And had right noble prize that day;

  But when the noon was now long past,,

  And the thick woods grew overcast,

  They roused the mightiest hart of all.

  Then loudly ‘gan the king to call

  Unto his huntsmen, not to leave

  That mighty beast for dusk nor eve

  Till they had won him; with which word

  His horn he blew, and forth he spurred,

  Taking no thought of most or least,

  But only of that royal beast.

  And over rough and smooth he rode,

  Nor yet for anything abode,

  Till dark night swallowing up the day

  With blindness his swift course must stay.

  Nor was there with him any one,

  So far his fair steed had outrun

  The best of all his hunting-folk.

  So, glancing at the stars that broke

  ‘Twixt the thick branches here and there,

  Backward he turned, and peered with care

  Into the darkness, but saw nought,

  Nor heard his folk, and therewith thought

  His bed must be the brake leaves brown.

  Then in a while he lighted down,

  And felt about a little space,

  If he might find a softer place;

  But as he groped from tree to tree

  Some glimmering light he seemed to see

  ‘Twixt the dark stems, and thither turned,

  If yet perchance some wood-fire burned

  Within a peasant’s hut, where he

  Might find, amidst their misery,

  Rough food, or shelter at the least.

  So, leading on his wearied beast,

  Blindly he crept from tree to tree,

  Till slowly grew that light to be

  The thing he looked for, and he found

  A hut on a cleared space of ground,

  From whose half-opened door there streamed

  The light that erst far off had gleamed.

  Then of that shelter was he fain,

  But just as he made shift to gain

  The open space in front of it,

  A shadow o’er the grass did flit,

  And on the wretched threshold stood

  A big man, with a bar of wood

  In his right hand, who seemed as though

  He got him ready for a blow;

  But ere he spoke the King cried, “Friend,

  May God good hap upon thee send,

  If thou wilt give me rest this night,

  And food according to thy might.”

  “Nay,” said the carle, “my wife lieth

  In labour, and is nigh her death:

  Nor canst thou enter here at all;

  But nearby is my asses’ stall,

  Who on this night bide in the town;

  There, if thou wilt, mayst thou lie down,

  And sleep until the dawn of day,

  And I will bring thee what I may

  Of food and drink.”

  Then said the King,

  “Thanked be thou; neither for nothing

  Shalt thou this good deed do to me.”

  “Nay,” said the carle, “let these things be,

  Surely I think before the morn,

  To be too weary and forlorn

  For gold much heart in me to put.”

  With that he turned, and from the hut

  Brought out a lantern, and rye-bread,

  And wine, and showed the king a shed,

  Strewed with a litter of dry brake:

  Withal he muttered, for his sake,

  Unto Our Lady some rude prayer,

  And turned about and left him there.

  So when the rye-bread, nowise fine,

  The king had munched, and with green wine

  Had quenched his thirst, his horse he tied

  Unto a post, and there beside

  He fell asleep upon the brake.

  But in an hour did he awake,

  Astonied with an unnamed fear,

  For words were ringing in his ear

  Like the last echo of a scream,

  “Take! take!” but of the vanished dream

  No image was there left to him.

  Then, trembling sore in every limb,

  Did he arise, and drew his sword,

  And passed forth on the forest sward,

  And cautiously about he crept;

  But he heard nought at all, except

  Some groaning of the woodman’s wife,

  And forest sounds well known, but rife

  With terror to the lonely soul.

  Then he lay down again, to roll

  His limbs within his huntsman’s cloak;

  And slept again, and once more woke

  To tremble with that unknown fear,

  And other echoing words to hear —

  “Give up! give up!” nor anything

  Showed more why these strange words should ring

  About him. Then he sat upright,

  Bewildered, gazing through the night,

  Until his weary eyes, grown dim,

  Showed not the starlit tree-trunks slim

  Against the black wood, grey and plain;

  And into sleep he sank again,

  And woke not soon: but sleeping dreamed

  That he awoke, nor other seemed

  The place he woke in but that shed,

  And there beside his bracken bed

  He seemed to see the ancient sage

  Shrivelled yet more with untold age,

  Who bending down his head to him

  Said, with a mocking smile and grim, —

  “Take, or give up; what matters it?

  This child new-born shall surely sit

  Upon thy seat when thou art gone,

  And dwelling ‘twixt straight walls of stone.”

  Again the King woke at that word

  And sat up, panting and afeard,

  And staring out into the night,

  Where yet the woods thought not of light;

  And fain he was to cast off sleep,

  Such visions from his eyes to kee

  Heavy his head grew none the less,

  ‘Twixt ‘wildering thoughts and weariness,

  And soon he fell asleep once more,

  Nor dreamed, nor woke again, before

  The sun shone through the forest trees;

  And, shivering in the morning breeze,

  He blinked with just-awakened eyes,

  And pondering on those mysteries,

  Unto the woodman’s hut he went.

