Young was the moon, and he was gone, So we whet our scythes by the stars alone:

But or ever the long blades felt the hay Afar in the East the dawn was grey.

Or ever we struck our earliest stroke The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.

While yet the bloom of the swathe was dim The blackbird's bill had answered him.

Ere half of the road to the river was shorn The sunbeam smote the twisted thorn.

Now wide was the way 'twixt the standing gra.s.s For the townsfolk unto the mote to pa.s.s,

And so when all our work was done We sat to breakfast in the sun,

While down in the stream the dragon-fly 'Twixt the quivering rushes flickered by;

And though our knives shone sharp and white The swift bleak heeded not the sight.

So when the bread was done away We looked along the new-shorn hay,

And heard the voice of the gathering-horn Come over the garden and the corn;

For the wind was in the blossoming wheat And drave the bees in the lime-boughs sweet.

Then loud was the horn's voice drawing near, And it hid the talk of the prattling weir.

And now was the horn on the pathway wide That we had shorn to the river-side.

So up we stood, and wide around We sheared a s.p.a.ce by the Elders' Mound;

And at the feet thereof it was That highest grew the June-tide gra.s.s;

And over all the mound it grew With clover blent, and dark of hue.

But never aught of the Elders' Hay To rick or barn was borne away.

But it was bound and burned to ash In the barren close by the reedy plash.

For 'neath that mound the valiant dead Lay hearkening words of valiance said

When wise men stood on the Elders' Mound, And the swords were shining bright around.

And now we saw the banners borne On the first of the way that we had shorn; So we laid the scythe upon the sward And girt us to the battle-sword.

For after the banners well we knew Were the Freemen wending two and two.

There then that highway of the scythe With many a hue was brave and blythe.

And first below the Silver Chief Upon the green was the golden sheaf.

And on the next that went by it The White Hart in the Park did sit.

Then on the red the White Wings flew, And on the White was the Cloud-fleck blue.

Last went the Anchor of the Wrights Beside the Ship of the Faring-Knights.

Then thronged the folk the June-tide field With naked sword and painted shield,

Till they came adown to the river-side, And there by the mound did they abide.

Now when the swords stood thick and white As the mace reeds stand in the streamless bight,

There rose a man on the mound alone And over his head was the grey mail done.

When over the new-shorn place of the field Was nought but the steel hood and the shield.

The face on the mound shone ruddy and hale, But the h.o.a.r hair showed from the h.o.a.ry mail.

And there rose a hand by the ruddy face And shook a sword o'er the peopled place.

And there came a voice from the mound and said: "O sons, the days of my youth are dead,

And gone are the faces I have known In the street and the booths of the goodly town.

O sons, full many a flock have I seen Feed down this water-girdled green.

Full many a herd of long-horned neat Have I seen 'twixt water-side and wheat.

Here by this water-side full oft Have I heaved the flowery hay aloft.

And oft this water-side anigh Have I bowed adown the wheat-stalks high.

And yet meseems I live and learn And lore of younglings yet must earn.

For tell me, children, whose are these Fair meadows of the June's increase?

Whose are these flocks and whose the neat, And whose the acres of the wheat?"

Scarce did we hear his latest word, On the wide shield so rang the sword.

So rang the sword upon the shield That the lark was hushed above the field.

Then sank the shouts and again we heard The old voice come from the h.o.a.ry beard: