Complete Works of William Morris, page 445
But his voice faltered and sank low,
As though her great heart he ‘gan fear.
She reached her fine strong hand anear
The farfetched thing; then smiling said:
“Strange that such fair things can be made
By men who die; and like it is
Thou think’st me worthy of all bliss;
But our rough hills and smoky house
Befit not aught so glorious,
E’en if thou come again to me;
And if not, greater grief to see
The gifts of dead love! — what say I,
Our crone should wear these certainly
If I but brought them unto land.”
He flushed red, and his strong right hand
Fell to his sword-hilt. “Nay,” she said,
“All that is nought if rightly weighed;
Hope and desire shall pass the days
If thou come back.”
Grave was her face
And tremulous: he sighed; “Then take
This last gift only for my sake.”
And once again their lips did touch
And cling together. “O many such,”
She said, “if the time did not fail,
And my heart too: of what avail
Against the hand of fate to strive?
Let me begin my life to live,
As it must be a weary space.”
The moon smote full upon her face,
As on a trembling sea, as now
From the lamp-litten gold tilt low
She stepped into the fresher air,
He with her. Slow the twain did fare
Amidst the wondering men, till they
Had reached the bridge; then swift away
She turned, and passed the gold-hung rail,
And o’er the sands the moon made pale
Went gleaming, all alone: and he
Watched till her light feet steadily
Stepped up upon the dark cliff’s brow:
But no one time she turned her now,
But vanished from him into night.
So there he watched till changing light
Brought the beginning of the tide
Of longing that he needs must bide;
Then he cried out for oars and sail,
And ere the morning star did fail
No more those cliffs his bird beheld,
As ‘neath the wind the broad sail swelled.
BUT for the maiden, back she went
Unto the stead, and her intent
She changed in nought: no word she spake
What wrath soe’er on her might break
From the fell crone, on whom withal
Still heavier did that strange awe fall;
As well might be, for from the may
Had girlish lightness passed away
Into a sweet grave majesty,
That scarce elsewhere the world might see.
So wore the spring, and summer came,
And went, and all the woods did flame
With autumn, as in that old tide
When slowly by the mirk hill-side
Went Heimir to his unseen death:
Then came the first frost’s windless breath,
The steaming sea, the world all white,
And glittering morn and silent night,
As when the little one first felt
The world a-cold; and still she dwelt
Unchanged since that first spark of love
Wrought the great change, that so did move
Her heart to perfect loveliness.
Nor overmuch did the days press
Upon her with the weary waste
Of short life, that too quick doth haste
When joy is gained: if any thought
Thereof unto her heart was brought,
Rather it was, “Ah, overlong
For brooding over change and wrong
When that shall come! Good gain to me
My love’s eyes one more time to see,
To feel once more his lips’ delight,
And die with the short summer night,
Not shamed nor sorry! But if I
Must bear the weight of misery
In the after days, yet even then
May I not leave to unborn men
A savour of sweet things, a tale
That midst all woes shall yet prevail
To make the world seem something worth?”
So passed the winter of the North,
And once again was come the spring;
Then whiles would she go loitering
Slow-footed, and with hanging head,
Through budding brake, o’er flowery mead,
With blood that throbbed full quickly now
If o’er the flowers her feet were slow,
And bonds about her seemed to be.
Yet wore the spring past lingeringly
Till on a morn of latter May,
When her soft sleep had passed away,
Nought but the bright-billed sweet-throat bird
Within the thorn at first she heard;
But, even as her heart did meet
The first wave of desire o’ersweet,
The winding of a mighty horn
Adown the breeze of May was borne,
And throbbing hope on her did fall:
Yet from her bed she leapt withal,
And clad herself, and went about
Her work, as though with ne’er a doubt
That this day e’en such like should be
As was the last; and so while she
Quickened the fire and laid the board,
Mid the crone’s angry, querulous word
Of surly wonder, the goodman,
With axe on shoulder, swiftly ran
Adown the slope; but presently
Came breathless back:
“Ah, here they be!
Come back again for something worse,”
Said he. “This dumb maid is some curse
Laid on us.”
“Well,” the goodwife said,
“Who be they?” “They who baked their bread
Within this house last spring,” said he.
“Oft did I marvel then why she,
This witch-maid, went unto the strand
That eve.”
“Nay, maybe comes to hand
Some luck,” the crone said. “Hold thy peace,”
He said. “What goodhap or increase
From that ill night shall ever come?
Rather I deem that now come home
Those fifteen years of murder: lo,
The worst of all we soon shall know,
I hear their voices.”
Silently,
If somewhat pale, Aslaug passed by
From fire to board, as though she heard
And noted nothing of that word,
Whate’er it was: yet now, indeed,
The clink of sword on iron weed,
And voices of the seafarers,
Came clear enow unto her ears;
Nor was it long or e’er the door
Was darkened, as one stood before
The light and cried:
“Hail to this house,
If here still dwells the glorious
Fair maiden, that across the seas
We come for!”
Aslaug on her knees
Knelt by the brightening fire and dropped
The meal into the pot, nor stopped
For all their words, but with her hand
Screened her fair face. Then up did stand
The goodman, quaking:
“Well,” he said,
“Good be my meed! for we have fed
This dumb maid all for kindness’ sake.”
“No need,” he said, “long words to make,
And little heed we thy lies now,
But if she doom thee to the bough.
— All hail, our Lady and our Queen!”
For she, arisen, with glorious mien
Was drawing near the board, and bare
The porridge-bowl and such-like gear
Past where the men stood; tremblingly
The leader of them drew anigh,
And would have taken them, but she
Swerved from his strong hand daintily,
Smiled on him and passed by, and when
They were set down turned back again
And spoke, and well then might rejoice
That dusky place to hear her voice
For the first time:
“I doubt me not,
O seafarers, but ye have got
A message from that goodly lord
Who spake last year a pleasant word,
Hard to believe for a poor maid.”
Trembled the twain at what she said
Less than the unexpected sound,
For death seemed in the air around.
But the man spake: “E’en thus he saith,
That he, who heretofore feared death
In no-wise, feared this morn to come
And seek thee out in thy poor home,
Lest he should find thee dead or gone;
For scarce he deemed so sweet a one
Could be for him: ‘But if she live,’
He said, ‘and still her love can give
To me, let her make no delay,
For fear we see no other day
Wherein to love.’”
She said: “Come, then!
It shames me not that of all men
I love him best. But have ye there
Somewhat these twain might reckon dear?
Their life is ill enow to live
But that withal they needs must strive
With griping want when I am gone.”
He answered, “O thou goodly one,
Here have we many a dear-bought thing,
Because our master bade us bring
All queenly gear for thee, and deems
That thou, so clad as well beseems
That lovely body, wouldst aboard;
But all we have is at thy word
To keep or spend.”
“Nay, friends,” she said,
“If thy lord loves my goodlihead,
Fain would I bear alone to him
What wealth I have of face or limb,
For him to deck when all is his,
So full enow shall even this
That I am dight with be for me;
But since indeed of his bounty
He giveth unto me to give —
Take ye this gold, ye twain, and live
E’en as ye may — small need to bless
Or curse your sordid churlishness,
Because methinks, without fresh curse,
Each day that comes shall still be worse
Than the past day, and worst of all
Your ending day on you shall fall.
Yet, if it may be, fare ye well,
Since in your house I came to dwell
A certain time of my life-days.”
E’en as she spake, her glorious face
Shone the last time on that abode,
And her light feet the daisies trod
Outside the threshold. But the twain
Stood ‘mazed above the bounteous gain
Of rings and gems and money bright,
And a long while, for mere affright
And wonder, durst not handle it.
But while the butterfly did flit
White round about the feet of her,
Above the little May-flowers fair,
She went adown the hill with these,
Until the low wash of the seas
They heard, and murmuring of the men
Who manned the long-ships; quickly then
They showed above the grey bent’s brow,
And all the folk beheld them now
‘Twixt oar and gunwale that abode,
And to the sky their shout rose loud.
But when upon the beach she came,
A bright thing in the sun did flame
‘Twixt sun and ship-side, and the sea
Foamed, as one waded eagerly
Unto the smooth and sea-beat sand,
And for one moment did she stand
Breathless, with beating heart, and then
To right and left drew back the men;
She heard a voice she deemed well known,
Long waited through dull hours bygone,
And round her mighty arms were cast:
But when her trembling red lips passed
From out the heaven of that dear kiss,
And eyes met eyes, she saw in his
Fresh pride, fresh hope, fresh love, and saw
The long sweet days still onward draw,
Themselves still going hand in hand,
As now they went adown the strand.
