Poems by the Way | Page 5

day doth the Prior wait,
White stands the tower and proud."
There leaned a knight on the gateway side
In armour white and wan,

And after the heels of the horse he cried,
"God keep the hunted
man!"
Then quoth Sir Rafe, "Amen, amen!"
For he deemed the word was
good;
But never a while he lingered then
Till he reached the Nether
Wood.

He rode by ash, he rode by oak,
He rode the thicket round,
And
heard no woodman strike a stroke,
No wandering wife he found.
He rode the wet, he rode the dry,
He rode the grassy glade:
At
Wood-end yet the sun was high,
And his heart was unafraid.
There on the bent his rein he drew,
And looked o'er field and fold,

O'er all the merry meads he knew
Beneath the mountains old.
He gazed across to the good Green Howe
As he smelt the
sun-warmed sward;
Then his face grew pale from chin to brow,

And he cried, "God save the sword!"
For there beyond the winding way,
Above the orchards green,

Stood up the ancient gables gray
With ne'er a roof between.
His naked blade in hand he had,
O'er rough and smooth he rode,

Till he stood where once his heart was glad
Amidst his old abode.
Across the hearth a tie-beam lay
Unmoved a weary while.
The
flame that clomb the ashlar gray
Had burned it red as tile.
The sparrows bickering on the floor
Fled at his entering in;
The
swift flew past the empty door
His winged meat to win.
Red apples from the tall old tree
O'er the wall's rent were shed.

Thence oft, a little lad, would he
Look down upon the lead.
There turned the cheeping chaffinch now
And feared no birding child;

Through the shot-window thrust a bough
Of garden-rose run wild.
He looked to right, he looked to left,
And down to the cold gray
hearth,
Where lay an axe with half burned heft
Amidst the ashen
dearth.
He caught it up and cast it wide
Against the gable wall;
Then to the

dais did he stride,
O'er beam and bench and all.
Amidst there yet the high-seat stood,
Where erst his sires had sat;

And the mighty board of oaken wood,
The fire had stayed thereat.
Then through the red wrath of his eyne
He saw a sheathed sword,

Laid thwart that wasted field of wine,
Amidmost of the board.
And by the hilts a slug-horn lay,
And therebeside a scroll,
He
caught it up and turned away
From the lea-land of the bowl.
Then with the sobbing grief he strove,
For he saw his name thereon;

And the heart within his breast uphove
As the pen's tale now he
won.
"O Rafe, my love of long ago!
Draw forth thy father's blade,
And
blow the horn for friend and foe,
And the good green-wood to aid!"
He turned and took the slug-horn up,
And set it to his mouth,
And
o'er that meadow of the cup
Blew east and west and south.
He drew the sword from out the sheath
And shook the fallow brand;

And there a while with bated breath,
And hearkening ear did stand.
Him-seemed the horn's voice he might hear -
Or the wind that blew
o'er all.
Him-seemed that footsteps drew anear -
Or the boughs
shook round the hall.
Him-seemed he heard a voice he knew -
Or a dream of while agone.

Him-seemed bright raiment towards him drew -
Or bright the
sun-set shone.
She stood before him face to face,
With the sun-beam thwart her hand,

As on the gold of the Holy Place
The painted angels stand.
With many a kiss she closed his eyes;
She kissed him cheek and chin:


E'en so in the painted Paradise
Are Earth's folk welcomed in.
There in the door the green-coats stood,
O'er the bows went up the
cry,
"O welcome, Rafe, to the free green-wood,
With us to live and
die."
It was bill and bow by the high-seat stood,
And they cried above the
bows,
"Now welcome, Rafe, to the good green-wood,
And
welcome Kate the Rose!"
White, white in the moon is the woodland plash,
White is the
woodland glade,
Forth wend those twain, from oak to ash,
With
light hearts unafraid.
The summer moon high o'er the hill,
All silver-white is she,
And Sir
Rafe's good men with bow and bill,
They go by two and three.
In the fair green-wood where lurks no fear,
Where the King's writ
runneth not,
There dwell they, friends and fellows dear,
While
summer days are hot,
And when the leaf from the oak-tree falls,
And winds blow rough and
strong,
With the carles of the woodland thorps and halls
They dwell,
and fear no wrong.
And there the merry yule they make,
And see the winter wane,
And
fain are they for true-love's sake,
And the folk thereby are fain.
For the ploughing carle and the straying herd
Flee never for Sir Rafe:

No barefoot maiden wends afeard,
And she deems the thicket safe.
But sore adread do the chapmen ride;
Wide round the wood they go;

And the judge and the sergeants wander wide,
Lest they plead
before the bow.
Well learned and wise is Sir Rafe's good sword,
And straight the

arrows fly,
And they find the coat of many a lord,
And the crest that
rideth high.
THE DAY OF