| |
| ‘SWERVE to the left, son Roger,’ he said, | |
| ‘When you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit, | |
| Swerve to the left, then out at his head, | |
| And the Lord God give you joy of it!’ | |
| |
| The blue owls on my father’s hood | 5 |
| Were a little dimm’d as I turn’d away; | |
| This giving up of blood for blood | |
| Will finish here somehow to-day. | |
| |
| So—when I walk’d out from the tent, | |
| Their howling almost blinded me; | 10 |
| Yet for all that I was not bent | |
| By any shame. Hard by, the sea | |
| |
| Made a noise like the aspens where | |
| We did that wrong; but now the place | |
| Is very pleasant, and the air | 15 |
| Blows cool on any passer’s face. | |
| |
| And all the wrong is gather’d now | |
| Into the circle of these lists— | |
| Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me how | |
| His hands were cut off at the wrists; | 20 |
| |
| And how Lord Roger bore his face | |
| A league above his spear-point, high | |
| Above the owls, to that strong place | |
| Among the waters—yea, yea, cry: | |
| |
| ‘What a brave champion we have got! | 25 |
| Sir Oliver, the flower of all | |
| The Hainault knights.’ The day being hot, | |
| He sat beneath a broad white pall, | |
| |
| White linen over all his steel; | |
| What a good knight he look’d! his sword | 30 |
| Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel | |
| Its steadfast edge clear as his word. | |
| |
| And he look’d solemn: how his love | |
| Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear! | |
| How all the ladies up above | 35 |
| Twisted their pretty hands! so near | |
| |
| The fighting was—Ellayne! Ellayne! | |
| They cannot love like you can, who | |
| Would burn your hands off, if that pain | |
| Could win a kiss—am I not true | 40 |
| |
| To you for ever? therefore I | |
| Do not fear death or anything; | |
| If I should limp home wounded, why, | |
| While I lay sick you would but sing, | |
| |
| And soothe me into quiet sleep. | 45 |
| If they spat on the recreant knight, | |
| Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep, | |
| Why then—what then? your hand would light | |
| |
| So gently on his drawn-up face, | |
| And you would kiss him, and in soft | 50 |
| Cool scented clothes would lap him, pace | |
| The quiet room and weep oft,—oft | |
| |
| Would turn and smile, and brush his cheek | |
| With your sweet chin and mouth; and in | |
| The order’d garden you would seek | 55 |
| The biggest roses—any sin. | |
| |
| And these say: ‘No more now my knight, | |
| Or God’s knight any longer’—you | |
| Being than they so much more white, | |
| So much more pure and good and true, | 60 |
| |
| Will cling to me for ever—There, | |
| Is not that wrong turn’d right at last | |
| Through all these years, and I wash’d clean? | |
| Say, yea, Ellayne; the time is past, | |
| |
| Since on that Christmas-day last year | 65 |
| Up to your feet the fire crept, | |
| And the smoke through the brown leaves sere | |
| Blinded your dear eyes that you wept; | |
| |
| Was it not I that caught you then, | |
| And kiss’d you on the saddle-bow? | 70 |
| Did not the blue owl mark the men | |
| Whose spears stood like the corn a-row? | |
| |
| This Oliver is a right good knight, | |
| And must needs beat me, as I fear, | |
| Unless I catch him in the fight, | 75 |
| My father’s crafty way—John, here! | |
| |
| Bring up the men from the south gate, | |
| To help me if I fall or win, | |
| For even if I beat, their hate | |
| Will grow to more than this mere grin. | 80 |
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