Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest,

For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best.

Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail,

Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know:

That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and forth the Banners go. 1885.

THE DAYS THAT WERE (MOTTO OF THE HOUSE OF THE WOLFINGS) WHILES in the early winter eve We pass amid the gathering night Some homestead that we had to leave Years past; and see its candles bright Shine in the room beside the door Where we were merry years agone, But now must never enter more, As still the dark road drives us on. E'en so the world of men may turn At even of some hurried day And see the ancient glimmer burn Across the waste that hath no way; Then, with that faint light in its eyes, Awhile I bid it linger near And nurse in waving memories The bitter sweet of days that were. 1889.

THE DAY OF DAYS

EACH eve earth falleth down the dark,
As though its hope were o'er ;
Yet lurks the sun when day is done
Behind to-morrow's door.

Gray grows the dawn while men-folk sleep,

Unseen spreads on the light, Till the thrush sings to the colored things,

And earth forgets the night.

No otherwise wends on our Hope :
E'en as a tale that's told

Are fair lives lost, and all the cost
Of wise and true and bold.

We've toiled and failed; we spake the word;

None harkened; dumb we lie;
Our Hope is dead, the seed we spread
Fell o'er the earth to die.

THE BURGHERS' BATTLE

THICK rise the spear-shafts o'er the land That erst the harvest bore;

The sword is heavy in the hand,

And we return no more.

The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox,
Our banner of the war,

And ripples in the Running Ox,
And we return no more.

Across our stubble acres now
The teams go four and four;

But out-worn elders guide the plough,
And we return no more.

And now the women heavy-eyed
Turn through the open door

From gazing down the highway wide,
Where we return no more.

The shadows of the fruited close
Dapple the feast-hall floor;

There lie our dogs and dream and doze,
And we return no more.

Down from the minster tower to-day
Fall the soft chimes of yore
Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play:
And we return no more.

But underneath the streets are still;
Noon, and the market's o'er!

Back go the goodwives o'er the hill;
For we return no more.

What merchant to our gates shall come?
What wise man bring us lore?
What abbot ride away to Rome,
Now we return no more?

What mayor shall rule the hall we built?
Whose scarlet sweep the floor?

What judge shall doom the robber's guilt,

Now we return no more?

New houses in the streets shall rise
Where builded we before,

Of other stone wrought otherwise;
For we return no more.

And crops shall cover field and hill
Unlike what once they bore,
And all be done without our will,
Now we return no more.

Look up! the arrows streak the sky,
The horns of battle roar;

The long spears lower and draw nigh,
And we return no more.
Remember how beside the wain,

Lo from our loitering ship a new land at last to be seen;

Toothed rocks down the side of the firth

on the east guard a weary wide lea, And black slope the hill-sides above, striped adown with their desolate green:

And a peak rises up on the west from the meeting of cloud and of sea, Foursquare from base unto point like the building of Gods that have been, The last of that waste of the mountains all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked and gray,

And bright with the dawn that began just now at the ending of day.

Ah! what came we forth for to see that our hearts are so hot with desire?

Is it enough for our rest the sight of this desolate strand,

And the mountain-waste voiceless as death but for winds that may sleep not nor tire?

Why do we long to wend forth through the length and breadth of a land, Dreadful with grinding of ice, and record of scarce hidden fire,

But that there 'mid the gray grassy dales sore scarred by the ruining streams Lives the tale of the Northland of old and the undying glory of dreams?

O land, as some cave by the sea where the treasures of old have been laid, The sword it may be of a king whose name was the turning of fight; Or the staff of some wise of the world that many things made and unmade. Or the ring of a woman maybe whose woe is grown wealth and delight. No wheat and no wine grows above it, no orchard for blossom and shade; The few ships that sail by its blackness but deem it the mouth of a grave; Yet sure when the world shall awaken, this too shall be mighty to save.

Or rather, O land, if a marvel it seemeth that men ever sought

Thy wastes for a field and a garden fulfilled of all wonder and doubt,

And feasted amidst of the winter when the fight of the year had been fought, Whose plunder all gathered together was little to babble about:

Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou land, "Not for this nor for that was I wrought

Amid waning of realms and of riches and death of things worshipped and

sure,

I abide here the spouse of a God, and I made and I make and endure."

O Queen of the grief without knowledge, of the courage that may not avail,

Of the longing that may not attain, of the love that shall never forget, More joy than the gladness of laughter thy voice hath amidst of its wail: More hope than of pleasure fulfilled amidst of thy blindness is set; More glorious than gaining of all, thine unfaltering hand that shall fail: For what is the mark on thy brow but the brand that thy Brynhild doth bear?

Lone once, and loved and undone by a love that no ages outwear.

Ah! when thy Balder comes back, and bears from the heart of the Sun, Peace and the healing of pain, and the wisdom that waiteth no more; And the lilies are laid on thy brow

In that great sorrow of thy children dead

That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head,

Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream,

And death the murmur of a restful stream,

But left no stain upon those souls of thine

Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine.

O Mother, and Love and Sister all in

one,

Come thou; for sure I am enough alone That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw,

And wrap me in the grief of long ago. 1891.

DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT

Lo, when we wade the tangled wood,
In haste and hurry to be there,
Nought seem its leaves and blossoms
good,

For all that they be fashioned fair.

But looking up, at last we see
The glimmer of the open light,
From o'er the place where we would be;
Then grow the very brambles bright.

So now, amidst our day of strife,
With many a matter glad we play,
When once we see the light of life
Gleam through the tangle of to-day.

1891.