Thanks Whilst Unharnessing.

I.

(He gets down from the cart.)

WEST'RING the last of silver light doth gleam,
Whilst in the welling shimmer of the lamp
From the tired horse the blanketing of steam
Flickers and whirls aloft into the damp
Sharp winter darkness. In the deadened air
The long, still night doth settle everywhere,

And hark! there come the rapt, sweet, crooning snatches

Of song from where the little robin watches
Close in the thorn, beyond the ring of light.

II.

(He speaks towards the bushes.)

Softest of all the birds that sing at night,
For the most mellowest sound,

That the long year brings round,

Sweet robin, I give thanks, and love you best
Of birds that nest.

(He follows the horse in, humming.)

Sing! it is well, though the rest of life be bitter, Sing! (I swill the oats in the trough and loose the girth.) Warble! It is well.

That's the old grey rat.)

(There's a rustle in the litter :

It is well upon the earth.

III.

Clotht-up and snug and warm, a-munching oats
Old Tom doth make a comfortable sound,
A rhythmic symphony for your sweet notes.
(He speaks from the stable door.)

Small brother, flit in here, since all around
The frost hath gripped the ground;

And oh! I would not like to have

you die.

We's help each other,

Little Brother Beady-eye.

(The robin flits in.)

There-Sing!, Warm and mellow the lanthorn lights

the stable.

Little brother, sing! In-a-doors beside the hearth,
Slippers are a-toast, and the tea's upon the table.
Robin, when you sing it is well upon the earth.
(He closes the stable door and enters the cottage.)

Every Man: A Sequence.

I.

THE PLOUGHMAN.

I AM the ruler of all Kings

Who bear the State upon my back;
All wealth comes from my furrowings;
If I should stay my hand what lack,
What dearth and what despair, what death,
Where now waves wheat, what bitter heath!
I plough green lands, by shaws all brown,
Whilst knaves rise up and kings fall down.

II.

THE BLACKSMITH.

I am the ruler of all Kings.

This hammer, owning me for lord,

Lo now upon my anvil rings,

And there's your ploughshare, there your sword.

If I should stay my weighty hand

No corn could ripen on the land,

No blade should shield the widow's cause

Nor freeman arm to guard the laws.

III.

THE CITIZEN.

I am the ruler of all Kings,
Creator I of marts and ports:
All laws I give to present things
And for the Future in my Courts.
Lo! Men to be must rest content
To bow before my Parliament
When I am dead, and own the sway
Of the strong laws I make to-day.

IV.

THE PREAcher.

I am the ruler of all Kings,
Dictator I of Faith and Right,

And where my voice saith pleasant things
There shall be comfort in the night,
Before my wrath the People pales
And the embattled fortress fails:
When kings and peoples pass away
I lead them to eternal day.

V.

THE POET.

I am the ruler of all Kings,
Creator I of fames to be.

At my command the night-bird sings
Your ancient loves and, on the sea,

All olden fleets set in array

And golden ages own my sway.
Lo, king or ploughman, dead and gone,
In my loved pages shall live on.

VI.

ALL THE Dead.

We are the ruler of all Kings,

We are the Cause who here lie still:
What we once wrought all living things
Helpless endure.-Athwart this hill
Our feet wore pathways Every Man
Must travel on as best he can :

His changeless Past and Cause were we
Who ever were and e'er shall be.