A Selection From The Poems Of William Morris Part 8

FROM

PROLOGUE--THE WANDERERS.

ARGUMENT.

Certain gentlemen and mariners of Norway, having considered all that they had heard of the Earthly Paradise, set sail to find it, and after many troubles and the lapse of many years came old men to some Western land, of which they had never before heard: there they died, when they had dwelt there certain years, much honoured of the strange people.

Forget six counties overhung with smoke, Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, Forget the spreading of the hideous town; Think rather of the pack-horse on the down, And dream of London, small, and white, and clean, The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green; Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves, Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill, And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill, And treasured scanty spice from some far sea, Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery, And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne; While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's pen Moves over bills of lading--mid such times Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.

A nameless city in a distant sea, White as the changing walls of faerie, Thronged with much people clad in ancient guise I now am fain to set before your eyes; There, leave the clear green water and the quays, And pa.s.s betwixt its marble palaces, Until ye come unto the chiefest square; A bubbling conduit is set midmost there, And round about it now the maidens throng, With jest and laughter, and sweet broken song, Making but light of labour new begun While in their vessels gleams the morning sun.

On one side of the square a temple stands, Wherein the G.o.ds worshipped in ancient lands Still have their altars, a great market-place Upon two other sides fills all the s.p.a.ce, And thence the busy hum of men comes forth; But on the cold side looking toward the north A pillared council-house may you behold, Within whose porch are images of gold, G.o.ds of the nations who dwelt anciently About the borders of the Grecian sea.

Pa.s.s now between them, push the brazen door, And standing on the polished marble floor Leave all the noises of the square behind; Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find, Silent at first, but for the noise you made When on the brazen door your hand you laid To shut it after you--but now behold The city rulers on their thrones of gold, Clad in most fair attire, and in their hands Long carven silver-banded ebony wands; Then from the das drop your eyes and see Soldiers and peasants standing reverently Before those elders, round a little band Who bear such arms as guard the English land, But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and they, The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey; And as they lean with pain upon their spears Their brows seem furrowed deep with more than years; For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes, Bent are they less with time than miseries.

Pondering on them the city grey-beards gaze Through kindly eyes, midst thoughts of other days, And pity for poor souls, and vague regret For all the things that might have happened yet, Until, their wonder gathering to a head, The wisest man, who long that land has led, Breaks the deep silence, unto whom again A wanderer answers. Slowly as in pain, And with a hollow voice as from a tomb At first he tells the story of his doom, But as it grows and once more hopes and fears, Both measureless, are ringing round his ears, His eyes grow bright, his seeming days decrease, For grief once told brings somewhat back of peace.

THE ELDER OF THE CITY.

From what unheard-of world, in what strange keel, Have ye come hither to our commonweal?

No barbarous race, as these our peasants say, But learned in memories of a long-past day, Speaking, some few at least, the ancient tongue That through the lapse of ages still has clung To us, the seed of the Ionian race.

Speak out and fear not; if ye need a place Wherein to pa.s.s the end of life away, That shall ye gain from us from this same day, Unless the enemies of G.o.d ye are; We fear not you and yours to bear us war, And scarce can think that ye will try again Across the perils of the shifting plain To seek your own land whereso that may be: For folk of ours bearing the memory Of our old land, in days past oft have striven To reach it, unto none of whom was given To come again and tell us of the tale, Therefore our ships are now content to sail, About these happy islands that we know.

THE WANDERER.

Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe, A tale of folly and of wasted life, Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife, Ending, where all things end, in death at last: So if I tell the story of the past, Let it be worth some little rest, I pray, A little slumber ere the end of day.

