The Damozels.LADY Alice, lady Louise,Between the wash of the tumbling seasWe are ready to sing, if so ye please;So lay your long hands on the keys;Sing,Laudate pueri.And ever the great bell overheadBoom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead.Lady Louise.Sister, let the measure swellNot too loud; for you sing not wellIf you drown the faint boom of the bell;He is weary, so am I.And ever the chevron overheadFlapped on the banner of the dead;(Was he asleep, or was he dead?)Lady Alice.Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,Two damozels wearing purple and green,Four lone ladies dwelling hereFrom day to day and year to year;And there is none to let us go;To break the locks of the doors below,Or shovel away the heaped-up snow;And when we die no man will knowThat we are dead; but they give us leave,Once every year on Christmas-eve,To sing in the Closet Blue one song;And we should be so long, so long,If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream,They float on in a happy stream;Float from the gold strings, float from the keys,Float from the open'd lips of Louise;But, alas! the sea-salt oozes throughThe chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;And ever the great bell overheadBooms in the wind a knell for the dead,The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.They sing all together.How long ago was it, how long ago,He came to this tower with hands full of snow?Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said,And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair,Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry,I am so feeble now, would I might die.And in truth the great bell overheadLeft off his pealing for the dead,Perchance, because the wind was dead.Will he come back again, or is he dead?O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?Or did they strangle him as he lay there,With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here!Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receiveEither body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.Through the floor shot up a lily red,With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,For he was strong in the land of the dead.What matter that his cheeks were pale,His kind kiss'd lips all grey?O, love Louise, have you waited long?O, my lord Arthur, yea.What if his hair that brush'd her cheekWas stiff with frozen rime?His eyes were grown quite blue again,As in the happy time.O, love Louise, this is the keyOf the happy golden land!O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,My eyes are full of sand.What matter that I cannot see,If ye take me by the hand?And ever the great bell overhead,And the tumbling seas mourned for the dead;For their song ceased, and they were dead.
The Damozels.
LADY Alice, lady Louise,Between the wash of the tumbling seasWe are ready to sing, if so ye please;So lay your long hands on the keys;Sing,Laudate pueri.And ever the great bell overheadBoom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead.
LADY Alice, lady Louise,Between the wash of the tumbling seasWe are ready to sing, if so ye please;So lay your long hands on the keys;Sing,Laudate pueri.
And ever the great bell overheadBoom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead.
Lady Louise.
Sister, let the measure swellNot too loud; for you sing not wellIf you drown the faint boom of the bell;He is weary, so am I.And ever the chevron overheadFlapped on the banner of the dead;(Was he asleep, or was he dead?)
Sister, let the measure swellNot too loud; for you sing not wellIf you drown the faint boom of the bell;He is weary, so am I.
And ever the chevron overheadFlapped on the banner of the dead;(Was he asleep, or was he dead?)
Lady Alice.
Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,Two damozels wearing purple and green,Four lone ladies dwelling hereFrom day to day and year to year;And there is none to let us go;To break the locks of the doors below,Or shovel away the heaped-up snow;And when we die no man will knowThat we are dead; but they give us leave,Once every year on Christmas-eve,To sing in the Closet Blue one song;And we should be so long, so long,If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream,They float on in a happy stream;Float from the gold strings, float from the keys,Float from the open'd lips of Louise;But, alas! the sea-salt oozes throughThe chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;And ever the great bell overheadBooms in the wind a knell for the dead,The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.
Alice the Queen, and Louise the Queen,Two damozels wearing purple and green,Four lone ladies dwelling hereFrom day to day and year to year;And there is none to let us go;To break the locks of the doors below,Or shovel away the heaped-up snow;And when we die no man will knowThat we are dead; but they give us leave,Once every year on Christmas-eve,To sing in the Closet Blue one song;And we should be so long, so long,If we dared, in singing; for dream on dream,They float on in a happy stream;Float from the gold strings, float from the keys,Float from the open'd lips of Louise;But, alas! the sea-salt oozes throughThe chinks of the tiles of the Closet Blue;And ever the great bell overheadBooms in the wind a knell for the dead,The wind plays on it a knell for the dead.
They sing all together.
How long ago was it, how long ago,He came to this tower with hands full of snow?Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said,And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair,Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry,I am so feeble now, would I might die.And in truth the great bell overheadLeft off his pealing for the dead,Perchance, because the wind was dead.Will he come back again, or is he dead?O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?Or did they strangle him as he lay there,With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here!Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receiveEither body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.Through the floor shot up a lily red,With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,For he was strong in the land of the dead.What matter that his cheeks were pale,His kind kiss'd lips all grey?O, love Louise, have you waited long?O, my lord Arthur, yea.What if his hair that brush'd her cheekWas stiff with frozen rime?His eyes were grown quite blue again,As in the happy time.O, love Louise, this is the keyOf the happy golden land!O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,My eyes are full of sand.What matter that I cannot see,If ye take me by the hand?And ever the great bell overhead,And the tumbling seas mourned for the dead;For their song ceased, and they were dead.
How long ago was it, how long ago,He came to this tower with hands full of snow?
Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel down! he said,And sprinkled the dusty snow over my head.
He watch'd the snow melting, it ran through my hair,Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders and bare.
I cannot weep for thee, poor love Louise,For my tears are all hidden deep under the seas;
In a gold and blue casket she keeps all my tears,But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old years;
Yea, they grow grey with time, grow small and dry,I am so feeble now, would I might die.
And in truth the great bell overheadLeft off his pealing for the dead,Perchance, because the wind was dead.
Will he come back again, or is he dead?O! is he sleeping, my scarf round his head?
Or did they strangle him as he lay there,With the long scarlet scarf I used to wear?
Only I pray thee, Lord, let him come here!Both his soul and his body to me are most dear.
Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to receiveEither body or spirit this wild Christmas-eve.
Through the floor shot up a lily red,With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,For he was strong in the land of the dead.
What matter that his cheeks were pale,His kind kiss'd lips all grey?O, love Louise, have you waited long?O, my lord Arthur, yea.
What if his hair that brush'd her cheekWas stiff with frozen rime?His eyes were grown quite blue again,As in the happy time.
O, love Louise, this is the keyOf the happy golden land!O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,My eyes are full of sand.What matter that I cannot see,If ye take me by the hand?
And ever the great bell overhead,And the tumbling seas mourned for the dead;For their song ceased, and they were dead.
NO one goes there now:For what is left to fetch awayFrom the desolate battlements all arow,And the lead roof heavy and grey?Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.No one walks there now;Except in the white moonlightThe white ghosts walk in a row;If one could see it, an awful sight,Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.But none can see them now,Though they sit by the side of the moat,Feet half in the water, there in a row,Long hair in the wind afloat.Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.If any will go to it now,He must go to it all alone,Its gates will not open to any rowOf glittering spears: willyougo alone?Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.By my love go there now,To fetch me my coif away,My coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow,Oliver, go to-day!Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.I am unhappy now,I cannot tell you why;If you go, the priests and I in a rowWill pray that you may not die.Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.If you will go for me now,I will kiss your mouth at last;[She sayeth inwardly.](The graves stand grey in a row.)Oliver, hold me fast!Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
NO one goes there now:For what is left to fetch awayFrom the desolate battlements all arow,And the lead roof heavy and grey?Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.No one walks there now;Except in the white moonlightThe white ghosts walk in a row;If one could see it, an awful sight,Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.But none can see them now,Though they sit by the side of the moat,Feet half in the water, there in a row,Long hair in the wind afloat.Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.If any will go to it now,He must go to it all alone,Its gates will not open to any rowOf glittering spears: willyougo alone?Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.By my love go there now,To fetch me my coif away,My coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow,Oliver, go to-day!Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.I am unhappy now,I cannot tell you why;If you go, the priests and I in a rowWill pray that you may not die.Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.If you will go for me now,I will kiss your mouth at last;[She sayeth inwardly.](The graves stand grey in a row.)Oliver, hold me fast!Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
NO one goes there now:For what is left to fetch awayFrom the desolate battlements all arow,And the lead roof heavy and grey?Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
No one walks there now;Except in the white moonlightThe white ghosts walk in a row;If one could see it, an awful sight,Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
But none can see them now,Though they sit by the side of the moat,Feet half in the water, there in a row,Long hair in the wind afloat.Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
If any will go to it now,He must go to it all alone,Its gates will not open to any rowOf glittering spears: willyougo alone?Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
By my love go there now,To fetch me my coif away,My coif and my kirtle, with pearls arow,Oliver, go to-day!Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
I am unhappy now,I cannot tell you why;If you go, the priests and I in a rowWill pray that you may not die.Listen! said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
If you will go for me now,I will kiss your mouth at last;[She sayeth inwardly.](The graves stand grey in a row.)Oliver, hold me fast!Therefore, said fair Yoland of the flowers,This is the tune of Seven Towers.
MIDWAYS of a wallèd garden,In the happy poplar land,Did an ancient castle stand,With an old knight for a warden.Many scarlet bricks there wereIn its walls, and old grey stone;Over which red apples shoneAt the right time of the year.On the bricks the green moss grew.Yellow lichen on the stone,Over which red apples shone;Little war that castle knew.Deep green water fill'd the moat,Each side had a red-brick lip,Green and mossy with the dripOf dew and rain; there was a boatOf carven wood, with hangings greenAbout the stern; it was great blissFor lovers to sit there and kissIn the hot summer noons, not seen.Across the moat the fresh west windIn very little ripples went;The way the heavy aspens bentTowards it, was a thing to mind.The painted drawbridge over itWent up and down with gilded chains,'Twas pleasant in the summer rainsWithin the bridge-house there to sit.There were five swans that ne'er did eatThe water-weeds, for ladies cameEach day, and young knights did the same,And gave them cakes and bread for meat.They had a house of painted wood,A red roof gold-spiked over it,Wherein upon their eggs to sitWeek after week; no drop of blood,Drawn from men's bodies by sword-blows,Came ever there, or any tear;Most certainly from year to year'Twas pleasant as a Provence rose.The banners seem'd quite full of ease,That over the turret-roofs hung down;The battlements could get no frownFrom the