NEXT morn, when they awoke to see
Each other’s hands draw lovingly
Each unto each, awhile they lay
Silent, as though night passed away
They grudged full sore: till the King said
Unto the happy golden head
That lay upon his breast, “What thought
By those few hours of dark was brought
Unto thy heart, my love? Did dreams
Make strange thy loving sleep with gleams
Of changing days that yet may be?”
She answered, but still dreamily:
“In sleep a little while ago
O’er a star-litten world of snow
I fared, till suddenly nearby
A swirling fire blazed up on high;
Thereto I went, and without scathe
Passed through the flame, as one doth bathe
Within a summer stream, and there
I saw a golden palace fair
Ringed round about with roaring flame.
Unto an open door I came,
And entered a great hall thereby,
And saw where ‘neath a canopy
A King and Queen there sat, more fair
Than the world knoweth otherwhere:
And much methought my heart smiled then
Upon that goodliest of all men,
That sweetest of all womankind.
Then one methought a horn did wind
Without, and the King turned and spake:
“‘Wherewith do the hall pillars shake,
O Queen, O love?’
She moved her head,
And in a voice like music said:
‘This is the fame of Ragnar’s life,
The breath of all the glorious strife
Wherewith his days shall wear.’
Then he:
‘What is the shadow that I see
Adown the hall?’
Then said the Queen:
‘Our daughter surely hadst thou seen
If thine eyes saw as clear as mine:
Well worth she is our love divine,
And unto Ragnar is she wed,
The best man since that thou wert dead,
My King, my love, mine own, mine own!’
“Then the twain kissed upon the throne,
And the dream passed and sleep passed too.”
Therewith the King her body drew
Nearer to him, if it might be,
And spake: “A strange dream came to me.
Upon a waste at dawn I went
And wandered over vale and bent,
And ever was it dawn of day,
And still upon all sides there lay
The bones of men, and war-gear turned
To shards and rust; then far off burned
A fire, and thither quick I passed.
And when I came to it at last
Dreadful it seemed, impassable;
But I, fain of that land to tell
What things soever might be known,
Went round about, and up and down,
And gat no passing by the same;
Until, methought, just where the flame
Burned highest, through the midst I saw
A man and woman toward me draw,
Even as through a flowery wood:
So came they unto where I stood,
And glad at heart therewith I grew,
For such fair folk as were the two
Ne’er had I seen; then the man cried:
“‘Hail to thee, Ragnar! well betide
This dawn of day. Stretch forth thine hand.’
“E’en as he bade me did I stand,
Abiding what should hap, but he
Turned to the woman lovingly,
And from her bosom’s fresh delight
Drew forth a blooming lily white,
And set it in mine hand, and then
Both through the flame went back again.
“Then afterwards in earth I set
This lily, and with soft regret
Watched for its fading; but withal
Great light upon the world did fall,
And fair the sun rose o’er the earth,
And blithe I grew and full of mirth:
And no more on a waste I was,
But in a green world, where the grass
White lily-blooms well-nigh did hide;
O’er hill and valley far and wide
They waved in the warm wind; the sun
Seemed shining upon everyone,
As though it loved it: and with that
I woke, and up in bed I sat
And saw thee waking, O my sweet!”
With that last word their lips did meet,
And even the fresh May morning bright
Was noted not in their delight.
Let be — as ancient stories tell
Full knowledge upon Ragnar fell
In lapse of time, that this was she
Begot in the felicity
Swift-fleeting of the wondrous twain,
Who afterwards through change and pain
Must live apart to meet in death.
But, would ye know what the tale saith,
In the old Danish tongue is writ
Full many a word concerning it, —
The days through which these lovers passed,
Till death made end of all at last.
But so great Ragnar’s glory seemed
To Northern folk, that many deemed
That for his death, when song arose
From that Northumbrian adder-close,
England no due atonement paid
Till Harald Godwinson was laid
Beside his fallen banner, cold
Upon the blood-soaked Sussex mould,
And o’er the wrack of Senlac field
Full-fed the grey-nebbed raven wheeled.
IN the dim place that the sun knew no more
