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XXI. VOLUME XXI THE SUNDERING FLOOD. UNFINISHED ROMANCES

INTRODUCTION

[Fragments of verse extracted from the Introduction and not printed elsewhere.]

[MAN BORN TO BE KING.]

[Lines from an earlier draft.]

It is well said among wise men
If ye cannot have twelve take ten,
Also I say for my part
That the grey smock may cover a heart
Good enough for the gown of a king:
May this tale be to your liking.
[OMITTED]
Now this same lusty king
Had a dame, a right sweet thing,
And he loved her passing well
In such wise it were hard to tell,
Over long at Candlemas
The snow lay upon the grass,
Thereupon did the Queen pass
With the King from the minster.
xx

[THE LADY OF THE WASTED LAND.]

[Fragment from quarto note-book.]

I say no wonder if he scarce could see
For giddy pleasure what fair things were writ
Upon the vellum—flower and bird and tree
Danced in the merry sun because of it.
I say no wonder if he found it sweet
After some foil in field or tournament
Kissing together to sit feet to feet
And ever round him her two long arms went...
xxj

with what surprise
Her kindred over sea would hear of it—
And would they arm for vengeance or just take
Some pounds of gold and after that would sit
In some gilt chantry silent for her sake
Wishing the mass well over...
xxij

[A TALE OF PLANTAGENETS.]

[Fragment from quarto note-book.]

Like the red side of a ripe apple
The face grew of this maid,
Then said the King, “Say out your mind
And be ye not afraid.”
[OMITTED]
But I have a vow to our Lord God
Also to S. Lucy
That I would wed no man on earth
But if he brought me thinges three;
And first from King Philip of France
He must take the right-hand glove,
When I wear this on my right hand
So far shall he have my love
[OMITTED]
Heed me well Sir Scheneschal,
Take good care of this lady,
In the little red house of Havering
Let her abide both night and day.
xxiij

It standeth right pleasantly
At the skirt of Waltham Chase;
Let her bide in that house and garden—
She shall see no man's face.
But she may have damozels
To wait on her body
And all things fitting to her estate
Such as it should be.
Right little time they lost, I trow
In a barget they set her
With hale and how they set sail
Upon the Thames river.
Right evil cheer had the Lady Anne,
The wan water was but cold,
She said as she fell a-weeping,
“I shall have no pity till I am old.”
But they went up the river of Thames
Till to Barking town came they
And they mounted on goodly steeds
And gat them quick away.
To the little red house of Havering
They rode through the green wood:
When the door shut after that lady
Right cold became her blood.
xxiv

For wete you well my good maidens
My love is a poor knight,
Yet I love him right sorely
For he is strong and wyght.
[OMITTED]
He will be wood when he cometh back
That never again he may see me.
[OMITTED]
xxv

[FRAGMENT FROM QUARTO NOTE-BOOK.]

I went through many lands and found no rest
When I had left you and this castle here,
Nor found I any counsel what was best
But went about all dizzied for a year.
At last it chanced on a September day
When all the sleeping sky was one blue grey,
I rode unhappily through a green way,
Neither did any come for me to fight or fear;
My pennon no wind shook, my mail-hood lay aback,
I looked down on my breast and saw my bearing there—
Gold dragons on green ground—my bridle-reins were slack,
I held within my mouth locks of my long lank hair,
But as I rode faint singing came to me
From the right hand, I thought that it might be
The voice of damozels at a tourney.
So toward that voice I went sideways till I came where
Many pavilions on an open lawn
With gold and blue and scarlet scared the birds.
My heart shrunk back all sickened at the dawn
Of arms, embroidery, and clear sung words,
Nevertheless I set my lips together
Till the blood came, not felt—as in hot weather
The archer does not feel the strain of leather
When as he marches towards the foe his coat he girds.
Mad as I was I stopped and thought, There now,
I knew that I had seen that place before,
xxvj

And those pavilions—why 'twas even so
Last year: then some fear pierced to my heart's core;
I entered through that same close rose-fence
And went towards the great pavilion whence
Some fear or horror struck upon my sense—
O pity me, I pray you, this is what I saw.
A silken carpet lay upon the grass
And on a silken bed lay Eleanore:
I was in time to see the last breath pass
From her half-opened lips; besides I saw
Sitting along the bed on the further side
Ten maidens fairly robed and thus they cried,
“Here comes Sir John to claim his doomed bride.”
Thereat they turned away, dropped their eyes toward the floor,
Whereat I was abashed and thought what I could do;
I closed her wide [eyes] first, lifted from off the ground
Her heavy golden hair; her arms were stretched straight so,
Crosswise I laid them down wards, yet there came no sound,
So when I saw she moved not her head
Nor oped her eyes nor moved her hands, I said
Quite softly to myself, Then she is dead.
And yet I neither screamed nor fell down in a swound
But only stood still; for a while I ween
I knew not where I was but felt a globe
Of whirling black with spots of red and green
Shrink and expand before me till the robe
Of one of those poor downcast maidens there
I saw fall on her head about her hair,
Who fainted had with grief lay on the bier.
When she was lifted up I saw no deep green robe—
No robe of Eleanore but only deep green meads,
Between the hazel hedge the gleaming of gold sheaves,
And, dream within a dream, a maiden crowned with weeds
Standing between two trees beneath the shivering leaves—
xxvij

Yea day by day I used to go and gaze
In the old passed time, the sweet old days,
I used to draw a maiden from the haze
For my delight, to stand beneath the aspen leaves;
I could see all her throat because her chin was raised,
And I could see the lashes of her eyes
Laid downward on her cheek, and as I gazed
With beating heart could see her bosom rise
Heaving and falling like a quiet sea—
Whose robes of green and white and purple be
Just as hers were, each side of her a tree
Trembled with strange delight to feel her hands, the flies
Along the bridges of her outstretched arms
Marched humming to the city of her face,
By the Cathedral of her eyes sang psalms,
Held her white forehead as a hallowed place
For burying the dead things of the mind.
With undropped lids I gazed till I was blind
Then dropped my head and wept because the wind,
As I knew all too well, was making clear that space.
That was at sunset time: all the night long
Thereafter very sullen would I lie
Till the next noon unless the wind was strong—
The wind was ever a kind friend to me.
But the next day at noon I used to lean
Against an aspen, get a sense of green
To my heart through my eyes and soon I ween
Came forth my dream of dreams each hand laid on a tree.
I used to think it was a sort of right
That I should get each day some happiness...
O God it was not fair, no part at all
Was left of any day, and day by day
The hours lengthen and it doth befall
xxviij

I sleep not, half forgetful in a way—
I sleep one hour only of the night.
At dawn the moon fades and my strained sight
Drops from the empty helm so strange in the grey light
I try to shout, Lord help! but nought at all can say.
Ah, while I stood in that pavilion
And saw the pale vexed maidens arm in arm,
And saw the roof above with stars thereon,
I reeled and fell down straight from memory and strange calm—
Because I saw myself as I did say
Sitting upon my bed waiting for day
My blue enamelled helm touched by the grey
Not showing that blue now, while from the neighbouring elm
The cocks send out that strange unearthly sound
Cock crow at dawn, dawn slow in coming round,
So slow and very cold in coming round—
Perhaps Doomsday is past and it will not come now—
In those cold dawns I pray thee, Eleanore,
Between the roses drained of colour, come no more
With fall of moist white feet upon the marble floor—
Eleanore I pray thee sit not there so calm....
Likewise I saw myself in the hot noon
Sitting alone upon a bank of sand,
And few men come there now, yet in the moon
The witches gather there from many a land,
Yet I sat there alone and let the sun
Beat on my helmed head feeling the great drops run
Over my cheeks like tears and dropping one by one
On the steel plates of my knees or else upon my hand.
And this I did because I feared the shade,
I feared to see a ghost clad in deep green
In the likeness of a very beauteous maid
xxix

But yet so pale, so pale, with no joy to be seen,
I fear to see her cover her thin face
With her thin hands, then weeping in that place
To kneel in last year's leaves to hide her face.
For if I were to see only her stately mien
There would no longer be a chance to me
Of dying but for ever I should live
Walk slowly in the sun...
O Eleanore who liest there alone,
Ah so alone, the blue blue roof above,
I pray thee let me be, and make low moan
My lips on your lips, for I am in love—
For what thing love I better than thine eyes?
What thing, O Love, except perhaps those wise
Kind lips, the little hand that tries
By witching trembling grip to say it is in love.
Dead is she then—behold I pass my lips
Over her cold face moaning, like a bee
Who when the choristers are chaunting, slips
Along the stained glass in the clerestory
Brushing the face of Christ at Bethlehem;
I kissed her o'er and o'er right from the boddice hem
Up to the golden locks yea sunk my lips in them—
I never knew till now how sweet a kiss could be.
Alas God would not let me stay there long;
One of those maidens rising from her place
Came to me and on my shoulder laid a strong
Indignant grasp, and when I saw her face
I knew that I must go, so piteously
I moved to the bier-foot: she to me
Turned full her face like a fierce dog, then she
Passed by the feet in going to her place—
xxx

Her long red raiment brushed, as she went past,
The silk from off the feet of Eleanore,
I doubted, shivered much, but then at last
Turned weeping back to my own love once more,
I bent down till my wet cheek touched her foot,
Took off the gold shoe. I felt a sharp pain shoot
Through all my frame, go down to the heart's root.

THE WILLOW AND THE RED CLIFF
[_]

William Morris' first attempt at verse.

About the river goes the wind
And moans through the sad grey willow,
And calls up sadly to my mind
The heave and the swell of the billow.
For the sea heaves up beneath the moon,
And the river runs down to it:
It will meet the sea by the red cliff soon,
Salt water running through it.
xxxj

That cliff it rises steep from the sea
On its top a thorn-tree stands,
With its branches blown away from the sea,
As if praying with outstretched hands,
To be saved from the wind, from the merciless west
That moaneth through it always
And very seldom giveth it rest
When the dark is falling pallwise.
One day when the wind moaned through that tree
As it moans now through the willow
On the cliff sat a woman clasping her knee
O'er the rise and fall of the billow.
And as she sits there without a moan
With her hand clasped round her knee,
The shadows go over her sitting alone,
And the shadows go over the sea,
And the clouds go over the face of the moon
That looketh down on the sea:
They will close around her very soon,
That you cannot tell where she be.
And the woman sits with her head bent down,
And thinketh of happy days;
Of the days when in the bright summer sun
She lifted her fair, fair face.
And the woman thought, sitting over the sea,
Of a glorious summer eve,
How—under the boughs of the willow tree—
Ah! no tears fall for her grief.
The dark clouds now have closed over the moon,
That you cannot tell where she be:
And, from the face of the bright moon thrown,
Not a shadow goes over the sea.
xxxij

And the woman sat while the night went on,
And she never unclasped her hands:
And the woman sat till the clouds were gone,
And the sun rose over the lands.
Then she sang in the light of the rising sun,
While the waves looked green and white:
She sang in the sunlight this mournful song,
While the red cliff turned from the light.
“Sun that lookest straight at me
As I turn me from the sea,
Dost thou know my misery?
Dost thou know the willow tree
Underneath whose branches he
Plighted well his troth to me?
O! the happy willow tree
With the river by it sighing,
And the swallow by it flying,
And the thrush singing to it from the thorn-bush.
O! the happy willow tree,
For the river sigheth for it,
And the swallow flyeth to it,
And the thrush sings of love from the thorn-bush.
In the spring the thrush singeth,
From the bough the leaf springeth,
To hear him sing of love from the thorn-bush.
In the summer he is still;
From the river to the hill
No song of bird cometh to the thorn-bush.
But the happy willow tree
He is full as full can be
Of the song of love that rang out from the thorn-bush.
When the autumn cometh round,
All the air is filled with sound
That cometh from the sick yellow thorn-bush.
And the willow branches wave
xxxiij