flower-moulded cornices.Who walked in that garden there?Miles and Giles and Isabeau,Tall Jehane du Castel beau,Alice of the golden hair,Big Sir Gervaise, the good knight,Fair Ellayne le Violet,Mary, Constance fille de fay,Many dames with footfall light.Whosoever wander'd there,Whether it be dame or knight,Half of scarlet, half of whiteTheir raiment was; of roses fairEach wore a garland on the head,At Ladies' Gard the way was so:Fair Jehane du Castel beauWore her wreath till it was dead.Little joy she had of it,Of the raiment white and red,Or the garland on her head,She had none with whom to sitIn the carven boat at noon;None the more did Jehane weep,She would only stand and keepSaying: He will be here soon!Many times in the long dayMiles and Giles and Gervaise passed,Holding each some white hand fast,Every time they heard her say:Summer cometh to an end,Undern cometh after noon;Golden wings will be here soon,What if I some token send?Wherefore that night within the hall,With open mouth and open eyes,Like some one listening with surprise,She sat before the sight of all.Stoop'd down a little she sat there,With neck stretch'd out and chin thrown up,One hand around a golden cup;And strangely with her fingers fairShe beat some tune upon the gold;The minstrels in the gallerySung: Arthur, who will never die,In Avallon he groweth old.And when the song was ended, sheRose and caught up her gown and ran;None stopp'd her eager face and wanOf all that pleasant company.Right so within her own chamberUpon her bed she sat; and drewHer breath in quick gasps; till she knewThat no man follow'd after her.She took the garland from her head,Loosed all her hair, and let it lieUpon the coverlet; therebyShe laid the gown of white and red;And she took off her scarlet shoon,And bared her feet; still more and moreHer sweet face redden'd; evermoreShe murmur'd: He will be here soon;Truly he cannot fail to knowMy tender body waits him here;And if he knows, I have no fearFor poor Jehane du Castel beau.She took a sword within her hand,Whose hilts were silver, and she sungSomehow like this, wild words that rungA long way over the moonlit land:Gold wings across the sea!Grey light from tree to tree,Gold hair beside my knee,I pray thee come to me,Gold wings!The water slips,The red-bill'd moorhen dips.Sweet kisses on red lips;Alas! the red rust grips,And the blood-red dagger rips,Yet, O knight, come to me!Are not my blue eyes sweet?The west wind from the wheatBlows cold across my feet;Is it not time to meetGold wings across the sea?White swans on the green moat,Small feathers left afloatBy the blue-painted boat;Swift running of the stoat,Sweet gurgling note by noteOf sweet music.O gold wings,Listen how gold hair sings,And the Ladies Castle rings,Gold wings across the sea.I sit on a purple bed,Outside, the wall is red,Thereby the apple hangs,And the wasp, caught by the fangs,Dies in the autumn night,And the bat flits till light,And the love-crazèd knightKisses the long wet grass:The weary days pass,Gold wings across the sea.Gold wings across the sea!Moonlight from tree to tree,Sweet hair laid on my knee,O, sweet knight, come to me.Gold wings, the short night slips,The white swan's long neck drips,I pray thee kiss my lips,Gold wings across the sea!No answer through the moonlit night;No answer in the cold grey dawn;No answer when the shaven lawnGrew green, and all the roses bright.Her tired feet look'd cold and thin,Her lips were twitch'd, and wretched tears,Some, as she lay, roll'd past her ears,Some fell from off her quivering chin.Her long throat, stretched to its full length,Rose up and fell right brokenly;As though the unhappy heart was nighStriving to break with all its strength.And when she slipp'd from off the bed,Her cramp'd feet would not hold her; sheSank down and crept on hand and knee,On the window-sill she laid her head.There, with crooked arm upon the sill,She look'd out, muttering dismally:There is no sail upon the sea,No pennon on the empty hill.I cannot stay here all alone,Or meet their happy faces here,And wretchedly I have no fear;A little while, and I am gone.Therewith she rose upon her feet,And totter'd; cold and miseryStill made the deep sobs come, till sheAt last stretch'd out her fingers sweet,And caught the great sword in her hand;And, stealing down the silent stair,Barefooted in the morning air.And only in her smock, did standUpright upon the green lawn grass;And hope grew in her as she said:I have thrown off the white and red,And pray God it may come to passI meet him; if ten years go byBefore I meet him; if, indeed,Meanwhile both soul and body bleed,Yet there is end of misery,And I have hope. He could not come,But I can go to him and showThese new things I have got to know,And make him speak, who has been dumb.O Jehane! the red morning sunChanged her white feet to glowing gold,Upon her smock, on crease and fold,Changed that to gold which had been dun.O Miles, and Giles, and Isabeau,Fair Ellayne le Violet,Mary, Constance fille de fay!Where is Jehane du Castel beau?O big Gervaise ride apace!Down to the hard yellow sand,Where the water meets the land.This is Jehane by her face.Why has she a broken sword?Mary! she is slain outright;Verily a piteous sight;Take her up without a word!Giles and Miles and Gervaise there,Ladies' Gard must meet the war;Whatsoever knights these are,Man the walls withouten fear!Axes to the apple-trees,Axes to the aspens tall!Barriers without the wallMay be lightly made of these.O poor shivering Isabeau;Poor Ellayne le Violet,Bent with fear! we miss to-dayBrave Jehane du Castel beau.O poor Mary, weeping so!Wretched Constance fille de fay!Verily we miss to-dayFair Jehane du Castel beau.The apples now grow green and sourUpon the mouldering castle-wall,Before they ripen there they fall:There are no banners on the tower,The draggled swans most eagerly eatThe green weeds trailing in the moat;Inside the rotting leaky boatYou see a slain man's stiffen'd feet.
MIDWAYS of a wallèd garden,In the happy poplar land,Did an ancient castle stand,With an old knight for a warden.Many scarlet bricks there wereIn its walls, and old grey stone;Over which red apples shoneAt the right time of the year.On the bricks the green moss grew.Yellow lichen on the stone,Over which red apples shone;Little war that castle knew.Deep green water fill'd the moat,Each side had a red-brick lip,Green and mossy with the dripOf dew and rain; there was a boatOf carven wood, with hangings greenAbout the stern; it was great blissFor lovers to sit there and kissIn the hot summer noons, not seen.Across the moat the fresh west windIn very little ripples went;The way the heavy aspens bentTowards it, was a thing to mind.The painted drawbridge over itWent up and down with gilded chains,'Twas pleasant in the summer rainsWithin the bridge-house there to sit.There were five swans that ne'er did eatThe water-weeds, for ladies cameEach day, and young knights did the same,And gave them cakes and bread for meat.They had a house of painted wood,A red roof gold-spiked over it,Wherein upon their eggs to sitWeek after week; no drop of blood,Drawn from men's bodies by sword-blows,Came ever there, or any tear;Most certainly from year to year'Twas pleasant as a Provence rose.The banners seem'd quite full of ease,That over the turret-roofs hung down;The battlements could get no frownFrom the flower-moulded cornices.Who walked in that garden there?Miles and Giles and Isabeau,Tall Jehane du Castel beau,Alice of the golden hair,Big Sir Gervaise, the good knight,Fair Ellayne le Violet,Mary, Constance fille de fay,Many dames with footfall light.Whosoever wander'd there,Whether it be dame or knight,Half of scarlet, half of whiteTheir raiment was; of roses fairEach wore a garland on the head,At Ladies' Gard the way was so:Fair Jehane du Castel beauWore her wreath till it was dead.Little joy she had of it,Of the raiment white and red,Or the garland on her head,She had none with whom to sitIn the carven boat at noon;None the more did Jehane weep,She would only stand and keepSaying: He will be here soon!Many times in the long dayMiles and Giles and Gervaise passed,Holding each some white hand fast,Every time they heard her say:Summer cometh to an end,Undern cometh after noon;Golden wings will be here soon,What if I some token send?Wherefore that night within the hall,With open mouth and open eyes,Like some one listening with surprise,She sat before the sight of all.Stoop'd down a little she sat there,With neck stretch'd out and chin thrown up,One hand around a golden cup;And strangely with her fingers fairShe beat some tune upon the gold;The minstrels in the gallerySung: Arthur, who will never die,In Avallon he groweth old.And when the song was ended, sheRose and caught up her gown and ran;None stopp'd her eager face and wanOf all that pleasant company.Right so within her own chamberUpon her bed she sat; and drewHer breath in quick gasps; till she knewThat no man follow'd after her.She took the garland from her head,Loosed all her hair, and let it lieUpon the coverlet; therebyShe laid the gown of white and red;And she took off her scarlet shoon,And bared her feet; still more and moreHer sweet face redden'd; evermoreShe murmur'd: He will be here soon;Truly he cannot fail to knowMy tender body waits him here;And if he knows, I have no fearFor poor Jehane du Castel beau.She took a sword within her hand,Whose hilts were silver, and she sungSomehow like this, wild words that rungA long way over the moonlit land:Gold wings across the sea!Grey light from tree to tree,Gold hair beside my knee,I pray thee come to me,Gold wings!The water slips,The red-bill'd moorhen dips.Sweet kisses on red lips;Alas! the red rust grips,And the blood-red dagger rips,Yet, O knight, come to me!Are not my blue eyes sweet?The west wind from the wheatBlows cold across my feet;Is it not time to meetGold wings across the sea?White swans on the green moat,Small feathers left afloatBy the blue-painted boat;Swift running of the stoat,Sweet gurgling note by noteOf sweet music.O gold wings,Listen how gold hair sings,And the Ladies Castle rings,Gold wings across the sea.I sit on a purple bed,Outside, the wall is red,Thereby the apple hangs,And the wasp, caught by the fangs,Dies in the autumn night,And the bat flits till light,And the love-crazèd knightKisses the long wet grass:The weary days pass,Gold wings across the sea.Gold wings across the sea!Moonlight from tree to tree,Sweet hair laid on my knee,O, sweet knight, come to me.Gold wings, the short night slips,The white swan's long neck drips,I pray thee kiss my lips,Gold wings across the sea!No answer through the moonlit night;No answer in the cold grey dawn;No answer when the shaven lawnGrew green, and all the roses bright.Her tired feet look'd cold and thin,Her lips were twitch'd, and wretched tears,Some, as she lay, roll'd past her ears,Some fell from off her quivering chin.Her long throat, stretched to its full length,Rose up and fell right brokenly;As though the unhappy heart was nighStriving to break with all its strength.And when she slipp'd from off the bed,Her cramp'd feet would not hold her; sheSank down and crept on hand and knee,On the window-sill she laid her head.There, with crooked arm upon the sill,She look'd out, muttering dismally:There is no sail upon the sea,No pennon on the empty hill.I cannot stay here all alone,Or meet their happy faces here,And wretchedly I have no fear;A little while, and I am gone.Therewith she rose upon her feet,And totter'd; cold and miseryStill made the deep sobs come, till sheAt last stretch'd out her fingers sweet,And caught the great sword in her hand;And, stealing down the silent stair,Barefooted in the morning air.And only in her smock, did standUpright upon the green lawn grass;And hope grew in her as she said:I have thrown off the white and red,And pray God it may come to passI meet him; if ten years go byBefore I meet him; if, indeed,Meanwhile both soul and body bleed,Yet there is end of misery,And I have hope. He could not come,But I can go to him and showThese new things I have got to know,And make him speak, who has been dumb.O Jehane! the red morning sunChanged her white feet to glowing gold,Upon her smock, on crease and fold,Changed that to gold which had been dun.O Miles, and Giles, and Isabeau,Fair Ellayne le Violet,Mary, Constance fille de fay!Where is Jehane du Castel beau?O big Gervaise ride apace!Down to the hard yellow sand,Where the water meets the land.This is Jehane by her face.Why has she a broken sword?Mary! she is slain outright;Verily a piteous sight;Take her up without a word!Giles and Miles and Gervaise there,Ladies' Gard must meet the war;Whatsoever knights these are,Man the walls withouten fear!Axes to the apple-trees,Axes to the aspens tall!Barriers without the wallMay be lightly made of these.O poor shivering Isabeau;Poor Ellayne le Violet,Bent with fear! we miss to-dayBrave Jehane du Castel beau.O poor Mary, weeping so!Wretched Constance fille de fay!Verily we miss to-dayFair Jehane du Castel beau.The apples now grow green and sourUpon the mouldering castle-wall,Before they ripen there they fall:There are no banners on the tower,The draggled swans most eagerly eatThe green weeds trailing in the moat;Inside the rotting leaky boatYou see a slain man's stiffen'd feet.
MIDWAYS of a wallèd garden,In the happy poplar land,Did an ancient castle stand,With an old knight for a warden.
