Poems By the Way Part 2

But underneath the streets are still; Noon, and the market's o'er!

Back go the goodwives o'er the hill; _For we return no more_.

What merchant to our gates shall come?

What wise man bring us lore?

What abbot ride away to Rome, _Now we return no more_?

What mayor shall rule the hall we built?

Whose scarlet sweep the floor?

What judge shall doom the robber's guilt, _Now we return no more_?

New houses in the streets shall rise Where builded we before, Of other stone wrought otherwise; _For we return no more_.

And crops shall cover field and hill Unlike what once they bore, And all be done without our will, _Now we return no more_.

Look up! the arrows streak the sky, The horns of battle roar; The long spears lower and draw nigh, _And we return no more_.

Remember how beside the wain, We spoke the word of war, And sowed this harvest of the plain, _And we return no more_.

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox!

The days of old are o'er; Heave sword about the Running Ox!

_For we return no more_.

HOPE DIETH: LOVE LIVETH.

Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong Thine heart to live, and love, and long; But thou art wed to grief and wrong: Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!

Live on, & labour thro' the years!

Make pictures through the mist of tears, Of unforgotten happy fears, That crossed the time ere hope was dead.

Draw near the place where once we stood Amid delight's swift-rus.h.i.+ng flood, And we and all the world seemed good Nor needed hope now cold and dead.

Dream in the dawn I come to thee Weeping for things that may not be!

Dream that thou layest lips on me!

Wake, wake to clasp hope's body dead!

Count o'er and o'er, and one by one The minutes of the happy sun That while agone on kissed lips shone, Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.

Weep, though no hair's breadth thou shalt move The living Earth, the heaven above By all the bitterness of love!

Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!

Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease, Life hath no joy, and Death no peace: The years change not, though they decrease, For hope is dead, for hope is dead.

Speak, love, I listen: far away I bless the tremulous lips, that say, "Mock not the afternoon of day, Mock not the tide when hope is dead!"

I bless thee, O my love, who say'st: "Mock not the thistle-c.u.mbered waste; I hold Love's hand, and make no haste Down the long way, now hope is dead.

With other names do we name pain, The long years wear our hearts in vain.

Mock not our loss grown into gain, Mock not our lost hope lying dead.

Our eyes gaze for no morning-star, No glimmer of the dawn afar; Full silent wayfarers we are Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.

Behold with lack of happiness The master, Love, our hearts did bless Lest we should think of him the less: Love dieth not, though hope is dead!"

ERROR AND LOSS.

Upon an eve I sat me down and wept, Because the world to me seemed nowise good; Still autumn was it, & the meadows slept, The misty hills dreamed, and the silent wood Seemed listening to the sorrow of my mood: I knew not if the earth with me did grieve, Or if it mocked my grief that bitter eve.

Then 'twixt my tears a maiden did I see, Who drew anigh me on the leaf-strewn gra.s.s, Then stood and gazed upon me pitifully With grief-worn eyes, until my woe did pa.s.s From me to her, and tearless now I was, And she mid tears was asking me of one She long had sought unaided and alone.

I knew not of him, and she turned away Into the dark wood, and my own great pain Still held me there, till dark had slain the day, And perished at the grey dawn's hand again; Then from the wood a voice cried: "Ah, in vain, In vain I seek thee, O thou bitter-sweet!

In what lone land are set thy longed-for feet?"

Then I looked up, and lo, a man there came From midst the trees, and stood regarding me Until my tears were dried for very shame; Then he cried out: "O mourner, where is she Whom I have sought o'er every land and sea?

I love her and she loveth me, and still We meet no more than green hill meeteth hill."

With that he pa.s.sed on sadly, and I knew That these had met and missed in the dark night, Blinded by blindness of the world untrue, That hideth love and maketh wrong of right.

Then midst my pity for their lost delight, Yet more with barren longing I grew weak, Yet more I mourned that I had none to seek.

THE HALL AND THE WOOD.

'Twas in the water-dwindling tide When July days were done, Sir Rafe of Greenhowes, 'gan to ride In the earliest of the sun.

He left the white-walled burg behind, He rode amidst the wheat.

The westland-gotten wind blew kind Across the acres sweet.

Then rose his heart and cleared his brow, And slow he rode the way: "As then it was, so is it now, Not all hath worn away."

So came he to the long green lane That leadeth to the ford, And saw the sickle by the wain s.h.i.+ne bright as any sword.

The brown carles stayed 'twixt draught and draught, And murmuring, stood aloof, But one spake out when he had laughed: "G.o.d bless the Green-wood Roof!"

Then o'er the ford and up he fared: And lo the happy hills!

And the mountain-dale by summer cleared, That oft the winter fills.

Then forth he rode by Peter's gate, And smiled and said aloud: "No more a day doth the Prior wait, White stands the tower and proud."

There leaned a knight on the gateway side In armour white and wan, And after the heels of the horse he cried, "G.o.d keep the hunted man!"

Then quoth Sir Rafe, "Amen, amen!"

For he deemed the word was good; But never a while he lingered then Till he reached the Nether Wood.

He rode by ash, he rode by oak, He rode the thicket round, And heard no woodman strike a stroke, No wandering wife he found.

He rode the wet, he rode the dry, He rode the gra.s.sy glade: At Wood-end yet the sun was high, And his heart was unafraid.

There on the bent his rein he drew, And looked o'er field and fold, O'er all the merry meads he knew Beneath the mountains old.

He gazed across to the good Green Howe As he smelt the sun-warmed sward; Then his face grew pale from chin to brow, And he cried, "G.o.d save the sword!"

For there beyond the winding way, Above the orchards green, Stood up the ancient gables gray With ne'er a roof between.

His naked blade in hand he had, O'er rough and smooth he rode, Till he stood where once his heart was glad Amidst his old abode.