The Defence of Guenevere and Other Poems Part 18

So, when I walk'd out from the tent, Their howling almost blinded me; Yet for all that I was not bent By any shame. Hard by, the sea

Made a noise like the aspens where We did that wrong, but now the place Is very pleasant, and the air Blows cool on any pa.s.ser's face.

And all the wrong is gather'd now Into the circle of these lists: Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me how His hands were cut off at the wrists;

And how Lord Roger bore his face A league above his spear-point, high Above the owls, to that strong place Among the waters; yea, yea, cry:

What a brave champion we have got!

Sir Oliver, the flower of all The Hainault knights! The day being hot, He sat beneath a broad white pall,

White linen over all his steel; What a good knight he look'd! his sword Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel Its steadfast edge clear as his word.

And he look'd solemn; how his love Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear!

How all the ladies up above Twisted their pretty hands! so near

The fighting was: Ellayne! Ellayne!

They cannot love like you can, who Would burn your hands off, if that pain Could win a kiss; am I not true

To you for ever? therefore I Do not fear death or anything; If I should limp home wounded, why, While I lay sick you would but sing,

And soothe me into quiet sleep.

If they spat on the recreant knight, Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep, Why then: what then? your hand would light

So gently on his drawn-up face, And you would kiss him, and in soft Cool scented clothes would lap him, pace The quiet room and weep oft, oft

Would turn and smile, and brush his cheek With your sweet chin and mouth; and in The order'd garden you would seek The biggest roses: any sin.

And these say: No more now my knight, Or G.o.d's knight any longer: you, Being than they so much more white, So much more pure and good and true,

Will cling to me for ever; there, Is not that wrong turn'd right at last Through all these years, and I wash'd clean?

Say, yea, Ellayne; the time is past,

Since on that Christmas-day last year Up to your feet the fire crept, And the smoke through the brown leaves sere Blinded your dear eyes that you wept;

Was it not I that caught you then, And kiss'd you on the saddle-bow?

Did not the blue owl mark the men Whose spears stood like the corn a-row?

This Oliver is a right good knight, And must needs beat me, as I fear, Unless I catch him in the fight, My father's crafty way: John, here!

Bring up the men from the south gate, To help me if I fall or win, For even if I beat, their hate Will grow to more than this mere grin.

THE LITTLE TOWER

Up and away through the drifting rain!

Let us ride to the Little Tower again,

Up and away from the council board!

Do on the hauberk, gird on the sword.

The king is blind with gnas.h.i.+ng his teeth, Change gilded scabbard to leather sheath:

Though our arms are wet with the slanting rain, This is joy to ride to my love again:

I laugh in his face when he bids me yield; Who knows one field from the other field,

For the grey rain driveth all astray?

Which way through the floods, good carle, I pray

The left side yet! the left side yet!

Till your hand strikes on the bridge parapet.

Yea so: the causeway holdeth good Under the water? Hard as wood,

Right away to the uplands; speed, good knight!

Seven hours yet before the light.

Shake the wet off on the upland road; My tabard has grown a heavy load.

What matter? up and down hill after hill; Dead grey night for five hours still.

The hill-road droppeth lower again, Lower, down to the poplar plain.

No furlong farther for us to-night, The Little Tower draweth in sight;

They are ringing the bells, and the torches glare, Therefore the roofs of wet slate stare.

There she stands, and her yellow hair slantingly Drifts the same way that the rain goes by.

Who will be faithful to us to-day, With little but hard glaive-strokes for pay?

The grim king fumes at the council-board: Three more days, and then the sword;

Three more days, and my sword through his head; And above his white brows, pale and dead,

A paper crown on the top of the spire; And for her the stake and the witches' fire.

Therefore though it be long ere day, Take axe and pick and spade, I pray.

Break the dams down all over the plain: G.o.d send us three more days such rain!

Block all the upland roads with trees; The Little Tower with no great ease

Is won, I warrant; bid them bring Much sheep and oxen, everything