Many scarlet bricks there wereIn its walls, and old grey stone;Over which red apples shoneAt the right time of the year.
On the bricks the green moss grew.Yellow lichen on the stone,Over which red apples shone;Little war that castle knew.
Deep green water fill'd the moat,Each side had a red-brick lip,Green and mossy with the dripOf dew and rain; there was a boat
Of carven wood, with hangings greenAbout the stern; it was great blissFor lovers to sit there and kissIn the hot summer noons, not seen.
Across the moat the fresh west windIn very little ripples went;The way the heavy aspens bentTowards it, was a thing to mind.
The painted drawbridge over itWent up and down with gilded chains,'Twas pleasant in the summer rainsWithin the bridge-house there to sit.
There were five swans that ne'er did eatThe water-weeds, for ladies cameEach day, and young knights did the same,And gave them cakes and bread for meat.
They had a house of painted wood,A red roof gold-spiked over it,Wherein upon their eggs to sitWeek after week; no drop of blood,
Drawn from men's bodies by sword-blows,Came ever there, or any tear;Most certainly from year to year'Twas pleasant as a Provence rose.
The banners seem'd quite full of ease,That over the turret-roofs hung down;The battlements could get no frownFrom the flower-moulded cornices.
Who walked in that garden there?Miles and Giles and Isabeau,Tall Jehane du Castel beau,Alice of the golden hair,
Big Sir Gervaise, the good knight,Fair Ellayne le Violet,Mary, Constance fille de fay,Many dames with footfall light.
Whosoever wander'd there,Whether it be dame or knight,Half of scarlet, half of whiteTheir raiment was; of roses fair
Each wore a garland on the head,At Ladies' Gard the way was so:Fair Jehane du Castel beauWore her wreath till it was dead.
Little joy she had of it,Of the raiment white and red,Or the garland on her head,She had none with whom to sit
In the carven boat at noon;None the more did Jehane weep,She would only stand and keepSaying: He will be here soon!
Many times in the long dayMiles and Giles and Gervaise passed,Holding each some white hand fast,Every time they heard her say:
Summer cometh to an end,Undern cometh after noon;Golden wings will be here soon,What if I some token send?
Wherefore that night within the hall,With open mouth and open eyes,Like some one listening with surprise,She sat before the sight of all.
Stoop'd down a little she sat there,With neck stretch'd out and chin thrown up,One hand around a golden cup;And strangely with her fingers fair
She beat some tune upon the gold;The minstrels in the gallerySung: Arthur, who will never die,In Avallon he groweth old.
And when the song was ended, sheRose and caught up her gown and ran;None stopp'd her eager face and wanOf all that pleasant company.
Right so within her own chamberUpon her bed she sat; and drewHer breath in quick gasps; till she knewThat no man follow'd after her.
She took the garland from her head,Loosed all her hair, and let it lieUpon the coverlet; therebyShe laid the gown of white and red;
And she took off her scarlet shoon,And bared her feet; still more and moreHer sweet face redden'd; evermoreShe murmur'd: He will be here soon;
Truly he cannot fail to knowMy tender body waits him here;And if he knows, I have no fearFor poor Jehane du Castel beau.
She took a sword within her hand,Whose hilts were silver, and she sungSomehow like this, wild words that rungA long way over the moonlit land:
Gold wings across the sea!Grey light from tree to tree,Gold hair beside my knee,I pray thee come to me,Gold wings!
The water slips,The red-bill'd moorhen dips.Sweet kisses on red lips;Alas! the red rust grips,And the blood-red dagger rips,Yet, O knight, come to me!
Are not my blue eyes sweet?The west wind from the wheatBlows cold across my feet;Is it not time to meetGold wings across the sea?
White swans on the green moat,Small feathers left afloatBy the blue-painted boat;Swift running of the stoat,Sweet gurgling note by noteOf sweet music.
O gold wings,Listen how gold hair sings,And the Ladies Castle rings,Gold wings across the sea.
I sit on a purple bed,Outside, the wall is red,Thereby the apple hangs,And the wasp, caught by the fangs,
Dies in the autumn night,And the bat flits till light,And the love-crazèd knight
Kisses the long wet grass:The weary days pass,Gold wings across the sea.
Gold wings across the sea!Moonlight from tree to tree,Sweet hair laid on my knee,O, sweet knight, come to me.
Gold wings, the short night slips,The white swan's long neck drips,I pray thee kiss my lips,Gold wings across the sea!
No answer through the moonlit night;No answer in the cold grey dawn;No answer when the shaven lawnGrew green, and all the roses bright.
Her tired feet look'd cold and thin,Her lips were twitch'd, and wretched tears,Some, as she lay, roll'd past her ears,Some fell from off her quivering chin.
Her long throat, stretched to its full length,Rose up and fell right brokenly;As though the unhappy heart was nighStriving to break with all its strength.
And when she slipp'd from off the bed,Her cramp'd feet would not hold her; sheSank down and crept on hand and knee,On the window-sill she laid her head.
There, with crooked arm upon the sill,She look'd out, muttering dismally:There is no sail upon the sea,No pennon on the empty hill.
I cannot stay here all alone,Or meet their happy faces here,And wretchedly I have no fear;A little while, and I am gone.
Therewith she rose upon her feet,And totter'd; cold and miseryStill made the deep sobs come, till sheAt last stretch'd out her fingers sweet,
And caught the great sword in her hand;And, stealing down the silent stair,Barefooted in the morning air.And only in her smock, did stand
Upright upon the green lawn grass;And hope grew in her as she said:I have thrown off the white and red,And pray God it may come to pass
I meet him; if ten years go byBefore I meet him; if, indeed,Meanwhile both soul and body bleed,Yet there is end of misery,
And I have hope. He could not come,But I can go to him and showThese new things I have got to know,And make him speak, who has been dumb.
