The Lord of Misrule, and Other Poems Part 15

Older than the moon, older than the stars, Older than the wind in the night,-- Though the young dews are sweet On the heather at our feet And the blue hills laughing back the light,--

Till the stars grow young, till the hills grow young, O, Love, we shall walk through Time, Till we round the world at last, And the future be the past, And the winds of Eden greet us from the prime.

THE TORCH

(_Suss.e.x Landscape_)

Is it your watch-fire, elves, where the down with its darkening shoulder Lifts on the death of the sun, out of the valley of thyme?

Dropt on the broad chalk path and, cresting the ridge of it, smoulder Crimson as blood on the white, halting my feet as they climb,

Cl.u.s.ters of clover-bloom, spilled from what negligent arms in the tender Dusk of the great grey world, last of the tints of the day; Beautiful, sorrowful, strange last stain of that peris.h.i.+ng splendour.

Elves, from what torn white feet trickled that red on the way?

No--from the sun-burnt hands of what lovers that fade in the distance?

Here, was it here that they paused, here that the legend was told?

Even a kiss would be heard in this hush; but, with mocking insistence, Now thro' the valley resound--only the bells of the fold.

Dropt--from the hands of what beautiful throng? Did they cry "_follow after_"?

Dancing into the west, leaving this token for me, _Memory dead on the path, and the sunset to bury their laughter?_ Youth--is it youth that has flown? Darkness covers the sea.

Darkness covers the earth; but the path is here! I a.s.say it.

Let the bloom fall like a flake--dropt from the torch of a friend!

Beautiful revellers, happy companions, I see and obey it; Follow your torch in the night, follow your path to the end.

THE OUTLAW

Deep in the greenwood of my heart My wild hounds race.

I cloak my soul at feast and mart, I mask my face;

Outlawed, but not alone, for Truth Is outlawed, too.

Proud world, you cannot banish us.

_We_ banish _you_.

Go by, go by, with all your din, Your dust, your greed, your guile, Your gold, your thrones can never win-- From Her--one smile.

She sings to me in a lonely place, She takes my hand.

I look into her lovely face And understand....

Outlawed, but not alone, for Love Is outlawed, too.

You cannot banish us, proud world.

_We_ banish _you_.

Now which is outlawed, which alone?

Around us fall and rise Murmurs of leaf and fern, the moan Of Paradise.

Outlawed? Then hills and woods and streams Are outlawed, too!

Proud world, from our immortal dreams, We banish you.

THE YOUNG FRIAR

When leaves broke out on the wild briar, And bells for matins rung, Sorrow came to the old friar --Hundreds of years ago it was!-- And May came to the young.

The old was ripening for the sky, The young was twenty-four.

The Franklin's daughter pa.s.sed him by, Reading a painted missal-book, Beside the chapel door.

With brown ca.s.sock and sandalled feet, And red Spring wine for blood; The very next noon he chanced to meet The Franklin's daughter, in a green May twilight, Walking through the wood.

_Pax vobisc.u.m_--to a maid The crosiered ferns among!

But hers was only the Saxon, And his the Norman tongue; And the Latin taught by the old friar Made music for the young.

And never a better deed was done By Mother Church below Than when she made old England one, --Hundreds of years ago it was!-- Hundreds of years ago.

Rich was the painted page they read Before that sunset died; Nut-brown hood by golden head, Murmuring _Rosa Mystica_, While nesting thrushes cried.

A Saxon maid with flaxen hair, And eyes of Suss.e.x grey; A young monk out of Normandy:-- "May is our Lady's month," he said, "And O, my love, my May!"

Then over the fallen missal-book The missel-thrushes sung Till--_Domus Aurea_--rose the moon And bells for vespers rung.

It was gold and blue for the old friar, But hawthorn for the young.

For gown of green and brown hood, Before that curfew tolled, Had flown for ever through the wood --Hundreds of years ago it was!-- But twenty summers old.

And empty stood his chapel stall, Empty his thin grey cell, Empty her seat in the Franklin's hall; And there were swords that searched for them Before the matin bell.

And, crowders tell, a sword that night Wrought them an evil turn, And that the may was not more white Than those white bones the robin found Among the roots of fern.

But others tell of stranger things Half-heard on Whitsun eves, Of sweet and ghostly whisperings-- Though hundreds of years ago it was-- Among the ghostly leaves:--

_Sero te amavi_-- Grey eyes of sun-lit dew!-- _Tam antiqua, Tam nova_-- Augustine heard it, too.

Late have I loved that May, Lady, So ancient, and so new!

And no man knows where they were flown, For the wind takes the may: But white and fresh the may was blown --Though hundreds of years ago it was-- As this that blooms to-day.

And the leaves break out on the wild briar, And bells must still be rung; But sorrow comes to the old friar, For he remembers a May, a May, When his old heart was young.