No wonder if the Grecian tongue I know, Since at Byzantium many a year ago My father bore the twibil valiantly; There did he marry, and get me, and die, And I went back to Norway to my kin, Long ere this beard ye see did first begin To shade my mouth, but nathless not before Among the Greeks I gathered some small lore, And standing midst the Vaeringers, still heard From this or that man many a wondrous word; For ye shall know that though we worshipped G.o.d, And heard ma.s.s duly, still of Swithiod The Greater, Odin and his house of gold, The n.o.ble stories ceased not to be told; These moved me more than words of mine can say E'en while at Micklegarth my folks did stay; But when I reached one dying autumn-tide My uncle's dwelling near the forest side, And saw the land so scanty and so bare, And all the hard things men contend with there, A little and unworthy land it seemed, And yet the more of Asagard I dreamed, And worthier seemed the ancient faith of praise.

But now, but now--when one of all those days Like Lazarus' finger on my heart should be Breaking the fiery fixed eternity, But for one moment--could I see once more The grey-roofed sea-port sloping towards the sh.o.r.e, Or note the brown boats standing in from sea, Or the great dromond swinging from the quay, Or in the beech-woods watch the screaming jay Shoot up betwixt the tall trunks, smooth and grey-- Yea, could I see the days before distress When very longing was but happiness.

Within our house there was a Breton squire Well learned, who fail'd not to fan the fire That evermore unholpen burned in me Strange lands and things beyond belief to see; Much lore of many lands this Breton knew; And for one tale I told, he told me two.

He, counting Asagard a new-told thing, Yet spoke of gardens ever blossoming Across the western sea where none grew old, E'en as the books at Micklegarth had told, And said moreover that an English knight Had had the Earthly Paradise in sight, And heard the songs of those that dwelt therein.

But entered not, being hindered by his sin.

Shortly, so much of this and that he said That in my heart the sharp barb entered, And like real life would empty stories seem, And life from day to day an empty dream.

Another man there was, a Swabian priest, Who knew the maladies of man and beast, And what things helped them; he the stone still sought Whereby base metal into gold is brought, And strove to gain the precious draught, whereby Men live midst mortal men yet never die; Tales of the Kaiser Redbeard could he tell Who neither went to Heaven nor yet to h.e.l.l, When from that fight upon the Asian plain He vanished, but still lives to come again Men know not how or when; but I listening Unto this tale thought it a certain thing That in some hidden vale of Swithiod Across the golden pavement still he trod.

But while our longing for such things so grew, And ever more and more we deemed them true, Upon the land a pestilence there fell Unheard of yet in any chronicle, And, as the people died full fast of it, With these two men it chanced me once to sit, This learned squire whose name was Nicholas, And Swabian Laurence, as our manner was; For could we help it scarcely did we part From dawn to dusk: so heavy, sad at heart, We from the castle-yard beheld the bay Upon that ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Little we said amidst that dreary mood, And certes nought that we could say was good.

It was a bright September afternoon, The parched-up beech-trees would be yellowing soon The yellow flowers grown deeper with the sun Were letting fall their petals one by one; No wind there was, a haze was gathering o'er The furthest bound of the faint yellow sh.o.r.e; And in the oily waters of the bay Scarce moving aught some fisher-cobles lay, And all seemed peace; and had been peace indeed But that we young men of our life had need, And to our listening ears a sound was borne That made the sunlight wretched and forlorn-- --The heavy tolling of the minster bell-- And nigher yet a tinkling sound did tell That through the streets they bore our Saviour Christ By dying lips in anguish to be kissed.

At last spoke Nicholas, "How long shall we Abide here, looking forth into the sea Expecting when our turn shall come to die?

Fair fellows, will ye come with me and try Now at our worst that long-desired quest, Now--when our worst is death, and life our best."

"Nay, but thou know'st," I said, "that I but wait The coming of some man, the turn of fate, To make this voyage--but I die meanwhile, For I am poor, though my blood be not vile, Nor yet for all his lore doth Laurence hold Within his crucibles aught like to gold; And what hast thou, whose father driven forth By Charles of Blois, found shelter in the North?

But little riches as I needs must deem."

