Part 21

Uprose a fairer nest for weary feet, Like some gold flower nightly inward curled, Where gentle maidens fled a roaring world, Or played with it, and had their white retreat.

Into big books of metal clasps they pored. They governed, even as men; they welcomed lays. The treasures women are whose aim is praise, Was shown in them: the Garden half restored.

A deluge billow scoured the land off seas, With widened jaws, and slaughter was its foam. For food, for clothing, ambush, refuge, home, The lesser savage offered bogs and trees.

XII

Whence reverence round grey-haired story grew: And inmost spots of ancient horror shone As temples under beams of trials bygone; For in them sang brave times with God in view.

XIII

Till now trim homesteads bordered spaces green, Like night’s first little stars through clearing showers. Was rumoured how a castle’s falcon towers The wilderness commanded with fierce mien.

XIV

Therein a serious Baron stuck his lance; For minstrel songs a beauteous Dame would pout. Gay knights and sombre, felon or devout, Pricked onward, bound for their unsung romance.

It might be that two errant lords across The block of each came edged, and at sharp cry They charged forthwith, the better man to try. One rode his way, one couched on quiet moss.

XVI

Perchance a lady sweet, whose lord lay slain, The robbers into gruesome durance drew. Swift should her hero come, like lightning’s blue! She prayed for him, as crackling drought for rain.

XVII

As we, that ere the worst her hero haps, Of Angels guided, nigh that loathly den: A toady cave beside an ague fen, Where long forlorn the lone dog whines and yaps.

XVIII

By daylight now the forest fear could read Itself, and at new wonders chuckling went. Straight for the roebuck’s neck the bowman spent A dart that laughed at distance and at speed.

XIX

Right loud the bugle’s hallali elate Rang forth of merry dingles round the tors; And deftest hand was he from foreign wars, But soon he hailed the home-bred yeoman mate.

Before the blackbird pecked the turf they woke; At dawn the deer’s wet nostrils blew their last. To forest, haunt of runs and prime repast, With paying blows, the yokel strained his yoke.

XXI

The city urchin mooned on forest air, On grassy sweeps and flying arrows, thick As swallows o’er smooth streams, and sighed him sick For thinking that his dearer home was there.

XXII

Familiar, still unseized, the forest sprang An old-world echo, like no mortal thing. The hunter’s horn might wind a jocund ring, But held in ear it had a chilly clang.

XXIII

Some shadow lurked aloof of ancient time; Some warning haunted any sound prolonged, As though the leagues of woodland held them wronged To hear an axe and see a township climb.

XXIV

The forest’s erewhile emperor at eve Had voice when lowered heavens drummed for gales. At midnight a small people danced the dales, So thin that they might dwindle through a sieve

XXV