TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE
MOON

THERE was a lady lived in a hall,
Large of her eyes and slim and tall;
And ever she sung from noon to noon,
Two red roses across the moon.

There was a knight came riding by
In early spring, when the roads were dry;
And he heard that lady sing at the noon,
Two red roses across the moon.

Yet none the more he stopp'd at all,
But he rode a-gallop past the hall;
And left that lady singing at noon,
Two red roses across the moon.

Because, forsooth, the battle was set,
And the scarlet and blue had got to be

I trow he stopp'd when he rode again By the hall, though draggled sore with the rain;

And his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the

noon

Two red roses across the moon.

Under the may she stoop'd to the crown, All was gold, there was nothing of brown, And the horns blew up in the hallat noon, Two red roses across the moon. 1858.

SIR GILES' WAR-SONG 1 Ho! is there any will ride with me, Sir Giles, le bon des barrières ? The clink of arms is good to hear, The flap of pennons fair to see;

Ho! is there any will ride with me,

Sir Giles, le bon des barrières ?

The leopards and lilies are fair to see;
St. George Guienne! right good to hear:
Ho! is there any will ride with me;
Sir Giles, le bon des barrières?

I stood by the barrier,
My coat being blazon'd fair to see;
Ho! is there any will ride with me,
Sir Giles, le bon des barrières ?
Clisson put out his head to see,
And lifted his basnet up to hear;
I pull'd him through the bars to ME,
Sir Giles, le bon des barrières.
1858.

NEAR AVALON

A SHIP with shields before the sun,
Six maidens round the mast,
A red-gold crown on every one,
A green gown on the last.

The fluttering green banners there
Are wrought with ladies' heads most
fair,

And a portraiture of Guenevere
The middle of each sail doth bear.

A ship which sails before the wind,
And round the helm six knights,

1 Browning wrote to Morris, on the appearance of the Earthly Paradise: "It is a double delight to me to read such poetry, and know you, of all the world, wrote it,-you whose songs I used to sing while galloping by Fiesole in old days'Ho, is there any will ride with me ? ' "—(J. W. Mackail's Life of William Morris, Vol. I., p. 133.)

Or homespun robe of little price,
Or hood well-woven from the fleece
Undyed, or unspiced wine of Greece;
So sore his heart is set upon
Purple, and gold, and cinnamon;
For as thou cravest, so he craves,
Until he rolls beneath thy waves,
Nor in some landlocked, unknown bay,
Can satiate thee for one day.

Now, therefore, O thou bitter sea,
With no long words we pray to thee,
But ask thee, hast thou felt before
Such strokes of the long ashen oar?
And hast thou yet seen such a prow
Thy rich and niggard waters plough?

Nor yet, O sea, shalt thou be cursed, If at thy hands we gain the worst, And, wrapt in water, roll about Blind-eyed, unheeding song or shout, Within thine eddies far from shore, Warmed by no sunlight any more.

Therefore, indeed, we joy in thee, And praise thy greatness, and will we Take at thy hands both good and ill, Yea, what thou wilt, and praise thee still, Enduring not to sit at home,

And wait until the last days come,
When we no more may care to hold
White bosoms under crowns of gold,
And our dulled hearts no longer are
Stirred by the clangorous noise of war,
And hope within our souls is dead,
And no joy is remembered.

So, if thou hast a mind to slay,
Fair prize thou hast of us to-day;
And if thou hast a mind to save,
Great praise and honor shalt thou have;
But whatso thou wilt do with us,
Our end shall not be piteous,
Because our memories shall live
When folk forget the way to drive
The black keel through the heaped-up

sea,

And half dried up thy waters be. 1867.

THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS1

I know a little garden close
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy dawn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there,

1 This song reappears under the title A Garden by the Sea in "Poems by the Way," 1891, with slight variations in the text, the most important of which is noted below.

Passed our to-day upon the sea,
Or in a poisonous unknown land,
With fear and death on either hand,
And listless when the day was done
Have scarcely hoped to see the sun
Dawn on the morrow of the earth,
Nor in our hearts have thought of
mirth.

And while the world lasts, scarce again
Shall any sons of men bear pain
Like we have borne, yet be alive.

So surely not in vain we strive
Like other men for our reward;
Sweet peace and deep, the checkered

sward

Beneath the ancient mulberry trees,
The smooth-paved gilded palaces,

1 In A Garden by the Sea, these three lines read:

Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green.

Where the shy thin-clad damsels sweet
Make music with their gold-ringed feet.
The fountain court amidst of it.
Where the short-haired slave-maidens
sit,

While on the veined pavement lie
The honied things and spicery

Their arms have borne from out the town.

The dancers on the thymy down
In summer twilight, when the earth
Is still of all things but their mirth,
And echoes borne upon the wind
Of others in like way entwined.

The merchant-town's fair market

place,

Where over many a changing face
The pigeons of the temple flit,
And still the outland merchants sit
Like kings above their merchandise,
Lying to foolish men and wise.

Ah! if they heard that we were come
Into the bay, and bringing home
That which all men have talked about,
Some men with rage, and some with
doubt,

Some with desire, and some with praise;
Then would the people throng the ways,
Nor heed the outland merchandise,
Nor any talk, from fools or wise,
But tales of our accomplished quest.

What soul within the house shall rest
When we come home? The wily king
Shall leave his throne to see the thing;
No man shall keep the landward gate,
The hurried traveller shall wait
Until our bulwarks graze the quay ;
Unslain the milk-white bull shall be
Beside the quivering altar-flame;
Scarce shall the maiden clasp for shame
Over her breast the raiment thin
The morn that Argo cometh in.

Then cometh happy life again That payeth well our toil and pain In that sweet hour, when all our woe But as a pensive tale we know, Nor yet remember deadly fear; For surely now if death be near, Unthought-of is it, and unseen When sweet is, that hath bitter been.

1867.

SONGS OF ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS

Sirens

O HAPPY Seafarers are ye,
And surely all your ills are past,
And toil upon the land and sea.
Since ye are brought to us at last.

To you the fashion of the world,

Wide lands laid waste, fair cities burned,

And plagues, and kings from kingdoms hurled,

Are nought, since hither ye have turned.

For as upon this beach we stand,
And o'er our heads the sea-fowl flit,
Our eyes behold a glorious land,
And soon shall ye be kings of it.
Orpheus

A little more, a little more,

O carriers of the Golden Fleece, A little labor with the oar,

Before we reach the land of Greece.

E'en now perchance faint rumors reach
Men's ears of this our victory,
And draw them down unto the beach
To gaze across the empty sea.

But since the longed-for day is nigh,

And scarce a God could stay us now, Why do ye hang your heads and sigh, Hindering for nought our eager prow?

Sirens

Ah, had ye chanced to reach the home On which your fond desires were set, Into what troubles had ye come?

Short love and joy, and long regret.

But now, but now, when ye have lain Asleep with us a little while Beneath the washing of the main,

How calm shall be your waking smile!

For ye shall smile to think of life

That knows no troublous change or fear,

No unavailing bitter strife,

That ere its time brings trouble near.

Orpheus

Is there some murmur in your ears, That all that we have done is nought, And nothing ends our cares or fears, Till the last fear is on us brought?

Sirens

Alas! and will ye stop your ears,
In vain desire to do aught,
And wish to live 'mid cares and fears,
Until the last fear makes you nought?

Orpheus

Is not the May-time now on earth,
When close against the city wall
The folks are singing in their mirth,
While on their heads the May-flowers
fall?

Sirens

Yes, May is come, and its sweet breath Shall well-nigh make you weep to-day, And pensive with swift-coming death, Shall ye be satiate of the May.

Orpheus

Shall not July bring fresh delight,
As underneath green trees ye sit,
And o'er some damsel's body white
The noontide shadows change and
flit?

Sirens

No new delight July shall bring
But ancient fear and fresh desire,
And spite of every lovely thing,
Of July surely shall you tire.

Orpheus

And now, when August comes on thee,
And 'mid the golden sea of corn

The merry reapers thou mayst see,
Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn?

Sirens

Set flowers upon thy short-lived head,
And in thine heart forgetfulness
Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread,
And weary of those days no less.
Orpheus

Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill,
In the October afternoon,
To watch the purple earth's blood fill
The gray vat to the maiden's tune?

Sirens

When thou beginnest to grow old,

Bring back remembrance of thy bliss With that the shining cup doth hold, And weary helplessly of this.

Orpheus

Or pleasureless shall we pass by

The long cold night and leaden day, That song, and tale, and minstrelsy Shall make as merry as the May?

Since like thy measures, clear and sweet and strong,

Thames' stream scarce fettered drave the dace along

Unto the bastioned bridge, his only chain.

O Master, pardon me, if yet in vain Thou art my Master, and I fail to bring Before men's eyes the image of the thing My heart is filled with: thou whose dreamy eyes

Beheld the flush to Cressid's cheeks arise, When Troilus rode up the praising street, As clearly as they saw thy townsmen

meet [stood Those who in vineyards of Poictou withThe glittering horror of the steel-topped wood. 1867.

AN APOLOGY

PROLOGUE OF THE EARTHLY PARADISE

Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,

I cannot ease the burden of your fears. Or make quick-coming death a little thing,

Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your

tears,

Or hope again for aught that I can say. The idle singer of an empty day.

But rather, when aweary of your mirth.
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,
Made the more mindful that the sweet
days die-

-Remember me a little then I pray,
The idle singer of an empty day.