The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon: The Medieval Tale for September

Narrative:

In the complex frame of “The Land East of the Sun,” a certain Gregory, star-gazer and servant to King Magnus of Norway, dreams that a “gold-clad . . . other self” tells Magnus’s court about the shepherd John, an unjustly despised younger son who found love in a realm “east of the sun and west of the moon.”

In this twice-removed inner tale, John’s father has found his fields mysteriously trodden during the night, and when his older brothers sleep through their attempts to guard the fields, John offers his services, in the hope that “I shall not see/ Men-folk belike, but faërie,” (l. 251–52). Seven swan-maidens do indeed appear, shed their feathers and dance before him, and John rather fecklessly seizes one of the maiden’s swan-vestments. She offers him a distinguished life or seclusion with her in exchange for their return. He makes the obvious erotic choice, and the rest of the plot works out the consequences.

John and the swan-maiden live happily together for several years, but she finally informs him that he must return home. In parting she gives him a ring which permits him to seek a message from her each twilight, but adds that he must never summon her, lest “both of us [be] undone,” (l. 1061). His family greets John with wary respect when he returns, but he breaks the taboo when he accidentally encounters his amorous sister-in-law Thorgerd in the mist one night, and cries out for his swan-lover. She appears soon afterwards in the family hall and spends a last night with him, and departs with the ring before dawn.

After a brief dissolve of the inner frame, John wanders in search of his lost love throughout northern Europe, and pauses at one point in the monastery of St. Alban’s, where he tells his story and hears those of others. At length, he makes the eerie observation that he is becoming invisible, and senses that he may be approaching his swan-lover’s “Land East of the Sun, West of the Moon.”

She takes pity on him when he finally arrives, embraces him, and assures him they will never part. At this point, the innermost frame dissolves, and the star-gazer Gregory, newly awakened from his narrative slumbers, concludes that “an idle dream it is.”

Sources:

May Morris cited two sources for this tale: “The Beautiful Palace East of the Sun and North of the Earth,” in Benjamin Thorpe’s Yuletide Stories, and the “Lai de Lanfal,” one of the Lays of Marie de France. He could also have referred to the Middle English romance of Sir Launfal, which was reprinted several times in the nineteenth century. Still another, otherwise unrelated narrative, George Webbe Dasent’s “East o’ the Sun and West o’ the Moon” in Popular Tales from the Norse, may have influenced the particular azimuth Morris chose for his title.

In “The Beautiful Palace”—which Thorpe tells his readers came from South Småland in Sweden—a peasant sends his eldest, middle, and youngest sons to watch in succession over a mysteriously trodden meadow. When the youngest son sees three dove-maidens cast aside their plumage and dance, he steals their garments, and demands two favors for their return.

The dove-maidens reply that two of them are servants and the third a princess, and all three come from “the palace which lies east of the sun and north of the earth.” The princess rather obligingly consents to marry her admiring voyeur, but tells him she must leave the wedding feast before dawn, for a Troll has killed all the other members of her family, and forces her to return each day at sunrise.

Aided in a long sequence of adventures by an old woman and a bird, the bridegroom finally finds the palace, kills the Troll, restores the princess’s relatives by touching them with the hilt of his sword, and lives happily with her ever after—ample evidence, according to the narrator, that “true love overcomes everything.”

The first part of this story closely resembles “The Land East,” but its later development suggests “The Man Born to Be King.” Morris also removed some elements of easy prowess and boy’s-own adventure from Thorpe’s tale, embedded it in an inner frame, and added John’s story-telling ability and capacity for visionary introspection.

The eponymous hero of Marie de France’s “Lai de Lanval” meets a beautiful fairy-woman who agrees to live with him, but orders him never to reveal “the secret of our love,” and enjoins him to summon her only where she may be found “without reproach.” Unjustly “misprized” by King Arthur, Lanval later blurts out that he loves another as he rebuffs illicit advances by his Queen, and his fairy-lover vanishes from his life. When Arthur finally imprisons Lanval for having failed to produce his elusive lady, the tale’s abrupt dea ex machina ending anticipates certain aspects of Morris’s “Story of Ogier”:

The Bretons tell that the knight was ravished by his lady to an island, very dim and very fair, known as Avalon. But none has had speech with Launfal and his faery love since then, and for my part I can tell you no more of the matter.¹

Critical Remarks:

Morris infused a very early extant draft for “The Land East of the Sun” with a number of later refinements in the published tale, and developed the echeloned dream-narratives which relativize the cycle as a whole, and suggest that such frames may open out to encompass us all.

These dream-wavefronts also relativized the tale’s “happy” conclusion, of course, when its idyllic embrace recedes to the vanishing point of an “idle dream,” but they also anticipated similarly imbricated structures in Love Is Enough and News from Nowhere. Morris clearly considered them better expressions of his evolving beliefs and preoccupations than earlier plot-lines of linear failure and success.

The tale’s otherworldly northern landscapes also prefigured similar settings in his Icelandic diaries, Love Is Enough and the later prose romances. Like Morris, John is also a lover of stories, and the tale’s inner frame grants him second-sight, before its final dissolve subsumes his story in a widening gyre of dreamers and seekers after ideal love.

Heedless of all but his receding vision, finally, John resembles the sensitive male heroes of “The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice” and Love Is Enough. Unlike them, however, he does find an internal measure of “idle” happiness, in his oneiric “land east of the sun and west of the moon.”

Critical discussions appear in Boos, 118–29; Calhoun, 195–99; Kirchhoff, 180–89; Silver, 66–69; and Oberg, 60.

Manuscripts:

An early draft, titled “The Palace East of the Sun,” is preserved in the Fitzwilliam Library FW EP25. B. L. Add. M. S. 45,299 contains a pencil draft.

1This English text is from a later translation of the Lays of Marie De France and Other French Legends, by Eugene Mason (London: Everyman’s Library, 1911), 76.

The Land East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

The Argument.

THIS TALE, WHICH IS SET FORTH AS A DREAM, TELLS OF A CHURL’S SON WHO WON A FAIR QUEEN TO HIS LOVE, AND AFTERWARDS LOST HER, AND YET IN THE END WAS NOT DEPRIVED OF HER.

N Norway, in King Magnus’ days,1
A man there dwelt, my story says,
Who Gregory had got to name;
Folk said from outland parts he came,
Though none knew whence; he served withal		5
The Marshal Biorn2 in field and hall,
And little, yet was deft of hand
And stout of heart, when men did stand
Spear against spear; and his black eyes
Folk deemed were somewhat overwise.		10
For of the stars full well he knew,
And whither lives of men they drew.
So Gregory the Star-gazer
Men called him, and somewhat in fear
They held him, though his daily mood		15
Was ever mild enow and good.
IT chanced upon a summer day,
When in the south King Magnus lay,
With all his men, the Marshal sent
A well-manned cutter,3 with intent		20
To get him fish for house-keeping,
And Gregory, skilful in this thing,
The skipper over them to be;
So merrily they put to sea,
And off a little island lay,		25
Amidst the firth, and fished all day,
But when night fell, ashore they went
Upon the isle, and pitched their tent,
And ate and drank, and slept at last.
BUT while sleep held the others fast		30
Did Gregory waken, turning oft
Upon his rough bed nothing soft;
Till stealthily at last he rose
And crept from the tent thronged and close
Into the fresh and cloudless night,		35
And ‘neath the high-set moon’s cold light
Went softly down unto the sea;
And sleep, that erst had seemed to be
A thing his life must hope in vain,
Now ‘gan to fall on him again,		40
E’en as he reached the sandy bay
Where on the beach their cutter lay.
Calm was the sea ‘twixt wall and wall
Of the green bight;4 the surf did fall
With little noise upon the sand,		45
Where ‘neath the moon the smooth curved strand
Shone white ‘twixt dark sea, rocks, and turf.
THERE, hearkening to the lazy surf,
Musing he scarcely knew of what,
Upon a grey rock Gregory sat,		50
Till sleep had all its will of him,
And now at last, with slackened limb
And nodding head, he fell to dream;
And far away now did he seem,
Waked up within the great hall, where		55
King Magnus held right merry cheer
In honour of the Christmas-tide,
At Ladir;5 and on every side
His courtmen and good bonders6 sat.
There as folk talked of this and that,		60
And drank, and all were blithe enow,
Amid the drifting of the snow
And howling of the wind without,
Within the porch folk heard a shout,
And opening of the outer door;		65
Then one came in, who to the floor
Cast down the weight of snow, and stood
Undoing of his fur-lined hood,
And muttering in his beard the while.
The King gazed on him with a smile,		70
Then said at last: What is it then?
Art thou called one of my good men,
And art thou of the country-side,
Or hast thou mayhap wandered wide?
Come, sit thee down and eat and drink;		75
And yet hast thou some news, I think?
THE man said: News from over sea7
Of Mary and the Trinity,
And goodman Joseph, do I bring;
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, O King!		80
INWARD he stalked on, therewithal,
But stopped amidmost of the hall,
And cast to earth his cloak and hood,
And there in glittering raiment stood,
While the maids went about the board		85
And deftly the cup’s river poured,
And ‘mid great clank of ewer8 and horn
Men drunk the day when Christ was born.
THEN by the King the gold-clad man
Sat, Gregory dreamed, and soon began		90
Great marvels of far lands to tell,
And said at last: Ye serve me well,
And strange things therefore will I show,
Wonders that none save ye may know,
That ye this stormy night may call		95
A joyful tide in kingly hall,
A night to be rememberèd.
Then Gregory dreamed he turned his head
Unto the stranger, and their eyes
Met therewith, and a great surprise		100
Shot through his heart, because indeed
That strange man in the royal weed
Seemed as his other self to be
As he began this history.

N this your land there once did dwell		105
A certain carle9 who lived full well,
And lacked few things to make him glad;
And three fair sons this goodman had,
Whereof were two stout men enow
Betwixt the handles of the plough,		110
Ready to drive the waggons forth,
Or pen the sheep up from the north,
Or help the corn to garner in,
Or from the rain the hay to win;
To dyke10 after the harvesting,		115
And many another needful thing.
But slothful was the youngest one,11
A loiterer in the spring-tide sun,
A do-nought by the fire-side
From end to end of winter-tide,		120
And wont in summer heats to go
About the garden to and fro,
Plucking the flowers from bough and stalk;
And muttering oft amid his walk
Old rhymes that few men understood.		125
Now is he neither harm nor good,
His father said; there, let him go
And do what he has lust to do.
NOW so it chanced the goodman had
A meadow meet to make him glad		130
Full oft because of its sweet grass,
Whereto an ill thing came to pass,
When else the days were drawing nigh
To hay-harvest, and certainly
Our goodman thought all would be won		135
Before the morrow of St. John.12
For as he walked thereto one day
He fell to thinking on the way:
A fair east wind and cloudless sky,
In scythes before two days go by.		140
But yet befell a grievous slip
Betwixt that fair cup and the lip,
For when he reached the wattled13 fence,
And looked across his meadow thence,
His broad face drew into a frown,		145
For there he saw all trodden down
A full third of the ripening grass,
So that no scythe might through it pass;
Then in a rage he turned away
And was a moody man that day.		150
But when that eve he sat at home
And his two eldest sons had come
Back from the field, he spake and said:
Ill-doers, sons, by likelihood
Be here about, or envious men;		155
I thought the last had left us, when
Skeggi’s two sons put off to sea;
Yet is there left some enemy
Not bold enough on field or way
To draw the sword his debt to pay;		160
Therefore, son Thorolf, shalt thou go
And bear with thee the great cross-bow,
And hide within the white-thorn brake
And lie there all this night awake
Watching the great south meadow well;		165
Because last night it so befell
This gangrel14 thief thought fit to tread
The grass to mammocks,15 by my head!
SO Thorolf rose unwillingly,
And round about his waist did tie		170
The case of bolts, and took adown
The mighty cross-bow tough and brown,
And in his strong belt set a knife
Lest he should come to closer strife;
And thereon, having drunk full well,		175
Went on his way, and thought to tell
A goodly tale at break of day.
Thus to the mead he gat, and lay
Close hidden in the hawthorn-brake,
And kept but little time awake,		180
But on the sorrel16 slept as soft
As on his truckle17 in the loft,
Nor woke until the sun was high;
Then looking thence full sleepily,
He saw yet more of that fair field		185
So dealt with, that it scarce would yield
Much fodder to his father’s neat18
That summer-tide, of sour or sweet.
Then home he turned with hanging head,
And right few words that tide he said		190
In answer to his father’s scoff,
But toward the middenstead19 went off.
SO that same night the vexed carle sent
His next son Thord with like intent;
But ere the yellow moon was down		195
Asleep and snoring lay our clown,
And waking at the dawn could see
The meadow trodden grievously.
NOW when unto the house he came,
Speaking no word for very shame,		200
The goodman ‘gan to gibe and jeer,
Saying, that many a groat20 too dear
Such sleepy-headed fools he bought,
That tide when he their mother sought
With Flemish cloth and silver rings		205
And chains, and far-fetched, dear-bought things
The mariners had sold to him,
For which had many a man to swim
Head downward to the porpoises,21
All to get gluttons like to these!		210
THE third son John, who on the floor
Was lying kicking at the door,
Turned round and yawned, and stretched, and said:
Alas, then, all my rest is sped,
For now thou wilt be sending me,		215
O father, the third watch to be.
Well, keep thy heart up, I shall know
To-morrow what thing grieves thee so.
Yea, yea, his father said, truly
A noble son thou art to me!		220
Thou fool, thou thinkest then to win
The game when these have failed therein!
Truly a mighty mind I have
Thy bread and beer henceforth to save,
And send thee with some skipper forth,		225
Who brings back stockfish22 from the north;
Then no more dreaming wouldst thou spend
Thy days, but learn to know rope’s-end,
And stumble on the icy decks
To no sweet music of rebecks.23		230
Yet since indeed a fool may do
What no wise man may come unto,
Go thou, if thou hast any will,
Because thou canst not do me ill;
And lo, thou! if thou dost me good		235
Then will I fill thy biggest hood
With silver pennies for thine own,
To squander in the market-town.
NOUGHT answered John, but turned away,
And underneath the trees all day		240
He slept, but with the moon arose;
Nor did he arm himself like those,
His brethren, for he thought: Indeed
Of bolt and bow have I no need,
For if ill-doers there should be,		245
Then will they slay me certainly,
If I should draw on them a bolt;
And, though my brethren call me dolt,
Yet have I no such foolish thought
For a shaft’s whistle to be brought		250
To death. Withal I shall not see
Men-folk belike, but faerie;
And all the arms within the seas
Should help me nought to deal with these;
Rather of such lore were I fain		255
As fell to Sigurd Fafnir’s-bane24
When of the dragon’s heart he ate.
Well, whatso hap I gain of fate,
I know I will not sleep this night,
But wake to see a wondrous sight.		260
THEREWITH he came unto the mead,25
And looked around with utmost heed
About the remnant of the hay;
Then in the hawthorn-brake he lay
And watched night-long ‘midst many a thought		265
Of what might be, and yet saw nought
As slowly the short night went by,
‘Midst bittern’s26 boom and fern-owl’s27 cry;
Then the moon sank, the stars grew pale,
And the first dawn ‘gan show the veil		270
Which night had drawn from tree to tree;
A light wind rose, and suddenly
A thrush drew head from under wing,
And through the cold dawn ‘gan to sing,
And one by one about him woke		275
The minstrels of the feathered folk,
Long ere the first gleam of the sun.
Then, though his watch was but begun,
E’en at that tide, as well he knew,
O’er John a drowsiness there drew,		280
And nothing seemed so good as sleep,
And sweet dreams o’er his eyes ‘gan creep
That made him smile, then wake again
In terror that his watch was vain;
But in the midst of one of these		285
He started up, for through the trees
A mighty rushing sound he heard,
As of the wings of many a bird;
And, stark awake, with beating heart,
He put the hawthorn twigs apart,		290
And yet saw no more wondrous thing
Than seven white swans, who on wide wing
Went circling round, till one by one
They dropped the dewy grass upon.
He smiled thereat, and thought to shout		295
And scare them off; but yet a doubt
Clung to him, as he gazed on those,
And in the brake28 he held him close,
And watched them bridle there, and preen
Their snowy feathers well beseen;		300
So near they were, that he a stone
Might have cast o’er the furthest one
With his left hand, as there he lay.
APACE came on the summer day,
Though the sun lingered, and more near		305
The swans drew, and began to peer
About in strange wise, and John deemed,
In after days, he must have dreamed
Again, if for the shortest space;
For a cloud seemed to dull the place,		310
And silence of the birds there was;
And when he next looked o’er the grass,
Six swan-skins lay anigh his hand,
And nearby on the grass did stand
Seven white-skinned damsels, wrought so fair,		315
That John must sit and tremble there,
And flush blood-red, and cast his eyes
Down on the ground in shamefast wise,
Then look again with longings sweet
Piercing his heart; because their feet		320
Moved through the long grey-seeded grass
But some two yards from where he was.
AWHILE in gentle wise they went
Among the ripe long grass, that bent
Before their beauty; then there ran		325
A thrill through him as they began,
In musical sweet speech and low,
To talk a tongue he did not know;
But when at last one spake alone,
It was to him as he had known		330
That heavenly voice for many years;
His heart swelled, till through rising tears
He saw them now, nor would that voice
Suffer his hot heart to rejoice,
In all that erst his eyes did bless		335
With unimagined loveliness:
Because her face, that yet had been
Alone amongst them all unseen,
He longed for with such strong desire,
That his heart sickened, and quick-fire		340
Within his parched throat seemed to burn.
AWHILE she stood and did not turn,
While still the music of her voice
Made the birds’ song seem tuneless noise;
And she alone of all did stand,		345
Holding within her down-drooped hand
The swan-skin; like a pink-tinged rose
Plucked from amidst a July close,
And laid on January snow,
Her fingers on the plumes did show:		350
A rosy flame of inner love
Seemed glowing through her; she did move
Lightly at whiles, or the soft wind
Played in her hair no coif29 did bind.
Then did he fear to draw his breath		355
Lest he should find the hand of Death
Was showing him vain images;
Then did he deem the morning breeze
Blew from the flowery fields of heaven,
Such fragrance to the morn was given.		360
AND now across the long dawn’s grey
The climbing sun’s first level ray,
Long hoped, yet sudden when it came,
Over the trembling grass did flame,
And made the world alive once more;		365
And therewithal a pause came o’er
The earth and heaven, because she turned;
And with such longing his heart burned
That there he thought he needs must die,
And, breathless, opened mouth to cry.		370
And yet how soft and kind she seemed;
What a sweet helpful smile there gleamed
Over the perfect loveliness
That now his feeble eyes did bless!
NOW fell the swan-skin from her hand,		375
And silent she a space did stand,
And then again she turned away,
And seemed some whispered word to say
Unto her fellows; and therewith
Their delicate round limbs and lithe		380
Began to sway in measured time
Unto a sweet-voiced outland rhyme
As they cleft through the morning air
Hither and thither: fresh and fair
Beyond all words indeed were these,		385
Yet unto him but images
Well wrought, fair coloured: while she moved
Amidst them all, a thing beloved
By earth and heaven: could she be
Made for his sole felicity?		390
Yet if she were not, earth and heaven
Belike for nought to men were given
But to torment his weary heart.
He put the thorny twigs apart
A little more to gaze his fill;		395
And as he gazed a thought of ill
Shot through him: close unto his hand,
Nigher than where she erst did stand,
Nigher than where her unkissed feet
Had kissed the clover-blossoms sweet,		400
The snowy swan-skin lay cast down.
His heart thought: She will get her gone
E’en as she came, unless I take
This snow-white thing for her sweet sake;
Then whether death or life shall be,		405
She needs must speak one word to me
Before I die. And therewithal
His hand upon the skin did fall
Almost without his will, while yet
His eyes upon her form were set.		410
He drew it to him, and there lay
Until the first dance died away,
And from amid the rest thereof
Another sprang, whose rhythm did move
Light foot, long hair, and supple limb,		415
As the wind moves the poplars slim;
Then as the wind dies out again,
Like to the end of summer rain
Amid their leaves, and quivering now
No more their June-clad heads they bow,		420
So sank the rippling song and sweet,
And gently upon level feet
They swayed, and circle-wise did stand,
Each scarcely touching each with hand,
Until at last all motion ceased.		425
STILL as the dewy shade decreased,
Panting John lay, and did not move,
Sunk in the wonder of his love,
Though fear weighed on him; for he knew
That short his time of pleasance grew		430
Though none had told him. Now the one
His heart was set on spake alone,
And therewith hand and arm down-dropped,
Their scarce-heard murmuring wholly stopped,
And softly in long line they passed		435
Unto the thorn-brake, she the last.
Then unto agony arose
John’s fear, as once again all close
She was to him. The wind ran by
The notched green leaves, the sun was high,		440
Dappling the grass whereon he lay:
Fresh, fair, and cheery was the day,
And nought like guile or wizardry
Could one have thought there was anigh,
Till, suddenly, did all things change,		445
E’en as his heart; and dim and strange
The old familiar world had grown,
That blithe and rough he erst had known,
And racked and ruined time did seem.
A SUDDEN, sharp cry pierced his dream,		450
And then his cleared eyes could behold
His love, half-hid with hair of gold,
Her slim hands covering up her face,
Standing amid the grassy place,
Shaken with sobs, and round her woe,		455
With long caressing necks of snow
And ruffling plumes, the others stood,
Bird-like again. Chilled to the blood,
Yet close he lay and did not move,
Strengthening his heart with thoughts of love,		460
Wild as a morning dream. Withal
Some murmured word from her did fall;
Closer awhile the swans did press
Around her woeful loveliness,
As though a loth farewell they bade;		465
And she one fair hand softly laid
Upon their heads in wandering wise,
Nor drew the other from her eyes,
As one by one her body fair
They left, and rose into the air		470
With clangorous cries, and circled wide
Above her, till the blue did hide
Their soaring wings, and all were gone.
AS scarce she knew that she was lone,
She stood there for a little space,		475
One hand still covering up her face,
The other drooped down, half stretched out;
As if her lone heart yet did doubt
Somewhat was left her to caress.
Yet soon all sound of her distress		480
Was silent, though thought held her fast
And nought she moved; the field-mouse passed
Close to her feet, the dragon-fly,
A thin blue needle flickered by,
The bee whirled past her as the morn		485
Grew later, and strange thoughts were born
Within her. So she raised her head
At last, and, gazing round, she said:
Is pitying love all dead on earth?
Is no heart left that holds of worth		490
Love that hands touch not, and that eyes
Behold not? Is none left so wise
As not to know the smart of bliss
That dieth out ‘twixt kiss and kiss?
SHE stopped and trembled, for she heard		495
The hawthorn brake beside her stirred,
Then turned round, half unwittingly,
Across the meadow-grass to flee,
And knew not whither, as, half blind,
She heard the rustling twigs behind,		500
And therewithal a breathless cry
And eager footsteps drawing nigh.
With streaming hair, a little way
She fled across the trodden hay,
Then failed her feet, and turning round,		505
She cowered low upon the ground,
With wild eyes turned to meet her fate,
E’en as the partridge doth await,
With half-dead breast and broken wing,
The winged death the hawk doth bring.		510
DIM with the horror of that race,
Wild eyes her eyes met, and pale face,
And trembling outstretched hands that moved
No nigher to her body loved,
Whereto they had been brought so near,		515
For very fear of her wild fear.
SO each of other sore afraid,
There fleer and pursuer stayed,
Each gathering breath and heart to speak;
And he too hopeless, she too weak,		520
For a long space to say a word.
YET first her own faint voice she heard,
For in his hand she saw the skin,
And deemed she knew what he would win,
And how that morning’s deed had gone.		525
What have I done? what have I done?
Did I work ever harm to thee,
That thou this day my bane shouldst be?
Why is there such hate in thine eyes
Against me? From his breast did rise		530
A dumb sound, but no word came forth;
She shrank aback yet more: What worth,
What worth in all that thou hast done?
For say my body thou hast won,
Art thou God, then, to keep alive,		535
Unless my will therewith I give?
E’en as she spake, a look of pain
Twitched at his face; she spoke again:
For now I see thou hat’st me not,
But thinkest thou a prize hast got		540
Thou wilt not lightly cast away:
O hearken, hearken! a poor prey
Thy toils shall take, a thing of stone
Amid your folk to dwell alone
And hide a heart that hateth thee.		545
HE shrank back from her wretchedly,
And dropped his hand and hung his head.
Nay, now I hate thee not, she said;
And who knows what may come to be
If thou but give mine own to me,		550
And free this trembling body here?
Wouldst thou rejoice if thou wert dear,
Dear unto me though far away,
And hope still fed thee day by day?
SHE deemed he wept now, as he turned		555
Away from her, and her heart yearned
Somewhat toward him as she spake:
And if thou dost this for my sake,
Wilt thou, for all that, deem this morn
Has made thee utterly forlorn?		560
Hast thou not cast thine arms round Love
At least, thy weary heart to move,
To make thy wakening strange and new,
And dull life false, and old tales true;
Yea, and a tale to make thy life		565
To speed the others in the strife,
To quicken thee with wondrous fire,
And make thee fairer with desire?
Wilt thou, then, think it all in vain,
The restless longing and the pain,		570
Lightened by hope that shall not die?
For thou shalt hope still certainly,
And well mayst deem that thou hast part,
Somewhat, at least, in this my heart,
Whatever else therein may be.		575
HE turned about most eagerly
And gazed upon her for a while:
Wild fear had left her, and a smile
Had lit up now her softened face,
Sweet pleading kindness gave new grace		580
To all her beauty; fresh again
Her cheeks grew, haggard erst with pain.
She saw the deep love in his eyes,
And slowly therewithal ‘gan rise,
While something in her heart there moved,		585
Some pleasure to be well beloved,
Some pain because of doubt and fear,
Of once-loved things grown scarce so dear;
Less clear all things she seemed to see;
Her wisdom in life’s mystery		590
Seemed fleeting, and for very shame
A tingling flush across her came.
BUT close unto him did she stand,
And, reaching out her shapely hand,
Took his, and in strange searching wise		595
Gazed on him with imploring eyes;
And with the sweetness of that touch
And look, wrought fear and hope o’ermuch
Within him, and his eyes waxed dim,
And trembling sore in every limb,		600
He slid adown, and knelt, and said:
O sweetly certes hast thou prayed,
Nor used vain words, but smitten me
With all the greater agony
For all thy sweetness: so, indeed,		605
If thou art holpen well at need
By this thy prayer, yet meet it is
Ere this one moment of great bliss
Has turned to nought all life to come,
That thou shouldst hear me ere my doom.		610
And yet indeed what prayer to make
Thy heart amid its calm to shake,
When thou art gone, when thou art gone,
And I and woe are left alone!
What fiercest word shall yet avail		615
If this my first and last one fail?
Wherewith shall the hard heart be moved
If this move not, that it is loved?
HIS eager hand her hand did press,
His eyes devoured her loveliness.		620
But silent she a short while stood,
Her face now pale, now red as blood,
While her lip trembled, and her eyes
Grew wet to see his miseries;
At last she spake with down-cast head:		625
Alas, what shall I do? she said,
Thy prayer shall make me sorrow more
Whenas I go to that far shore
I needs must go to; for I know,
Poor soul! that thou wilt let me go,		630
Since thou art grown too wise and kind
My helpless soul with force to bind.
Would thou might’st have some part in me!
SHE shrank aback afraid, for he
Now sprang up with a bitter cry:		635
Thou knowest not my agony!
Thou knowest not the words thou say’st,
Or what a wretched, empty waste
This remnant of my life is grown,
Or how I need thee all alone		640
To heal the wound this morn has made!
Why tremblest thou? be not afraid;
I will not leave thee any more:
Come near to me! My mother bore
No dreadful thing when I was born.		645
Fear not, thou art not yet forlorn,
As I, as I, as I shall be
If ever thou shouldst go from me.
SHE shrank no more, but looked adown
And said: Alas! why dost thou frown?		650
Wilt thou be ever angry thus?
Her voice was weak and piteous
As thus she spake, and in her breast
A sob there moved, yet hard she pressed
The hand she held: too sweet was love		655
For any word his lips to move;
Too sweet was hope that lips might dare
To touch her sweet cheek smooth and fair.
Yet with her downcast eyes she knew
That nigher ever his face drew		660
To hers, and new-born love did flame
Out from her heart, as now there came
A sound, half sigh, half moan from him.
She trembled sore; all things ‘gan swim
Before her eyes, nor felt her feet		665
The firm earth, for all over-sweet
For sight or hearing life ‘gan grow,
As panting, and with changed eyes now,
She raised her parted lips to his.
BUT ere their fair young mouths might kiss,		670
While hand stole unto hand, and breath
Met breath, the image of cold death,
With his estranging agonies,
Smote on her heart that once was wise;
As touched by some sharp sudden sting,		675
Back from her love’s arms did she spring,
And stood there trembling; and her cry
Rang through the morn: Why shouldst thou die
Amidst thy late-won joy? she said;
And must I see thee stark and dead		680
Who have beheld thy gathering bliss?
Touch me no more yet; so it is
That thy fierce heart hath conquered me,
That I no more may look on thee
Without desire; for such an end		685
I hitherward, belike, did wend,
Led on by fate, and knew it not.
But if thy love be e’en as hot
As thine eyes say, what wilt thou do?
Loved or loved not, still is it so,		690
That in thy land I may not live.30
Too strong thou art that I should strive
With thee and love. Yet what say’st thou?
Art thou content thy love to throw
Unto the waste of time, and dwell		695
Here in thy land, and fare right well,
Feared, hated maybe, yet through all
A conquering man, whate’er shall fall?
Or, in mine own land be mine own?
Live long, perchance, yet all unknown,		700
Love for thy master and thy law,
Nor hope another lot to draw
From out life’s urn? Think of it, then!
Be great among the sons of men
Because I love thee, and forget		705
That here amid the hay we met,
Or else be loved and love, the while
Life’s vision doth thine eyes beguile.
HE fell upon his knees, and cried:
Ah, wilt thou go? the world is wide		710
And waste; we were together here
A while ago, and I grew dear
To thee, I deemed. What hast thou said?
Behold, behold, the world is dead,
And I must die, or ere I deal		715
With its dead follies more, or feel
The dead men’s dreams that move men there.
Alas, how shall I make my prayer
To thee, who lov’dst me time agone,
No more to leave mine heart alone?		720
MUSING, his eager speech she heard,
And with a strange look, half afeard,
Half pitying, did she gaze on him,
Until through tears that sight waxed dim;
At last she spake: No need to pray		725
Lest I thy love, O love, betray;
But many a thought there is in me
If I through love might clearly see.
Now the morn wanes fast! dear, arise
And let me hence, lest eviler eyes		730
Than thine behold my body here,
And thou shouldst buy thy bliss too dear;
So bring me to some place anigh
Amid thick trees, where thou and I
May be alone a little space,		735
To make us ready for the place
Where love may still be happiness
Unmixed with change and ill distress.
HE gazed on her, but durst not speak,
Nor noted how a sigh did break		740
The sweetness of her speech, but took
Her white hand with a hand that shook
For very love, and o’er the grass,
Scarce knowing where his feet did pass,
He led her, till they came at last		745
Unto a beech-wood, where the mast31
And dry leaves made a carpet meet,
Sun-speckled, underneath their feet.
She stopped him, grown all grave and calm,
And laid lips like a healing balm		750
Upon his brow, and spake: Ah, would
That I who know of ill and good,
And thou who may’st learn e’en as much
By misery, might deem this touch
Of calm lips, joy enough to last		755
Till life with all its whirl were past!
This kiss, and memory of the morn
Whereon the sweet desire was born.
HE trembled, and beseechingly
Gazed on her: Ah, no, no, said she,		760
No more with thee this day I strive,
E’en as thou prayedst will I give;
Belike because I may not choose,
Nay, nor may let my own soul loose.
Is it enow? Once more he strove		765
With some sweet word to bless his love,
And might not; but she smiled and said:
The lovers of old time are dead,
And so too shall it be with thee.
Yea, hast thou heard no history		770
Of lovers who outlived the love
That once they deemed the world would move?
And so too may it be with thee.
Nay, stretch thy right hand out to me,
Poor soul, and all shall soon be done.		775
A GOLD ring with a dark green stone
Upon his finger then she set,
And said: Thou may’st repent thee yet
The giving of this gift to-day;
Be wise then! Cast the ring away,		780
Give me mine own and get thee gone;
For all the past, not so alone
Shall thou and I then be, as erst;
Sad, longing, loving, not accurst.
She trembled as she spake, and turned		785
Unto his eyes a face that yearned
With great desire, although her eyes
Seemed wonderful and overwise.
But pain of anger changed his face;
He said: I have compelled thy grace,		790
But not thy love then; do to me
E’en as thou wiliest, and go free.
She murmured: Nay, what wilt thou have?
Thou prayedst and the gift I gave,
Giving what I might not withhold,		795
In spite of wisdom clear and cold.
Alas, poor heart unsatisfied,
Why wilt thou love? the world is wide
And holdeth many a joyous thing:
Why wilt thou for thy sorrow cling		800
To that desire which resteth not,
What part soever thou hast got
Of that whose whole thou ne’er shalt gain?
Alas for thee and me! most vain,
Most vain to wrangle more of this!		805
Come then, where wait us woe and bliss;
Give me the swan-skin, lay thee down,
Nought doubting, on the beech-leaves brown!
WHAT spell weighed on his heart but love
I know not, but nought might he move		810
Except to do her whole command;
He lay adown, and on his hand
Rested his cheek; his eyes grew dim,
Yet saw he the white beech-trunks slim
At first; and his fair-footed love		815
He saw ‘twixt sun and shadow move
Close unto him, and languidly
Her rosy fingers did he see
About the ruffled swan-skin white,
Even as when that strange delight		820
First maddened him; then dimmer grew
His sight, and yet withal he knew
That over him she hung, and blessed
His face with her sweet eyes, till rest,
As deep as death, as soft as sleep,		825
Across his troubled heart did creep;
And then a long time seemed gone by
And ‘mid soft herbage did he lie
With shut eyes, half awake, and seemed
Some dream forgotten to have dreamed,		830
So sweet, he fain would dream again;
Then came back memory with a pain,
Like death first heard of; with a cry
And fear swift born of memory
He oped his eyes, that dazed with light		835
Long kept from them, saw nought aright;
But something kind, and something fair,
Seemed yet to be anigh him there,
Whereto he stretched his arms, that met
Soft hands, and his own hands were set		840
On a smooth cheek, he seemed to know
From days agone. Sweet, sweet doth blow
The gentle wind, he said, whereas
Surely o’er blossoms it doth pass
If any there be made so sweet.		845
AND as he spake, his lips did meet
In one unhoped, undreamed-of kiss,
The very heart of all his bliss.
Like waking from an ecstasy,
Too sweet for truth it seemed to be,		850
Waking to life full satisfied
When he arose, and side by side,
Cheek touching cheek, hand laid in hand,
They stood within a marvellous land,
Fruitful, and summer-like, and fair.		855
The light wind sported with her hair,
Crowned with a leaf-like crown of gold,
Or round her limbs drave lap and fold
Of her light raiment strange of hue
That earthly shuttle never knew;		860
From overhead the blossoms sweet
Fell soft, pink-edged upon her feet,
That moved the grass now, as her voice
Made the soft scented air rejoice
And made him tremble; murmuring: Come,		865
These are the meadows of my home,
My home and thine; much have I now
To tell thee of, and much to show.
Is it with thee, love, as with me,
That too much of felicity		870
Maketh thee sad? yet sweet it is
That little sadness born of bliss
And thought of death, and memory
That even this perchance goes by.
TOO glad his eyes now made his heart		875
To let his tongue take any part
In all his joy: afraid he felt,
As though but for a while he dwelt
Upon the outer ledge of heaven,
And scarce he knew how much was given		880
Of all his heart had asked, as she
Led softly on from tree to tree.
He shut his eyes that he might gain
Some image of the world of pain,
Some roughness of the world cast by,		885
The more his heart to satisfy,
The more to sound the depths of bliss
That now belike was ever his.

UT therewithal the dream did break,
And Gregory sat up, stark awake,		890
And gazing at the surf-line white,
Sore yearning for some lost delight,
Some pleasure gone, he knew not what;
For all that dream was clean forgot.
So rising with a smile and sigh,		895
He gat him backward pensively
Unto the tent, and passed between
The sturdy sleepers, all unseen
Of sleep-bound eyes, sore troubled yet
That he must needs his dream forget.		900
So on his rough bed down he lay,
And thought to wake until the day;
But scarce had time to turn him round
Ere the lost wonder was well found
By sleep; again he dreamed that he		905
Sat at the King’s festivity,
Again did that sweet tale go on,
But now the stranger-guest was gone
As though he had not been, and he
Himself, Star-gazing Gregory,		910
Sat by King Magnus, clad in gold,
And in such wise the sequel told.

IDST all that bliss, and part thereof,
Full-fed with choicest gifts of love,
The happy lover lived right long,		915
Till e’en the names of woe and wrong
Had he forgotten. Of his bliss
Nought may we tell, for so it is
That verse for battle-song is meet,
And sings of sorrow piercing-sweet,		920
And weaves the tale of heavy years
And hopeless grief that knows no tears
Into a smooth song sweet enow,
For fear the winter pass too slow;
Yet hath no voice to tell of Heaven		925
Or heavenly joys for long years given,
Themselves an unmatched melody,
Where fear is slain of victory,
And hope, held fast in arms of love,
No more the happy heart may move.		930
Sweet souls, grudge not our drearihead,
But let the dying mourn their dead
With what melodious wail they will!
Even as we through good and ill
Grudge not your soundless happiness,		935
Through hope whereof alone, we bless
Our woe with music and with tears.
NOW deems the tale that three long years
John in that marvellous land abode,
Till something like a growing load		940
Of unacknowledged longing came
Upon him, mingled with a shame,
Which happiness slew not, that he
Apart from his own kind must be,32
Nor share their hopes and fears: withal		945
A gloom upon his face did fall,
His love failed not to note, and knew
Whither his heart, unwitting, drew.
And so it fell that, on a day,
As musing by her side he lay,		950
She spake out suddenly, and said:
What burden on thy soul is laid?
What veil through which thou canst not see?
Think’st thou that I hide aught from thee?
HE caught her in his arms, and cried,		955
What is it that from love can hide?
Thou knowest this, thou knowest this!
Alas, she said, yet so it is
That never have I told to thee
What danger crept toward thee and me!		960
How could I spoil the lovesome years
With telling thee of slow-foot fears,
Or shade the sweetness of our home
With what perchance might never come?
But now we may not turn aside		965
From the sharp thorn the rose did hide.
HE turned on her a troubled face,
And said: What is it, from what place
Comes trouble on us? She flushed red
As one who lies,33 and stammering said:		970
In thine own land, where while ago
Thou dwelledst, doth the danger grow.
How thinkest thou? hast thou such a heart,
That thou and I a while may part
To make joy greater in a while?		975
She smiled, but something in her smile
Was like the heralding of tears,
When lonely pain the grieved heart bears.
But he sprang up unto his feet,
Glad ‘gainst his will, and cried: O sweet,		980
Fear nought at all, for certainly
Thy fated fellow still am I;
Tell me the tale, and let me go
The nighest way to meet the foe.
SOMETHING there was, that for a while		985
Made her keep silence; with a smile
His bright flushed visage did she note,
And put her hand unto her throat
As though she found it hard to breathe;
At last she spake: The long years seethe		990
With many things, until at last
From out their caldron is there cast
Somewhat like poison mixed with food;
To leave the ill, and take the good
Were sweet indeed, but nowise life,		995
Where all things ever are at strife.
Thou, knowing not belike, and I,
Wide-eyed indeed and wilfully,
Through these three years have ever striven
To take the sweet of what was given		1000
And cast the bitter half aside;
But fate his own time well can bide,
And so it fares with us to-day.
Bear this too, that I may not say
What danger threatens; thou must go		1005
Unto thy land and nothing know
Of what shall be; a hard, hard part
For such as thou, with patient heart
To sit alone, and hope and wait,
Nor strive in anywise with fate,		1010
Whatever doubt on thee may fall,
Unless by certain sign I call
On thee to help me: to this end
Each day at nightfall shalt thou wend
Unto that place, where thou and I		1015
First met; there let an hour go by,
And if thereby nought hap to thee
Of strange, then deem thou certainly
All goeth or too well or ill
For thee to help, and bide thou still.		1020
SHE had risen; side by side
They stood now, and all red had died
From out his face; most wan he grew;
He faltered forth: Would that I knew
If thou hadst ever loved me, sweet!		1025
Then surely all things would I meet
With good heart. Such a trouble came
Across his face, that she, for shame
Of something hidden, blushed blood-red,
Then turned all pale again, and said:		1030
Thou knowest that I love thee well!
What shall I do then? can I tell
In one short moment all the love
That through these years my heart did move?
Come nigher, love, and look at me,		1035
That thou in these mine eyes mayst see
If long enow this troubled dream,
That men call life, mine heart may deem
To love thee in. His arms he cast
About her and his tears fell fast,		1040
Nor was she dry-eyed; slowly there
Did their lips part, her fingers fair
Sought for his hand: Come, love, she said,
Time wears. Withal the way she led
Unto the place where first he woke,		1045
Betwixt a hawthorn and an oak,
And said: Lie down, and dream a dream,
That nought real then may wasted seem
When next we meet! yet hear a word
Ere sleep comes: thou mayst well be stirred		1050
By idle talk, or longings vain,
To wish me in thine arms again;
Long then, but let no least word slip
Of such a longing past thy lip;
For if thou dost, so strangely now		1055
Are we twain wedded, I and thou,
And that same golden green-stoned ring
Is token of so great a thing
That at thy word I needs must come,
Whereso I be, unto thine home;		1060
And so were both of us undone:
Because the great-eyed glaring sun
That lights your world, too mighty is
To look upon our secret bliss.
What more to say or e’er thou sleep?		1065
I would I yet had time to weep
All that I would, then many a day
Would pass, or thou shouldst go away.
But time wears, and the hand of fate,
For all our weeping, will not wait.		1070
Yet speak, before sleep wrap thee round,
That I once more may hear the sound
Of thy sweet voice, if never more.
FOR all her words she wept right sore.
What wouldest thou? he said in turn.		1075
Thou know’st for thee and peace I yearn
Past words, but now thy lips have sealed
My lips with mysteries unrevealed;
How shall I pray, this bitter morn,
That joy and me atwain hath torn?		1080
While yet as in a dream it is
Both bliss and this strange end of bliss.
Ah, what more can I say thereof?
That never any end of love
I know, though all my bliss hath end;		1085
That where thou wiliest I will wend,
Abide where thou wouldst have me stay,
Pass bitter day on bitter day
Silent of thee, and make no sign
Of all the love and life divine,		1090
That is my life and knowledge now.
AND with that word he lay a-low
And by his side she knelt, and took
His last kiss with a lovely look,
Mingled of utmost love and ruth34		1095
And knowledge of the hidden truth.
And then he heard her sing again
Unknown words to a soft low strain,
Till dim his senses waxed, nor knew
What things were false, and what were true,		1100
Mid all the things he saw and heard,
But still among strange-plumaged bird,
Strange-fruited tree, and strange-clad maid,
And horrors making not afraid
Of changing man, and dim-eyed beast.		1105
Through all he deemed he knew at least
That over him his true-love hung,
And ‘twixt her sobs in sweet voice sung
That mystic song, until at last
Into the dreamless land he passed		1110
Of deep, dark sleep without a flaw,
Where nought he heard and nought he saw.
AMIDST unreasoning huge surprise,
Remembering nought, he oped his eyes
And leapt up swiftly, and there stood		1115
Blinking upon a close beech-wood
As one who knew not aught of it;
Yet in a while ‘gan memory flit
Across him, and he muttered low
Unwitting words said long ago		1120
When he was yet a child; then turned
To where the autumn noon-sun burned
Bright on a cleared space of the wood,
Where midst rank grass a spruce-tree stood,
Tall, grey-trunked, leafless a long way;		1125
And memory of another day,
Like to a dream within a dream
Therewith across his heart ‘gan gleam,
And gazing up into the tree,
He raised his right arm suddenly,		1130
E’en as he fain would climb the same;
Then, as his vision clearer came,
He muttered: Nay, gone is the nest,
Nor is it spring-tide; it were best
Unto the stead to hurry back,		1135
Or else my dinner may I lack,
For father’s grip is close enow.
AND therewithal, with head hung low,
Even as one who needs not sight,
And looking nor to left nor right,		1140
Through blind ways of the wood he went,
Seeming as he were right intent
On heavy thoughts, as well might be,
But scarcely waked yet verily,
Or knowing in what place he was.		1145
IN such wise swiftly did he pass
Without a check straight through the wood,
Until on the slope-side he stood,
