They sound on a trumpet now fair lord

  We will ? crafty wiles

  I shall be Sir Richard the good

  And you shall be my squire Giles

  I will do on your red tabard

  And your basnet of gold clean to see

  I will show myself little he said

  There is none shall know me

  We will not let these Frenchmen wit

  That you here wounded lie

  I shall speak from the wall with a great voice

  And Sir Richard I shall well seem to be

  I am the Vicount of Rohane

  If you are Sir Richard of Corton

  Yield up your tower now in haste

  For we have the town well won

  This is King Charles heritage

  If you will not give it to me

  I shall mightily brenn it up with fire

  And hang you all on ae tree

  Thou sayst false Sir Viscount of Rohane

  I will not yield it up to you

  All Maine longeth to Sir Edward

  And so doth all Poictou

  See here Sir Viscount of Rohane

  If our stone walls were weaten sic bread

  I would not give up my lords house

  Till on the door step I lay dead

  You may wish well then weaten sic bread

  If we build bastides round about you

  There will be no rat but you shall eat him

  And your sword belts shall schew

  My lord of Rohane thou art a false traitor villian

  Two times thou hast turned thy coat

  Thou deservest well to die

  I would we were alone you and I.

  I counsel you go back again

  You shall be taken I you tell

  Sir John Chandos shall catch you all

  Like foul toads in a dry well

  Then said Sir Reginald du Roy

  Thou art a bold knave

  But a false squire

  So may God me save

  Thou art not Sir Richard Corton

  Said Sir Reginald du Roy

  Lo Sirs Sir Richard now is dead their captain sic

  Thereof have we great joy

  That is false Sir Knight he said

  In thy throat I give thee the lie

  Thou art a false knave Sir Squire

  I hope well to see thee die

  I wonder muckle thou art so bold

  But thou shalt not endure right long

  When we pull this tower down

  On a high tree thou shall hang.

  Let us no more words said than sic? this good squire

  Lo archers pulleth your bows

  Whoso is a good man today

  Nothing shall he lose.

  Who putteth himself in jeopardy

  He shall tyne naething I trow tyne, from Scandinavian, to become lost, perish

  My lord Sir Edward shall make him rich

  Who is right good at his bow.

  They shot so well together then

  These good yeoman sic bold

  There was no ladder nor eke an axe

  That a frenchman might hold

  How does my lord Sir Richard Corton

  I shall be hole of my hurt

  In ae month the good leech saith

  But the frenchmen tread us like dirt

  But the frenchmen hung us on a tree

  I shall be of right merry cheer

  I would Sir Hugh Calverly

  Or Sir John Chandos were come here

  In there came uncle Peter

  He was a yeoman bold

  My lord these french all go aback

  They may nothing hold

  In there came uncle Peter

  My Lord I fair pennon see

  What are these bearings

  Peter Tell that quick to me

  In there came John blackbeard

  He was a yeoman strong

  My lord these french may do nothing

  They will not habyde long

  In there came Oliver Gurton

  Of his speech he was sweet

  My Lord I see a great rout

  Fillen up all the street.

  In came Gregory Evanton

  My lord good news I bring

  Our English ranks cometh hither

  And right sweetly they sing

  That is Hugh Calverly

  A good knight of his hands

  There is no knight is better

  In King Edwards lands

  What song sing they Gregory

  Said my lord in a voice fine

  My Lord they cry ever

  Out out the Kentish kine

  In there came uncle Peter

  My Lord I fair pennon see

  What are these bearing Peter

  Tell that quick to me

  My lord to say soothly

  It was silver a red stake

  That is Sir John Chandos

  He is come quick for my sake

  We shall hold high feast I trow tonight

  In our great hall that is so fair

  All the great French captains

  Shall eat with us there

  Though I may not drink wine

  For the heating of my blood

  Yet shall I drink sweet posset

  And that taste as good

  I am so full of joy

  that this tower I have holden

  That posset shall be better to me now

  That wine if I had been yolden

  Good sport had the Seneschal

  And Sir Hugh Calvery I you tell

  All these french were slain or taken

  Like toads in a dry well

  And those French lords that were taken

  Ere they gat them away

  Many florins for certain

  They did pledge them to pay.

  Then I trow Squire Giles

  Won well in plain fight

  The captain Sir Reginald du Roy

  Though he was a good knight

  DEAR FRIENDS, I LAY AWAKE IN THE NIGHT

  Dear friends, I lay awake in the night

  When I sung of the willow-tree

  And I thought, as I lay awake in the light,

  Of what you had said to me.

  For you remember how you had said,

  That I should be a poet

  Ah me: it almost made me sad,

  As I lay in the light, to know it.

  For I knew, as every poet does,

  What a poet ought to be:

  Straightway before me there uprose,

  My hideous sins to me.

  Sweet friends, I pray you pray for me

  To Him Whose hands are pierced

  That, as, on the breast of His Mother, He,

  So I on His breast may be nursed.

  William.

  EARLY DRAFT: THE MAN BORN TO BE KING

  It is well said among wise men

  If ye cannot have twelve take ten,

  Also I say for my part

  That the grey smock may cover a heart

  Good enough for the gown of a king:

  May this tale be to your liking.

  Now this same lusty king

  Had a dame, a right sweet thing,

  And he loved her passing well

  In such wise it were hard to tell,

  Over long at Candlemas

  The snow lay upon the grass,

  Thereupon did the Queen pass

  With the King from the minster.

  That same damozel bent low

  Her knee in the white snow,

  Lightly at the Queen’s command

  To that gold shoe she set her hand;

  Right so some steel pin

  In the Queen’s gown, smote therein;

  The red blood fell from her hand,

  There as the Queen did stand.

  The Queen regarded pensively

  The red blood on the snow lie

  And her gold shoe that was nigh.

  She sighed and said: “Yellow as gold,

  White as the snow upon the mold,

  I would my child might be so;

  Red as blood and white as snow,

  And yellow as gold mote she be,

  Great joy this would be to me.”

  In that same night that she was born

  There was a small house poor and forlorn

  Beside a river lay alone;

  He sold his skins and feathers of heme,

  And unto him they gave in turn

  Nets and wood-axes and such gear,

  Coats of frieze for him to wear,

  Flanders cloth for his mother,

  Shoes and hats of Caudebec ...

  I trow a right fat man was he,

  He had a brown face and eyen white;

  His red hair in the sun shone bright;

  He was as fierce as any knight.

  I trow that in the town council

  Always for hanging spoke he well,

  If men debated on some thief.

  YOLAND

  At any rate I fear no man...

  I am not now afraid of God.

  Mad as I was I stopped & thought, there now

  I knew that I had seen that place before,

  And those pavilions why ’twas even so

  Last year; then some fear pierced my hearts core,

  I entered through that same close rose-fence

  And went toward the great pavilion whence

  Some fear or horror struck upon my sense

  O pity me, I pray you, this is what I saw.

  A silken carpet lay upon the grass

  And on a silken bed (on that whereon) lay Eleanore

  I was in time to see the last breath pass

  From her half opened lips, besides I saw

  Sitting along the bed on the further side

  Ten maidens fairly robed and thus they cried

  Here comes Sir Johnne to claim his doomed bride,

  Thereat they turned away, and dropped their eyes toward the floor,

  Whereat I was abashed & thought what I could do.

  I closed her wide eyes first, lifted from off the ground

  Her heavy golden hair, her arms were stretched straight so,

  Crosswise I laid them downwards, yet there came no sound,

  So when I saw she moved not her head

  Nor oped her eyes nor moved her hands, I said

  Quite softly to myself, then she is dead,

  And yet she neither screamed nor fell down in a swound.

  but only stood still; for a while I ween

  I knew not where I was, but felt a globe

  of whirling black with spots of red & green

  Shrink and expand before me fill the robe.

  When she was lifted up I saw no deep green there —

  No robe of Eleanore but only deep green meads

  Between the hazel hedge the gleaming of gold sheaves,

  And, dream within a dream, a maiden crowned with weeds

  Standing between two trees beneath the shivering leaves —

  Yea day by day I used to go and gaze

  In the old passed time, the sweet old days,

  I used to draw a maiden from the haze

  For my delight, to stand beneath the aspen leaves;

  I could see all her throat because her chin was raised,

  And I could see the lashes of her eyes

  Laid downward on her cheek, and as I gazed

  With beating heart could see her bosom rise

  Heaving and falling like a quiet sea —

  Whose robes of green and white and purple be

  Just as hers were, each side of her a tree

  Trembled with strange delight to feel her hands, the flies

  v Along the bridges of her outstretched arms

  Marched humming to the city of her face,

  By the Cathedral of her eyes sang psalms,

  Held her white forehead as a hallowed place

  For burying the dead things of the mind.

  With undropped lids I gazed till I was blind

  Then dropped my head and wept because the wind,

  As I knew all too well, was making clear that space.

  That was at sunset time: all the night long

  Thereafter very sullen would I lie

  Till the next noon unless the wind was strong —

  The wind was ever a kind friend to me.

  But the next day at noon I used to learn

  Against an aspen, get a sense of green

  To my heart through my eyes and soon I ween

  Came forth my dream of dreams each hand laid on a tree.

  I used to think it was a sort of right

  That I should get each day some happiness

  In which time clean forgotten was the night . . . .

  All its dull pain, and truly more or less

  The happiness came to me which I sought

  After when more years more cares to me brought

  Some part of each day that I schemed or fought

  I claimed for dreams enjoyment now not Happiness

  For if I were to see only her stately mien

  There would no longer be a chance to me

  Of dying but for ever I should live

  Walk slowly in the sun . . . :

  But . . . I flee

  Through purple shadows that the beech trees give

  O love my royal snow white Eleanore

  I pray thee come & stand by me no more

  And weep through thy thin hands & shadow oer

  My hot hot steel gear wishing me alas to live

  And now I shall not see her body any more.

  I went through many lands and found no rest

  When I had left you and this castle here,

  Nor found I any counsel what was best

  But went about all dizzied for a year.

  At last it chanced on a September day

  When all the sleeping sky was one blue grey,

  I rode unhappily through a green way,

  Neither did any come for me to fight or fear;

  My pennon no wind shook, my mail-hood lay aback,

  I looked down on my breast and saw my bearing there —

  Gold dragons on green round — my bridle-reins were slack,

  I held within my mouth locks of my long lank hair,

  But as I rode faint singing came to me

  From the right hand, I thought that I might be

  The voice of damozels at a tourney.

  So toward that voice I went sideways till I came where

  Many pavilions on an open lawn

  With gold and blue and scarlet scared the birds.

  My heart shrunk back all sickened at the dawn

  Of arms, embroidery, and clear sung words,

  Nevertheless I set my lips together

  Till the blood came, not felt — as in hot weather

  The archer does not feel the strain of leather

  When as he marches towards the foe his coat he girds.

  Mad as I was I stopped and thought, There now

  I knew that I had seen that place before,

  And those pavilions — why ’twas even so

  Last year: then some fear pierced to my heart’s core;

  I entered through that same close rose-fence

  And went towards the great pavilion whence

  Some fear or horror struck upon my sense —

  O pity me, I pray you, this is what I saw.

  A silken carpet lay upon the grass

  And on a silken bed lay Eleanore:

  I was in time to see the last breath pass

  From her half-opened lips; besides I saw

  Sitting along the bed on the further side

  Ten maidens fairly robed and thus they cried,

  “He comes Sir John to claim his doomed bride.”

  Thereat they turned away, dropped their eyes toward the floor,

  Whereat I was abashed and thought what I could do;

  I closed her wide eyes first, lifted from off the ground

  Her heavy golden hair; her arms were stretched straight so,

  Crosswise I laid them downwards, yet there came no sound,

  So when I saw she moved not her head

  Nor oped her eyes nor moved her hands, I said

  Quite softly to myself, Then she is dead.

  And yet I neither screamed nor fell down in a swound

  But only stood still; for a while I ween

  I knew not where I was but felt a globe

  Of whirling black with spots of red & green

  Shrink and expand before me till the robe

  Of one of those poor downcast maidens there

  I saw fall on her head about her hair,

  Who fainted had with grief lay on the bier.

  When she was lifted up I saw no deep green there —

  No robe of Eleanore but only deep green meads,

  Between the hazel hedge the gleaming of gold sheaves,

  And, dream within a dream, a maiden crowned with weeds

  Standing between two trees beneath the shivering leaves —

  xxvii Yea day by day I used to go and gaze

  In the old passed time, the sweet old days,

  I used to draw a maiden from the haze

  For my delight, to stand beneath the aspen leaves;

  I could see all her throat because her chin was raised,

  And I could see the lashes of her eyes

  Laid downward on her cheek, and as I gazed

  With beating heart could see her bosom rise

  Heaving and falling like a quiet sea —

  Whose robes of green and white and purple be

  Just as hers were, each side of her a tree

  Trembled with strange delight to feel her hands, the flies

  Along the bridges of her outstretched arms

  Marched humming to the city of her face,

  By the Cathedral of her eyes sang psalms,

  Held her white forehead as a hallowed place

  For burying the dead things of the mind.

  With undropped lids I gazed till I was blind

 

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