O'er the fallen leaves that pave
The dull earth all about the thorn-bush.
And the autumn passeth by,
And the dead leaves round it lie:
Red berries look out fairly from the thorn-bush.
And the willow swingeth heavily,
Thinking of the days gone by:
And he thinketh of the spring
And the song that shall outring
From the loving thrush a-sitting in the thorn-bush.”
Then the woman turned round to the sea,
Which swung its waves up heavily:
And she let her hair from its bands go free,
And the west wind blew it out wearily.
Then she turned round again to the sun,
And her hair was blown back on her:
And to close the sun in the clouds had begun:
Then the bitter song sprang from her.
“O! willow tree, O! willow tree,
Keepst thou the ring he gave to me
And which I on thy branches hung,
When all about the song-thrush sung?
O! willow-tree, O! willow-tree,
Wilt thou keep all my misery?
Wilt hide it in the hollow dark,
Where the wave has sapped thy bark?
Shall the song-thrush know it?
The forget-me-not show it
To the river running by?
O fair earth, fair sky above it:
O fair autumn elms that love it;
Fair trees that fill the hollow there;
Yellow leaves that float in air;
xxxiv

See! his picture I have kept;
I have never o'er it wept.
How my hair floats round him now
How it blows against his brow.
I will give him to the sea,
The sea will keep him well for me
In his deep green waters.”
Then over the face of the cliff she leant,
With the picture in her hand,
And as she lay with her head down bent,
Her long hair was blown on the land.
She stretched her hand adown the side
As far as her arm would reach:
And from her hand did the picture glide,
Waves caught it on the beach.
And still she lay with her head down bent,
And her hand stretched down to the sea,
And she said, as the sea wind over her went:
O! love dost call for me?
“O! love I will come to thee:
O! love we will dwell in the sea,
And in the pearl-strewn cave
Will gently move the billow
As once above us did wave
The green boughs of the willow.”
The clouds are over the face of the sun,
There is no wind below them:
But above the west-wind presses them on,
Nor ever rest will give them.
No living thing on the cliff does stand:
No face from the red cliff looks:
But the thorn-bush stretches out his hand
To the leaves in the little nooks.
And from the thorn-bush far away
Doth the thrush to the willow sing:
xxxv

And on the willow branch alway
Glitters a golden ring.

[POEM BY THE WAY.]

[_]

This ballad was written in January 1896.

SHE
The blossom's white upon the thorn,
The lily's on the lea,
The beaded dew is bright tomorn;
Come forth and o'er to me.
And when thou farest from the ford
My hand thine hand shall take;
For this young day about my board
Men sing the feast awake.
And I am lady of the land,
My hall is wide and side,
And therein would I have thee stand
Midst the blooming of my pride.
Since oft a-days forth wandered we
O'er mead and dale and down,
Till on the edges of the sea
Aloof we saw the town.
Since oft a-days we turned and went
And left the wind-worn shore
And there below the sheep-fed bent
Stood by the little door.
'Twas oft from glooming of the lea
Into the house we turned,
And I by thee, and thou by me
Watched how the oak-log burned.
Wherefore while yet the day is young,
And the feast awake with morn,
xxxvj

Come o'er and hear my praises sung
And the day when I was born.

HE
Tomorn I will not cross the ford
And take thee by thine hand,
And see the feast upon thy board
And midst the prideful stand.
Gem-strewn thine hands are that of old
All naked-fair I knew;
And covered are thy feet with gold,
That brush the beaded dew.
And though thine hall be wide and side,
No room is there for me;
For there be men of mickle pride
Betwixt thy face and me.
An earl upon thy right hand is,
A baron takes thy sleeve,
A belted knight thine hand doth kiss,
And asketh little leave.
I will depart and take my way
O'er mead and down and dale,
And come thereto where on a day
We saw the upland fail.
Then will I get me to the town
And ship me o'er the main,
And clean forget both dale and down
And the ways we went, we twain.
The whiles thy maidens round thee throng
To lay thee soft abed,
And thou lay'st down my loss and wrong
On the pillows of thine head.
One foot upon the deck shall be
One hand upon the rope,
And the Hale and How on the weltering sea
And one farewell to hope.

9

THE SUNDERING FLOOD

10

CHAPTER III. WOLVES HARRY THE FLOCK.

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

13

[All grey on the bent]

[Osberne.]
All grey on the bent
There the sheep-greedy went:
The big spear and shield
Met the foes of the field,
But nought the white teeth
In the warriors gat sheath,
For master and man
Full meetly they ran.
But now in this hall
The fear off doth fall
From one of the twain,
And his hand getteth gain,
But the other sits there,
And new groweth his fear
Both of man and of grey.
So the meat on board lay,
Thou on whom gold doth ride,
Meat-goddess grey-eyed,
Let the loaf-warden eat,
And the man whom he beat,
And the lad that doth lie
In wall-nook hereby,
And thou Gold-tree the fair,
And the milk-mother dear,
Lest the meat wax a-cold
Both for bold and unbold.

Hereat all laughed, but the two men somewhat from one side of their mouths. And the goodman said: “See thou to it, kinsman, lest stripes be thy song-pay.” But Osberne laughed from a fair and merry face and sang again:

14

O lord of the land,
To the staff lay no hand
Till the grey ones thou face
In the wind-weary place.

And therewith he fell to his meat and ate stoutly, and to the women it seemed that their little kinsman had the makings of a champion in him, and his staves they loved dearly in their hearts, and they smiled upon him kindly; and he looked from one to the other, and quoth he:

Three mothers had I,
And one is gone by,
But two are left here,
Leal, buxom, and dear.
17

CHAPTER V. OSBERNE SLAYS THE WOLVES.

[Songs extracted form the prose narrative.]

19

[On the wind-weary bent]

[Osberne.]
On the wind-weary bent
The grey ones they went,
Growled the greedy and glared
On the sheep-kin afeared;
Low looked the bright sun
On the battle begun,
For they saw how the swain
Stood betwixt them and gain.
'Twas the spear in the belly, the spear in the mouth,
And a warp of the shield from the north to the south,
The spear in the throat, and the eyes of the sun
Scarce shut as the last of the battle was done.

20

CHAPTER VI. THEY FARE TO THE CLOVEN MOTE.

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

22

[The stave against Surly John.]

