A Shropshire Lad Part 6

XLII

THE MERRY GUIDE

Once in the wind of morning I ranged the thymy wold; The world-wide air was azure And all the brooks ran gold.

There through the dews beside me Behold a youth that trod, With feathered cap on forehead, And poised a golden rod.

With mien to match the morning And gay delightful guise And friendly brows and laughter He looked me in the eyes.

Oh whence, I asked, and whither?

He smiled and would not say, And looked at me and beckoned And laughed and led the way.

And with kind looks and laughter And nought to say beside We two went on together, I and my happy guide.

Across the glittering pastures And empty upland still And solitude of shepherds High in the folded hill,

By hanging woods and hamlets That gaze through orchards down On many a windmill turning And far-discovered town,

With gay regards of promise And sure unslackened stride And smiles and nothing spoken Led on my merry guide.

By blowing realms of woodland With sunstruck vanes afield And cloud-led shadows sailing About the windy weald,

By valley-guarded granges And silver waters wide, Content at heart I followed With my delightful guide.

And like the cloudy shadows Across the country blown We two face on for ever, But not we two alone.

With the great gale we journey That breathes from gardens thinned, Borne in the drift of blossoms Whose petals throng the wind;

Buoyed on the heaven-heard whisper Of dancing leaflets whirled From all the woods that autumn Bereaves in all the world.

And midst the fluttering legion Of all that ever died I follow, and before us Goes the delightful guide,

With lips that brim with laughter But never once respond, And feet that fly on feathers, And serpent-circled wand.

XLIII

THE IMMORTAL PART

When I meet the morning beam, Or lay me down at night to dream, I hear my bones within me say, "Another night, another day."

"When shall this slough of sense be cast, This dust of thoughts be laid at last, The man of flesh and soul be slain And the man of bone remain?"

"This tongue that talks, these lungs that shout, These thews that hustle us about, This brain that fills the skull with schemes, And its humming hive of dreams,-"

"These to-day are proud in power And lord it in their little hour: The immortal bones obey control Of dying flesh and dying soul."

" 'Tis long till eve and morn are gone: Slow the endless night comes on, And late to fulness grows the birth That shall last as long as earth."

"Wanderers eastward, wanderers west, Know you why you cannot rest?

'Tis that every mother's son Travails with a skeleton."

"Lie down in the bed of dust; Bear the fruit that bear you must; Bring the eternal seed to light, And morn is all the same as night."

"Rest you so from trouble sore, Fear the heat o' the sun no more, Nor the snowing winter wild, Now you labour not with child."

"Empty vessel, garment cast, We that wore you long shall last.

-Another night, another day."

So my bones within me say.

Therefore they shall do my will To-day while I am master still, And flesh and soul, now both are strong, Shall hale the sullen slaves along,

Before this fire of sense decay, This smoke of thought blow clean away, And leave with ancient night alone The stedfast and enduring bone.

XLIV

Shot? so quick, so clean an ending?

Oh that was right, lad, that was brave: Yours was not an ill for mending, 'Twas best to take it to the grave.

Oh you had forethought, you could reason, And saw your road and where it led, And early wise and brave in season Put the pistol to your head.

Oh soon, and better so than later After long disgrace and scorn, You shot dead the household traitor, The soul that should not have been born.

Right you guessed the rising morrow And scorned to tread the mire you must: Dust's your wages, son of sorrow, But men may come to worse than dust.

Souls undone, undoing others,- Long time since the tale began.

You would not live to wrong your brothers: Oh lad, you died as fits a man.

Now to your grave shall friend and stranger With ruth and some with envy come: Undishonoured, clear of danger, Clean of guilt, pa.s.s hence and home.

Turn safe to rest, no dreams, no waking; And here, man, here's the wreath I've made: 'Tis not a gift that's worth the taking, But wear it and it will not fade.

XLV

If it chance your eye offend you, Pluck it out, lad, and be sound: 'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you, And many a balsam grows on ground.

And if your hand or foot offend you, Cut it off, lad, and be whole; But play the man, stand up and end you, When your sickness is your soul.

XLVI