Where all his tangles were clean done;
There staying, while the unclouded sun		1150
Gleamed on the golden braveries35
That clad him, did he raise his eyes,
And ‘neath his shading hand looked thence,
And saw o’er well-tilled close36 and fence
A little knot of roofs between		1155
Dark leaves, their ridges bright and green
With spiky house-leek;37 and withal
Man unto man did he hear call
Afar amid the fields below;
And then a hoarse loud horn ‘gan blow		1160
No point of war, but peasant-call
To hurry toward the steaming hall.
Then as a red spark lights a flame
Among light straw, all memory came
Back-rushing on his heart, and he		1165
‘Gan think of joy and misery,
Trouble and hope, in tangled wise,
Till longing in his heart ‘gan rise
Fretting with troublous ecstasy
All else to nought. So pensively		1170
Down the hill-side he slipped, and saw
All folk unto the homestead draw,
And noted how a homeman there
Turned round unto the hillside bare
Whereas amid the sun he went,		1175
Then side-long to his fellow bent
And pointed, and all turned about
And stood a while, as if in doubt
Whether for him they should not stay,
Yet went at last upon their way.		1180
Now thereat somewhat did he smile
And walked the slower for a while,
As though with something of a care
To meet outside no loiterer,
Then went on at a swifter pace:		1185
And all things with familiar face
Gazed on him; till again the shame
Of not being of them o’er him came.
MOST fair to peaceful heart was all;38
Windless the ripe fruit down did fall,		1190
The shadows of the large grey leaves
Lay grey upon the oaten sheaves
By the garth-wall39 as he passed by;
The startled ousel-cock40 did cry,
As from the yew-tree by the gate		1195
He flew; the speckled hen did wait
With outstretched neck his coming in,
The March-hatched cockerel41 gaunt and thin
Crowed shrilly, while his elder thrust
His stiff wing-feathers in the dust		1200
That grew aweary of the sun:
The old and one-eyed cart-horse dun
The middenstead went hobbling round,
Blowing the light straw from the ground;
With curious eyes the drake peered in		1205
O’er the barn’s dusk, where dust and din
Were ceasing now a little space,
THERE for a while with anxious face,
Yet smiling therewithal, John stood,
Then toward the porch of carven wood		1210
He turned, and hearkened to the hum
Of mingled speech that thence did come
Through the dumb clatter of the hall,
Lest any word perchance might fall
Upon his ears to tell of aught		1215
That change or death thereto had brought;
And, listening so, deemed he could hear
His father’s voice, but nothing clear,
And then a pause, and then again
The mingled speech of maids and men.		1220
Again some word rememberèd
From old days half aloud he said,
And pulled his hood about his brow,
And went with doubtful steps and slow
Unto the door, and took the horn,		1225
Which his own hand did once adorn,
And blew a loud, clear blast thereon,
And pushed the door; then like a sun
New come to a dull world he stood,
Gleaming with gold from shoes to hood,		1230
In the dusk doorway of the place,
Whence toward him now turned every face.
FROM ‘neath his hood he gazed around,
And soothly there few gaps he found.
Amidmost of the upper board		1235
His brethren sat, Thorolf and Thord;
He saw his sire, half risen up
From the high-seat, a silver cup
In his brown hand; and by his side
His mother o’er her balm-cloth42 wide		1240
Gazed forward somewhat timidly
The new-comer’s bright weed43 to see.
Small change in these indeed, John thought,
By lapse of days had yet been wrought;
And for the rest, but one or two		1245
There were, he deemed, of faces new.
There open-eyed, beer-can in hand,
And staring did the damsels stand
As he had known them; there he saw
Haldor the Icelander half draw		1250
His heavy short-sword forth, as he
The gleam of gold and steel did see
Flash suddenly across the door:
An old man skilled in ancient lore,
And John’s own foster-sire withal.		1255
But on one face did John’s eyes fall
He needs must note: a woman leaned
O’er Thord, and though her face was screened
By his wide bush of light red hair
Yet might he see that she was fair,		1260
And deemed his brother newly wed.
AND now, as thoughts ran through his head
About the tale that he should tell,
His sire, as one who knew right well
What matters unto men were meet,		1265
Rose up and cried from out his seat:
Knight, or fair lord, whatso thou be’st,
If thou mayst share a bonder’s feast,
Sit by me, eat and drink thy fill;
For this my hall is open still		1270
To peaceful men of all degree.
STRANGE seemed his own voice there to be
To John, as he in feigned speech said:
Thanks have thou for thy goodlihead
And welcome, goodman; certainly		1275
Hungry and weary-foot am I,
And fain of rest, and strange withal
To this your land, for it did fall,
That e’en now as I chanced to ride
I lighted by a waterside		1280
To slake my thirst; and just as I
Was drinking therefrom eagerly,
A blue-winged jay, new-hatched in spring,
Must needs start forth and fall to sing
His villain plain-song o’er my head;		1285
And like a ghost come from the dead
Was that unto my horse, I trow,
Who swerved and went off quick enow,
To leave me as a gangrel churl.
Thou seemest liker to an Earl,		1290
His father said; but come to meat,
To hungry men are bannocks44 sweet.
So by his father’s side he sat
And of that homely cheer he ate,
Remembered well; and oft he sighed		1295
To think how far away and wide
The years had set him from all this,
And how that all-devouring bliss
Had made the simple life of old
As a dull tale too often told.		1300
But as he sat thereby, full oft
The goodwife’s eyes waxed sad and soft
Beholding him; she muttered low:
Alas! fair lips, I ought to know,
Like unto lips that once hung here;		1305
Eyes like to eyes that once were dear
When all that body I could hold,
And flaxen-white was hair of gold.
SO muttered she, but said not aught
Aloud. Now the fair damsel brought		1310
Mead45 to the gay-clad man, and he
Beheld her beauty thoughtfully,
As she shook back her cloud of hair,
And swung aside her figure fair,
And clasped the cup with fingers slim,		1315
And poured and reached it forth to him;
Then his heart changed again with shame
As cold cup and warm fingers came
Into his hand, the while his eyes
A look in hers must needs surprise		1320
That made him flush, and she, the red
O’er face and neck and bosom spread
And her hand trembled; Thord the while
Gazed on her with a foolish smile
Across his wide face. So went by		1325
The hour of that festivity,
And then the boards46 were set aside;
But the host prayed his guest to bide
As long as he had will thereto,
And therewith to the field did go		1330
With sons and homemen, leaving John
Among the women-folk alone.
SO these being set to rock and wool,47
John sat him down upon a stool
And ‘gan to ponder dreamily,		1335
‘Mid longings, on the days gone by;
And many a glance did Thord’s wife steal
Upon him as she plied the reel,
Not noted much, though once or twice
His pensive eyes did meet her eyes,		1340
And troubled and abashed thereat
He reddened. But the goodwife sat
Meanwhile, and ever span and span
With steady fingers, and yet wan
Her face was grown; her mouth and eyes		1345
Seemed troubled with deep memories.
At last to Thord’s wife did she turn
And said: If honey we would earn
Against Yule-tide, the weaving-room
Must hear the clatter of the loom		1350
Ere the long web is fully done;
So, Thorgerd, thither get thee gone;
Thou, Asa, to the cloth-room go
And wait me there; and for you two,
Mary and Kirstin, best were ye		1355
Sitting in Thorgerd’s company,
To give her help with reel and thread
And shuttle. Therewith, as she said,
So did they, and went, one and all;
But in the doorway of the hall		1360
Did Thorgerd for a moment stand,
Holding her gownskirt in her hand,
Her body swaying daintly,
Nor cared to hold aback a sigh;
Nor son, nor mother noted her.		1365
A little time the twain sat there
Nor spake, though twice the goodwife strove,
But fear forbade her tongue to move;
Nor had he noted much forsooth,
Midst his own longing and self-ruth,		1370
Her looks of loving and of doubt.
So from the hall did she pass out,
And left him there alone, and soon
So longing dealt that afternoon
That, fallen to musing pensively		1375
In the lone hall, now scarce might he
Know if his heart were glad or sad;
And tunes within his head he had
Of ancient songs learnt long ago,
Remembered well through bliss and woe;		1380
And now withal a lovesome stave48
He murmured to a measure grave,
Scarce thinking of its sense the while.
But as he sat there, with a smile
Came handmaid Asa back, who bare		1385
Heaped in her arms embroidered gear,
Which by his feet did she let fall,
Then gat her gone from out the hall.
John, startled, ceased a while his drone
To gaze upon the gear cast down,		1390
And saw a dark blue cloak and hood,
Wrought with strange needlework and rude,
That showed the sun and stars and moon;
Then, gazing, John remembered soon
How for Yule sport four years agone		1395
That selfsame raiment he did on,
And thinking on that bygone mirth
His own rich cloak he cast to earth,
And did on him half wittingly
That long-forgotten bravery;		1400
And though the sun was warm that day,
He hugged himself in his old way
Within the warmth of fold on fold,
As though he came from out the cold,
And ‘gan the hall to pace about;		1405
And at the last must needs break out
Into a song remembered well,
That of the Christmas joy did tell.