To run and to fight
Are deeds free to the wight,
And John tried in battle
Had heard the boards rattle,
But needed to prove
The race back to the stove;
So his wightness he showed
In way-wearing the road.
While Osberne, who knew
How the foot-race to do,
Must try the new game
Where the battle-beasts came.
Bairn for fight, but for running the strong man and tall,
And all folk for the laughter when both are in hall.
24

CHAPTER VII. OF A NEWCOMER, AND HIS GIFT TO OSBERNE.

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

27

[A shaft to the north]

[The man of the waste.]
A shaft to the north,
Come ye three, come ye forth;
A shaft to the east,
Come three at the least;
A shaft to the sky,
Come swift, come anigh!
Come one, one and one,
And the tale is all done.

36

CHAPTER X. OSBERNE AND ELFHILD HOLD CONVERSE TOGETHER.

[Songs extracted form the prose narrative.]

38

[Now the grass groweth free]

[Osberne.]
Now the grass groweth free
And the lily's on lea,
And the April-tide green
Is full goodly beseen,
And far behind
Lies the winter blind,
And the lord of the Gale
Is shadowy pale;
And thou, linden be-blossomed, with bed of the worm
Camest forth from the dark house as spring from the storm.
O barm-cloth tree,
The light is in thee,
And as spring-tide shines
Through the lily lines,
So forth from thine heart
Through thy red lips apart
Came words and love
To wolf-bane's grove,
And the shaker of battle-board blesseth the Earth
For the love and the longing, kind craving and mirth.
May I forget
The grass spring-wet
39

And the quivering stem
On the brooklet's hem,
And the brake thrust up
And the saffron's cup,
Each fashioned thing
From the heart of Spring,
Long ere I forget it, the house of thy word
And the doors of thy learning, the roof of speech-hoard.
When thou art away
In the winter grey,
Through the hall-reek then
And the din of men
Shall I yet behold
Sif's hair of gold
And Hild's bright feet,
The battle-fleet,
And from threshold to hearthstone, like as songs of the South,
To and fro shall be fleeting the words of thy mouth.

65

CHAPTER XVII. THE SLAYING OF HARDCASTLE.

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

66

[Came sword and shield]

[Osberne.]
Came sword and shield
To the hazelled field
Where the fey man fell
At Wethermel:
The grey blade grew glad
In the hands of a lad,
And the tall man and stark
Leapt into the dark.
For the cleaver of war-boards came forth from his door
And guided the hand of the lacking in lore.
But now is the blade
In the dark sheath laid,
And the peace-strings lull
His heart o'erfull.
Up dale and down
The hall-roofs brown
Hang over the peace
Of the year's increase.
No fear rendeth midnight, and dieth the day
With no foe save the winter that weareth away.

107

CHAPTER XXIX. OSBERNE AND HIS MEN RETURN TO WETHERMEL.

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

109

[The War-god's gale]

[Osberne.]
The War-god's gale
Drave down the Dale
And thrust us out
To the battle-shout;
We wended far
To the wall of war
And trod the way
Where the edges lay,
The rain of the string rattled rough on the field
Where the haysel was hoarded with sword-edge & shield.
Long lived the sun
When the play was begun,
And little but white
Was the moon all night;
But the days drew in
And work was to win,
And on the snow
Lay men alow,
And at Yule fared we feasting in war-warded wall
And the helm and the byrny were bright in the hall.
Then changed the year
And spring was dear,
But no maid went
On mead or bent,
For there grew on ground
New battle-round,
New war-wall ran
Round houses of man,
There tower to tower oft dark and dim grew
At noontide of summer with rain of the yew.
Neath point and edge
In the battle hedge
We dwelt till wore
Late summer o'er;
110

In the autumn night
We steered aright
The wisdom-bark
Through the steel-thronged dark,
The warrior we wafted from out of the fray,
And he woke midst the worthy and hearkened their say.
Now peace is won
And all strife done,
And in our hands
The fame of lands
Aback we bear
To the dale the dear,
And the Fathers lie
Made glad thereby.
Now blossometh bliss in the howes of the old
At our tale growing green from their tale that is told.

135

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE STAVES WHICH OSBERNE TAUGHT TO THE DALESMEN.

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

136

[The Song of the Dale.]

Tis Summer and night,
Little dusk and long light,
Little loss and much gain
When the day must needs wane,
Little bitter, much sweet
From the weed to the wheat;
Little moan, mickle praise
Of the Midsummer days,
When the love of the sleeping sun lieth along
And broodeth the acres abiding the song.
Were the spring to come o'er
And again as before,
What then would ye crave
From the summer to have?
Sweeter grass would ye pray,
And more lea-lading hay?
For more wheat would ye cry,
Thicker swathe of the rye?
Stouter sons would ye ask for, and daughters more dear?
Well-willers more trusty than them ye have here?
O the wheat is yet green
But full fair beseen,
And the rye groweth tall
By the turfen wall.
137

Thick and sweet was the hay
On the lealand that lay;
Dear daughters had we,
Sons goodly to see,
And of all the well-willers ere trusted for true
The least have ye failed us to deal and to do.
What then is this,
That the summer's bliss
Somewhat ye fail
In your treasure's tale?
What then have ye lost,
And what call ye the cost
Of the months of life
Since winter's strife?
For unseldom the summer sun curseth the Dale
With the tears thrust aback and the unuttered wail.
Forsooth o'er-well
The tale may we tell:
Tis the spear and the sword
And the House of the Sward.
The bright and the best
Have gone to their rest,
And our eyes are blind
Their eyes to find.
In mead and house wend we because they were stayed,
And we stand up because in the earth were they laid.
Would ye call them aback
Then, to look on your lack?
Nay, we would that their tale
From our hearts ne'er should fail.
This then maketh you sad,
That such dear death they had?
138

This night are we sad
For the joy that we had,
And their memory's beginning
Great grief must be winning.
But while weareth away,
And e'en woe waxeth gay.
In fair words is it told,
Weighed e'en as fine gold;
Sweet as wind of the south
Grows the speech in the mouth.
And from father to son speeds the tale of the true,
Of the brave that forbore that the brethren might do.