O Jehane! the red morning sunChanged her white feet to glowing gold,Upon her smock, on crease and fold,Changed that to gold which had been dun.
O Miles, and Giles, and Isabeau,Fair Ellayne le Violet,Mary, Constance fille de fay!Where is Jehane du Castel beau?
O big Gervaise ride apace!Down to the hard yellow sand,Where the water meets the land.This is Jehane by her face.
Why has she a broken sword?Mary! she is slain outright;Verily a piteous sight;Take her up without a word!
Giles and Miles and Gervaise there,Ladies' Gard must meet the war;Whatsoever knights these are,Man the walls withouten fear!
Axes to the apple-trees,Axes to the aspens tall!Barriers without the wallMay be lightly made of these.
O poor shivering Isabeau;Poor Ellayne le Violet,Bent with fear! we miss to-dayBrave Jehane du Castel beau.
O poor Mary, weeping so!Wretched Constance fille de fay!Verily we miss to-dayFair Jehane du Castel beau.
The apples now grow green and sourUpon the mouldering castle-wall,Before they ripen there they fall:There are no banners on the tower,
The draggled swans most eagerly eatThe green weeds trailing in the moat;Inside the rotting leaky boatYou see a slain man's stiffen'd feet.
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 roads 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 scoffSir 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 awake,Dismounting, 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 reached 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 moaned 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.
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 roads 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 scoffSir 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 awake,Dismounting, 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 reached 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 moaned 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.
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 roads 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 scoffSir 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 awake,Dismounting, 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 reached 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 moaned 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.
THERE was a lady lived in a hall,Large of her eyes, and slim and tall;And ever she sung from noon to noon,Two red roses across the moon.There was a knight came riding byIn early spring, when the roads were dry;And he heard that lady sing at the noon,Two red roses across the moon.Yet none the more he stopp'd at all,But he rode a-gallop past the hall;And left that lady singing at noon,Two red roses across the moon.Because, forsooth, the battle was set,And the scarlet and blue had got to be met,He rode on the spur till the next warm noon:Two red roses across the moon.But the battle was scatter'd from hill to hill,From the windmill to the watermill;And he said to himself, as it near'd the noon,Two red roses across the moon.You scarce could see for the scarlet and blue,A golden helm or a golden shoe:So he cried, as the fight grew thick at the noon,Two red roses across the moon!Verily then the gold bore throughThe huddled spears of the scarlet and blue;And they cried, as they cut them down at the noon,Two red roses across the moon!I trow he stopp'd when he rode againBy the hall, though draggled sore with the rain;And his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the noonTwo red roses across the moon.Under the may she stoop'd to the crown,All was gold, there was nothing of brown;And the horns blew up in the hall at noon,Two red roses across the moon.
THERE was a lady lived in a hall,Large of her eyes, and slim and tall;And ever she sung from noon to noon,Two red roses across the moon.There was a knight came riding byIn early spring, when the roads were dry;And he heard that lady sing at the noon,Two red roses across the moon.Yet none the more he stopp'd at all,But he rode a-gallop past the hall;And left that lady singing at noon,Two red roses across the moon.Because, forsooth, the battle was set,And the scarlet and blue had got to be met,He rode on the spur till the next warm noon:Two red roses across the moon.But the battle was scatter'd from hill to hill,From the windmill to the watermill;And he said to himself, as it near'd the noon,Two red roses across the moon.You scarce could see for the scarlet and blue,A golden helm or a golden shoe:So he cried, as the fight grew thick at the noon,Two red roses across the moon!Verily then the gold bore throughThe huddled spears of the scarlet and blue;And they cried, as they cut them down at the noon,Two red roses across the moon!I trow he stopp'd when he rode againBy the hall, though draggled sore with the rain;And his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the noonTwo red roses across the moon.Under the may she stoop'd to the crown,All was gold, there was nothing of brown;And the horns blew up in the hall at noon,Two red roses across the moon.
THERE was a lady lived in a hall,Large of her eyes, and slim and tall;And ever she sung from noon to noon,Two red roses across the moon.
There was a knight came riding byIn early spring, when the roads were dry;And he heard that lady sing at the noon,Two red roses across the moon.
Yet none the more he stopp'd at all,But he rode a-gallop past the hall;And left that lady singing at noon,Two red roses across the moon.
Because, forsooth, the battle was set,And the scarlet and blue had got to be met,He rode on the spur till the next warm noon:Two red roses across the moon.
But the battle was scatter'd from hill to hill,From the windmill to the watermill;And he said to himself, as it near'd the noon,Two red roses across the moon.
You scarce could see for the scarlet and blue,A golden helm or a golden shoe:So he cried, as the fight grew thick at the noon,Two red roses across the moon!
Verily then the gold bore throughThe huddled spears of the scarlet and blue;And they cried, as they cut them down at the noon,Two red roses across the moon!
I trow he stopp'd when he rode againBy the hall, though draggled sore with the rain;And his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the noonTwo red roses across the moon.
Under the may she stoop'd to the crown,All was gold, there was nothing of brown;And the horns blew up in the hall at noon,Two red roses across the moon.
