 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
POSTLUDE.
THUS far the ancient chronicle
I trace; yet much remains to tell
Of how Sir Floris in the throng
Of men dwelt many a year and long
And wrought great deeds and fair with sword
And spear in service of the Lord;
How love laid hands upon the man,
And how, before the years began
To sap the life in heart and limb,
The dove a third time came to him,
And he was strangely borne away
Out of this world of night and day,
Nor ever more (folk say) since then
Was visible to eyes of men.
I trace; yet much remains to tell
Of how Sir Floris in the throng
Of men dwelt many a year and long
And wrought great deeds and fair with sword
And spear in service of the Lord;
How love laid hands upon the man,
And how, before the years began
To sap the life in heart and limb,
The dove a third time came to him,
And he was strangely borne away
Out of this world of night and day,
Nor ever more (folk say) since then
Was visible to eyes of men.
And verily the tale stirs still
Within my thought and fain would fill
Its purposed course without delay:
But now, alack! full many a lay
Holds vantage of it in my breast
And hinders me from its behest:
For we who sing, we may not choose
Which we shall take and which refuse
Of all the thoughts to us that cry
For utt'rance and delivery:
But, as desire of battle grows
(And will not be denied) in those
That love the long clear-sworded fight
And the sheer shock of knight on knight
Spear-shattering, so the sweet thoughts lie
And gather into harmony
Within their secret hearts that sing,
Until at last the hidden thing
Swells up into a sea of song,
And out perforce the sweet words throng,
Like bird-songs bursting from the brake,
When Spring unkisses the flowers' eyes.
Yet haply, ere the echo dies
Of this my making, I may take
The silver-sinew'd lute again
And in like measures end the strain
Of all that to the knight befell.
Till then, fare joyously and well.
Within my thought and fain would fill
59
But now, alack! full many a lay
Holds vantage of it in my breast
And hinders me from its behest:
For we who sing, we may not choose
Which we shall take and which refuse
Of all the thoughts to us that cry
For utt'rance and delivery:
But, as desire of battle grows
(And will not be denied) in those
That love the long clear-sworded fight
And the sheer shock of knight on knight
Spear-shattering, so the sweet thoughts lie
And gather into harmony
Within their secret hearts that sing,
Until at last the hidden thing
Swells up into a sea of song,
And out perforce the sweet words throng,
Like bird-songs bursting from the brake,
When Spring unkisses the flowers' eyes.
Yet haply, ere the echo dies
Of this my making, I may take
The silver-sinew'd lute again
And in like measures end the strain
Of all that to the knight befell.
Till then, fare joyously and well.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |