I have seen him upon the tree.

He cried no cry when they drave the nails And the blood gushed hot and free, The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue But never a cry cried he.

I ha' seen him cow a thousand men On the hills o' Galilee, They whined as he walked out calm between, Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea.

Like the sea that brooks no voyaging With the winds unleashed and free, Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.

A master of men was the Goodly Fere, A mate of the wind and sea, If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere They are fools eternally.

I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb Sin' they nailed him to the tree.

[Footnote 1: Fere = Mate, Companion.]

_*** The Publisher desires to state that the "Ballad of the Goodly Fere"--by the wish of the Author--is reproduced exactly as it appeared in the "English Review."_

Hymn III

From the Latin of Marc Antony Flaminius, sixteenth century.

As a fragile and lovely flower unfolds its gleaming foliage on the breast of the fostering earth, if the dew and the rain draw it forth; So doth my tender mind flourish, if it be fed with the sweet dew of the fostering spirit, Lacking this, it beginneth straightway to languish, even as a floweret born upon dry earth, if the dew and the rain tend it not.

Sestina for Ysolt

There comes upon me will to speak in praise Of things most fragile in their loveliness; Because the sky hath wept all this long day And wrapped men's hearts within its cloak of greyness, Because they look not down I sing the stars, Because 'tis still mid-March I praise May's flowers.

Also I praise long hands that lie as flowers Which though they labour not are worthy praise, And praise deep eyes like pools wherein the stars Gleam out reflected in their loveliness, For whoso look on such there is no greyness May hang about his heart on any day.

The other things that I would praise to-day?

Besides white hands and all the fragile flowers, And by their praise dispel the evening's greyness?

I praise dim hair that worthiest is of praise And dream upon its unbound loveliness, And how therethrough mine eyes have seen the stars.

Yea, through that cloud mine eyes have seen the stars That drift out slowly when night steals the day, Through such a cloud meseems their loveliness Surpa.s.ses that of all the other flowers.

For that one night I give all nights my praise And love therefrom the twilight's coming greyness.

There is a stillness in this twilight greyness Although the rain hath veiled the flow'ry stars, They seem to listen as I weave this praise Of what I have not seen all this grey day, And they will tell my praise unto the flowers When May shall bid them in in loveliness.

O ye I love, who hold this loveliness Near to your hearts, may never any greyness Enshroud your hearts when ye would gather flowers, Or bind your eyes when ye would see the stars; But alway do I give ye flowers by day, And when day's plucked I give ye stars for praise.

But most, thou Flower, whose eyes are like the stars, With whom my dreams bide all the live-long day, Within thy hands would I rest all my praise.

Portrait

From "La Mere Inconnue."

Now would I weave her portrait out of all dim splendour.

Of Provence and far halls of memory, Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity Of blended bells at even's end, or As the distant seas should send her The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly Resonant. Out of all dreams that be, Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her?

Nay! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand Alway with reverent chere that looked on her, Silence himself is grown her worshipper And ever doth attend her in that land Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir Naught but the softest voices, praising her.

"Fair Helena" by Rackham

"_What I love best in all the world?_"

When the purple twilight is unbound, To watch her slow, tall grace and its wistful loveliness, And to know her face is in the shadow there, Just by two stars beneath that cloud-- The soft, dim cloud of her hair, And to think my voice can reach to her As but the rumour of some tree-bound stream, Heard just beyond the forest's edge, Until she all forgets I am, And knows of me Naught but my dream's felicity.

Laudantes Decem Pulchritudinis

Johannae Templi

I

When your beauty is grown old in all men's songs, And my poor words are lost amid that throng, Then you will know the truth of my poor words, And mayhap dreaming of the wistful throng That hopeless sigh your praises in their songs, You will think kindly then of these mad words.

II

I am torn, torn with thy beauty, O Rose of the sharpest thorn!

O Rose of the crimson beauty, Why hast thou awakened the sleeper?

Why hast thou awakened the heart within me, O Rose of the crimson thorn?

III

The unappeasable loveliness is calling to me out of the wind, And because your name is written upon the ivory doors, The wave in my heart is as a green wave, unconfined, Tossing the white foam toward you; And the lotus that pours Her fragrance into the purple cup, Is more to be gained with the foam Than are you with these words of mine.

IV

_He speaks to the moonlight concerning the Beloved_.

Pale hair that the moon has shaken Down over the dark breast of the sea, O magic her beauty has shaken About the heart of me; Out of you have I woven a dream That shall walk in the lonely vale Betwixt the high hill and the low hill, Until the pale stream Of the souls of men quench and grow still.