FAIR Ellayne she walk'd by Welland river,Across the lily lee:O, gentle Sir Robert, ye are not kindTo stay so long at sea.Over the marshland none can seeYour scarlet pennon fair;O, leave the Easterlings alone,Because of my golden hair.The day when over Stamford bridgeThat dear pennon I seeGo up toward the goodly street,'Twill be a fair day for me.O, let the bonny pennon bideAt Stamford, the good town,And let the Easterlings go free,And their ships go up and down.For every day that passes byI wax both pale and green,From gold to gold of my girdleThere is an inch between.I sew'd it up with scarlet silkLast night upon my knee,And my heart grew sad and sore to thinkThy face I'd never see.I sew'd it up with scarlet silk,As I lay upon my bed:Sorrow! the man I'll never seeThat had my maidenhead.But as Ellayne sat on her window-seatAnd comb'd her yellow hair,She saw come over Stamford bridgeThe scarlet pennon fair.As Ellayne lay and sicken'd sore,The gold shoes on her feet,She saw Sir Robert and his menRide up the Stamford street.He had a coat of fine red gold,And a bascinet of steel;Take note his goodly Collayne swordSmote the spur upon his heel.And by his side, on a grey jennet,There rode a fair lady,For every ruby Ellayne wore,I count she carried three.Say, was not Ellayne's gold hair fine,That fell to her middle free?But that lady's hair down in the street,Fell lower than her knee.Fair Ellayne's face, from sorrow and grief,Was waxen pale and green:That lady's face was goodly red,She had but little tene.But as he pass'd by her windowHe grew a little wroth:O, why does yon pale face look at meFrom out the golden cloth?It is some burd, the fair dame said,That aye rode him beside,Has come to see your bonny faceThis merry summer-tide.But Ellayne let a lily-flowerLight on his cap of steel:O, I have gotten two hounds, fair knight,The one has served me well;But the other, just an hour agone,Has come from over sea,And all his fell is sleek and fine,But little he knows of me.Now, which shall I let go, fair knight,And which shall bide with me?O, lady, have no doubt to keepThe one that best loveth thee.O, Robert, see how sick I am!Ye do not so by me.Lie still, fair love, have ye gotten harmWhile I was on the sea?Of one gift, Robert, that ye gave,I sicken to the death,I pray you nurse-tend me, my knight,Whiles that I have my breath.Six fathoms from the Stamford bridgeHe left that dame to stand,And whiles she wept, and whiles she cursedThat she ever had taken land.He has kiss'd sweet Ellayne on the mouth,And fair she fell asleep,And long and long days after thatSir Robert's house she did keep.
FAIR Ellayne she walk'd by Welland river,Across the lily lee:O, gentle Sir Robert, ye are not kindTo stay so long at sea.Over the marshland none can seeYour scarlet pennon fair;O, leave the Easterlings alone,Because of my golden hair.The day when over Stamford bridgeThat dear pennon I seeGo up toward the goodly street,'Twill be a fair day for me.O, let the bonny pennon bideAt Stamford, the good town,And let the Easterlings go free,And their ships go up and down.For every day that passes byI wax both pale and green,From gold to gold of my girdleThere is an inch between.I sew'd it up with scarlet silkLast night upon my knee,And my heart grew sad and sore to thinkThy face I'd never see.I sew'd it up with scarlet silk,As I lay upon my bed:Sorrow! the man I'll never seeThat had my maidenhead.But as Ellayne sat on her window-seatAnd comb'd her yellow hair,She saw come over Stamford bridgeThe scarlet pennon fair.As Ellayne lay and sicken'd sore,The gold shoes on her feet,She saw Sir Robert and his menRide up the Stamford street.He had a coat of fine red gold,And a bascinet of steel;Take note his goodly Collayne swordSmote the spur upon his heel.And by his side, on a grey jennet,There rode a fair lady,For every ruby Ellayne wore,I count she carried three.Say, was not Ellayne's gold hair fine,That fell to her middle free?But that lady's hair down in the street,Fell lower than her knee.Fair Ellayne's face, from sorrow and grief,Was waxen pale and green:That lady's face was goodly red,She had but little tene.But as he pass'd by her windowHe grew a little wroth:O, why does yon pale face look at meFrom out the golden cloth?It is some burd, the fair dame said,That aye rode him beside,Has come to see your bonny faceThis merry summer-tide.But Ellayne let a lily-flowerLight on his cap of steel:O, I have gotten two hounds, fair knight,The one has served me well;But the other, just an hour agone,Has come from over sea,And all his fell is sleek and fine,But little he knows of me.Now, which shall I let go, fair knight,And which shall bide with me?O, lady, have no doubt to keepThe one that best loveth thee.O, Robert, see how sick I am!Ye do not so by me.Lie still, fair love, have ye gotten harmWhile I was on the sea?Of one gift, Robert, that ye gave,I sicken to the death,I pray you nurse-tend me, my knight,Whiles that I have my breath.Six fathoms from the Stamford bridgeHe left that dame to stand,And whiles she wept, and whiles she cursedThat she ever had taken land.He has kiss'd sweet Ellayne on the mouth,And fair she fell asleep,And long and long days after thatSir Robert's house she did keep.
FAIR Ellayne she walk'd by Welland river,Across the lily lee:O, gentle Sir Robert, ye are not kindTo stay so long at sea.
Over the marshland none can seeYour scarlet pennon fair;O, leave the Easterlings alone,Because of my golden hair.
The day when over Stamford bridgeThat dear pennon I seeGo up toward the goodly street,'Twill be a fair day for me.
O, let the bonny pennon bideAt Stamford, the good town,And let the Easterlings go free,And their ships go up and down.
For every day that passes byI wax both pale and green,From gold to gold of my girdleThere is an inch between.
I sew'd it up with scarlet silkLast night upon my knee,And my heart grew sad and sore to thinkThy face I'd never see.
I sew'd it up with scarlet silk,As I lay upon my bed:Sorrow! the man I'll never seeThat had my maidenhead.
But as Ellayne sat on her window-seatAnd comb'd her yellow hair,She saw come over Stamford bridgeThe scarlet pennon fair.
As Ellayne lay and sicken'd sore,The gold shoes on her feet,She saw Sir Robert and his menRide up the Stamford street.
He had a coat of fine red gold,And a bascinet of steel;Take note his goodly Collayne swordSmote the spur upon his heel.
And by his side, on a grey jennet,There rode a fair lady,For every ruby Ellayne wore,I count she carried three.
