The Collected Works of William Morris :: :: University of Virginia Library

At night-fall, therefore watch and ward
We kept with little sleep that night;
The low land, covered with green sward
We saw at the first streak of light.

Above, the tall trees as before,
And all about, the goats and deer
Playing together on the shore—
Masters, then sunk our hearts with fear.

To leave that evil land behind
Twelve days to sail upon the sea
Before the merry Eastern wind
And still in the same place to be

As to our eyes it verily seemed:
Almost we thought to see laid there
Our fellow's body—had we dreamed
At sight of that still land so fair

Those evil things that there befell,
Or was there such another place
Inhabited by fiends from Hell
And otherwise in goodly case?

Now as the wind blew on the land
A furlong from the land we rode,
An anchor out on either hand;
And many an evil we forbode.

This happed: about the dead of night
The watch gave warning, and we all
Looked landward, and saw many a light
Pass to and fro, and therewithal

Strange cries we heard come from the shore,
And still the lights came one by one,
And kept increasing more and more
Until the rising of the sun.

103

But in the twilight we saw there
A multitude of moving things
Black on the green shore: many a prayer
We muttered hearing their cryings.

We said, we sought for Heaven on earth
But now at last have come to Hell;
These things that make such sort of mirth
With these for ever shall we dwell.

Alas the merry merchant-town,
Alas the farms at home, we said,
The crossed tombs on the grassy down
Around the church when we [OMITTED] dead.

But now hereafter shall they say
To those that in our houses dwell,
Forgetting God they sailed away
And drove into the mouth of Hell.

Yet God was good to us, fair Sirs;
As day-light spread we looked to see
Uncertain forms of great monsters,
And soon within their grip to be;

Nevertheless as the day rose
With fainting hearts we armed us clean
And saw the faces of our foes,
Such folk as we had often seen;

Black men such as our people bring
With ivory and spices rare,
When southward they go sea-roving,
Or like the Greek kings' eunuchs are.

They offered battle by their guise,
As crowding on the grassy strand
They hailed us with outlandish cries
And shook their weapons in their hand.

104

Right ugly staves they had with them
Set round with many a spiky bone,
Skin coats with gaudy painted hem,
And axes evil made of stone.

And bows they had but weak enough,
They had no raiment of defence
But furry skins, and targets rough;
They had no boat to come from thence.

Therefore our hearts again grew light
And little heeded we their noise,
But that it stirred in us forthright
Remembrance of old battle joys.

And loud the Captain shouted: “Sirs
Here is a good game to your hand!
Ye are no merchant mariners
To buy and sell from land to land.

Up anchors, man the oars forthright,
Get ready axes to the hand;
Blow horns, for we shall hear ere night
New tidings of our promised Land!”

Joyous our hearts grew and merry;
We cried our cries, while overhead
Out went the banner suddenly,
And down the wind went long and red.

Out ran the forty oars like one,
While from the stern the minstrel men
Struck up The King of England's Son.
Forgotten were our troubles then,

As towards the shore we drove, singing,
Amid the stones and sharp arrows—
We counted that a little thing,
So fain we were to come to blows.

105

There in their midst ashore we leapt,
And great and grim the slaughter was,
In their skin coats their bodies kept,
The great stone axes broke like glass.

There on the shore in heap on heap
They fell upon the trodden grass,
Or from the beach they fled like sheep
By such wild ways as they might pass,

And these we followed after straight,
But left behind some fifty there,
To guard our passage, if ill fate
Betid, for still we feared a snare.

But nought within the woods that day
We saw but dying men and dead,
They had no rede, but, get away,
These strangers may not be bested.

So on we pressed till at noontide
We came unto a clearer space
Where stood their town, and therebeside
A little river ran apace.

A poor place built of reeds and wood
And no man there to make defence;
Ajar the gates of wattle stood,
Both men and women had gone thence.

Natheless their beasts were left behind,
And, namely, pigs and beasts like goats
But bigger far than are our kind;
And geese swam all about their moats.

But iron or silver, brass or gold
Nor any metal, found we there,
But stout staves certain flints did hold
Brought to a sharp edge and a fair.

106

And nothing woven there we found
For all their raiment was of skin,
And pots but neither glazed or round
We saw with evil drink therein.

And in the midst we saw a hall
Wherein their filthy God they keep,
Who had on him, for royal pall,
The skins of some beast like a sheep,

Set round with many a coloured shell.
So there our helmets we did off,
And on their swine we feasted well
Then burnt their God with jeer and scoff.

Thereafter all the place we burned,
Then got together some poor spoil,
And back toward our ships returned
At undern. Now with care and toil

Had we come through the woods before;
Much more we laboured coming back,
Driving our cattle us before;
Nought was it now but hew and hack

And stumble; till the night-fall came
And found us still deep in the woods
Forewearied with our arms, foot-lame,
And scattered shepherding our goods.

Therefore we made a barrier,
Wherein we laid us down to sleep
And wait; nor had we any fear
Of miscreants and such Devil's sheep.

But in the dead of night I woke,
And heard a sharp and bitter cry,
And there saw, struck with a great stroke,
Lie dead, Sir John of Hederby.

107

We armed us with what speed we might,
As thick and fast the arrows came,
Nor did we any more lack light,
For all the woods were red with flame.

Straight we set forward valiantly
While all about the blacks lay hid,
Who never spared to yell and cry—
A woful night to us befell.

For some within the fire fell,
And some with shafts were smitten dead,
Neither could any see right well
Which side to guard, nor by my head

Did we strike stroke at all that night,
For ever onward as we drew
So drew they back from out our sight;
Thus we went on as men might do

In evil dreams, until we felt
The sea-breeze push the smoke away,
And of the sea the savour smelt
Sweeter than roses by my fay!

Now when we were all met, some bade
To turn again and smite these thieves,
Yet were the more part now afraid
Nor list to die like shrivelled leaves.

Soon we should all be more than kings,
Nor was there anything to gain
From these but hogs and such-like things,
And folly was it to be slain

Upon the eve of Paradise.
Therefore we put again to sea
Leaving a land that might entice
More wary travellers than we.

108

We coasted by cape after cape
Until the wind blew easterly,
Then due west we our course did shape,
Withal was but a gentle sea.

Our hearts upon the end were set
As fair we sailed before the wind,
All things behind did we forget
In sweet hope happy life to find.

The third day came Sir Nicholas,
Our Captain, to the Rose Garland.
And coming up to where I was,
Spoke to me, holding up his hand:

“Sir Rafe, I deem you wise and true
Nor given unto babbling words,
Which spoken we may not undo
And make worse wounds than grinded swords.

Now I am heavy in my heart,
And all my hope is fallen to nought,
Fain would I you should have a part
Of this my burden: I am brought

Night after night in lifelike dreams
To that land where we wish to go;
Alas none ever happy seems
Of all the folk I meet there now.

And tombs are in the fair church set,
No man adores the Goddesses,
The palace steps with blood are wet,
And weeds grow up between the trees.

Last night I saw my father there,
My mother whom I left alive
In Norway, and my daughter fair,
No one of them did seem to thrive.

109

At last this question came from me,
That long unto my tongue did cling:
‘Do folk die here?’ Then piteously
They answered me with sore weeping.

‘Alas! fair son,’ my father said,
‘None comes to this unhappy place
Unless for ever they are dead;’
And therewith he lift up his face.

O, well do I remember, Rafe,
My father, when from sea we came,
And thought to see our homestead safe,
And saw, instead, its last thin flame

Die out above my dead mother;
His face was not so wretched then
As that the shade did show me there—
O, Rafe, we are but ruined men!

A dream has sent us on this quest,
And certain half-forgotten tales:
To live for ever is the best
That haps to us; but if all fails

What is the worst of all?” Said I,
“It is well seen, friend, by my head,
We shall find some good way to die;
Then are we, as our fathers, dead,

Who fell upon the English shore,
Or sunk below the sandy Seine,
Or back from Russia came no more,
Or got no mercy from the Dane.

Yea, also, ere we come to this
Doubt not that we shall find some way
To pass our life in worldly bliss
In some sweet isle with game and play.

110

And shall we now curse God and die
If following some minstrels' dream,
As boys a painted butterfly,
We find it lead us down the stream

Of circumstance, to a strange life
Wherein more wonders we shall see
Than if we lived at home in strife
Thirty men's lives, as men now be?

I say a dream has brought us here,
Let us now go where it may lead,
For no dream shall we ever steer
Back eastward, Captain, by my rede.

Yea, are we now as like to find
This very Earthly Paradise,
As any land I bear in mind.
Needs must we on in any wise—

Or will the wind that ever blew
From some point east, as we came here,
Be unto us so leal and true
As back at our command to steer?”

“I would the wind would rise,” said he,
“And blow us to some Christian shore
Through howsoever wild a sea,
Thence would I never wander more.

There should we find some fair abbey
Where long in penance should I dwell
And ever to the great God pray,
And say my psalter fair and well.

For now have we sinned Adam's sin,
To make us Gods who are but men,
To find a heaven and dwell therein
Whose years are but three score and ten.

111

Yea, almost are we fain to have
Such Gods as we ourselves have made,
For if they be not strong to save
Of them is no man much afraid.

This is the thing I fear therefore,
That we our journey end too well,
And reach the much desired shore,
And without dying come to Hell.

I pray rather that God may stay
Our ship in the mid-ocean now,
Until our flesh fall all away;
Or else that some great wind may blow,

And drive us underneath the sea—
There shall [OMITTED] do what seemeth best
Unto our bodies, that shall be
Until the Day of Doom at rest.”

Now even as he spake to me,
Dead fell the wind, the sails did flap,
And all our way stopped suddenly,
Just as he wished that it might hap.

Thereat a terror seized my heart
He was foredoomed: and I was wise
And wished a long life for my part
Should we fail of our paradise

With joyous tilts and ladies' love,
Fair things, and flower-crowned revelry:
And were we never hence to move,
God's martyrs in the middle sea.

The Captain looked up in my face
Amazed and blank, then slunk away
And went about from place to place
Nor spoke to me again that day.

112

The next day twice he passed me by
Then turned, and said, “My words were nought:
Why do you look so bitterly
As if some evil I had wrought?

This is a calm such as might chance
In any sea that you could find.”
Yet here withal he looked askance
Eastward, as though he prayed for wind.

I said, “They say that God hears prayer,
And, by the Saints I deem it true;
You asked a small thing, and a fair:
Suppose that God has given it you.

To die in war, when all is said,
You and your fellows, this you asked:
God is a great God, by my head,
And is not lightly overtasked.

Pray again, Captain, as before
And we shall see that abbey fair
Clean standing on some grassy shore;
And well I wish that I was there.

O for another draught of life
I would endure their lazy hum
And snatch some flower from their strife—
Cucullus non facit monachum.”

He said no more but slouched his hat
And went, and soon I heard him sing,
And saw his flushed face, as he sat
With our fellows, carolling.

Within a while they sang no more,
For many a day we hung there still,
And want of water grieved us sore,
To eat our meat we had no will.

113

And now Sir Nicholas sat silent,
Although his lips were still moving,
So that men deemed a spell he meant
To call up some unholy thing.

Thus lay we till the twentieth night,
Which was with moon and clear enow,
The Fighting Man lay in our sight
Some half a furlong from our bow.

Between her masts in the moonlight
We saw a small black cloud arise;
We were as joyous at that sight
As we had found our paradise.

Straightway the Captain cried aloud,
“Man oars and sails! here cometh wind!”
But so increased on us that cloud,
His words we had no time to mind,

When no man now could see his hand,
And the green seas rolling in;
Then neither had we place to stand,
And but if one some hope could win

Straight were his troubles at an end.
In rags the sails went, weak and strong,
The masts like withy twigs did bend
And through the dark we went headlong.

At night we drove before the gale,
And fain we were, that tide, of light;
The leaden day came dull and pale
And little clearer than the night.

Four days the Rose Garland was cast
From hill to hill of inky sea,
And then the wind gave out at last
And from the west blew easily.

114

And we, storm-tossed and battered men,
Could count our losses, who were now
But threescore rusty folk, and ten,
Who were two hundred, brave enow

Of gold and silver—What betid
That night unto the Fighting Man
From us for ever will be hid;
The dying moon with mist was wan,

Across that light we saw her men
Run hurrying to sail and oar,
We saw her sails flap downward; when
The dark came and we saw no more.