Lays and legends Part 12

O father--let me in!"

Sir Hugh leaned on the battlements; His voice rang strong and true: "My son--I cannot let thee in, As my heart bids me do;

"If I should open and let thee in, I let in, with thee, shame: And that thing never shall be done By one who bears our name!

"For honour and our king command And we must needs obey; So bear thee as a brave man's son, As I will do this day."

The boy looked up, his shoulders squared, Threw back his bright blond hair: "Father, I will not be the one To shame the name we bear.

"And, whatsoever they may do, Whether I live or die, I'll bear me as a brave man's son, For that, thank G.o.d, am I!"

Then spake Sir Hugh unto the foe, He spake full fierce and free: "Ye cowards, deem ye, ye have affair With cowards such as ye be?

"What? I must yield my castle up, Or else my son be slain?

I trow ye never had to do Till now with honest men!

"'Tis but by traitors such as you That such foul deeds be done; Not to betray his king and cause Did I beget my son!

"My son was bred to wield the sword And hew down knaves like you, Or, at the least, die like a man, As he this day shall do!

"And, since ye lack a weapon meet To take so good a life (For your coward steel would stain his blood), Here--take his father's knife!"

With that he flung the long knife down From off the castle wall, It glimmered and gleamed in the brave sunlight, Full in the sight of all.

Sir Hugh pa.s.sed down the turret stair, We held our breath in awe ...

May my tongue wither ere it tell The d.a.m.ned work we saw!

When all was done, a shout went up From that accursed crew, And from the chapel's silence dim Came forth in haste Sir Hugh.

"And what may mean this clamour and din?"

"Sir Hugh, thy son is dead!"

"I deemed the foe had entered in, But G.o.d is good!" he said.

We stood upon the topmost tower, Full in the setting sun; Shamed silence grew in the traitor's camp Now that foul deed was done.

See! on the hills the gleam of steel, Hark! threatening clarions ring, See! horse and foot and spear and s.h.i.+eld And the banner of the king!

And in the camp of those without, Hot tumult and cold fear, For the traitor only dares be brave, Until his king be near!

We armed at speed, we sallied forth, Sir Hugh was at our head; He set his teeth and he marked his path By a line of traitors, dead.

He hacked his way straight to the churl Who did the boy to death, He swung his sword in his two strong hands And clove him to the teeth.

And while the blade was held in the bone, The caitiffs round him pressed, And he died, as one of his line should die, With three blades in his breast.

And when they told the king these things, He turned his head away, And said: "A braver man than I Has fallen for me this day!"

FEBRUARY.

The Spring's in the air-- Here, there, Everywhere!

Though there's scarce a green tip to a bud, Spring laughs over hill and plain, As the sunlight turns the lane's mud To a splendour of copper one way, of silver the other; And longings one cannot smother, And delight that sings through the brain, Turn all one's life into glory-- 'Tis the old new ravis.h.i.+ng story-- The Spring's here again!

When the leaves grew red And dead, We said: "See how much more fair Than the green leaves s.h.i.+mmering Are the mists and the tints of decay!"

In the dainty dreamings that lighted the gray November, Did our hearts not remember The green woods--and linnets that sing?

Ah, we knew Spring was lost, and pretended 'Twas Autumn we loved. Lies are ended; Thank G.o.d for the Spring!

APRIL.

Who calls the Autumn season drear?

It was in Autumn that we met, When under foot dead leaves lay wet In the black London gardens, dear.

The fog was yellow everywhere, And very thick in Finsbury Square, Where in those days we used to meet.

I used to buy you violets sweet From flower-girls down by Moorgate Street.

'Twas Autumn then--can we forget?-- When first we met.

Who says that Spring is dear and fair?

It is in Spring-time that we part, And weary heart from weary heart Turns, as the birds begin to pair.

The sun s.h.i.+nes on the golden dome, The primroses in baskets come, With daffodils in sheaves, to cheer The town with dreams of the crowned year.

We're both polite and insincere: Though neither says it, yet--at heart-- We mean to part.

JUNE.

Oh, I'm weary of the town, Where life's too hard for smiling--and the dreary houses frown, And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats Upon the miles of dusty roofs--the dreary squares and streets; This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's--the golden cross and dome, Is this the same that s.h.i.+nes upon our little church at home?

Our little church is gray, It stands upon a hill-side--you can see it miles away, The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.

I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door, When all the wood and meadow with June's suns.h.i.+ne were ablaze,-- Then the sun had ways of s.h.i.+ning that it hasn't nowadays.

There are elm trees all around Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound, And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar, And you hear the low of cattle--where the red farm buildings are; Oh! on that gra.s.s to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune, And forget the cruel city--on this first blue day of June!

The gra.s.s is high--I know; And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow; But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day-- It would only be to count my dead--whom G.o.d has taken away.

That graveyard where the daisies grow--not yet my heart can bear To pa.s.s that way--but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!

JULY.