  Him he found kneeling down, and bent

  In moody grief above a bed,

  Whereon his wife lay, stark and dead,

  Whose soul near morn had passed away;

  And ‘twixt the dead and living lay

  A new-born man-child, fair and great.

  So in the door the King did wait

  To watch the man, who had no heed

  Of this or that, so sore did bleed

  The new-made wound within his heart.

  But as the King gazed, for his part

  He did but see his threatened foe,

  And ever hard his heart did grow

  With deadly hate and wilfulness:

  And sight of that poor man’s distress

  Made it the harder, as of nought

  But that unbroken line he thought

  Of which he was the last: withal

  His scornful troubled eyes did fall

  Upon that nest of poverty,

  Where nought of joy he seemed to see.

  On straw the poor dead woman lay;

  The door alone let in the day,

  Showing the trodden earthen floor,

  A board on trestles weak and poor,

  Three stumps of tree for stool or chair,

  A half-glazed pipkin, nothing fair,

  A bowl of porridge by the wife

  Untouched by lips that lacked for life,

  A platter and a bowl of wood;

  And in the further corner stood

  A bow cut from the wych-elm tree,

  A holly club, and arrows three

  Ill pointed, heavy, spliced with thread.

  Ah! soothly, well remembered

  Was that unblissful wretched home,

  Those four bare walls, in days to come;

  And often in the coming years

  He called to mind the pattering tears

  That, on the rent old sackcloth cast

  About the body, fell full fast,

  ‘Twixt half-meant prayers and curses wild,

  And that weak wailing of the child,

  His threatened dreaded enemy,

  The mighty king that was to be.

  But as he gazed unsoftened there,

  With hate begot of scorn and care,

  Loudly he heard a great horn blow,

  And his own hunting call did know,

  And soon began the shouts to hear

  Of his own people drawing near.

  Then lifting up his horn, he blew

  A long shrill point, but as he threw

  His head aback, beheld his folk,

  Who from the close-set thicket broke

  And o’er the cleared space swiftly passed,

  With shouts that he was found at last.

  Then turned the carle his doleful face,

  And slowly rising in his place,

  Drew thwart his eyes his fingers strong,

  And on that gay-dressed glittering throng

  Gazed stupidly, as still he heard

  The name of King; but said no word.

  But his guest spoke, “Sirs, well be ye!

  This luckless woodman, whom ye see,

  Gave me good harbour through the night

  And such poor victual as he might;

  Therefore shall he have more than gold

  For his reward; since dead and cold

  His helpmate lies who last night died.

  See now the youngling by her side;

  Him will I take and rear him so

  That he shall no more lie alow

  In straw, or from the beech-tree dine.

  But rather use white linen fine

  And silver plate; and with the sword

  Shall learn to serve some King or Lord.

  How say’st thou, good man?”

  “Sire,” he said,

  Weeping, but shamefaced,— “Since here dead

  She lies, that erst kept house for me,

  E’en as thou willest let it be;

  Though I had hoped to have a son

  To help me get the day’s work done.

  And now, indeed, forth must he go

  If unto manhood he should grow,

  And lonely I must wander forth,

  To whom east, west, and south, and north

  Are all alike: forgive it me

  If little thanks I give to thee

  Who scarce can thank great God in heaven

  For what is left of what was given.”

  Small heed unto him the King gave,

  But trembling in his haste to have

  The body of his enemy,

  Said to an old squire, “Bring to me

  The babe, and give the good man this

  Wherewith to gain a little bliss,

  In place of all his troubles gone,

  Nor need he now be long alone.”

  The carle’s rough face, at clink of gold,

  Lit up, though still did he behold

  The wasted body lying there;

  But stooping, a rough box, foursquare,

  Made of old wood and lined with hay,

  Wherein the helpless infant lay,

  He raised, and gave it to the squire

  Who on the floor cast down his hire,

  Nor sooth dared murmur aught the while,

  But turning smiled a grim hard smile

  To see the carle his pieces count

  Still weeping: so did all men mount

  And turning round into the wood

  Forgat him and his drearihood,

  And soon were far off from the hut.

  Then coming out, the door he shut

  Behind him, and adown a glade,

  Towards a rude hermitage he made

  To fetch the priest unto his need,

  To bury her and say her bede —

  So when all things that he might do

  Were done aright, heavy with woe,

  He left the woodland hut behind

  To take such chance as he might find

  In other lands, forgetting all

  That in that forest did befall.