Say, was not Ellayne's gold hair fine,That fell to her middle free?But that lady's hair down in the street,Fell lower than her knee.
Fair Ellayne's face, from sorrow and grief,Was waxen pale and green:That lady's face was goodly red,She had but little tene.
But as he pass'd by her windowHe grew a little wroth:O, why does yon pale face look at meFrom out the golden cloth?
It is some burd, the fair dame said,That aye rode him beside,Has come to see your bonny faceThis merry summer-tide.
But Ellayne let a lily-flowerLight on his cap of steel:O, I have gotten two hounds, fair knight,The one has served me well;
But the other, just an hour agone,Has come from over sea,And all his fell is sleek and fine,But little he knows of me.
Now, which shall I let go, fair knight,And which shall bide with me?O, lady, have no doubt to keepThe one that best loveth thee.
O, Robert, see how sick I am!Ye do not so by me.Lie still, fair love, have ye gotten harmWhile I was on the sea?
Of one gift, Robert, that ye gave,I sicken to the death,I pray you nurse-tend me, my knight,Whiles that I have my breath.
Six fathoms from the Stamford bridgeHe left that dame to stand,And whiles she wept, and whiles she cursedThat she ever had taken land.
He has kiss'd sweet Ellayne on the mouth,And fair she fell asleep,And long and long days after thatSir Robert's house she did keep.
FOR many, many days togetherThe wind blew steady from the East;For many days hot grew the weather,About the time of our Lady's Feast.For many days we rode together,Yet met we neither friend nor foe;Hotter and clearer grew the weather,Steadily did the East wind blow.We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,Clear-cut, with shadows very black,As freely we rode on togetherWith helms unlaced and bridles slack.And often as we rode together,We, looking down the green-bank'd stream,Saw flowers in the sunny weather,And saw the bubble-making bream.And in the night lay down together,And hung above our heads the rood,Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather,The while the moon did watch the wood.Our spears stood bright and thick together,Straight out the banners stream'd behind,As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather,With faces turn'd towards the wind.Down sank our threescore spears together,As thick we saw the pagans ride;His eager face in the clear fresh weather,Shone out that last time by my side.Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together,It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears,Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather,The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.There, as we roll'd and writhed together,I threw my arms above my head,For close by my side, in the lovely weather,I saw him reel and fall back dead.I and the slayer met together,He waited the death-stroke there in his place,With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather,Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face.Madly I fought as we fought together;In vain: the little Christian bandThe pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather,The river drowns low-lying land.They bound my blood-stain'd hands together,They bound his corpse to nod by my side:Then on we rode, in the bright March weather,With clash of cymbals did we ride.We ride no more, no more together;My prison-bars are thick and strong,I take no heed of any weather,The sweet Saints grant I live not long.
FOR many, many days togetherThe wind blew steady from the East;For many days hot grew the weather,About the time of our Lady's Feast.For many days we rode together,Yet met we neither friend nor foe;Hotter and clearer grew the weather,Steadily did the East wind blow.We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,Clear-cut, with shadows very black,As freely we rode on togetherWith helms unlaced and bridles slack.And often as we rode together,We, looking down the green-bank'd stream,Saw flowers in the sunny weather,And saw the bubble-making bream.And in the night lay down together,And hung above our heads the rood,Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather,The while the moon did watch the wood.Our spears stood bright and thick together,Straight out the banners stream'd behind,As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather,With faces turn'd towards the wind.Down sank our threescore spears together,As thick we saw the pagans ride;His eager face in the clear fresh weather,Shone out that last time by my side.Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together,It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears,Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather,The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.There, as we roll'd and writhed together,I threw my arms above my head,For close by my side, in the lovely weather,I saw him reel and fall back dead.I and the slayer met together,He waited the death-stroke there in his place,With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather,Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face.Madly I fought as we fought together;In vain: the little Christian bandThe pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather,The river drowns low-lying land.They bound my blood-stain'd hands together,They bound his corpse to nod by my side:Then on we rode, in the bright March weather,With clash of cymbals did we ride.We ride no more, no more together;My prison-bars are thick and strong,I take no heed of any weather,The sweet Saints grant I live not long.
FOR many, many days togetherThe wind blew steady from the East;For many days hot grew the weather,About the time of our Lady's Feast.
For many days we rode together,Yet met we neither friend nor foe;Hotter and clearer grew the weather,Steadily did the East wind blow.
We saw the trees in the hot, bright weather,Clear-cut, with shadows very black,As freely we rode on togetherWith helms unlaced and bridles slack.
And often as we rode together,We, looking down the green-bank'd stream,Saw flowers in the sunny weather,And saw the bubble-making bream.
And in the night lay down together,And hung above our heads the rood,Or watch'd night-long in the dewy weather,The while the moon did watch the wood.
Our spears stood bright and thick together,Straight out the banners stream'd behind,As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather,With faces turn'd towards the wind.
Down sank our threescore spears together,As thick we saw the pagans ride;His eager face in the clear fresh weather,Shone out that last time by my side.
Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd together,It rock'd to the crash of the meeting spears,Down rain'd the buds of the dear spring weather,The elm-tree flowers fell like tears.
There, as we roll'd and writhed together,I threw my arms above my head,For close by my side, in the lovely weather,I saw him reel and fall back dead.
I and the slayer met together,He waited the death-stroke there in his place,With thoughts of death, in the lovely weather,Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face.
Madly I fought as we fought together;In vain: the little Christian bandThe pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather,The river drowns low-lying land.
They bound my blood-stain'd hands together,They bound his corpse to nod by my side:Then on we rode, in the bright March weather,With clash of cymbals did we ride.
We ride no more, no more together;My prison-bars are thick and strong,I take no heed of any weather,The sweet Saints grant I live not long.