CHAPTER XXXVII. OSBERNE TAKES LEAVE OF WETHERMEL.

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

141

[From the Wethermel reek]

[Osberne.]
From the Wethermel reek
I set me to seek
The world-ways unkenned
And the first of the end.
For when out there I be
Each way unto me
Shall seem nought save it lead
Back to Wethermel's need,
And many a twilight twixt dawning and day
Shall the feet of the waker dream wending the way.
When the war-gale speeds
Point-bitter reeds,
And the edges flash
O'er the war-board's clash,
Through the battle's rent
Shall I see the bent,
And the gables' peace
Midst the Dale's increase,
And the victory-whooping shall seem to me oft
As the Dale shepherd's cry where the reek wends aloft.
When to right and left
The ranks are cleft,
And the edges wan
Mate master and man,
It shall be as the fall
Of a hindering wall
Twixt my blade and me
And the garth on the lea;
So shall day unto day tell the hope of the year,
And season on season shall draw the Dale near.

296

UNFINISHED ROMANCES

THE FOLK OF THE MOUNTAIN DOOR

[Songs extracted from the prose narrative.]

297

[Erst was the earth]

[The carle.]
Erst was the earth
Fulfilled of mirth:
Our swords were sheen
In the summer green;
And we rode and ran
Through winter wan,
And long and wide
Was the feast-hall's side.
And the sun that was sunken
Long under the wold
Hung ere we were drunken
High over the gold;
And as fowl in the bushes
Of summer-tide sing
So glad as the thrushes
Sang earl-folk and king.
298

Though the wild wind might splinter
The oak-tree of Thor,
The hand of mid-winter
But beat on the door.

“Yea,” said the king, “and dost thou say that winter hath come into my hall on the Name-day of my first-born?” “Not so,” said the carle.

“What is amiss then?” said the king. Then the carle sang again:

Were many men
In the feast-hall then,
And the worst on bench
Ne'er thought to blench
When the storm arose
In the war-god's close;
And for Tyr's high-seat,
Were the best full meet:
And who but the singer
Was leader and lord,
I steel-god, I flinger
Of adder-watched hoard?
Aloft was I sitting
Amidst of the place
And watched men a-flitting
All under my face.
And hushed for mere wonder
Were great men and small
As my voice in rhyme-thunder
Went over the hall.
299

[Spring came of old]

[The ancient man.]
Spring came of old
In the days of gold,
In the thousandth year
Of the thousands dear,
When we twain met
And the mead was wet
With the happy tears
Of the best of the years.
But no cloud hung over
The eyes of the sun
That looked down on the lover
Ere eve was begun.
Oft, oft came the greeting
Of spring and her bliss
To the mead of our meeting,
The field of our kiss.
Is spring growing older?
Is earth on the wane
As the bold and the bolder
That come not again?

300

[King, hast thou thought]

[The old man.]
King, hast thou thought
How nipped and nought
Is last year's rose
Of the snow-filled close?
Or dost thou find
Last winter's wind
Will yet avail
For thy hall-glee's tale?
E'en such and no other
If spoken tonight
Were the name of the brother
Of war-gods of might.
Yea the word that hath shaken
The walls of the house
When the warriors half waken
To battle would rouse
Ye should drowse if ye heard it
Nor turn in the chair.
O long long since they feared it
Those foemen of fear!
Unhelpful, unmeaning
Its letters are left;
For the man overweening
Of manhood is reft.

301

[Pour, white-armed ones]

[The old man.]
Pour, white-armed ones,
As the Rhine flood runs!
And O thanes in hall
I bid you all
Rise up, and stand
With the horn in hand,
And hearken and hear
The old name and the dear.
To HOST-LORD the health is
Who guarded of old
The House where the wealth is
The Home of the gold.
And again the Tree bloometh
Though winter it be
And no heart of man gloometh
From mountain to sea.
Come thou Lord, the rightwise,
Come Host-lord once more
To thy Hall-fellows, fightwise
The Folk of the Door!

307

[Wide is the land]

[The carle.]
Wide is the land
Where the houses stand,
There bale and bane
Ye scarce shall chain;
308

There the sword is ground
And wounds abound;
And women fair
Weave the love-nets there.
Merry hearts in the Mountain
Dales shepherd-men keep,
And about the Fair Fountain
Need more than their sheep.
Of the Dale of the Tower
Where springeth the well
In the sun-slaying hour
They talk and they tell;
And often they wonder
Whence cometh the name
And what tale lies thereunder
For honour or shame.
For beside the fount welling
No castle now is;
Yet seldom foretelling
Of weird wends amiss.

Quoth the king, “I have heard tell of the Fair Fountain and the Dale of the Tower; though I have never set eyes thereon, and I deem it will be hard to find. But dost thou mean that our son who is born the Father of the Folk shall dwell there during that while of peril?”

Again sang the carle:

Good men and true,
They deal and do
In the grassy dales
Of that land of the tales;
Where dale and down
Yet wears the crown
Of the flower and fruit
From our kinship's root.
309

There little man sweateth
In trouble and toil,
And in joy he forgetteth
The feud and the foil.
The weapon he wendeth
Achasing the deer,
And in peace the moon endeth
That endeth the year.
Yet there dwell our brothers,
And should they but know
They thy stem of all others
Were planted to grow
Beside the Fair Fountain,
How fain were those men
Of the God of the Mountain
So come back again.
323

THE STORY OF THE FLOWER

[The prose links have been written by the Editor, May Morris, to carry on the story between the extracts.

The story tells that one evening men sat at meat in the fair hall of the Baron of the Leas, and that after supper the talk fell upon the draft of armories and how they came about.

