The Folk-Mote By The River.

It was up in the morn we rose betimes     From the hall-floor hard by the row of limes.     It was but John the Red and I,     And we were the brethren of Gregory;     And Gregory the Wright was one     Of the valiant men beneath the sun,     And what he bade us that we did     For ne'er he kept his counsel hid.     So out we went, and the clattering latch     Woke up the swallows under the thatch.     It was dark in the porch, but our scythes we felt,     And thrust the whetstone under the belt.     Through the cold garden boughs we went     Where the tumbling roses shed their scent.     Then out a-gates and away we strode     O'er the dewy straws on the dusty road,     And there was the mead by the town-reeve's close     Where the hedge was sweet with the wilding rose.     Then into the mowing grass we went     Ere the very last of the night was spent.     Young was the moon, and he was gone,     So we whet our scythes by the stars alone:     But or ever the long blades felt the hay     Afar in the East the dawn was grey.     Or ever we struck our earliest stroke     The thrush in the hawthorn-bush awoke.     While yet the bloom of the swathe was dim     The black-bird's bill had answered him.     Ere half of the road to the river was shorn     The sunbeam smote the twisted thorn.     * * * * *     Now wide was the way 'twixt the standing grass     For the townsfolk unto the mote to pass,     And so when all our work was done     We sat to breakfast in the sun,     While down in the stream the dragon-fly     'Twixt the quivering rushes flickered by;     And though our knives shone sharp and white     The swift bleak heeded not the sight.     * * * * *     So when the bread was done away     We looked along the new-shorn hay,     And heard the voice of the gathering-horn     Come over the garden and the corn;     For the wind was in the blossoming wheat     And drave the bees in the lime-boughs sweet.     Then loud was the horn's voice drawing near,     And it hid the talk of the prattling weir.     And now was the horn on the pathway wide     That we had shorn to the river-side.     So up we stood, and wide around     We sheared a space by the Elders' Mound;     And at the feet thereof it was     That highest grew the June-tide grass;     And over all the mound it grew     With clover blent, and dark of hue.     But never aught of the Elders' Hay     To rick or barn was borne away.     But it was bound and burned to ash     In the barren close by the reedy plash.     For 'neath that mound the valiant dead     Lay hearkening words of valiance said     When wise men stood on the Elders' Mound,     And the swords were shining bright around.     * * * * *     And now we saw the banners borne     On the first of the way that we had shorn;     So we laid the scythe upon the sward     And girt us to the battle-sword.     For after the banners well we knew     Were the Freemen wending two and two.     There then that high-way of the scythe     With many a hue was brave and blythe.     And first below the Silver Chief     Upon the green was the golden sheaf.     And on the next that went by it     The White Hart in the Park did sit.     Then on the red the White Wings flew,     And on the White was the Cloud-fleck blue.     Last went the Anchor of the Wrights     Beside the Ship of the Faring-Knights.     Then thronged the folk the June-tide field     With naked sword and painted shield,     Till they came adown to the river-side,     And there by the mound did they abide.     * * * * *     Now when the swords stood thick and white     As the mace reeds stand in the streamless bight,     There rose a man on the mound alone     And over his head was the grey mail done.     When over the new-shorn place of the field     Was nought but the steel hood and the shield.     The face on the mound shone ruddy and hale,     But the hoar hair showed from the hoary mail.     And there rose a hand by the ruddy face     And shook a sword o'er the peopled place.     And there came a voice from the mound and said:     "O sons, the days of my youth are dead,     And gone are the faces I have known     In the street and the booths of the goodly town.     O sons, full many a flock have I seen     Feed down this water-girdled green.     Full many a herd of long-horned neat     Have I seen 'twixt water-side and wheat.     Here by this water-side full oft     Have I heaved the flowery hay aloft.     And oft this water-side anigh     Have I bowed adown the wheat-stalks high.     And yet meseems I live and learn     And lore of younglings yet must earn.     For tell me, children, whose are these     Fair meadows of the June's increase.     