Of calm and quiet mien, was leading him In friendly converse and society:

But whom he wist not: neither could he trim

Memory's spent torch to know what things were said,

Nor about what, in that long way and dim.

But as the valley still before him spread, He saw a line, that did the same divide Across in halves which made him feel great dread.

For he beheld fire burning on one side Unto the mountains from the midmost vale;

On the other, ice the empire did discide, Fed from the opposing hill with snow and hail.

So dreary was that haunt of fire and cold,

That nought on earth to equal might avail.

Fire ended where began the frozen

mould;

Now while his mind was fill'd with ruth and fear,

And with great horror stood his eyeballs steep,

Deeming that hell before him did ap

pear,

And souls in torment toss'd from brink to brink :

Upon him look'd the one who set him there,

And said: "This is not hell, as thou dost think,

Neither those torments of the cold and heat

Are those wherewith the damned wail and shrink."

And therewith from that place he turn'd his feet;

And sometime on they walk'd, the while this man

In anguish shuddering did the effect repeat:

Such spasms of horror through his body

ran,

Walking with stumbling, and with glazed

eyes

Whither he knew not led, ghastly and wan. Then said the other: "In those agonies No more than hell's beginning know: behold,

The doom of hell itself is otherwise."

Therewith he drew aside his vesture's fold,

And show'd his heart: than fire more hot it burn'd

One half the rest was ice than ice more cold.

A moment show'd he this: and then he turn'd,

And in his going all the vision went : And he, who in his mind these things discern'd,

Came to himself with long astonishment.

OF TEMPERANCE IN FORTUNE HAPPY the man who so hath Fortune tried That likewise he her poor relation knows :

To whom both much is given and denied :
To riches and to poverty he owes
An equal debt of both he makes acquist,
And moderate in all his mind he shows.

But ill befalls the man who hath not

miss'd

Aught of his heart's desires, in plenty nurs'd:

For evil things he knows not to resist :
And, aiding their assault, himself is

worst

Against himself, with self-destructive rage.

But states are with another evil curs'd,
For, falling into luxury with age,

They burst in tumults, swollen with bloody shame,

Which old exploits aggrieve and not assuage.

Past temperance doth the present feast inflame;

Past grandeur like too heavy armor weighs :

Great without virtue is an evil name.

THE GILLYFLOWER OF GOLD

A GOLDEN gillyflower to-day
I wore upon my helm alway,
And won the prize of this tourney.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

However well Sir Giles might sit,
His sun was weak to wither it,
Lord Miles's blood was dew on it:
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Although my spear in splinters flew
From John's steel-coat, my eye was true;
I wheel'd about, and cried for you,

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

Yea, do not doubt my heart was good, Though my sword flew like rotten wood, To shout, although I scarcely stood,

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

My hand was steady, too, to take
My axe from round my neck, and break
John's steel-coat up for my love's sake.
Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

When I stood in my tent again,
Arming afresh, I felt a pain

Take hold of me, I was so fain

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée

To hear: "Honneur aux fils des preux!
Right in my ears again, and shew
The gillyflower blossom'd new.

Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflée.

The Sieur Guillaume against me came, His tabard bore three points of flame

SHAMEFUL DEATH

THERE were four of us about that bed;

The mass-priest knelt at the side,

I and his mother stood at the head,

Over his feet lay the bride; We were quite sure that he was dead, Though his eyes were open wide.

He did not die in the night,

He did not die in the day, But in the morning twilight His spirit pass'd away,

When neither sun nor moon was bright, And the trees were merely gray.

He was not slain with the sword,

Knight's axe, or the knightly spear,

Yet spoke he never a word

After he came in here;

I cut away the cord

From the neck of my brother dear.

He did not strike one blow,

For the recreants came behind, In a place where the hornbeams grow, A path right hard to find, For the hornbeam boughs swing so That the twilight makes it blind.

They lighted a great torch then ; When his arms were pinion'd fast, Sir John the knight of the Fen,

Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, With knights threescore and ten, Hung brave Lord Hugh at last.

I am threescore and ten,

And my hair is all turn'd gray, But I met Sir John of the Fen

Long ago on a summer day,

And am glad to think of the moment when I took his life away.

I am threescore and ten,

And my strength is mostly past,

But long ago I and my men,

When the sky was overcast,

And the smoke roll'd over the reeds of the fen,

Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast.

And now, knights all of you,
I pray you pray for Sir Hugh,
A good knight and a true,

And for Alice, his wife, pray too.

THE BLUE CLOSET

The Damozels

LADY ALICE, Lady Louise,
Between the wash of the tumbling seas
We are ready to sing, if so ye please :
So lay your long hands on the keys ;
Sing "Laudate pueri.”

And ever the great bell overhead
Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,
Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead.

Lady Louise

Sister, let the measure swell

Not too loud; for you sing not well
If
you drown the faint boom of the bell;
He is weary, so am I.

And ever the chevron overhead
Flapp'd on the banner of the dead;
(Was he asleep, or was he dead?)

Lady Alice

Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,
Two damozels wearing purple and green,
Four lone ladies dwelling here
From day to day and year to year :
And there is none to let us go;

To break the locks of the doors below,
Or shovel away the heap'd-up snow;
And when we die no man will know
That we are dead; but they give us leave,
Once every year on Christmas-eve,
To sing in the Closet Blue one song :
And we should be so long, so long,
If we dar'd, in singing; for, dream on dream,
They float on in a happy stream;

Float from the gold strings, float from the keys,

Float from the open'd lips of Louise :
But, alas! the sea-salt oozes through

The chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;

And ever the great bell overhead
Booms in the wind a knell for the dead,
The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.

(They sing all together :)

How long ago was it, how long ago,

He came to this tower with hands full of

snow?

"Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down,"

he said,

And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.

He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair,

Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.

"I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise, For my tears are all hidden deep under the

seas;

"In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,

But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old

years;

"Yea, they grow gray with time, grow small and dry,

I am so feeble now, would I might die."

And in truth the great bell overhead Left off his pealing for the dead, Perchance because the wind was dead.

Will he come back again, or is he dead?
O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?

Or did they strangle him as he lay there,
With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?
Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here!
Both his soul and his body to me are most
dear.

Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receive

Either body or spirit this wild Christmas

eve.

Through the floor shot up a lily red,

With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,

For he was strong in the land of the dead.

What matter that his cheeks were pale,

His kind kiss'd lips all gray? "O, love Louise, have you waited long?" "O, my lord Arthur, yea."

What if his hair that brush'd her cheek
Was stiff with frozen rime?
His eyes were grown quite blue again,
As in the happy time.

"O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
My eyes are full of sand.
What matter that I cannot see,
If ye take me by the hand?"

And ever the great bell overhead
And the tumbling seas mourn'd for the dead;
For their song ceased, and they were dead.

FROM "THE EARTHLY PARADISE"

THE SINGER'S PRELUDE

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,

I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,

Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.

But rather, when aweary of your mirth
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,
Made the more mindful that the sweet days
die.
Remember me a little then, I pray,
The idle singer of an empty day.