And divers minds hereof were told
Of which were bravest to behold
And which were noblest of renown.
Then said a chapman of the town
That to his mind the boar, the bear,
The pard, the lion and such deer,
The erne and slaughter-fowl—such-like
Of living things that rend and strike
Were meetest arms for barony,
“And therewithal meseems,” quoth he,
“That helm and sword and bow and spear
Are charges good for lords to bear,
But nought methinks of flowers and trees,
Apples and grapes: things such as these
For lads and damsels are but meet
Amidst their toying dainty-sweet.”
Some laughed, some scowled, for lo! upon
The stone hall's chimney was there done
The armour of the Lords of Leas,
And there amidst of carven trees
Upon the shield of silver white
Blossom and stem was done aright
A rose new-slipped; and one cried out
“What, carle! and wilt thou sit and flout
The noblest shield in all the land
When with my lord's meat thy fool's hand
Is e'en yet greasy? Hold thy peace!”
And much the blame of men encrease
324

About the carle. Till there stood up
An ancient squire, and filled his cup,
And cried, “My masters, fill ye now
And drink unto the goodly bough,
The Leasome Rose, that I have seen
Besprent with red about the green
In many a death-begirded hour.
Hail O thou shield, hail O Flower!”
Therewith he drank and all stood up
And joyfully they drained the cup;
All cried “All hail the Flower!” and then
Loud for awhile was talk of men
About this goodly ancient shield
And all its deeds on fold and field,
And many an idle tale was told
Of how it first was borne of old
And who begat it. Till once more
Arose the squire the old and hoar
And stilled the noise and spake: “Ye tell
Of many a thing ye know not well,
But would ye hush and hearken me
I know a goodly history
Of this same battle-token old
That seldom yet hath all been told,
Therein forsooth is all the tale
That unto any may avail,
The story of the Flower of yore.”

So the old squire told of the valiancy of the present lord, on whom Kings had bestowed great gifts and bidden him take a new shield, or crown his rose with gold, or take

An augment for his honour's sake,
A sword in chief above the rose;
But ever he naysaid all those
And still in the old wonted way
The ancient flower he bears today,
And e'en so oft and o'er again
325

His fathers did and thought no gain
Of any gift on field or bower
That changed one whit the ancient flower.

Then he began to tell of the old days of the House of Leas and of Sir Hugh the pious and noble knight, whom all men loved and trusted; he told them of his great piety, how that

Oft in choir long would he sit
And sing the hours; the cross bare he
Full oft at the Epiphany
Or other feast. He would light down
From off his horse if midst the town
He met God's body, and would kneel
In mire and clay to pray for hele.
Shortly to say, such wise he did
His holiness might not be hid
Till some men blamed him that he fared
Unlike a knight with war-sword bared
But rather as a clerk—forsooth
A many mocked him for his youth
Amidst the church as cast away,
But rich men, mighty men, were they;
The mouths of poor men had no word
Save blessings for the holy lord.
Withal this while he yet was young
He had not 'scaped the slanderous tongue
As in my tale now shall ye hear.

Therewith he told them of the mighty Lord of Lyon, feared by all the country-side, and of his noble wife, who was loved by all men,

Yet was she lovelier than their love.

Seven years had they been married yet had no child,

Wherefore he sat all gloomy-great
And ill-content his own heart ate
And by that meat was evil fed
326

So that strange fancies filled his head
Concerning his ill hap, until
This last fear all his heart must fill,
That by his wife he was beguiled.
Yoland
Now led him holding his bare hand
Unto the dais, and after them,
His foot nigh touching her gold hem,
Went Geoffrey till at last they came
Unto the pillared seat of fame
Wherein she set him by her side.
And as of some new-wedded bride
So were her hands and lips and eyes,
And all her garments' braveries,
Girdle and gown and wreathing flower,
Seemed made for nothing but that hour
Ere yet the bridal bed is seen.
327

The hall-folk said she ne'er had been
So proud and joyous—not e'en when
The pest was heavy upon men
And 'twixt the living and the dead
With naked feet and uncrowned head,
Betwixt the March snow and the sun
She stood until her will was done
And all the saints who loved her well
Had slaked the death and shut back hell.
Of few words were those twain; low voiced
While loud the folk in hall rejoiced,
And chiefly great was Geoffrey's glee
And loud he laughed and joyously,
And whatsoe'er in hall betid
So fast the merry minutes slid
Into deep night, and came the cup;
And Yoland with Sir Hugh stood up
And took his hand and blessed them there
As one who says, Tomorrow's fair
And I no long way off from thee.
So was she gone, and dark with pain
But sweet with love was night again.
So was Lord Hugh to chamber led
With honour great, and by his bed
Two squires of good renown there lay
As a most mighty man he were;
Yet was not wily Geoffrey there.
So with the early morning-tide
Hugh bade his men be dight to ride;
And forth he went, and since the day
Was fair amidmost of the May,
Into the pleasance for a while
He went, the waiting to beguile
And nurse the longing of his heart
Amidst the flowers from folk apart.
So down the garden-path he went
328

And gazed adown the sunny bent
And saw the morning sunbeams smite
St. Michael's walls to gleaming white,
Then turned about unto the house
That dusked the garden plenteous
With shade of its great towers and tall.
And 'twixt the sunshine and the wall
He saw one coming from the gloom,
Bright with the blossoms of the loom,
Fair as a picture in a book.
His glad eyes caught her joyous look
As she beheld him tarrying there,
For it was Yoland slim and fair
Ruddy with freshness of the morn
And lovely with her love new-born.
She turned not to him straight but brake
A slip from off the bush where green
The barbs about the rose unseen
Were growing, and she said, “See now,
The rose-buds into flowers shall grow
Unless the world shall end ere June;
But who knows through what watery moon,
What rending south-west wind, what storm,
What plague-struck noon to bring the worm,
What bitter nippings from the north
The flower [shall] pass ere it come forth
Ruddy and wide and summer-sweet?”
The spray fell down unto her feet
E'en as she spake. But he knelt down
And kissed the gold hem of her gown
And kissed her feet the while his hand
Took up the spray; still did she stand
Nor bent to him. He rose and she
Looking afar stood quietly,
And he drew closer and more close
Holding that promise of the rose.
329

