"A year agone come Midsummer-night I woke by the Northern sea; I lay and dreamed of my delight Till love no more would let me be.

"Seaward I went by night and cloud To hear the white swans sing; But though they sang both clear and loud, I hearkened a sweeter thing.

"O sweet and sweet as none may tell Was the speech so close 'twixt lip and lip: But fast, unseen, the black oars fell That drave to sh.o.r.e the rover's ship.

"My love lay b.l.o.o.d.y on the strand Ere stars were waxen wan: Naught lacketh graves the Northern land If to-day it lack a lovelier man.

"I sat and wept beside the mast When the stars were gone away.

Naught lacketh the Northland joy gone past If it lack the night and day."

"Is there no place in any land Where thou wouldst rather be than here?"

"Yea, a lone grave on a cold sea-strand My heart for a little holdeth dear."

"Of all the deeds that women do Is there none shall bring thee some delight?"

"To lie down and die where lay we two Upon Midsummer night."

"I will bring thee there where thou wouldst be, A borrow shalt thou find."

"Wherewith shall I reward it thee For wealth and good-hap left behind?"

"A kiss from lips that love not me, A good-night somewhat kind; A narrow house to share with thee When we leave the world behind."

They have taken ship and sailed away Across the Southland main; They have sailed by hills were green and gay, A land of goods and gain.

They have sailed by sea-cliffs stark and white And hillsides fair enow; They have sailed by lands of little night Where great the groves did grow.

They have sailed by islands in the sea That the clouds lay thick about; And into a main where few ships be Amidst of dread and doubt.

With broken mast and battered side They drave amidst the tempest's heart; But why should death to these betide Whom love did hold so well apart?

The flood it drave them toward the strand, The ebb it drew them fro; The swallowing seas that tore the land Cast them ash.o.r.e and let them go.

"Is this the land? is this the land, Where life and I must part a-twain?"

"Yea, this is e'en the sea-washed strand That made me yoke-fellow of pain.

"The strand is this, the sea is this, The grey bent and the mountains grey; But no mound here his grave-mound is; Where have they borne my love away?"

"What man is this with shield and spear Comes riding down the bent to us?

A goodly man forsooth he were But for his visage piteous."

"Ghost of my love, so kind of yore, Art thou not somewhat gladder grown To feel my feet upon this sh.o.r.e?

O love, thou shalt not long be lone."

"Ghost of my love, each day I come To see where G.o.d first wrought us wrong: Now kind thou com'st to call me home.

Be sure I shall not tarry long."

"Come here, my love; come here for rest, So sore as my body longs for thee!

My heart shall beat against thy breast, As arms of thine shall comfort me."

"Love, let thy lips depart no more From those same eyes they once did kiss, The very bosom wounded sore When sorrow clave the heart of bliss!"

O was it day, or was it night, As there they told their love again?

The high-tide of the sun's delight, Or whirl of wind and drift of rain?

"Speak sweet, my love, of how it fell, And how thou cam'st across the sea, And what kind heart hath served thee well, And who thy borrow there might be?"

Naught but the wind and sea made moan As hastily she turned her round; From light clouds wept the morn alone, Not the dead corpse upon the ground.

"O look, my love, for here is he Who once of all the world was kind, And led my sad heart o'er the sea!

And now must he be left behind."

She kissed his lips that yet did smile, She kissed his eyes that were not sad: "O thou who sorrow didst beguile, And now wouldst have me wholly glad!

"A little gift is this," she said, "Thou once hadst deemed great gift enow; Yet surely shalt thou rest thine head Where I one day shall lie alow.

"There shalt thou wake to think of me, And by thy face my face shall find; And I shall then thy borrow be When all the world is left behind."

THE FOLK-MOTE BY THE RIVER

It was up in the morn we rose betimes From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.

It was but John the Red and I, And we were the brethren of Gregory;

And Gregory the Wright was one Of the valiant men beneath the sun,

And what he bade us that we did For ne'er he kept his counsel hid.

So out we went, and the clattering latch Woke up the swallows under the thatch.

It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt, And thrust the whetstone under the belt.

Through the cold garden boughs we went Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.

Then out a-gates and away we strode O'er the dewy straws on the dusty road,

And there was the mead by the town-reeve's close Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.

Then into the mowing gra.s.s we went Ere the very last of the night was spent.