OUTLANDERS, whence come ye last?
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.		1410
Through what green seas and great have ye passed?
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

From far away, O masters mine,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
We come to bear you goodly wine,		1415
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

From far away we come to you,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
To tell of great tidings strange and true.
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.		1420

News, news of the Trinity,49
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
And Mary and Joseph from over the sea!
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

For as we wandered far and wide,		1425
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
What hap do ye deem there should us betide!
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

Under a bent when the night was deep,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.		1430
There lay three shepherds tending their sheep.
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

O ye shepherds, what have ye seen,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
To slay your sorrow, and heal your teen?50		1435
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

In an ox-stall this night we saw,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
A babe and a maid without a flaw.
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.		1440

There was an old man there beside,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
His hair was white and his hood was wide.
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

And as we gazed this thing upon,		1445
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
Those twain knelt down to the Little One.
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

And a marvellous song we straight did hear,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.		1450
That slew our sorrow and healed our care.
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

News of a fair and a marvellous thing,
The snow in the street and the wind on the door.
Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing!		1455
Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor.

SO sang he, and in pensive wise
He sighed, but lifting up his eyes
Beheld his mother standing nigh,
Looking upon him pitifully.		1460
He ran to her, for now he knew
Her yearning love;51 round her he threw
Strong arms, and cried out: So it is,
O mother, that some days of bliss
I still may give thee; yet since I		1465
To thee at least will never lie
Of what I am, and what I hope,
And with what ill things I must cope,
Sit thou aside, and look not strange
When of my glory and great change		1470
I shall tell even such a tale
As best for all things may avail.
And if thou wouldst know verily
Meanwhile, how matters fare with me,
This thing of all things may I tell:		1475
I have been happy and fared well,
But now with blind eyes must await
Some unseen, half-guessed turn of fate,
Before the dropping of the scale
Shall make an ending to the tale,		1480
Or blithe or sad: think not meanwhile
That fear my heart shall now beguile
Of all the joy I have in thee.
SHE wept about him tenderly
A long while, ere she might say aught;		1485
Then she drew back, and some strange thought
Stirred in her heart belike, for she
Gazed at his splendour timidly,
(For the rude cloak to earth was cast;)
And whispered trembling at the last:		1490
FAIR art thou come again, sweet son,
And sure a long way hast thou gone,
I durst not ask thee where; but this
I ask thee by the first sweet kiss
Wherewith I kissed thy new-born face		1495
Long since within the groaning-place,52
If thou hast been so far, that thou
Canst tell to me, grown old, son, now,
Through weary life, unsatisfied
Desires, and lingering hope untried,		1500
If thou canst tell me of thy ruth
What thing there is of lies or truth
In what the new faith saith of those
Great glories of the heavenly close,
And how that poor folk twinned on earth53		1505
Shall meet therein in joy and mirth?
Smiling with pity and surprise,
He looked into her wistful eyes,
And kissed her brow therewith, and said:
Nought know I, mother, of the dead,		1510
More than thou dost; let be, we live
This day at least, great joy to give
Each unto other; but the tale
Must come from thee about the dale,
And what has happed therein, since I		1515
That summer eve went off to try
What thing by folly might be wrought
When strength and wisdom came to nought.
SHE smiled amidst her tears, and there
She told him all he fain would hear,		1520
And happily they talked till eve,
When the men-folk the field did leave
And gat them to the hall; and then
Was great rejoicing of all men
Within a while, for, cloak and hood		1525
Thrown off, in glittering gear John stood
And named himself; yet scarcely now
His father durst his arms to throw
Round his son’s neck, remembering
How he had thought him such a thing		1530
As scarce was meet his bread to win.
Small thought had John of that old sin,
Yea, scarce had heart to think of aught,
But when again he should be brought
Face unto face with love; and slow		1535
The leaden minutes lingered now;
Nor could he fail to hope that he
That very hour her face would see;
Needs must he hope that his strong love
So sore the heart in her must move,		1540
That she no more might bear his pain.
That very hour, he thought again,
That very hour; woe worth the while,
Why should his heart not feel her smile
Now, now? O weary time, O life,		1545
Consumed in endless, useless strife,
To wash from out the hopeless clay
Of heavy day and heavy day
Some specks of golden love, to keep
Our hearts from madness ere we sleep!		1550
GOOD welcome, if of clownish kind,
Did John from both his brethren find,
And from the homemen; Thorgerd seemed
As somewhat less of him she deemed
Than heretofore, and smiled, as she		1555
Put up her fair cheek daintily
To take his kiss. So went the night
Midst mirth and manifold delight,
Till John at last was left alone
To think upon the strange day gone,		1560
Scarce knowing yet, if nearer drew
His bliss because it was gone through.
NOW in such wise day passed by day,
Till heavier on him longing lay,
As still less strange it was to wake		1565
And no kind kiss of welcome take,
And welcome with no loving kiss
Kind eyes to a new day of bliss;
And as the days passed o’er his head
Sometimes he needs must wake in dread,		1570
That all the welfare, that did seem
To be his life, was but a dream,
Or all at least slipped swiftly by
Into a wretched memory.
Yet would hope leave him not, yea, whiles		1575
Wrapped round about by her strange guiles
All seemed to go right well, and oft
Would memory grow so sweet and soft,
That scarce the thing it imaged had
More might in it to make him glad.		1580
WELL may ye deem that midst all this
His brooding face would cloud the bliss
Of many a boisterous night; his sire
Would mutter: He has clomb up higher,
But still is moonstruck as before.		1585
His brethren ill his silence bore,
Yet feared him; such a tale he told
That in that mead he did behold
Strange outland people come that morn,
By whom afar he had been borne		1590
Into a fair land, where, he said,
Thriving, the king’s child did he wed
Within a while. Now, when once more
Their keels shall leave their noble shore,
At Norway will they touch, and then		1595
Back go I with those goodly men,
Now I have seen my land and kin.
FAIR Thorgerd ever sought to win
Kind looks of him, and many a day
She from the hall would go away		1600
To rage within some secret place,
That all the sweetness of her face,
Her lingering fingers, her soft word,
‘Twixt red half-opened lips scarce heard,
Had bought for her so little ruth;		1605
Although there seemed some times, in sooth,
When John, grown weary of the strife
Within him between dreams and life,
Must think it not so over ill
To watch her hand the shuttle fill,		1610
While on her cheek the red and white
Flickered and changed with new delight,
And hope of being a thing to move
That dreamy man to earthly love.
SO autumn fell to winter-tide,		1615
And ever there did John abide,
‘Mid hope deferred and longing fierce,
That strove the heavy veil to pierce;
And howso strong his love might be,
Yet were there tides of misery,		1620
When, in his helpless, hopeless rage,
He felt himself as in a cage
Shown to the gaping world; again
Would heavy languor dull his pain,
And make it possible to live,		1625
And wait to see if fate would give
Some pleasure yet ere all was done.
MEANTIME, with every setting sun,
Unto the meadow as she bade
He went, and often, half afraid,		1630
Half hopeful, did he watch the night
Suck slowly in the lingering light;
But of the homefolk, though all knew
Whither his feet at evening drew,
Yet now so great a man he was,		1635
None asked him why he needs must pass
Each eve along the self-same way,
Save Thorgerd, who would oft waylay
His feet returning, and would watch
Some gesture or some word to catch		1640
From his unwariness; and whiles
Her tender looks and words and smiles
Would seem to move him now, and she
Laughed to herself delightedly;
And as the days grew heavier		1645
To John, he oft would gaze on her,
At such times as she tripped along,
And wonder where would be the wrong
If he should tell her of his tale;
Withal he deemed her cheek grew pale,		1650
As unto Yule-tide drew the days,
And oft into her eyes would gaze
In such kind wise, that she awhile
Forgot her foolishness and guile,
Surprised by sparks of inner love.		1655
YET nothing a long while did move
His mouth to fatal speech, until
When the snow lay on moor and hill
And it was Yule-day, he did go
‘Twixt the high drift o’er beaten snow		1660
Unto the meadow, as the day
Short, wind-bewildered, died away.
And so, being come unto the thorn
Where first that bitter love was born,
He gazed around, but nothing saw		1665
Save endless waste of grey clouds draw
O’er the white waste, while cold and blind
The earth looked; e’en the north-west wind
Found there no long abiding-place,
But ever the low clouds did chase,		1670
Nor let them weep their frozen tears.
STRANGE is it how the grieved heart bears
Long hours and days and months of woe,
As dull and leaden as they go,
And makes no sign, yea, and knows not		1675
How great a burden it hath got
Upon it, till all suddenly
Some thought scarce heeded shall flit by,
That tears the veil as by it goes
With seeming careless hand, and shows		1680
The shrinking soul that deep abyss
Of days to come all bare of bliss.
And now with John e’en so it fared.
He saw his woe and longing bared
Before his eyes, as slow and slow		1685
The twilight crept across the snow,
Like to the dying out of hope;
And suddenly he needs must cope
With that in-rushing of despair
Long held aback, till all things there		1690
Seemed grown his foes, his prison-wall;
And, whatso good things might befall
To others of the wide world, he
Was left alone with misery.
Why should he hold his peace or strive		1695
Amid these men as man to live
Who recked54 not of him? Then he cried:
WOULD God, would God, that I had died
Before the accursed name of Love
My miserable heart did move!		1700
Why did I leave thee in such wise,
False heart, with lovesome, patient eyes,
And soul intent to do thy will?
And why, why must I love thee still,
And long for thee, and cast on thee		1705
Blessings wrung out of misery,
That will not bless thee, if in sooth
On my wrecked heart thou hast no ruth?