Hugh rode on silent for a space
Until they reached a wooded place
Nigh to the ford, and there he stayed
Those men of his and shyly said,
“Ride on unto the House of Leas.
For me I go to pray for peace
And speak unto my friend and lord
Down in the Chapel of the Sword
That lieth by the river side
Beyond the wood; there may I bide
A day or twain, I know not well.
God keep you.” No more was to tell:
Upon their way to Leas they rode,
And Hugh so left a while abode
Then through the wood he went a space
And coming out he set his face
Unto the fells.
So on by byway and lone lane
He rode and with the night did gain
The bare hillside below the fell,
Where now he knew the land full well.
330

There in a little dale he lay
And rose up with the earliest day
And through the downland rode for long
Nor met he aught to do him wrong,
Nay no man but some shepherd folk
With whom his night-long fast he broke,
Nor did they know him nor his name
So rode he till at last he came
E'en at the very nones of day
High up the fell. The limestone grey
Rose in a ridge of cliff above
A little plain where nought did move
That was alive. Great rocks lay strewed
Over the sward, amidst them showed
A little chapel much as grey
And weather-beaten as were they.
Then beat his heart because he knew
That now at last the die he threw
For good or ill. Swift he rode on
Up to the chapel-door but none
Stirred nigh it; from his horse he leapt
And clashed the ring-bolt as he stepped
Over the threshold: and a mist
Came o'er his eyes. Had she kept tryst
And would she be the true at need?
Yea there her very self indeed
She stood before him.
331

So the days wore
And nought there is to tell of more
Till unpeace fell upon the land
And other tiding came to hand.
For so it fell upon a day
That men-at-arms must come our way,
A score belike. How it befell
I know not: strange it is to tell
But true: our dame bade not hide
But sitting by the hearth abide
And heed not aught nor speak at all
Whatever matter might befall.
So sat I trembling. There and then
Into the cottage came three men
Clattering in arms, the while outside
A-horseback did the rest abide.
And now the gayest of the three
Looking about and close to me
Yet saw me not: but as for him
Though steel-clad now in breast and limb
I knew him for the selfsame lord,
Who now again took up the word:
“Well dame, now are we come to take
The damsel, even for her sake
And thine; and here I bring the gold.”
And straightway on the board he told
Twenty gold pieces. The dame smiled
And said “Well, ye should have the child
If she were here, as she is not.
A merchant hath thy treasure got;
I sold her yesterday at eve.”
I saw the fair lord's breast upheave
332

And his cheeks redden: “Whereaway
Went then thy chapman yesterday?”
She said “Why hide the man's abode?
Unto Much Allerton he rode.”
Then hastily the knight turned round
And out was he and off the ground
And spurring hard or ere there came
The very last word from the dame;
And after him his meiny went,
Clattering and clashing. “Nought is spent
The peril yet,” then muttered she;
“They will be wiser presently
And come aback.” Withal she spake:
“My child, thy rock and spindle take
And sit without the door and spin,
Nor heed thou what man cometh in.”
So did I wondering; sore afeard,
Until again the noise I heard
Of horse-hoofs drawing near the close,
And lo the knight and two of those
Who followed him; straight he gat
From off his horse nor heeded what
Was by the door. I heard him say,
“Dame, thou art wise enough today,
Yet we grow wiser than we were.
Methinks ye have the damsel here.”
“Yea?” said she; “not so over-great
Is this poor house but thou mayst wait
Whiles your men seek it up and down.”
He knit his brows into a frown
Yet reddened too, and said, “We deem,
I and my men, that as a dream
Were things before us even now,
And that ye showed us but a show
Of what things were. We deem that there
Amidmost of the hearthside chair
Knee close to knee the damsel sat,
333

And seemed thy white-haired blue-eyed cat.”
The dame laughed out: “Well well, Sir Knight,
Still may ye see the self-same sight
And for thy money mayst thou take
The beast and keep her for my sake.”
He looked and scowled and then once more
He strode out through the open door
And gat to horse and rode away.
Then the dame called me in to say:
“Child, haste thee, strip thee to the skin
And stand beside the door within
And stir not, whatso thou mayst hear,
Nay loiter not for shame or fear.”
What might I do but as she bade
But scarce stood I a naked maid
Beside the door-post ere once more
The armour clashed about the door
And in the knight strode. “Dame,” he said,
“Ye play a close game by my head—
Where is the damsel?” “Nay by now
E'en at Much Allerton, I trow,”
The dame said, “thou mayst win her yet
If swiftly unto horse ye get.”
Then wild with wrath the fair knight spake
“Beware dame lest the fire we take
And burn the house and thee and all.”
“Yea, that the nighest way I call
For finding a lost love,” she said,
“Now ye grow wiser than well sped.”
“Dame,” said he, “yet I know thy guile.
When I departed hence erewhile
There sat she by the doorway side
And seemed to be thy yellow cat
Purring; nor stayed I aught thereat
But lo the hem of a grey gown
E'en as I turned seemed slipping down
About the beast—Where is she now?”
334

“Well, thou art wise enough to know,”
She said, “there doth she yet abide,
Go take her for thy lovely bride.”
Wood-wrath he grew and cried, “Well then,
Now shall ye burn, witch. Ho my men,
Take ye the brands from off the hearth
And burn up all to utter dearth,
And let your spears thrust through what e'er
Shall come abroad to greet you there.”
His men 'gan stir, but therewithal
They heard a sudden trumpet-call
A blast of war, shrill loud and nigh;
And therewith 'gan one man to cry
“The King!—the King!” and down he cast
The kindled brand and gat him fast
From out the house; and all the rout
Delayed no whit but hurried out
From house and orchard. Yea the lord
Drew from its sheath his gleaming sword
And hewed hard at the Dame, and I
Scarce kept aback a frightened cry.
Nought happed of scathe save to our chair
That lost its old life then and there
Beneath the edges: while once more
The horn blew louder than before.
The knight turned cursing and strode out,
And past the garth we heard his shout
Unto his fleeing men. But for me
I stood there quaking timorously
Till from the Dame I heard a voice
Shrill yet but weak: “Child, rejoice
That thou art free: a phantom sound
Shall chase them o'er the grassy ground
And the bare rocks, o'er wet and dry,
Nor shall they come back hastily.
But draw nigh, sweetheart: for no more
May my craft hide thee as before.
335

