The soft green moss: 'Put cloths about your arms, Lest they should glitter; surely they will go In a long thin line, watchful for alarms, With all their carriages of booty; so,

Lay down my pennon in the gra.s.s: Lord G.o.d.

What have we lying here? will they be cold, I wonder, being so bare, above the sod, Instead of under? This was a knight too, fold

Lying on fold of ancient rusted mail; No plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs, And see the quiet gleam of turquoise pale Along the ceinture; but the long time blurs

Even the tinder of his coat to nought, Except these sc.r.a.ps of leather; see how white The skull is, loose within the coif! He fought A good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite.

No armour on the legs too; strange in faith!

A little skeleton for a knight, though: ah!

This one is bigger, truly without scathe His enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far;

That must have reach'd the heart, I doubt: how now, What say you, Aldovrand, a woman? why?'

Under the coif a gold wreath on the brow, Yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie,

Golden, no doubt, once: yea, and very small, This for a knight; but for a dame, my lord, These loose-hung bones seem shapely still, and tall.

Didst ever see a woman's bones, my Lord?

Often, G.o.d help me! I remember when I was a simple boy, fifteen years old, The Jacquerie froze up the blood of men With their fell deeds, not fit now to be told.

G.o.d help again! we enter'd Beauvais town, Slaying them fast, whereto I help'd, mere boy As I was then; we gentles cut them down, These burners and defilers, with great joy.

Reason for that, too, in the great church there These fiends had lit a fire, that soon went out, The church at Beauvais being so great and fair: My father, who was by me, gave a shout

Between a beast's howl and a woman's scream, Then, panting, chuckled to me: 'John, look! look!

Count the dames' skeletons!' From some bad dream Like a man just awaked, my father shook;

And I, being faint with smelling the burnt bones, And very hot with fighting down the street, And sick of such a life, fell down, with groans My head went weakly nodding to my feet.

--An arrow had gone through her tender throat, And her right wrist was broken; then I saw The reason why she had on that war-coat, Their story came out clear without a flaw;

For when he knew that they were being waylaid, He threw it over her, yea, hood and all; Whereby he was much hack'd, while they were stay'd By those their murderers; many an one did fall

Beneath his arm, no doubt, so that he clear'd Their circle, bore his death-wound out of it; But as they rode, some archer least afear'd Drew a strong bow, and thereby she was. .h.i.t.

Still as he rode he knew not she was dead, Thought her but fainted from her broken wrist, He bound with his great leathern belt: she bled?

Who knows! he bled too, neither was there miss'd

The beating of her heart, his heart beat well For both of them, till here, within this wood, He died scarce sorry; easy this to tell; After these years the flowers forget their blood.

How could it be? never before that day, However much a soldier I might be, Could I look on a skeleton and say I care not for it, shudder not: now see,

Over those bones I sat and pored for hours, And thought, and dream'd, and still I scarce could see The small white bones that lay upon the flowers, But evermore I saw the lady; she

With her dear gentle walking leading in, By a chain of silver twined about her wrists, Her loving knight, mounted and arm'd to win Great honour for her, fighting in the lists.

O most pale face, that brings such joy and sorrow Into men's hearts (yea, too, so piercing sharp That joy is, that it marcheth nigh to sorrow For ever, like an overwinded harp).

Your face must hurt me always: pray you now, Doth it not hurt you too? seemeth some pain To hold you always, pain to hold your brow So smooth, unwrinkled ever; yea again,

Your long eyes where the lids seem like to drop, Would you not, lady, were they shut fast, feel Far merrier? there so high they will not stop, They are most sly to glide forth and to steal

Into my heart; I kiss their soft lids there, And in green gardens scarce can stop my lips From wandering on your face, but that your hair Falls down and tangles me, back my face slips.

Or say your mouth, I saw you drink red wine Once at a feast; how slowly it sank in, As though you fear'd that some wild fate might twine Within that cup, and slay you for a sin.

And when you talk your lips do arch and move In such wise that a language new I know Besides their sound; they quiver, too, with love When you are standing silent; know this, too,

I saw you kissing once, like a curved sword That bites with all its edge, did your lips lie, Curled gently, slowly, long time could afford For caught-up breathings: like a dying sigh

They gather'd up their lines and went away, And still kept twitching with a sort of smile, As likely to be weeping presently; Your hands too, how I watch'd them all the while!

Cry out St. Peter now, quoth Aldovrand; I cried, St. Peter! broke out from the wood With all my spears; we met them hand to hand, And shortly slew them; natheless, by the rood,

We caught not Blackhead then, or any day; Months after that he died at last in bed, From a wound pick'd up at a barrier-fray; That same year's end a steel bolt in the head,

And much bad living killed Teste Noire at last; John Froissart knoweth he is dead by now, No doubt, but knoweth not this tale just past; Perchance then you can tell him what I show.

In my new castle, down beside the Eure, There is a little chapel of squared stone, Painted inside and out; in green nook pure There did I lay them, every wearied bone;

And over it they lay, with stone-white hands Clasped fast together, hair made bright with gold; This Jaques Picard, known through many lands, Wrought cunningly; he's dead now: I am old.

A GOOD KNIGHT IN PRISON

SIR GUY, _being in the court of a Pagan castle_.

This castle where I dwell, it stands A long way off from Christian lands, A long way off my lady's hands, A long way off the aspen trees, And murmur of the lime-tree bees.

But down the Valley of the Rose My lady often hawking goes, Heavy of cheer; oft turns behind, Leaning towards the western wind, Because it bringeth to her mind Sad whisperings of happy times, The face of him who sings these rhymes.

King Guilbert rides beside her there, Bends low and calls her very fair, And strives, by pulling down his hair, To hide from my dear lady's ken The grisly gash I gave him, when I cut him down at Camelot; However he strives, he hides it not, That tourney will not be forgot, Besides, it is King Guilbert's lot, Whatever he says she answers not.

Now tell me, you that are in love, From the king's son to the wood-dove, Which is the better, he or I?

For this king means that I should die In this lone Pagan castle, where The flowers droop in the bad air On the September evening.

Look, now I take mine ease and sing, Counting as but a little thing The foolish spite of a bad king.

For these vile things that hem me in, These Pagan beasts who live in sin, The sickly flowers pale and wan, The grim blue-bearded castellan, The stanchions half worn-out with rust, Whereto their banner vile they trust: Why, all these things I hold them just As dragons in a missal book, Wherein, whenever we may look, We see no horror, yea delight We have, the colours are so bright; Likewise we note the specks of white, And the great plates of burnish'd gold.

Just so this Pagan castle old, And everything I can see there, Sick-pining in the marshland air, I note: I will go over now, Like one who paints with knitted brow, The flowers and all things one by one, From the snail on the wall to the setting sun.

Four great walls, and a little one That leads down to the barbican, Which walls with many spears they man, When news comes to the castellan Of Launcelot being in the land.