I
The singing streams, and the deep, dark wood
Beloved of old by Robin Hood,
Lift me a voice, kiss me a hand,
To call me from this younger land.
What time by dull Floridian lakes,
What time by rivers fringed with brakes,
I blow the reed, and draw the bow,
And see my arrows hurtling go
Well sent to deer or wary hare,
Or, wildfowl whistling down the air;
What time I lie in shady spots
On beds of wild forget-me-nots,
That fringe the fen lands insincere
And boggy marges of the mere,
Whereon I see the heron stand,
Knee-deep in sable slush of sand,—
I think how sweet if friends should come
And tell me England calls me home.
II
I keep good heart, and bide my time,
And blow the bubbles of my rhyme;
I wait and watch, for soon I know
In Sherwood merry horns shall blow,
And blow and blow, and folk shall come
To tell me England calls me home.
Mother of archers, then I go
Wind-blown to you with bended bow,
To stand close up by you and ask
That it be my appointed task
To sing in leal and loyal lays
Your matchless bowmen’s meed of praise;
And that unchallenged I may go
Through your green woods with bended bow,—
Your woods where bowered and hidden stood
Of old the home of Robin Hood.
Ah, this were sweet, and it will come
When merry England calls me home!
III
Perchance, long hence, it may befall,
Or soon, mayhap, or not at all,
That all my songs nowhither sent,
And all my shafts at random spent,
Will find their way to those who love
The simple force and truth thereof;
Wherefore my name shall then be rung
Across the land from tongue to tongue,
Till some who hear shall haste to come
With news that England calls me home.
I walk where spiced winds raff the blades
Of sedge-grass on the summer glades;
Through purfled blades that fringe the mere
I watch the timid tawny deer
Set its quick feet and quake and spring,
As if it heard some deadly thing,
When but a brown snipe flutters by
With rustling wing and piping cry;
I stand in some dim place at dawn,
And see across a forest lawn
The tall wild turkeys swiftly pass
Light-footed through the dewy grass;
I shout, and wind my horn, and go
The whole morn through with bended bow,
Then on my rest I feel at noon
Sown pulvil of the blooms of June;
I live and keep no count of time,
I blow the bubbles of my rhyme:
These are my joys till friends shall come
And tell me England calls me home.
IV
The self-yew bow was England’s boast;
She leaned upon her archer host,—
It was her very life-support
At Crecy and at Agincourt,
At Flodden and at Halidon Hill,
And fields of glory redder still!
O bows that rang at Solway Moss!
O yeomanry of Neville’s cross!
These were your victories, for by you
Breastplate and shield were cloven through;
And mail
(Maurice Thompson)
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