Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 15

O the bride within Was yellow and dry as a snake's old skin; Loathly as sin!

Scarcely faceable, Quite unembraceable; With a hog's bristle on a hag's chin! - Gentle Gawain felt as should we, Little of Love's soft fire knew he: But he was the Knight of Courtesy.

II

When that evil lady he lay beside Bade him turn to greet his bride, What think you he did?

O, to spare her pain, And let not his loathing her loathliness vain Mirror too plain, Sadly, sighingly, Almost dyingly, Turned he and kissed her once and again.

Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we?

SILENT, ALL! But for pattern agree There's none like the Knight of Courtesy.

III

Sir Gawain sprang up amid laces and curls: Kisses are not wasted pearls:- What clung in his arms?

O, a maiden flower, Burning with blushes the sweet bride-bower, Beauty her dower!

Breathing perfumingly; Shall I live bloomingly, Said she, by day, or the bridal hour?

Thereat he clasped her, and whispered he, Thine, rare bride, the choice shall be.

Said she, Twice blest is Courtesy!

IV

Of gentle Sir Gawain they had no sport, When it was morning in Arthur's court; What think you they cried?

Now, life and eyes!

This bride is the very Saint's dream of a prize, Fresh from the skies!

See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy, Turning to gold all it touches and tries?

Like the true knight, so may we Make the basest that there be Beautiful by Courtesy!

THE THREE MAIDENS

There were three maidens met on the highway; The sun was down, the night was late: And two sang loud with the birds of May, O the nightingale is merry with its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Why walk you there so still?

The land is dark, the night is late: O, but the heart in my side is ill, And the nightingale will languish for its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Of lovers there is store; The moon mounts up, the night is late: O, I shall look on man no more, And the nightingale is dumb without its mate.

Said they to the youngest, Uncross your arms and sing; The moon mounts high, the night is late: O my dear lover can hear no thing, And the nightingale sings only to its mate.

They slew him in revenge, and his true-love was his lure; The moon is pale, the night is late: His grave is shallow on the moor; O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

His blood is on his breast, and the moss-roots at his hair; The moon is chill, the night is late: But I will lie beside him there: O the nightingale is dying for its mate.

OVER THE HILLS

The old hound wags his s.h.a.ggy tail, And I know what he would say: It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills, and away.

There's nought for us here save to count the clock, And hang the head all day: But over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

Here among men we're like the deer That yonder is our prey: So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

The hypocrite is master here, But he's the c.o.c.k of clay: So, over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

The women, they shall sigh and smile, And madden whom they may: It's over the hills we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

Let silly lads in couples run To pleasure, a wicked fay: 'Tis ours on the heather to bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

The torrent glints under the rowan red, And shakes the bracken spray: What joy on the heather to bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

The sun bursts broad, and the heathery bed Is purple, and orange, and gray: Away, and away, we'll bound, old hound, Over the hills and away.

JUGGLING JERRY

I

Pitch here the tent, while the old horse grazes: By the old hedge-side we'll halt a stage.

It's nigh my last above the daisies: My next leaf 'll be man's blank page.

Yes, my old girl! and it's no use crying: Juggler, constable, king, must bow.

One that outjuggles all's been spying Long to have me, and he has me now.

II

We've travelled times to this old common: Often we've hung our pots in the gorse.

We've had a stirring life, old woman!

You, and I, and the old grey horse.

Races, and fairs, and royal occasions, Found us coming to their call: Now they'll miss us at our stations: There's a Juggler outjuggles all!

III

Up goes the lark, as if all were jolly!

Over the duck-pond the willow shakes.

Easy to think that grieving's folly, When the hand's firm as driven stakes!

Ay, when we're strong, and braced, and manful, Life's a sweet fiddle: but we're a batch Born to become the Great Juggler's han'ful: b.a.l.l.s he shies up, and is safe to catch.

IV

Here's where the lads of the village cricket: I was a lad not wide from here: Couldn't I whip off the bail from the wicket?

Like an old world those days appear!

Donkey, sheep, geese, and thatched ale-house - I know them!

They are old friends of my halts, and seem, Somehow, as if kind thanks I owe them: Juggling don't hinder the heart's esteem.