Complete Works of William Morris, page 511
For the townsfolk unto the mote to pass,
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 space by the Elders’ Mound;
And at the feet thereof it was
That highest grew the June-tide grass;
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 high-way 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 hoar hair showed from the hoary 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 hoary beard:
* * * * *
“Yea, whose are yonder gables then,
And whose the holy hearths of men?
Whose are the prattling children there,
And whose the sunburnt maids and fair?
Whose thralls are ye, hereby that stand,
Bearing the freeman’s sword in hand?”
As glitters the sun in the rain-washed grass,
So in the tossing swords it was;
As the thunder rattles along and adown
E’en so was the voice of the weaponed town.
And there was the steel of the old man’s sword,
And there was his hollow voice, and his word:
“Many men many minds, the old saw saith,
Though hereof ye be sure as death.
For what spake the herald yestermorn
But this, that ye were thrall-folk born;
That the lord that owneth all and some
Would send his men to fetch us home
Betwixt the haysel, and the tide
When they shear the corn in the country-side?
O children, Who was the lord? ye say,
What prayer to him did our fathers pray.
Did they hold out hands his gyves to bear?
Did their knees his high hall’s pavement wear?
Is his house built up in heaven aloft?
Doth he make the sun rise oft and oft?
Doth he hold the rain in his hollow hand?
Hath he cleft this water through the land?
Or doth he stay the summer-tide,
And make the winter days abide?
O children, Who is the lord? ye say,
Have we heard his name before to-day?
O children, if his name I know,
He hight Earl Hugh of the Shivering Low:
For that herald bore on back and breast
The Black Burg under the Eagle’s Nest.”
* * * * *
As the voice of the winter wind that tears
At the eaves of the thatch and its emptied ears,
E’en so was the voice of laughter and scorn
By the water-side in the mead new-shorn;
And over the garden and the wheat
Went the voice of women shrilly-sweet.
* * * * *
But now by the hoary elder stood
A carle in raiment red as blood.
Red was his weed and his glaive was white,
And there stood Gregory the Wright.
So he spake in a voice was loud and strong:
“Young is the day though the road is long;
There is time if we tarry nought at all
For the kiss in the porch and the meat in the hall.
And safe shall our maidens sit at home
For the foe by the way we wend must come.
Through the three Lavers shall we go
And raise them all against the foe.
Then shall we wend the Downland ways,
And all the shepherd spearmen raise.
To Cheaping Raynes shall we come adown
And gather the bowmen of the town;
And Greenstead next we come unto
Wherein are all folk good and true.
When we come our ways to the Outer Wood
We shall be an host both great and good;
Yea when we come to the open field
There shall be a many under shield.
And maybe Earl Hugh shall lie alow
And yet to the house of Heaven shall go.
But we shall dwell in the land we love
And grudge no hallow Heaven above.
Come ye, who think the time o’er long
Till we have slain the word of wrong!
Come ye who deem the life of fear
On this last day hath drawn o’er near!
Come after me upon the road
That leadeth to the Erne’s abode.”
* * * * *
Down then he leapt from off the mound
And back drew they that were around
Till he was foremost of all those
Betwixt the river and the close.
And uprose shouts both glad and strong
As followed after all the throng;
And overhead the banners flapped,
As we went on our ways to all that happed.
* * * * *
The fields before the Shivering Low
Of many a grief of manfolk know;
There may the autumn acres tell
Of how men met, and what befell.
The Black Burg under the Eagle’s nest
Shall tell the tale as it liketh best.
And sooth it is that the River-land
Lacks many an autumn-gathering hand.
And there are troth-plight maids unwed
Shall deem awhile that love is dead;
And babes there are to men shall grow
Nor ever the face of their fathers know.
And yet in the Land by the River-side
Doth never a thrall or an earl’s man bide;
For Hugh the Earl of might and mirth
Hath left the merry days of Earth;
And we live on in the land we love,
And grudge no hallow Heaven above.
THE VOICE OF TOIL.
I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying,
All days shall be as all have been;
To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow,
The never-ending toil between.
When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger,
In hope we strove, and our hands were strong;
Then great men led us, with words they fed us,
And bade us right the earthly wrong.
