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Lays and Legends (Second Series)
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Thou art not strong enough – God's poor
Shall not be taxed for me!"
"Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All round
The rising tumult ran.
"I give my life, I give God's word,
I give what gifts I can!
Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?
Find you some other man!"
And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose
With one fierce shout and yell;
They flung at him the bones of beasts,
They aimed right strong and well.
"O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!"
The bishop cried – and fell.
And so men call him "Saint," yet some
Deemed this an unearned crown,
Since 'twas not for the Church or faith
He laid his brave life down;
But otherwise men deemed of it
In Canterbury town.
"Not for the Church he died," they said,
"Yet he our saint shall be,
Since for Christ's poor he gave his life,
So for Christ's self died he.
'Who does it to the least of these,
Has done it unto Me!'"
MORNING
It was about the time of day
When all the lawns with dew are wet;
I wandered down a steep wood-way,
And there I met with Margaret —
Her hands were full of boughs of may.
It was the merest chance we met:
I could not find a word to say,
And she was silent too – and yet
For hand and lips I dared to pray —
And Margaret did not say me nay.
Still on my lips her kisses stay,
Her eyes are like the violet;
Will time take this joy, too, away,
And ever teach me to forget —
And to forget without regret —
The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?
THE PRAYER
They talk of money and of fame,
Would make a fortune or a name,
And gold and laurel both must be
For ever out of reach of me.
And if I asked of God or fate
The gift most gracious and most great,
It would not be such gifts as these
That I should pray for on my knees.
No, I should ask a greater grace —
A little, quiet, firelit place,
Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she
Should hold my baby on her knee.
There she should sit and softly sing
The songs my heart hears echoing;
And I, made pure by joy, should come
Not all unworthy to our home.
But if I dared to ask this grace,
Would not God laugh out in my face?
Since gold and fame indeed are His
To give, but, ah! not this, not this!
THE RIVER MAIDENS
When autumn winds the river grieve,
And autumn mists about it creep,
The river maids all shivering leave
The stream, and singing, sink to sleep.
The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow
Alike are impotent to break
The spell of sleep that laid them low —
The lovely ladies will not wake.
But when the spring with lavish grace
Strews blossom on the river's breast,
Flowers fall upon each sleeping face
And break the deep and dreamless rest.
Then with white arms that gleam afar
Through alders green and willows gray,
They rise where sedge and iris are,
And laugh beneath the blossomed May.
Shall not be taxed for me!"
"Gold! Give us gold, or die!" All round
The rising tumult ran.
"I give my life, I give God's word,
I give what gifts I can!
Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?
Find you some other man!"
And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose
With one fierce shout and yell;
They flung at him the bones of beasts,
They aimed right strong and well.
"O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!"
The bishop cried – and fell.
And so men call him "Saint," yet some
Deemed this an unearned crown,
Since 'twas not for the Church or faith
He laid his brave life down;
But otherwise men deemed of it
In Canterbury town.
"Not for the Church he died," they said,
"Yet he our saint shall be,
Since for Christ's poor he gave his life,
So for Christ's self died he.
'Who does it to the least of these,
Has done it unto Me!'"
MORNING
It was about the time of day
When all the lawns with dew are wet;
I wandered down a steep wood-way,
And there I met with Margaret —
Her hands were full of boughs of may.
It was the merest chance we met:
I could not find a word to say,
And she was silent too – and yet
For hand and lips I dared to pray —
And Margaret did not say me nay.
Still on my lips her kisses stay,
Her eyes are like the violet;
Will time take this joy, too, away,
And ever teach me to forget —
And to forget without regret —
The dawn, the woods, and Margaret?
THE PRAYER
They talk of money and of fame,
Would make a fortune or a name,
And gold and laurel both must be
For ever out of reach of me.
And if I asked of God or fate
The gift most gracious and most great,
It would not be such gifts as these
That I should pray for on my knees.
No, I should ask a greater grace —
A little, quiet, firelit place,
Warm-curtained, violet-sweet, where she
Should hold my baby on her knee.
There she should sit and softly sing
The songs my heart hears echoing;
And I, made pure by joy, should come
Not all unworthy to our home.
But if I dared to ask this grace,
Would not God laugh out in my face?
Since gold and fame indeed are His
To give, but, ah! not this, not this!
THE RIVER MAIDENS
When autumn winds the river grieve,
And autumn mists about it creep,
The river maids all shivering leave
The stream, and singing, sink to sleep.
The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow
Alike are impotent to break
The spell of sleep that laid them low —
The lovely ladies will not wake.
But when the spring with lavish grace
Strews blossom on the river's breast,
Flowers fall upon each sleeping face
And break the deep and dreamless rest.
Then with white arms that gleam afar
Through alders green and willows gray,
They rise where sedge and iris are,
And laugh beneath the blossomed May.
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