A Selection from the Poems of William Morris E-Book

William Morris

• Herausgeber: DigiCat
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In 'A Selection from the Poems of William Morris,' readers are treated to a collection of the renowned author's poetic works, showcasing Morris's mastery of the written word. Known for his contributions to the British Arts and Crafts Movement, Morris's poems reflect themes of beauty, nature, and social justice, creating a tapestry of rich imagery and profound ideas. His lyrical style and use of medieval settings set him apart in Victorian literature, inspiring future generations of writers and poets. This selection offers a glimpse into Morris's literary genius and the depth of his creative vision. William Morris, a prolific writer, artist, and social activist, was driven by a passion for artistry and social reform. His love for nature and concern for societal inequalities are reflected in his poetry, making him a prominent figure in the Victorian era. Morris's commitment to aesthetic principles and socialist beliefs shines through in his verses, making him a unique voice in English literature. For readers interested in exploring the beauty and power of Victorian poetry, 'A Selection from the Poems of William Morris' is a must-read. Morris's timeless works continue to inspire and captivate audiences, offering a glimpse into a bygone era while remaining relevant in today's context for anyone seeking to delve into the depths of poetic craftsmanship and social consciousness.

Leseprobe

William Morris

A Selection from the Poems of William Morris

 

EAN 8596547360315

DigiCat, 2022 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

FROM

"THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS."

THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE.

A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON.

SHAMEFUL DEATH.

THE EVE OF CRECY.

THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS.

RIDING TOGETHER.

SUMMER DAWN.

FROM

"THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON."

BOOK XIV.

FROM

"THE EARTHLY PARADISE."

AN APOLOGY.

FROM

PROLOGUE—THE WANDERERS.

ARGUMENT.

OGIER THE DANE.

ARGUMENT.

Song .

HÆC.

ILLE.

HÆC.

ILLE.

THE GOLDEN APPLES.

L'ENVOI.

FROM "LOVE IS ENOUGH."

INTERLUDES.

FROM

"THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOLSUNG."

BOOK II.

R E G I N.

Of the birth of Sigurd the son of Sigmund.

Page

From "THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS."

The Defence of Guenevere

23

A Good Knight in Prison

36

Shameful Death

41

The Eve of Crecy

43

The Haystack in the Floods

45

Riding together

51

Summer Dawn

54

From "THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON." (Book XIV.)

The Sirens.—The Garden of the Hesperides.—The Heroes do Sacrifice at Malea

55

From "THE EARTHLY PARADISE."

An Apology

82

From Prologue—The Wanderers

84

Ogier the Dane

95

The golden Apples

147

L'Envoi

168

From "LOVE IS ENOUGH."

Interludes

173

From "THE STORY OF SIGURD THE VOLSUNG." (Book II.)

Regin

178

FROM

Table of Contents

"THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE AND OTHER POEMS."

Table of Contents

THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE.

Table of Contents

 But, knowing now that they would have her speak, She threw her wet hair backward from her brow, Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek, As though she had had there a shameful blow, And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame, All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so, She must a little touch it; like one lame She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head Still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame The tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said:"O knights and lords, it seems but little skill To talk of well-known things past now and dead."God wot I ought to say, I have done ill, And pray you all forgiveness heartily! Because you must be right such great lords—still"Listen, suppose your time were come to die, And you were quite alone and very weak; Yea, laid a dying while very mightily"The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak Of river through your broad lands running well: Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak:"'One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell, Now choose one cloth for ever, which they be, I will not tell you, you must somehow tell"'Of your own strength and mightiness; here, see!' Yea, yea, my lord, and you to ope your eyes, At foot of your familiar bed to see"A great God's angel standing, with such dyes, Not known on earth, on his great wings, and hands, Held out two ways, light from the inner skies"Showing him well, and making his commands Seem to be God's commands, moreover, too, Holding within his hands the cloths on wands;"And one of these strange choosing cloths was blue, Wavy and long, and one cut short and red; No man could tell the better of the two."'After a shivering half-hour you said, 'God help! heaven's colour, the blue;' and he said, 'hell.' Perhaps you then would roll upon your bed,"And cry to all good men that loved you well, 'Ah Christ! if only I had known, known, known;' Launcelot went away, then I could tell,"Like wisest man how all things would be, moan, And roll and hurt myself, and long to die, And yet fear much to die for what was sown."Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happened through these years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie." Her voice was low at first, being full of tears, But as it cleared, it grew full loud and shrill, Growing a windy shriek in all men's ears, A ringing in their startled brains, until She said that Gauwaine lied, then her voice sunk, And her great eyes began again to fill, Though still she stood right up, and never shrunk, But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair! Whatever tears her full lips may have drunk, She stood, and seemed to think, and wrung her hair, Spoke out at last with no more trace of shame, With passionate twisting of her body there:"It chanced upon a day Launcelot came To dwell at Arthur's Court; at Christmas-time This happened; when the heralds sung his name,"'Son of King Ban of Benwick,' seemed to chime Along with all the bells that rang that day, O'er the white roofs, with little change of rhyme."Christmas and whitened winter passed away, And over me the April sunshine came, Made very awful with black hail-clouds, yea"And in the Summer I grew white with flame, And bowed my head down—Autumn, and the sick Sure knowledge things would never be the same,"However often Spring might be most thick Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and I grew Careless of most things, let the clock tick, tick,"To my unhappy pulse, that beat right through My eager body; while I laughed out loud, And let my lips curl up at false or true,"Seemed cold and shallow without any cloud. Behold my judges, then the cloths were brought: While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts would crowd,"Belonging to the time ere I was bought By Arthur's great name and his little love, Must I give up for ever then, I thought,"That which I deemed would ever round me move Glorifying all things; for a little word, Scarce ever meant at all, must I now prove"Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does the Lord Will that all folks should be quite happy and good? I love God now a little, if this cord"Were broken, once for all what striving could Make me love anything in earth or heaven. So day by day it grew, as if one should"Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, Down to a cool sea on a summer day; Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven"Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way, Until one surely reached the sea at last, And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay"Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea all past Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, Washed utterly out by the dear waves o'ercast,"In the lone sea, far off from any ships! Do I not know now of a day in Spring? No minute of that wild day ever slips"From out my memory; I hear thrushes sing, And wheresoever I may be, straightway Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting:"I was half mad with beauty on that day, And went without my ladies all alone, In a quiet garden walled round every way;"I was right joyful of that wall of stone, That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky, And trebled all the beauty: to the bone,"Yea right through to my heart, grown very shy With weary thoughts, it pierced, and made me glad; Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily,"A little thing just then had made me mad; I dared not think, as I was wont to do, Sometimes, upon my beauty; If I had"Held out my long hand up against the blue, And, looking on the tenderly darken'd fingers, Thought that by rights one ought to see quite through,"There, see you, where the soft still light yet lingers, Round by the edges; what should I have done, If this had joined with yellow spotted singers,"And startling green drawn upward by the sun? But shouting, loosed out, see now! all my hair, And trancedly stood watching the west wind run"With faintest half-heard breathing sound—why there I lose my head e'en now in doing this; But shortly listen—In that garden fair"Came Launcelot walking; this is true, the kiss Wherewith we kissed in meeting that spring day, I scarce dare talk of the remember'd bliss,"When both our mouths went wandering in one way, And aching sorely, met among the leaves; Our hands being left behind strained far away."Never within a yard of my bright sleeves Had Launcelot come before—and now, so nigh! After that day why is it Guenevere grieves?"Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever happened on through all those years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie."Being such a lady could I weep these tears If this were true? A great queen such as I Having sinn'd this way, straight her conscience sears;"And afterwards she liveth hatefully, Slaying and poisoning, certes never weeps— Gauwaine be friends now, speak me lovingly."Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps All through your frame, and trembles in your mouth? Remember in what grave your mother sleeps,"Buried in some place far down in the south, Men are forgetting as I speak to you; By her head sever'd in that awful drouth"Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow, I pray your pity! let me not scream out For ever after, when the shrill winds blow"Through half your castle-locks! let me not shout For ever after in the winter night When you ride out alone! in battle-rout"Let not my rusting tears make your sword light! Ah! God of mercy how he turns away! So, ever must I dress me to the fight,"So—let God's justice work! Gauwaine, I say, See me hew down your proofs: yea all men know Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one day,"One bitter day in la Fausse Garde, for so All good knights held it after, saw— Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage; though"You, Gauwaine, held his word without a flaw, This Mellyagraunce saw blood upon my bed— Whose blood then pray you? is there any law"To make a queen say why some spots of red Lie on her coverlet? or will you say, 'Your hands are white, lady, as when you wed,"'Where did you bleed?' and must I stammer out—'Nay', I blush indeed, fair lord, only to rend My sleeve up to my shoulder, where there lay"'A knife-point last night:' so must I defend The honour of the lady Guenevere? Not so, fair lords, even if the world should end"This very day, and you were judges here Instead of God. Did you see Mellyagraunce When Launcelot stood by him? what white fear"Curdled his blood, and how his teeth did dance, His side sink in? as my knight cried and said, 'Slayer of unarm'd men, here is a chance!"'Setter of traps, I pray you guard your head, By God I am so glad to fight with you, Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead"'For driving weight; hurrah now! draw and do, For all my wounds are moving in my breast, And I am getting mad with waiting so.'"He struck his hands together o'er the beast, Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at his feet, And groan'd at being slain so young—'at least.'"My knight said, 'Rise you, sir, who are so fleet At catching ladies, half-arm'd will I fight, My left side all uncover'd!' then I weet,"Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with great delight Upon his knave's face; not until just then Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight"Along the lists look to my stake and pen With such a joyous smile, it made me sigh From agony beneath my waist-chain, when"The fight began, and to me they drew nigh; Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right, And traversed warily, and ever high"And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my knight Sudden threw up his sword to his left hand, Caught it, and swung it; that was all the fight."Except a spout of blood on the hot land; For it was hottest summer; and I know I wonder'd how the fire, while I should stand,"And burn, against the heat, would quiver so, Yards above my head; thus these matters went: Which things were only warnings of the woe"That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce was shent, For Mellyagraunce had fought against the Lord; Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you be blent"With all this wickedness; say no rash word Against me, being so beautiful; my eyes, Wept all away the grey, may bring some sword"To drown you in your blood; see my breast rise, Like waves of purple sea, as here I stand; And how my arms are moved in wonderful wise,"Yea also at my full heart's strong command, See through my long throat how the words go up In ripples to my mouth; how in my hand"The shadow lies like wine within a cup Of marvellously colour'd gold; yea now This little wind is rising, look you up,"And wonder how the light is falling so Within my moving tresses: will you dare When you have looked a little on my brow,"To say this thing is vile? or will you care For any plausible lies of cunning woof, When you can see my face with no lie there"For ever? am I not a gracious proof— 'But in your chamber Launcelot was found'— Is there a good knight then would stand aloof,"When a queen says with gentle queenly sound: 'O true as steel come now and talk with me, I love to see your step upon the ground"'Unwavering, also well I love to see That gracious smile light up your face, and hear Your wonderful words, that all mean verily"'The thing they seem to mean: good friend, so dear To me in everything, come here to-night, Or else the hours will pass most dull and drear;"'If you come not, I fear this time I might Get thinking over much of times gone by, When I was young, and green hope was in sight:"'For no man cares now to know why I sigh; And no man comes to sing me pleasant songs, Nor any brings me the sweet flowers that lie"'So thick in the gardens; therefore one so longs To see you, Launcelot; that we may be Like children once again, free from all wrongs"'Just for one night.' Did he not come to me? What thing could keep true Launcelot away If I said 'Come?' there was one less than three"In my quiet room that night, and we were gay; Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and sick, Because a bawling broke our dream up, yea"I looked at Launcelot's face and could not speak, For he looked helpless too, for a little while; Then I remember how I tried to shriek,"And could not, but fell down; from tile to tile The stones they threw up rattled o'er my head And made me dizzier; till within a while"My maids were all about me, and my head On Launcelot's breast was being soothed away From its white chattering, until Launcelot said—"By God! I will not tell you more to-day, Judge any way you will—what matters it? You know quite well the story of that fray,"How Launcelot still'd their bawling, the mad fit That caught up Gauwaine—all, all, verily, But just that which would save me; these things flit."Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, Whatever may have happen'd these long years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie!"All I have said is truth, by Christ's dear tears." She would not speak another word, but stood Turn'd sideways; listening, like a man who hears His brother's trumpet sounding through the wood Of his foe's lances. She lean'd eagerly, And gave a slight spring sometimes, as she could At last hear something really; joyfully Her cheek grew crimson, as the headlong speed Of the roan charger drew all men to see, The knight who came was Launcelot at good need.