Whose are these flocks and whose the neat,     And whose the acres of the wheat?"     * * * * *     Scarce did we hear his latest word,     On the wide shield so rang the sword.     So rang the sword upon the shield     That the lark was hushed above the field.     Then sank the shouts and again we heard     The old voice come from the hoary beard:     * * * * *     "Yea, whose are yonder gables then,     And whose the holy hearths of men?     Whose are the prattling children there,     And whose the sunburnt maids and fair?     Whose thralls are ye, hereby that stand,     Bearing the freeman's sword in hand?"     As glitters the sun in the rain-washed grass,     So in the tossing swords it was;     As the thunder rattles along and adown     E'en so was the voice of the weaponed town.     And there was the steel of the old man's sword,     And there was his hollow voice, and his word:     "Many men many minds, the old saw saith,     Though hereof ye be sure as death.     For what spake the herald yestermorn     But this, that ye were thrall-folk born;     That the lord that owneth all and some     Would send his men to fetch us home     Betwixt the haysel, and the tide     When they shear the corn in the country-side?     O children, Who was the lord? ye say,     What prayer to him did our fathers pray.     Did they hold out hands his gyves to bear?     Did their knees his high hall's pavement wear?     Is his house built up in heaven aloft?     Doth he make the sun rise oft and oft?     Doth he hold the rain in his hollow hand?     Hath he cleft this water through the land?     Or doth he stay the summer-tide,     And make the winter days abide?     O children, Who is the lord? ye say,     Have we heard his name before to-day?     O children, if his name I know,     He hight Earl Hugh of the Shivering Low:     For that herald bore on back and breast     The Black Burg under the Eagle's Nest."     * * * * *     As the voice of the winter wind that tears     At the eaves of the thatch and its emptied ears,     E'en so was the voice of laughter and scorn     By the water-side in the mead new-shorn;     And over the garden and the wheat     Went the voice of women shrilly-sweet.     * * * * *     But now by the hoary elder stood     A carle in raiment red as blood.     Red was his weed and his glaive was white,     And there stood Gregory the Wright.     So he spake in a voice was loud and strong:     "Young is the day though the road is long;     There is time if we tarry nought at all     For the kiss in the porch and the meat in the hall.     And safe shall our maidens sit at home     For the foe by the way we wend must come.     Through the three Lavers shall we go     And raise them all against the foe.     Then shall we wend the Downland ways,     And all the shepherd spearmen raise.     To Cheaping Raynes shall we come adown     And gather the bowmen of the town;     And Greenstead next we come unto     Wherein are all folk good and true.     When we come our ways to the Outer Wood     We shall be an host both great and good;     Yea when we come to the open field     There shall be a many under shield.     And maybe Earl Hugh shall lie alow     And yet to the house of Heaven shall go.     But we shall dwell in the land we love     And grudge no hallow Heaven above.     Come ye, who think the time o'er long     Till we have slain the word of wrong!     Come ye who deem the life of fear     On this last day hath drawn o'er near!     Come after me upon the road     That leadeth to the Erne's abode."     * * * * *     Down then he leapt from off the mound     And back drew they that were around     Till he was foremost of all those     Betwixt the river and the close.     And uprose shouts both glad and strong     As followed after all the throng;     And overhead the banners flapped,     As we went on our ways to all that happed.     * * * * *     The fields before the Shivering Low     Of many a grief of manfolk know;     There may the autumn acres tell     Of how men met, and what befell.     The Black Burg under the Eagle's nest     Shall tell the tale as it liketh best.     And sooth it is that the River-land     Lacks many an autumn-gathering hand.     And there are troth-plight maids unwed     Shall deem awhile that love is dead;     And babes there are to men shall grow     Nor ever the face of their fathers know.     And yet in the Land by the River-side     Doth never a thrall or an earl's man bide;     For Hugh the Earl of might and mirth     Hath left the merry days of Earth;     And we live on in the land we love,     And grudge no hallow Heaven above.