Part 18

Where is a line, in cloud or wave or hill, To match the curve which rounds her soft-flushed cheek? A colour, in the sky of morn or of even, To match that flush? Ah, let me now be still! If of her spirit I should strive to speak, I should come short, as earth comes short of heaven.

PARTNERSHIP IN FAME

Love, when the present is become the past, And dust has covered all that now is new, When many a fame has faded out of view, And many a later fame is fading fast--

If then these songs of mine might hope to last, Which sing most sweetly when they sing of you, Though queen and empress wore oblivion's hue, Your loveliness would not be overcast.

Now, while the present stays with you and me, In love's copartnery our hearts combine, Life's loss and gain in equal shares to take. Partners in fame our memories then would be: Your name remembered for my songs; and mine Still unforgotten for your sweetness' sake.

A CHRISTMAS FANCY

Early on Christmas Day, Love, as awake I lay, And heard the Christmas bells ring sweet and clearly, My heart stole through the gloom Into your silent room, And whispered to your heart, 'I love you dearly.'

There, in the dark profound, Your heart was sleeping sound, And dreaming some fair dream of summer weather. At my heart's word it woke, And, ere the morning broke, They sang a Christmas carol both together.

Glory to God on high! Stars of the morning sky, Sing as ye sang upon the first creation, When all the Sons of God Shouted for joy abroad, And earth was laid upon a sure foundation.

Glory to God again! Peace and goodwill to men, And kindly feeling all the wide world over, Where friends with joy and mirth Meet round the Christmas hearth, Or dreams of home the solitary rover.

Glory to God! True hearts, Lo, now the dark departs, And morning on the snow-clad hills grows grey. Oh, may love's dawning light Kindled from loveless night, Shine more and more unto the perfect day!

THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR

Oh, who may this dead warrior be That to his grave they bring? 'Tis William, Duke of Normandy, The conqueror and king.

Across the sea, with fire and sword, The English crown he won; The lawless Scots they owned him lord, But now his rule is done.

A king should die from length of years, A conqueror in the field, A king amid his people's tears, A conqueror on his shield.

But he, who ruled by sword and flame, Who swore to ravage France, Like some poor serf without a name, Has died by mere mischance.

To Caen now he comes to sleep, The minster bells they toll, A solemn sound it is and deep, May God receive his soul!

With priests that chant a wailing hymn, He slowly comes this way, To where the painted windows dim The lively light of day.

He enters in. The townsfolk stand In reverent silence round, To see the lord of all the land Take house in narrow ground.

While, in the dwelling-place he seeks, To lay him they prepare, One Asselin FitzArthur speaks, And bids the priests forbear.

'The ground whereon this abbey stands Is mine,' he cries, 'by right. 'Twas wrested from my father's hands By lawlessness and might.

Duke William took the land away, To build this minster high. Bury the robber where ye may, But here he shall not lie.'

The holy brethren bid him cease; But he will not be stilled, And soon the house of God's own peace With noise and strife is filled.

And some cry shame on Asselin, Such tumult to excite, Some say, it was Duke William's sin, And Asselin does right.

But he round whom their quarrels keep, Lies still and takes no heed. No strife can mar a dead man's sleep, And this is rest indeed.

Now Asselin at length is won The land's full price to take, And let the burial rites go on, And so a peace they make.

When Harold, king of Englishmen, Was killed in Senlac fight, Duke William would not yield him then A Christian grave or rite.

Because he fought for keeping free His kingdom and his throne, No Christian rite nor grave had he In land that was his own.