A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON.

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Sir Guy, being in the court of a Pagan castle.

This castle where I dwell, it standsA long way off from Christian lands,A long way off my lady's hands,A long way off the aspen trees,And murmur of the lime-tree bees.But down the Valley of the RoseMy lady often hawking goes,Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind,Leaning towards the western wind,Because it bringeth to her mindSad whisperings of happy times,The face of him who sings these rhymes.King Guilbert rides beside her there,Bends low and calls her very fair,And strives, by pulling down his hair,To hide from my dear lady's kenThe grisly gash I gave him, whenI cut him down at Camelot;However he strives, he hides it not,That tourney will not be forgot,Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot,Whatever he says she answers not.Now tell me, you that are in love,From the king's son to the wood-dove,Which is the better, he or I?For this king means that I should dieIn this lone Pagan castle, whereThe flowers droop in the bad airOn the September evening.Look, now I take mine ease and sing,Counting as but a little thingThe foolish spite of a bad king.For these vile things that hem me in,These Pagan beasts who live in sin,The sickly flowers pale and wan,The grim blue-bearded castellan,The stanchions half worn-out with rust,Whereto their banner vile they trust—Why, all these things I hold them justLike dragons in a missal book,Wherein, whenever we may look,We see no horror, yea, delightWe have, the colours are so bright;Likewise we note the specks of white,And the great plates of burnish'd gold.Just so this Pagan castle old,And everything I can see there,Sick-pining in the marshland air,I note; I will go over now,Like one who paints with knitted brow,The flowers and all things one by one,From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.Four great walls, and a little oneThat leads down to the barbican,Which walls with many spears they man,When news comes to the castellanOf Launcelot being in the land.And as I sit here, close at handFour spikes of sad sick sunflowers stand,The castellan with a long wandCuts down their leaves as he goes by,Ponderingly, with screw'd-up eye,And fingers twisted in his beard—Nay, was it a knight's shout I heard?I have a hope makes me afeard:It cannot be, but if some dreamJust for a minute made me deemI saw among the flowers thereMy lady's face with long red hair,Pale, ivory-colour'd dear face come,As I was wont to see her someFading September afternoon,And kiss me, saying nothing, soonTo leave me by myself again;Could I get this by longing: vain!The castellan is gone: I seeOn one broad yellow flower a beeDrunk with much honey—Christ! again,Some distant knight's voice brings me pain,I thought I had forgot to feel,I never heard the blissful steelThese ten years past; year after year,Through all my hopeless sojourn here,No Christian pennon has been near;Laus Deo! the dragging wind draws onOver the marches, battle won,Knights' shouts, and axes hammering,Yea, quicker now the dint and ringOf flying hoofs; ah, castellan,When they come back count man for man,Say whom you miss.

The Pagans, from the battlements.

Mahmoud to aid!Why flee ye so like men dismay'd?

The Pagans, from without.

Nay, haste! for here is Launcelot,Who follows quick upon us, hotAnd shouting with his men-at-arms.

Sir Guy.

Also the Pagans raise alarms,And ring the bells for fear; at lastMy prison walls will be well past.

Sir Launcelot, from outside.

Ho! in the name of the Trinity,Let down the drawbridge quick to me,And open doors, that I may seeGuy the good knight.

The Pagans, from the battlements.

Nay, Launcelot,With mere big words ye win us not.

Sir Launcelot.

Bid Miles bring up la perriere,And archers clear the vile walls there,Bring back the notches to the ear,Shoot well together! God to aid!These miscreants shall be well paid.Hurrah! all goes together; MilesIs good to win my lady's smilesFor his good shooting—Launcelot!On knights a-pace! this game is hot!

Sir Guysayeth afterwards.

I said, I go to meet her now,And saying so, I felt a blowFrom some clench'd hand across my brow,And fell down on the sunflowersJust as a hammering smote my ears,After which this I felt in sooth;My bare hands throttling without ruthThe hairy-throated castellan;Then a grim fight with those that ranTo slay me, while I shouted, "GodFor the Lady Mary!" deep I trodThat evening in my own red blood;Nevertheless so stiff I stood,That when the knights burst the old woodOf the castle-doors, I was not dead.I kiss the Lady Mary's head,Her lips, and her hair golden red,Because to-day we have been wed.

SHAMEFUL DEATH.

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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 twilightHis spirit pass'd away,When neither sun nor moon was bright,And the trees were merely grey.He was not slain with the sword,Knight's axe, or the knightly spear,Yet spoke he never a wordAfter he came in here;I cut away the cordFrom 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 grey,But I met Sir John of the FenLong ago on a summer day,And am glad to think of the moment whenI took his life away.I am threescore and ten,And my strength is mostly pass'd,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 EVE OF CRECY.

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Gold on her head, and gold on her feet,And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet,And a golden girdle round my sweet;—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Margaret's maids are fair to see,Freshly dress'd and pleasantly;Margaret's hair falls down to her knee;—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.If I were rich I would kiss her feet,I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet,And the golden girdle round my sweet—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Ah me! I have never touch'd her hand;When the arriere-ban goes through the land,Six basnets under my pennon stand;—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.And many an one grins under his hood:"Sir Lambert de Bois, with all his men good,Has neither food nor firewood;"—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.If I were rich I would kiss her feet,And the golden girdle of my sweet,And thereabouts where the gold hems meet;—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Yet even now it is good to think,While my few poor varlets grumble and drinkIn my desolate hall where the fires sink;—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Of Margaret sitting glorious there,In glory of gold and glory of hair,And glory of glorious face most fair;—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.Likewise to-night I make good cheer,Because this battle draweth near:For what have I to lose or fear?—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.For, look you, my horse is good to pranceA right fair measure in this war-dance,Before the eyes of Philip of France;—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.And sometime it may hap, perdie,While my new towers stand up three and three,And my hall gets painted fair to see—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.—That folks may say: "Times change, by the rood,For Lambert, banneret of the wood,Has heaps of food and firewood;—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite;—"And wonderful eyes, too, under the hoodOf a damsel of right noble blood:"St. Ives, for Lambert of the wood!—Ah! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite.

THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS.

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Had she come all the way for this,To part at last without a kiss?Yea, had she borne the dirt and rainThat her own eyes might see him slainBeside the haystack in the floods?Along the dripping leafless woods,The stirrup touching either shoe,She rode astride as troopers do;With kirtle kilted to her knee,To which the mud splash'd wretchedly;And the wet dripp'd from every treeUpon her head and heavy hair,And on her eyelids broad and fair;The tears and rain ran down her face.By fits and starts they rode apace,And very often was his placeFar off from her; he had to rideAhead, to see what might betideWhen the road cross'd; and sometimes, whenThere rose a murmuring from his men,Had to turn back with promises;Ah me! she had but little ease;And often for pure doubt and dreadShe sobb'd, made giddy in the headBy the swift riding; while, for cold,Her slender fingers scarce could holdThe wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too,She felt the foot within her shoeAgainst the stirrup: all for this,To part at last without a kissBeside the haystack in the floods.For when they near'd that old soak'd hay,They saw across the only wayThat Judas, Godmar, and the threeRed running lions dismallyGrinn'd from his pennon, under whichIn one straight line along the ditch,They counted thirty heads.So then,While Robert turn'd round to his men,She saw at once the wretched end,And, stooping down, tried hard to rendHer coif the wrong way from her head,And hid her eyes; while Robert said:"Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one,At Poictiers where we made them runSo fast—why, sweet my love, good cheer,The Gascon frontier is so near,Nought after this."But, "O," she said,"My God! my God! I have to treadThe long way back without you; thenThe court at Paris; those six men;The gratings of the Chatelet;The swift Seine on some rainy dayLike this, and people standing by,And laughing, while my weak hands tryTo recollect how strong men swim.All this, or else a life with him,For which I should be damned at last,Would God that this next hour were past!"He answer'd not, but cried his cry,"St. George for Marny!" cheerily;And laid his hand upon her rein.Alas! no man of all his trainGave back that cheery cry again;And, while for rage his thumb beat fastUpon his sword-hilt, some one castAbout his neck a kerchief long,And bound him.Then they went alongTo Godmar; who said: "Now, Jehane,Your lover's life is on the waneSo fast, that, if this very hourYou yield not as my paramour,He will not see the rain leave off—Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and scoff,Sir Robert, or I slay you now."She laid her hand upon her brow,Then gazed upon the palm, as thoughShe thought her forehead bled, and—"No,"She said, and turn'd her head away,As there were nothing else to say,And everything were settled: redGrew Godmar's face from chin to head:"Jehane, on yonder hill there standsMy castle, guarding well my lands:What hinders me from taking you,And doing that I list to doTo your fair wilful body, whileYour knight lies dead?"A wicked smileWrinkled her face, her lips grew thin,A long way out she thrust her chin:"You know that I should strangle youWhile you were sleeping; or bite throughYour throat, by God's help—ah!" she said,"Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid!For in such wise they hem me in,I cannot choose but sin and sin,Whatever happens: yet I thinkThey could not make me eat or drink,And so should I just reach my rest.""Nay, if you do not my behest,O Jehane! though I love you well,"Said Godmar, "would I fail to tellAll that I know." "Foul lies," she said."Eh? lies, my Jehane? by God's head,At Paris folks would deem them true!Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you,'Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!Give us Jehane to burn or drown!'—Eh—gag me, Robert!—sweet my friend,This were indeed a piteous endFor those long fingers, and long feet,And long neck, and smooth shoulders sweet;An end that few men would forgetThat saw it—So, an hour yet:Consider, Jehane, which to takeOf life or death!"So, scarce awakeDismounting, did she leave that place,And totter some yards: with her faceTurn'd upward to the sky she lay,Her head on a wet heap of hay,And fell asleep: and while she slept,And did not dream, the minutes creptRound to the twelve again; but she,Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly,And strangely childlike came, and said:"I will not." Straightway Godmar's head,As though it hung on strong wires, turn'dMost sharply round, and his face burn'd.For Robert—both his eyes were dry,He could not weep but gloomilyHe seem'd to watch the rain; yea, too,His lips were firm; he tried once moreTo touch her lips; she reach'd out, soreAnd vain desire so tortured them,The poor grey lips, and now the hemOf his sleeve brush'd them.With a startUp Godmar rose, thrust them apart;From Robert's throat he loosed the bandsOf silk and mail; with empty handsHeld out, she stood and gazed, and saw,The long bright blade without a flawGlide out from Godmar's sheath, his handIn Robert's hair; she saw him bendBack Robert's head; she saw him sendThe thin steel down; the blow told well,Right backward the knight Robert fell,And moan'd as dogs do, being half dead,Unwitting, as I deem: so thenGodmar turn'd grinning to his men,Who ran, some five or six, and beatHis head to pieces at their feet.Then Godmar turn'd again and said:"So, Jehane, the first fitte is read!Take note, my lady, that your wayLies backward to the Chatelet!"She shook her head and gazed awhileAt her cold hands with a rueful smile,As though this thing had made her mad.This was the parting that they hadBeside the haystack in the floods.

RIDING TOGETHER.

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