Go read in story their deeds and glory,
Their names amidst the nameless dead;
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying
In that good world to which they led;
Where fast and faster our iron master,
The thing we made, for ever drives,
Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure
For other hopes and other lives.
Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel,
Forgetting that the world is fair;
Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish;
Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.
Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us
As we lie in the hell our hands have won?
For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers,
The great are fallen, the wise men gone.
* * * * *
I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying,
The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep;
Are we not stronger than the rich and the wronger,
When day breaks over dreams and sleep?
Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world grows older!
Help lies in nought but thee and me;
Hope is before us, the long years that bore us
Bore leaders more than men may be.
Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry,
And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth,
While we the living our lives are giving
To bring the bright new world to birth.
Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows older!
The Cause spreads over land and sea;
Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh,
And joy at last for thee and me.
GUNNAR’S HOWE ABOVE THE HOUSE AT LITHEND.
Ye who have come o’er the sea
to behold this grey minster of lands,
Whose floor is the tomb of time past,
and whose walls by the toil of dead hands
Show pictures amidst of the ruin
of deeds that have overpast death,
Stay by this tomb in a tomb
to ask of who lieth beneath.
Ah! the world changeth too soon,
that ye stand there with unbated breath,
As I name him that Gunnar of old,
who erst in the haymaking tide
Felt all the land fragrant and fresh,
as amidst of the edges he died.
Too swiftly fame fadeth away,
if ye tremble not lest once again
The grey mound should open and show him
glad-eyed without grudging or pain.
Little labour methinks to behold him
but the tale-teller laboured in vain.
Little labour for ears that may hearken
to hear his death-conquering song,
Till the heart swells to think of the gladness
undying that overcame wrong.
O young is the world yet meseemeth
and the hope of it flourishing green,
When the words of a man unremembered
so bridge all the days that have been,
As we look round about on the land
that these nine hundred years he hath seen.
Dusk is abroad on the grass
of this valley amidst of the hill:
Dusk that shall never be dark
till the dawn hard on midnight shall fill
The trench under Eyiafell’s snow,
and the grey plain the sea meeteth grey.
White, high aloft hangs the moon
that no dark night shall brighten ere day,
For here day and night toileth the summer
lest deedless his time pass away.
THE DAY IS COMING.
Come hither lads and hearken,
for a tale there is to tell,
Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all
shall be better than well.
And the tale shall be told of a country,
a land in the midst of the sea,
And folk shall call it England
in the days that are going to be.
There more than one in a thousand
in the days that are yet to come,
Shall have some hope of the morrow,
some joy of the ancient home.
* * * * *
For then, laugh not, but listen,
to this strange tale of mine,
All folk that are in England
shall be better lodged than swine.
Then a man shall work and bethink him,
and rejoice in the deeds of his hand,
Nor yet come home in the even
too faint and weary to stand.
Men in that time a-coming
shall work and have no fear
For to-morrow’s lack of earning
and the hunger-wolf anear.
I tell you this for a wonder,
that no man then shall be glad
Of his fellow’s fall and mishap
to snatch at the work he had.
For that which the worker winneth
shall then be his indeed,
Nor shall half be reaped for nothing
by him that sowed no seed.
O strange new wonderful justice!
But for whom shall we gather the gain?
For ourselves and for each of our fellows,
and no hand shall labour in vain.
Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours,
and no more shall any man crave
For riches that serve for nothing
but to fetter a friend for a slave.
* * * * *
And what wealth then shall be left us
when none shall gather gold
To buy his friend in the market,
and pinch and pine the sold?
Nay, what save the lovely city,
and the little house on the hill,
And the wastes and the woodland beauty,
and the happy fields we till;
And the homes of ancient stories,
the tombs of the mighty dead;
And the wise men seeking out marvels,
and the poet’s teeming head;
And the painter’s hand of wonder;
and the marvellous fiddle-bow,
And the banded choirs of music:
all those that do and know.
For all these shall be ours and all men’s
nor shall any lack a share
Of the toil and the gain of living
in the days when the world grows fair.
* * * * *
Ah! such are the days that shall be!
But what are the deeds of to-day,
In the days of the years we dwell in,
