Poems By The Way & Love Is Enough Part 19

There may the autumn acres tell Of how men met, and what befell.

The Black Burg under the Eagle's nest Shall tell the tale as it liketh best.

And sooth it is that the River-land Lacks many an autumn-gathering hand.

And there are troth-plight maids unwed Shall deem awhile that love is dead;

And babes there are to men shall grow Nor ever the face of their fathers know.

And yet in the Land by the River-side Doth never a thrall or an earl's man bide;

For Hugh the Earl of might and mirth Hath left the merry days of Earth;

And we live on in the land we love, And grudge no hallow Heaven above.

THE VOICE OF TOIL

I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying, All days shall be as all have been; To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow, The never-ending toil between.

When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger, In hope we strove, and our hands were strong; Then great men led us, with words they fed us, And bade us right the earthly wrong.

Go read in story their deeds and glory, Their names amidst the nameless dead; Turn then from lying to us slow-dying In that good world to which they led;

Where fast and faster our iron master, The thing we made, for ever drives, Bids us grind treasure and fas.h.i.+on pleasure For other hopes and other lives.

Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel, Forgetting that the world is fair; Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish; Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.

Who now shall lead us, what G.o.d shall heed us As we lie in the h.e.l.l our hands have won?

For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers, The great are fallen, the wise men gone.

I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying, The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep; Are we not stronger than the rich and the wronger, When day breaks over dreams and sleep?

Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world grows older!

Help lies in nought but thee and me; Hope is before us, the long years that bore us Bore leaders more than men may be.

Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry, And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth, While we the living our lives are giving To bring the bright new world to birth.

Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows older!

The Cause spreads over land and sea; Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh, And joy at last for thee and me.

GUNNAR'S HOWE ABOVE THE HOUSE AT LITHEND

Ye who have come o'er the sea to behold this grey minster of lands, Whose floor is the tomb of time past, and whose walls by the toil of dead hands Show pictures amidst of the ruin of deeds that have overpast death, Stay by this tomb in a tomb to ask of who lieth beneath.

Ah! the world changeth too soon, that ye stand there with unbated breath, As I name him that Gunnar of old, who erst in the haymaking tide Felt all the land fragrant and fresh, as amidst of the edges he died.

Too swiftly fame fadeth away, if ye tremble not lest once again The grey mound should open and show him glad-eyed without grudging or pain.

Little labour methinks to behold him but the tale-teller laboured in vain.

Little labour for ears that may hearken to hear his death-conquering song, Till the heart swells to think of the gladness undying that overcame wrong.

O young is the world yet meseemeth and the hope of it flouris.h.i.+ng green, When the words of a man unremembered so bridge all the days that have been, As we look round about on the land that these nine hundred years he hath seen.

Dusk is abroad on the gra.s.s of this valley amidst of the hill: Dusk that shall never be dark till the dawn hard on midnight shall fill The trench under Eyiafell's snow, and the grey plain the sea meeteth grey.

White, high aloft hangs the moon that no dark night shall brighten ere day, For here day and night toileth the summer lest deedless his time pa.s.s away.

THE DAY IS COMING

Come hither, lads, and hearken, for a tale there is to tell, Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better than well.

And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the sea, And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be.

There more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come, Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home.

For then, laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine, All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine.

Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his hand, Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.

Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear For to-morrow's lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear.

I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad Of his fellow's fall and mishap to s.n.a.t.c.h at the work he had.

For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed, Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed.

O strange new wonderful justice!

But for whom shall we gather the gain?

For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labour in vain.

Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man crave For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave.

And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?

Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till;