand upon the neck
Of the slim queen, and thence undid
The jewelled collar, that straight slid
Down her smooth bosom to the board.
And when these matters he had stored

Safe in his sack, with both their crowns,
The jewelled parts of their rich gowns,
Their shoes and belts, brooches and rings,
And cleared the board of all rich things,
He staggered with them down the hall.
But as he went his eyes did fall
Upon the wonderful green stone,
Upon the hall floor laid alone.
He said, 'Though thou art not so great
To add by much unto the weight
Of this my sack indeed, yet thou,
Certes, would make me rich enow,
That verily with thee I might
Wage one half of the world to fight
The other half of it, and I
The lord of all the world might die;
I will not leave thee:' therewithal
He knelt down midmost of the hall,
Thinking it would come easily
Into his hand; but when that he
Gat hold of it, full fast it stack.
So, fuming, down he laid his sack,
And with both hands pulled lustily.
But as he strained, he cast his eye
Unto the dais, and saw there
The image who the great bow bare
Moving the bowstring to his ear;
So, shrieking out aloud for fear,
Of that rich stone he loosed his hold
And, catching up his bag of gold,
Gat to his feet: but ere he stood,
The evil thing of brass and wood
Up to his ears the notches drew;
And clanging forth the arrow flew,
And midmost of the carbuncle
Clanging again, the forked barbs fell,
And all was dark as pitch straightway.

So there until the judgment day
Shall come and find his bones laid low,
And raise them up for weal or woe,
This man must bide; cast down he lay,
While all his past life day by day
In one short moment he could see
Drawn out before him, while that he
In terror by that fatal stone
Was laid, and scarcely dared to moan.
But in a while his hope returned,
And then, though nothing he discerned
He gat him up upon his feet,
And all about the walls he beat
To find some token of the door,
But never could he find it more,
For by some dreadful sorcery
All was sealed close as it might be,
And midst the marvels of that hall
This Scholar found the end of all.

But in the town on that same night,
An hour before the dawn of light,
Such storm upon the place there fell,
That not the oldest man could tell
Of such another; and thereby
The image was burnt utterly,

Being stricken from the clouds above;
And folk deemed that same bolt did move
The pavement where that wretched one
Unto his foredoomed fate had gone,
Because the plate was set again
Into its place, and the great rain
Washed the earth down, and sorcery
Had hid the place where it did lie.

So soon the stones were set all straight;
But yet the folk, afraid of fate,
Where once the man of cornel-wood
Through many a year of bad and good
Had kept his place, set up alone
Great Jove himself, cut in white stone,
But thickly overlaid with gold.
'Which,' saith my tale, 'you may behold
Unto this day, although indeed
Some lord or other, being in need,
Took every ounce of gold away.'

But now, this tale in some past day
Being writ, I warrant all is gone,
Both gold and weather-beaten stone.

Be merry, masters, while ye may,
For men much quicker pass away.

LOVE IS ENOUGH
(Final Chorus)
[1873.]

LOVE is enough: ho ye who seek saving, Go go further; come hither; there have been who have found it,

And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;

These know the Cup with the roses around it,

These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it:

Cry out, the World heedeth not, "Love, lead us home!"

He leadeth, He harkeneth, He cometh to you-ward;

Set your faces as steel to the fears that assemble

Round his goad for the faint, and his Scourge for the froward:

Lo his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!

Lo his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!

Cry out, for he heedeth, "O Love, lead us home!"

O harken the words of his voice of compassion:

"Come cling round about me, ye faithful who sicken

Of the weary unrest and the world's passing fashion!

As the rain in mid-morning your troubles shall thicken,

But surely within you some Godhead doth quicken,

As ye cry to me heeding, and leading you home.

"Come pain ye shall have, and be blind to the ending!

Come fear ye shall have, mid the sky's overcasting!

Come change ye shall have, for far are ye wending!

Come no crown ye shall have for your thirst and your fasting,

But the kissed lips of Love and fair life everlasting!

Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth you home!"

Is he gone? was he with us?-ho ye who seek saving.

Go no further; come hither; for have we not found it?

Here is the House of Fulfilment of Crav

THE DAY IS COMING
[1885.]

COME hither, lads, and harken, for a tale there is to tell,

Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the sea, And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come, Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home.

For then, laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine,

All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him,

and rejoice in the deeds of his hand, Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear

For to-morrow's lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad

Of his fellow's fall and mishap to snatch at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed,

Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice!

But

for whom shall we gather the grain? For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labor in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours,

and no more shall any man crave For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill,

And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;

And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead; And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet's teeming head;

And the painter's hand of wonder; and the marvelous fiddle-bow,

And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men's; nor shall any lack a share

Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair.

Ah! such are the days that shall be! what are the deeds of to-day,

But

In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away?

Why, then, and for what are we waiting? There are three words to speak;

How long shall they reproach us where crowd on crowd they dwell,

Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the goldcrushed, hungry hell?

Through squalid life they labored, in sordid grief they died,

Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse; But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door

For the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned discontent, We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent.

Come, then, since all things call us, the living and the dead,

And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.

Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest,

For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail,

Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his

deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know:

That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and forth the Banners go.

WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING

Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon

[1865.]

WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,

The mother of months in meadow or plain

Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces,

The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers,

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamour of waters, and with might;

Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,

Fold our hands round her knees, and cling?

O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her,

Fire, or the strength of the streams that
spring!

For the stars and the winds are unto her
As raiment, as songs of the harp-player;
For the risen stars and the fallen cling to
her,

And the southwest-wind and the westwind sing.

For winter's rains and ruins are over,

And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover,

The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit:

And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofèd heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Mænad and the Bassarid;

And soft as lips that laugh and hide
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes;
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare
Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its
leaves,

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that
flies.

BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF
YEARS

Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon
[1865.]

BEFORE the beginning of years
There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;

Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,

And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand

From under the feet of the years;
And froth and drift of the sea;
And dust of the labouring earth;
And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love With life before and after

And death beneath and above,