It's hosen and shoon and gown alone,
She climbed the wall and followed him,
Until she came to the green forest,

And there she lost the sight o' him.

"Is there ony room at your head, Saunders ? Is there ony room at your feet?

Is there ony room at your side, Saunders,
Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?"

"There's nae room at my head, Marg❜ret, There's nae room at my feet;

My bed it is fu' lowly now,

Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

“Cauld mould is my covering now,
But and my winding-sheet;
The dew it falls nae sooner down
Than my resting-place is weet."

Then up and crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray :

"Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margret,
That you were going away.

"And fair Margret, and rare Marg’ret, And Marg’ret, o' veritie,

Gin e'er ye love another man,

Ne'er love him as ye did me."

OLD BALLAD

III. TO LIGHT

(FROM "HYMN TO LIGHT")

SAY, from what golden quivers of the sky
Do all thy wingèd arrows fly?

Swiftness and power by birth are thine :

From thy great sire they came, thy sire the word1 divine.

Thou in the Moon's bright chariot, proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey;

And all the year dost with thee bring

Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal Spring.

When, Goddess! thou lift'st up thy wakened head Out of the Morning's purple bed,

Thy choir of birds about thee play,

And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

All the world's bravery that delights our eyes
Is but thy several liveries :

Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st,

Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st.

A crimson garment in the Rose thou wear'st;
A crown of studded gold thou bear'st ;

The virgin Lilies in their white

Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked Light.

1 "Let there be light."

Through the soft ways of heaven and air and sea, Which open all their pores to thee,

Like a clear river dost thou glide,

And with thy living stream through the close channels slide.

But the vast ocean of unbounded Day

In the Empyrean Heaven does stay:
Thy rivers, lakes, and springs below,

From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.

A. COWLEY

112. SIR GALAHAD 1

My good blade carves the casques of
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.

men,

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel :

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favours fall!

For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall:

1 See The Holy Grail (Idylls of the King).

But all my heart is drawn above,

My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love,

Nor maiden's hand in mine.

More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair through faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,

Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns:

Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair.

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,

The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;

I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the holy Grail:
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah! blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne
Through dreaming towns I go,

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.

The tempest crackles on the leads,

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight-to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.

I muse on joy that will not cease,

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odours haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,

This mortal armour that I wear,
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touched, are turned to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And through the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up, and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
"O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on the prize is near."