Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.
The Judgement of GodWilliam Morris (18341896)
‘S
‘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!’
Were a little dimm’d as I turn’d away;
This giving up of blood for blood
Will finish here somehow to-day.
Their howling almost blinded me;
Yet for all that I was not bent
By any shame. Hard by, the sea
We did that wrong; but now the place
Is very pleasant, and the air
Blows cool on any passer’s face.
Into the circle of these lists—
Yea, howl out, butchers! tell me how
His hands were cut off at the wrists;
A league above his spear-point, high
Above the owls, to that strong place
Among the waters—yea, yea, cry:
Sir Oliver, the flower of all
The Hainault knights.’ The day being hot,
He sat beneath a broad white pall,
What a good knight he look’d! his sword
Laid thwart his knees; he liked to feel
Its steadfast edge clear as his word.
Smiled whitely on him, sick with fear!
How all the ladies up above
Twisted their pretty hands! so near
They cannot love like you can, who
Would burn your hands off, if that pain
Could win a kiss—am I not true
Do not fear death or anything;
If I should limp home wounded, why,
While I lay sick you would but sing,
If they spat on the recreant knight,
Threw stones at him, and cursed him deep,
Why then—what then? your hand would light
And you would kiss him, and in soft
Cool scented clothes would lap him, pace
The quiet room and weep oft,—oft
With your sweet chin and mouth; and in
The order’d garden you would seek
The biggest roses—any sin.
Or God’s knight any longer’—you
Being than they so much more white,
So much more pure and good and true,
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,
Up to your feet the fire crept,
And the smoke through the brown leaves sere
Blinded your dear eyes that you wept;
And kiss’d you on the saddle-bow?
Did not the blue owl mark the men
Whose spears stood like the corn a-row?
And must needs beat me, as I fear,
Unless I catch him in the fight,
My father’s crafty way—John, here!
To help me if I fall or win,
For even if I beat, their hate
Will grow to more than this mere grin.