And yielded towns were set aflame;
For all the land was masterless.

Long dwelt the King in great distress,
From wood to mountain ever tost,
Mourning for all that he had lost.
Until it chanced upon a day,
Asleep in early morn he lay,
And in a vision there did see,
Clad all in black, that fay lady
Whereby all this had come to pass,
But dim as in a misty glass.

She said, "I come thy death to tell,
Yet now to thee may say 'farewell,'
For in a short space wilt thou be
Within an endless dim country
Where thou may'st well win woe or bliss."
Therewith she stooped his lips to kiss
And vanished straightway from his sight,
So waking there he sat upright

And looked around, but nought could see
And heard but song-birds' melody,
For that was the first break of day.

Then with a sigh adown he lay
And slept, nor ever woke again,
For in that hour was he slain
By stealthy traitors as he slept.

He of a few was much bewept,
But of most men was well forgot,
While the town's ashes still were hot
The foeman on that day did burn.

As for the land, great Time did turn The bloody fields to deep green grass,

And from the minds of men did pass
The memory of that time of woc,
And at this day all things are so
As first I said; a land it is

Where men may dwell in rest and bliss
If so they will-Who yet will not,
Because their hasty hearts are hot
With foolish hate, and longing vain
The sire and dam of grief and pain.

NEATH the bright sky cool grew the weary earth,
And many a bud in that fair hour had birth
Upon the garden bushes; in the west
The sky got ready for the great sun's rest,
And all was fresh and lovely; none the less
Although those old men shared the happiness
Of the bright eve, 'twas mixed with memories
Of how they might in old times have been wise,
Not casting by for very wilfulness

What wealth might come their changing life to

bless;

Lulling their hearts to sleep, amid the cold
Of bitter times, that so they might behold
Some joy at last, e'en if it lingered long.

That, wearing not their souls with grief and wrong,
They still might watch the changing world go by,
Content to live, content at last to die.

Alas! if they had reached content at last,

It was perforce when all their strength was past;
And after loss of many days once bright,
With foolish hopes of unattained delight.

A

CROSS the gap made by our English hinds, Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds The withy round the hurdles of his fold, Down in the foss the river fed of old,

That through long lapse of time has grown to be The little grassy valley that you see.

Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still, The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear The barley mowers on the trenchéd hill, The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir, All little sounds made musical and clear Beneath the sky that burning August gives, While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.

Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these, Must we still waste them, craving for the best, Like lovers o'er the painted images

Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed?

Have we been happy on our day of rest?
Thine eyes say "yes,"-but if it came again,
Perchance its ending would not seem so vain.

Now came fulfilment of the year's desire,
The tall wheat, coloured by the August fire
Grew heavy-headed, dreading its decay,
And blacker grew the elm-trees day by day.
About the edges of the yellow corn,

And o'er the gardens grown somewhat outworn
The bees went hurrying to fill up their store;
The apple-boughs bent over more and more;
With peach and apricot the garden wall
Was odorous, and the pears began to fall
From off the high tree with each freshening
breeze.

So in a house bordered about with trees,
A little raised above the waving gold
The Wanderers heard this marvellous story told,
While 'twixt the gleaming flasks of ancient wine,
They watched the reapers' slow advancing line.

And he would gaze at what his hands had done, Until his heart with boundless joy would swell That all was wrought so wonderfully well.

Yet long it was ere he was satisfied, And with the pride that by his mastery This thing was done, whose equal far and wide In no town of the world a man could see, Came burning longing that the work should be E'en better still, and to his heart there came A strange and strong desire he could not name.

165

All things were moving; as his hurried feet Passed by, within the flowery swathe he heard The sweeping of the scythe, the swallow fleet Rose over him, the sitting partridge stirred On the field's edge; the brown bee by him whirred, Or murmured in the clover flowers below. But he with bowed-down head failed not to go.

At last he stopped, and, looking round, he said, "Like one whose thirtieth year is well gone by, The day is getting ready to be dead; No rest, and on the border of the sky Already the great banks of dark haze lie; No rest-what do I midst this stir and noise? What part have I in these unthinking joys?"

With that he turned, and toward the city-gate