Come hither then and hear me, maid.”
So did I even as she bade
And found her lying down alow
Hard by the hearth now scarce aglow.
I knelt down by her and she said:
“No more again till I am dead
Shall such-like power from me go forth
Although my will may yet be worth
Thy blessing when the daisies grow
Above me: hearken—for I go
The longest and the roughest way
That any stout Eve's daughter may.”
I wept because I loved her well,
And lonely fear upon me fell:
But she went on, “Short now is the space
For weeping. I have seen thy face
A little while and now no more;
But long years lie thy life before,
Happy belike. Lo here the key
Of the great chest that unto thee
I opened on the day I showed
The treasure which therein abode,
The raiment of the great on earth
That many an orchard-croft is worth.
Go do it on without delay,
Time will be furthermore to say
What thou shalt do.” E'en so I did
And my poor peasant's body hid
In that rich raiment of a queen
Where scarce for glistening gold were seen
The silken blossoms of the loom.
I came back lighting up the gloom
And knelt again. Again she said:
“What wilt thou do when I am dead?
Is that thy thought? Thou shalt do well
And oft of thee the folk shall tell
336

For days to come. Day wears apace,
I with it; get thee from this place
And through the wood go speedily
Nor bide thou the last breath of me—
I know my way.
Stay not for night
When in the wood thou art—aright
Shalt thou be led; but still press on
Till miles of woodland way be won
And miles of thicket lie between
This house where erst thou hast been seen.
And so my heart is telling me
That ere dawn one shall meet with thee,
A mighty man, who shall behold
Thy beauty and more worth than gold
Shall deem thee, and shall bid thee come
Yet in all honour to his home.
If thou naysay him then is gone
Thy luck of life and all is done.
Speak gently to him, yet I bid
That nought of all thy life be hid,
Yea tell him all the very truth—
Yet nothing shall he trow forsooth
Thy simple tale, but deem of thee
That thou of some great house shall be.
What more? My sight is waxing dim
Yet seems to see thee wed with him—
And this moreover shall I tell
That art thou faring less than well
Then may it help thee somewhat yet
My name not wholly to forget.
Sad is this sundering now may be
But e'en what was awrought for me
By days thy fellowship made sweet.
Depart now, let me see thy feet
Pass o'er the threshold ere I die.”
337

Dull sorrow on my heart did lie
As I rose up from her, yet so
Her bidding I was wont to do
Nor knew I how to naysay this.
My lips yet felt her clammy kiss
As I went forth most sick at heart
From all that peacefulness to part
Yet nought afeard, because the wood
To me had been a friend full good
For many a year by day and night.

Falling asleep in the forest after her wandering, and waking in the morning with the first beams of the sun athwart the greensward, the maiden came upon a man in fair raiment lying asleep. Deeming that this would be he of whom her dame has told, she stood and waited until her fate thought good to wake him up to look on her.

I stood and pondered how't would pass
That life that fated for us was,
And little joy I saw therein
But nought I saw whereby to win
To happier days to be mine own,
So was I helplessly alone.
So still I waited till the day
Grew hotter o'er the woodland way
And all the morning breeze was dead.
And so at last he raised his head
And dim-eyed looked about the place
Until he happed upon my face,
Then up he sprang and facing me
As if a marvel he did see
Stretched out his hands but spake no word.
Hearken again:
That lord strove with his speech in vain
338

A little while, then spake and said
“Who art thou—thou the unafraid
As by the eyes of thee I deem?
Or art thou e'en as thou dost seem
Or hast thou taken for a while
A woman's semblance to beguile
Good knights unto the fairies' land,
That thou before me there dost stand
So lovely and unmoved and strange?
I looked on him. Fain had I been
To flee adown the woodland green
So cold I felt to his desire,
For sooth to say I knew the fire
Was in his barm at sight of me.
Yet what the carline bade me be
That must I strive for; so I stayed
Abiding what should be, and said,
“By me thou shalt not be beguiled:
Nought am I but a cot-carle's child
And if I seem aught else today
Because of this fair-wrought array
Then am I nowise what I seem.”
Doubtful he looked, yet did I deem
Wistful the more. “And canst thou then
Lead me to some abode of men,
Gold shalt thou have to thy content
If so thou wilt.” Therewith there went
Some new thing through my heart, some scorn
Of all his hope so soon outworn
Of Queens and fays. Were my will free
I should have mocked him openly
In bitter words, but bound I was
And so belike no change did pass
Across the face he deemed so fair.
339

—O love, my babble mayst thou bear?
If thou couldst know how sweet it is
That these my lips that feel thy kiss
Still sweet upon them thus should tell
The things that in my life befell!

Thus did Yoland tell Sir Hugh of the Leas of her meeting with the strange lord and of how he doubted her word and of how his hunger for her grew apace.

“Well,” said he, “each new word belies
Thy story of churl's miseries,
So sweet thou speakest, wise withal
As one who knows the earlfolk's hall
And hath not learned to fear and quake
Though terror on the world awake.”
Quoth I, “My tale is told to thee,
If thou believ'st not, let it be;
It is too wearisome to say
The selfsame thing in one same way.”
Then eagerly he took my hand
And held it. “Where in all the land
Are cot-carle's children made like this?”
So spake he and I felt his kiss
Upon my hand. And then he said,
“Lady, I see that now is dead
Thy tale of beggar-maid and cot,
But as to whence thou art and what,
Thy pleasure is to keep it hid;
So will I do as thou dost bid
But will not cover up my name
Nor hide from thee my house of fame:
No King nor Duke, no Earl of might,
But am I the Lord Lyon hight.”
340

With swelling pride he spake the word,
But I who knew of king or lord
Nor name nor fame, changed face no whit
For all his boast, but smiled on it
For thinking had he known how true
My tale was, what then would he do.
“Yea,” said he: “'tis but as I thought,
Thou changest thy demeanour nought
Though thou hast heard a name whereat
Great ones have quaked, and they that sat
On the spear-guarded thrones of earth.
Surely I see that thou art worth
All thou hast won which is to be
The earthly friend and mate of me,
My bedfellow, my very wife,
The lady of a glorious life.”
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