"Well," said he, "things are better than they seem, For 'neath my bed an iron chest I have That holdeth things I have made shift to save E'en for this end; moreover, hark to this, In the next firth a fair long ship there is Well victualled, ready even now for sea, And I may say it 'longeth unto me; Since Marcus Erling, late its owner, lies Dead at the end of many miseries, And little Kirstin, as thou well mayst know, Would be content throughout the world to go If I but took her hand, and now still more Hath heart to leave this poor death-stricken sh.o.r.e.

Therefore my gold shall buy us Bordeaux swords And Bordeaux wine as we go oceanwards.

"What say ye, will ye go with me to-night, Setting your faces to undreamed delight, Turning your backs unto this troublous h.e.l.l, Or is the time too short to say farewell?"

"Not so," I said, "rather would I depart Now while thou speakest, never has my heart Been set on anything within this land."

Then said the Swabian, "Let us now take hand And swear to follow evermore this quest Till death or life have set our hearts at rest."

So with joined hands we swore, and Nicholas said, "To-night, fair friends, be ye apparelled To leave this land, bring all the arms ye can And such men as ye trust, my own good man Guards the small postern looking towards St. Bride, And good it were ye should not be espied, Since mayhap freely ye should not go hence, Thou Rolf in special, for this pestilence Makes all men hard and cruel, nor are they Willing that folk should 'scape if they must stay: Be wise; I bid you for a while farewell, Leave ye this stronghold when St. Peter's bell Strikes midnight, all will surely then be still, And I will bide you at King Tryggve's hill Outside the city gates."

Each went his way Therewith, and I the remnant of that day Gained for the quest three men that I deemed true, And did such other things as I must do, And still was ever listening for the chime Half maddened by the lazy lapse of time, Yea, scarce I thought indeed that I should live Till the great tower the joyful sound should give That set us free: and so the hours went past, Till startled by the echoing clang at last That told of midnight, armed from head to heel Down to the open postern did I steal, Bearing small wealth--this sword that yet hangs here Worn thin and narrow with so many a year, My father's axe that from Byzantium, With some few gems my pouch yet held, had come, Nought else that shone with silver or with gold.

But by the postern gate could I behold Laurence the priest all armed as if for war, From off the town-wall, having some small store Of arms and furs and raiment: then once more I turned, and saw the autumn moonlight fall Upon the new-built bastions of the wall, Strange with black shadow and grey flood of light, And further off I saw the lead shine bright On tower and turret-roof against the sky, And looking down I saw the old town lie Black in the shade of the o'er-hanging hill, Stricken with death, and dreary, but all still Until it reached the water of the bay, That in the dead night smote against the quay Not all unheard, though there was little wind.

But as I turned to leave the place behind, The wind's light sound, the slowly falling swell, Were hushed at once by that shrill-tinkling bell, That in that stillness jarring on mine ears, With sudden jangle checked the rising tears, And now the freshness of the open sea Seemed ease and joy and very life to me.

So greeting my new mates with little sound, We made good haste to reach King Tryggve's mound, And there the Breton Nicholas beheld, Who by the hand fair Kirstin Erling held, And round about them twenty men there stood, Of whom the more part on the holy rood Were sworn till death to follow up the quest, And Kirstin was the mistress of the rest.

Again betwixt us was there little speech, But swiftly did we set on toward the beach, And coming there our keel, the Fighting Man, We boarded, and the long oars out we ran, And swept from out the firth, and sped so well That scarcely could we hear St. Peter's bell Toll one, although the light wind blew from land; Then hoisting sail southward we 'gan to stand, And much I joyed beneath the moon to see The lessening land that might have been to me A kindly giver of wife, child, and friend, And happy life, or at the worser end A quiet grave till doomsday rend the earth.

