Page:Early poems of William Morris.djvu/116



Yet, lady, for your own sake I say this,

Yea, for my own sake, too, and Clisson's sake.

When Guesclin told him he must be hanged soon,

Within a while he lifted up his head

And spoke for his own life; not crouching, though,

As abjectly afraid to die, nor yet

Sullenly brave as many a thief will die;

Nor yet as one that plays at japes with God:

Few words he spoke; not so much what he said

Moved us, I think, as, saying it, there played

Strange tenderness from that big soldier there

About his pleading; eagerness to live

Because folk loved him, and he loved them back,

And many gallant plans unfinish'd now

For ever. Clisson's heart, which may God bless!

Was moved to pray for him, but all in vain;

Wherefore I bring this message:

Still loving you, within the little church

Whose windows, with the one eye of the light

Over the altar, every night behold

The great dim broken walls he strove to keep!

There my Lord Clisson did his burial well.

Now, lady, I will go; God give you rest!

Thank Clisson from me, squire, and farewell!

And now to keep myself from going mad.

Christ! I have been a many times to church,

And, ever since my mother taught me prayers,