  But through the wild wood rode the King,

  Moody and thinking on the thing,

  Nor free from that unreasoning fear;

  Till now, when they had drawn anear

  The open country, and could see

  The road run on from close to lea,

  And lastly by a wooden bridge

  A long way from that heathy ridge

  Cross over a deep lowland stream —

  Then in his eyes there came a gleam,

  And his hand fell upon his sword,

  And turning round to squire and lord

  He said, “Ride sirs, the way is clear,

  Nor of my people have I fear,

  Nor do my foes range over wide;

  And for myself fain would I ride

  Right slowly homewards through the fields

  Noting what this and that one yields;

  While by my squire who bears the child

  Lightly my way shall be beguiled.

  For some nurse now he needs must have

  This tender life of his to save;

  And doubtless by the stream there is

  Some house where he may dwell in bliss,

  Till he grow old enough to learn

  How gold and glory he may earn;

  And grow, perchance, to be a lord.”

  With downcast eyes he spoke that word;

  But forth they galloped speedily,

  And he drew rein and stood to see

  Their green coats lessening as they went.

  This man unto the other bent,

  Until mid dust and haze at last

  Into a wavering mass they passed;

  Then ‘twixt the hedgerows vanished quite

  Just told of by the dust-cloud white

  Rolled upwards ‘twixt the elm-trunks slim.

  Then turned the king about to him,

  Who held the child, noting again

  The thing wherein he had been lain,

  And on one side of it could see

  A lion painted hastily

  In red upon a ground of white,

  As though of old it had been dight

  For some lord’s rough-wrought palisade;

  But naked ‘mid the hay was laid

  The child, and had no mark or sign.

  Then said the king, “My ancient line

  Thou and thy sires through good and ill

  Have served, and unto thee my will

  Is law enough from day to day;

  Ride nigh me hearkening what I say.”

  He shook his rein and side by side

  Down through the meadows did they ride,

  And opening all his heart, the king

  Told to the old man everything

  Both of the sage, and of his dream;

  Withal drawn nigh unto the stream,

  He said, “Yet this shall never be,

  For surely as thou lovest me,

  Adown this water shall he float

  With this rough box for ark and boat,

  Then if mine old line he must spill

  There let God save him if he will,

  While I in no case shed his blood.”

  “Yea,” said the squire, “thy words are good,

  For the whole sin shall lie on me,

  Who greater things would do for thee

  If need there were; yet note, I pray,

  It may be he will ‘scape this day

  And live; and what wouldst thou do then

  If thou shouldst meet him among men?

  I counsel thee to let him go

  Since sure to nought thy will shall grow.”

  “Yea, yea,” the king said, “let all be

  That may be, if I once but see

  This ark whirl in the eddies swift

  Or tangled in the autumn drift

  And wrong side up:” but with that word

  Their horse-hoofs on the plank he heard,

  And swift across the bridge he rode,

  And nigh the end of it abode,

  Then turned to watch the old squire stop,

  And leaning o’er the bridge-rail drop

  The luckless child; he heard withal

  A muttered word and splashing fall

  And from the wakened child a cry,

  And saw the cradle hurrying by,

  Whirled round and sinking, but as yet

  Holding the child, nor overset.

  Now somewhat, soothly at the sight

  Did the king doubt if he outright

  Had rid him of his feeble foe,

  But frowning did he turn to go

  Unto his home, nor knew indeed

  How better he might help his need;

  And as unto his house he rode

  Full little care for all he showed,

  Still bidding Samuel the squire

  Unto his bridle-hand ride nigher,

  To whom he talked of careless things,

  As unto such will talk great kings.

  But when unto his palace gate

  He came at last, thereby did wait

  The chamberlain with eager eyes

  Above his lips grown grave with lies,

  In haste to tell him that the queen,

  While in the wild-wood he had been,

  Had borne a daughter unto him

  Strong, fair of face, and straight of limb.

  So well at ease and glad thereat

  His troubled dream he nigh forgat,

  His troubled waking, and the ride

  Unto the fateful river-side;

  Or thought of all as little things

  Unmeet to trouble souls of kings.

  So passed the days, so passed the years

  In such-like hopes, and such-like fears,

  And such-like deeds in field and hall

  As unto royal men befall,

  And fourteen years have passed away

  Since on the huddled brake he lay

  And dreamed that dream, remembered now

  Once and again, when slow and slow

  The minutes of some sleepless night

  Crawl toward the dawning of the light.

  Remembered not on this sweet morn

  When to the ringing of the horn,

  Jingle of bits and mingled shout

  Toward that same stream he rideth out

  To see his grey-winged falcons fly.

  So long he rode he drew anigh

 

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