Night pa.s.sed, day dawned, and we grew full of mirth As with the ever-rising morning wind Still further lay our threatened death behind, Or so we thought: some eighty men we were, Of whom but fifty knew the shipman's gear, The rest were uplanders; midst such of these As knew not of our quest, with promises Went Nicholas dealing florins round about, With still a fresh tale for each new man's doubt, Till all were fairly won or seemed to be To that strange desperate voyage o'er the sea.

OGIER THE DANE.

ARGUMENT.

When Ogier was born, six fay ladies came to the cradle where he lay, and gave him various gifts, as to be brave and happy and the like; but the sixth gave him to be her love when he should have lived long in the world: so Ogier grew up and became the greatest of knights, and at last, after many years, fell into the hands of that fay, and with her, as the story tells, he lives now, though he returned once to the world, as is shown in the process of this tale.

Within some Danish city by the sea, Whose name, changed now, is all unknown to me, Great mourning was there one fair summer eve, Because the angels, bidden to receive The fair Queen's lovely soul in Paradise, Had done their bidding, and in royal guise Her helpless body, once the prize of love, Unable now for fear or hope to move, Lay underneath the golden canopy; And bowed down by unkingly misery The King sat by it, and not far away, Within the chamber a fair man-child lay, His mother's bane, the king that was to be, Not witting yet of any royalty, Harmless and loved, although so new to life.

Calm the June evening was, no sign of strife The clear sky showed, no storm grew round the sun, Unhappy that his day of bliss was done; Dumb was the sea, and if the beech-wood stirred, 'Twas with the nestling of the grey-winged bird Midst its thick leaves; and though the nightingale Her ancient, hapless sorrow must bewail, No more of woe there seemed in her song Than such as doth to lovers' words belong, Because their love is still unsatisfied.

But to the King, on that sweet eventide, No earth there seemed, no heaven when earth was gone; No help, no G.o.d! but lonely pain alone; And he, midst unreal shadows, seemed to sit Himself the very heart and soul of it.

But round the cradle of the new-born child The nurses now the weary time beguiled With stories of the just departed Queen; And how, amid the heathen folk first seen, She had been won to love and G.o.dliness; And as they spoke, e'en midst his dull distress, An eager whisper now and then would smite Upon the King's ear, of some past delight, Some once familiar name, and he would raise His weary head, and on the speaker gaze Like one about to speak, but soon again Would drop his head and be alone with pain, Nor think of these; who, silent in their turn, Would sit and watch the waxen tapers burn Amidst the dusk of the quick-gathering night, Until beneath the high stars' glimmering light, The fresh earth lay in colourless repose.

So pa.s.sed the night, and now and then one rose From out her place to do what might avail To still the new-born infant's fretful wail; Or through the softly-opened door there came Some nurse new waked, who, whispering low the name Of her whose turn was come, would take her place; Then toward the King would turn about her face And to her fellows whisper of the day, And tell again of her just past away.

So pa.s.sed the night, the moon arose and grew, From off the sea a little west-wind blew, Rustling the garden-leaves like sudden rain; And ere the moon had 'gun to fall again The wind grew cold, a change was in the sky, And in deep silence did the dawn draw nigh; Then from her place a nurse arose to light Fresh hallowed lights, for, dying with the night, The tapers round about the dead Queen were; But the King raised his head and 'gan to stare Upon her, as her sweeping gown did glide About the floor, that in the stillness cried Beneath her careful feet; and now as she Had lit the second candle carefully, And on its silver spike another one Was setting, through her body did there run A sudden tremor, and the hand was stayed That on the dainty painted wax was laid; Her eyelids fell down and she seemed to sleep, And o'er the staring King began to creep Sweet slumber too; the bitter lines of woe That drew his weary face did softer grow, His eyelids dropped, his arms fell to his side; And moveless in their places did abide The nursing women, held by some strong spell, E'en as they were, and utter silence fell Upon the mournful, glimmering chamber fair.

