Poems by the Way | Page 3

we give our horses ease?"
When
Shieldbroad-side was well in sight,
'Twas, "Where shall we lay our
heads to-night?"
Hallbiorn turned and raised his head;
"Under the
stones of the waste," he said.
Quoth one, "The clatter of hoofs anigh."

Quoth the other, "Spears against the sky!"
"Hither ride men from
the Wells apace;
Spur we fast to a kindlier place."
Down from his
horse leapt Hallbiorn straight:
"Why should the supper of Odin wait?

Weary and chased I will not come
To the table of my fathers'
home."
With that came Snaebiorn, who but he,
And twelve in all
was his company.
Snaebiorn's folk were on their feet;
He spake no
word as they did meet.
They fought upon the northern hill:
Five are
the howes men see there still.
Three men of Snaebiorn's fell to earth

And Hallbiorn's twain that were of worth.
And never a word did
Snaebiorn say,
Till Hallbiorn's foot he smote away.
Then Hallbiorn
cried: "Come, fellow of mine,
To the southern bent where the sun
doth shine."
Tottering into the sun he went,

And slew two more
upon the bent.
And on the bent where dead he lay
Three howes do
men behold to-day.
And never a word spake Snaebiorn yet,
Till in
his saddle he was set.
Nor was there any heard his voice,
So many
times over comes summer again,
Till he came to his ship in
Grimsar-oyce.
What healing in summer if winter be vain?

On so fair a day they hoisted sail,
So many times over comes summer
again,
And for Norway well did the wind avail.
What healing in
summer if winter be vain?
But Snaebiorn looked aloft and said:
"I
see in the sail a stripe of red:
Murder, meseems, is the name of it

And ugly things about it flit.
A stripe of blue in the sail I see:
Cold
death of men it seems to me.
And next I see a stripe of black,
For a
life fulfilled of bitter lack."
Quoth one, "So fair a wind doth blow

That we shall see Norway soon enow."
"Be blithe, O shipmate,"
Snaebiorn said,
"Tell Hacon the Earl that I be dead."
About the
midst of the Iceland main
Round veered the wind to the east again.

And west they drave, and long they ran
Till they saw a land was
white and wan.
"Yea," Snaebiorn said, "my home it is,
Ye bear a
man shall have no bliss.
Far off beside the Greekish sea
The
maidens pluck the grapes in glee.
Green groweth the wheat in the
English land
And the honey-bee flieth on every hand.
In Norway by
the cheaping town
The laden beasts go up and down.
In Iceland
many a mead they mow
And Hallgerd's grave grows green enow.

But these are Gunnbiorn's skerries wan
Meet harbour for a hapless
man.
In all lands else is love alive,
But here is nought with grief to
strive.
Fail not for a while, O eastern wind,
For nought but grief is
left behind.
And before me here a rest I know,"
So many times over
comes summer again,
"A grave beneath the Greenland snow,"
What
healing in summer if winter be vain?
ECHOES OF LOVE'S HOUSE.
Love gives every gift whereby we long to live

"Love takes every gift,
and nothing back doth give."
Love unlocks the lips that else were ever dumb:
"Love locks up the
lips whence all things good might come."
Love makes clear the eyes that else would never see:
"Love makes
blind the eyes to all but me and thee."

Love turns life to joy till nought is left to gain:
"Love turns life to
woe till hope is nought and vain."
Love, who changest all, change me nevermore!
"Love, who changest
all, change my sorrow sore!"
Love burns up the world to changeless heaven and blest,
"Love burns
up the world to a void of all unrest."
And there we twain are left, and no more work we need:
"And I am
left alone, and who my work shall heed?"
Ah! I praise thee, Love, for utter joyance won!
"And is my praise
nought worth for all my life undone?"
THE BURGHERS' BATTLE.
Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land
That erst the harvest bore;

The sword is heavy in the hand,
And we return no more.
The light
wind waves the Ruddy Fox,
Our banner of the war,
And ripples in
the Running Ox,
And we return no more.
Across our stubble acres
now
The teams go four and four;
But out-worn elders guide the
plough,
And we return no more.
And now the women heavy-eyed

Turn through the open door
From gazing down the highway wide,

Where we return no more.
The shadows of the fruited close

Dapple the feast-hall floor;
There lie our dogs and dream and doze,

And we return no more.
Down from the minster tower to-day
Fall
the soft chimes of yore
Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play:
And
we return no more.
But underneath the streets are still;
Noon, and
the market's o'er!
Back go the goodwives o'er the hill;
For we return
no more.
What merchant to our gates shall come?
What wise man
bring us lore?
What abbot ride away to Rome,
Now we return no
more?
What mayor shall rule the hall we built?
Whose scarlet
sweep the floor?

What judge shall doom the robber's guilt,
Now we
return no more?
New houses in the streets shall rise
Where builded

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