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

A Wood near the House. Anthony, Margaret.
MARGARET
Thanks to the beech-boughs we are deep enough
Amongst them now to turn eyes each to each—
O brother with the eyes of the old days
Kiss me and bring the old hope back again
And half forgotten scents of Southland things!

ANTHONY
Or bring thou back unto the lonely man
Foiled, unloved and unloveable, that tide
A month belike or our last parting day,
That morning of the South wherein we sat
Anigh the tideless sea beneath the wall
Whereon the rose-laurel grew.

MARGARET
I was twelve then,
I had known no sorrow—yet as children use
To be saddened by the sound of bells or song
And try to shake from them the first sweet pain,
That as time wears is all the joy belike
That they may hope for, so there hung on me
A vague disquiet that day long ago.

340

ANTHONY
It showed not in thee, rather joy in life,
Sweet, healthful, strong, burned in thee as I deemed,
The gift we waste, the seed of the longings vain
That poison all when at the last we know
That God has made each one of us as lone
As he himself sits, crying out for love
Through mouths of loveless prophets, unwed priests,
Through all his judgments on the dreadful word,
Yet if we meet in hell 'tis good to meet—
Thou lookest hard: a vile sour face it is,
Thy brother's face, but shows not all the worst.
Yet I am glad thou lovest me.

MARGARET
No face
Here have I seen as dear a long, long while;
Help in a helpless place it bringeth me.
Thou art great-hearted.

ANTHONY
Ah, if it were so
And the world might go its ways while I abode
Embraced by some great love, not heeding pain
Or fearing change. With thee it might be so.
Thou art grown wondrous fair, calm are thine eyes,
Strong seemest thou all grief well to endure
And grow the fairer—

MARGARET
Brother, let us talk
Of how the world goes, and thou first, and all
That thou hast dealt with since our parting day.

ANTHONY
Nay first of thee, since a free [man] thou seest me
And rich, while thou—while thou—

341

How shall I say it? art a bondmaid here.
Tell me about thy life.

MARGARET
Little to tell
After that first time when my young heart found
The misery undreamed of and I saw
As in a picture of the very hell
The red flame blazing strong against the sky,
The cloudless sunny sky, and all about
Betwixt the hot deck and the flapping sail
The great-limbed fearful sailors stained with blood,
Redfaced hoarse-voiced and restless, mad with blood
And gain of gold and joy of their lives gained
After the battle, deeming the earth made
For them alone. Small wonder that the men
The Duke sent for our father's guard and help
Shrank back before them, being what well you know,
Door-keepers, varlets, full-fed, purblind knaves
Taking their ease as the world takes sunrise,
A thing that God has made once to endure;
These rather were like dreadful Gods—the fight?
I saw it not; a lad of fifteen years
With a great axe all bloody dragged us down,
Me and my nurse, into the Castle-yard—
O what a dreadful place it seemed that day
Filled with the clamour of the barbarous tongue
And clash of arms and crash of things thrown down
From out the windows, groans of dying men
And sobs and wails, and now and then a scream
Of sudden pain. By their chief there lay
A dead man well nigh covered with a cloth,
But from beneath it was a hand thrust forth,
The dead hand of my father; on the ground,
Without a wound but with their hands bound, sat
Some thirty men, the Duke's folk, waiting death
Or so they thought, and calm enow indeed

342

Now no more was to do. The women stood
Huddled together each in her own way,
As I belike, deeming that now she knew
What the world will be on that day of days
When o'er hushed town, and useless fruitful fields
The Judge's face shows dreadful—Well, the chief
When I was brought before him stared a while
Into my wan face, then in grave voice said,
“A great man's child; had there been twenty such
As she and he a nobler tune belike
Our fiddles might have played.” Then he cried out,
“Eric the skald, good skill thou deemst thou hast
In ways of women, choose thou ten of these
That like thee best besides this noble may.”
Then forth there stood a huge red-headed man
And grinning went up to the trembling band
And drew forth nine of all the fairest there,
But therewithal a palsied withered crone
Our porter's grand-dame. Then a huge laugh burst
From out the seafarers who stood round, and the chief
Said, “Tell us, Eric, why must we bear forth
This great-mouthed toothless porridge-eater then?”
“Nay,” said he, “I have chosen her for thee,
For she looked old and wise to teach thee well
How big a fool thou art to give such choice
Unto another.” Midst the laugh I heard
The lord say: “Nay, for this Valkyria here
Shall be my darling some four summers hence