But now light footsteps coming up the stair, Smote on the deadly stillness, and the sound Of silken dresses trailing o'er the ground; And heavenly odours through the chamber pa.s.sed, Unlike the scents that rose and lily cast Upon the freshness of the dying night; Then nigher drew the sound of footsteps light Until the door swung open noiselessly-- A ma.s.s of sunlit flowers there seemed to be Within the doorway, and but pale and wan The flame showed now that serveth mortal man, As one by one six seeming ladies pa.s.sed Into the room, and o'er its sorrow cast That thoughtless sense of joy bewildering, That kisses youthful hearts amidst of spring; Crowned were they, in such glorious raiment clad, As yet no merchant of the world has had Within his coffers; yet those crowns seemed fair Only because they kissed their odorous hair, And all that flowery raiment was but blessed By those fair bodies that its splendour pressed.

Now to the cradle from that glorious band, A woman pa.s.sed, and laid a tender hand Upon the babe, and gently drew aside The swathings soft that did his body hide; And, seeing him so fair and great, she smiled, And stooped, and kissed him, saying, "O n.o.ble child, Have thou a gift from Gloriande this day; For to the time when life shall pa.s.s away From this dear heart, no fear of death or shame, No weariness of good shall foul thy name."

So saying, to her sisters she returned; And one came forth, upon whose brow there burned A crown of rubies, and whose heaving breast With happy rings a golden hauberk pressed; She took the babe, and somewhat frowning said, "This gift I give, that till thy limbs are laid At rest for ever, to thine honoured life There never shall be lacking war and strife, That thou a long-enduring name mayst win, And by thy deeds, good pardon for thy sin."

With that another, who, unseen, meanwhile Had drawn anigh, said with a joyous smile, "And this forgotten gift to thee I give, That while amidst the turmoil thou dost live, Still shalt thou win the game, and unto thee Defeat and shame but idle words shall be."

Then back they turned, and therewithal, the fourth Said, "Take this gift for what it may be worth For that is mine to give; lo, thou shalt be Gentle of speech, and in all courtesy The first of men: a little gift this is, After these promises of fame and bliss."

Then toward the babe the fifth fair woman went; Grey-eyed she was, and simple, with eyes bent Down on the floor, parted her red lips were, And o'er her sweet face marvellously fair Oft would the colour spread full suddenly; Clad in a dainty gown and thin was she, For some green summer of the fay-land dight, Tripping she went, and laid her fingers light Upon the child, and said, "O little one, As long as thou shalt look upon the sun Shall women long for thee; take heed to this And give them what thou canst of love and bliss."

Then, blushing for her words, therefrom she past, And by the cradle stood the sixth and last, The fairest of them all; awhile she gazed Down on the child, and then her hand she raised, And made the one side of her bosom bare; "Ogier," she said, "if this be foul or fair Thou know'st not now, but when thine earthly life Is drunk out to the dregs, and war and strife Have yielded thee whatever joy they may, Thine head upon this bosom shalt thou lay; And then, despite of knowledge or of G.o.d, Will we be glad upon the flowery sod Within the happy country where I dwell: Ogier, my love that is to be, farewell!"

She turned, and even as they came they pa.s.sed From out the place, and reached the gate at last That oped before their feet, and speedily They gained the edges of the murmuring sea, And as they stood in silence, gazing there Out to the west, they vanished into air, I know not how, nor whereto they returned.

But mixed with twilight in the chamber burned The flickering candles, and those dreary folk, Unlike to sleepers, from their trance awoke, But nought of what had happed meanwhile they knew.

Through the half-opened cas.e.m.e.nts now there blew A sweet fresh air, that of the flowers and sea Mingled together, smelt deliciously, And from the unseen sun the spreading light Began to make the fair June blossoms bright, And midst their weary woe uprose the sun, And thus has Ogier's n.o.ble life begun.

Hope is our life, when first our life grows clear; Hope and delight, scarce crossed by lines of fear, Yet the day comes when fain we would not hope, But forasmuch as we with life must cope, Struggling with this and that, and who knows why?