The Roots of the Mountains. William Morris

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СКАЧАТЬ this is the meaning of the words which they sang:

      She singeth.

      Now is the rain upon the day,

       And every water’s wide;

       Why busk ye then to wear the way,

       And whither will ye ride?

      He singeth.

      Our kine are on the eyot still,

       The eddies lap them round;

       All dykes the wind-worn waters fill,

       And waneth grass and ground.

      She singeth.

      O ride ye to the river’s brim

       In war-weed fair to see?

       Or winter waters will ye swim

       In hauberks to the knee?

      He singeth.

      Wild is the day, and dim with rain,

       Our sheep are warded ill;

       The wood-wolves gather for the plain,

       Their ravening maws to fill.

      She singeth.

      Nay, what is this, and what have ye,

       A hunter’s band, to bear

       The Banner of our Battle-glee

       The skulking wolves to scare?

      He singeth.

      O women, when we wend our ways

       To deal with death and dread,

       The Banner of our Fathers’ Days

       Must flap the wind o’erhead.

      She singeth.

      Ah, for the maidens that ye leave!

       Who now shall save the hay?

       What grooms shall kiss our lips at eve,

       When June hath mastered May?

      He singeth.

      The wheat is won, the seed is sown,

       Here toileth many a maid,

       And ere the hay knee-deep hath grown

       Your grooms the grass shall wade.

      They sing all together.

      Then fair befall the mountain-side

       Whereon the play shall be!

       And fair befall the summer-tide

       That whoso lives shall see.

      Face-of-god thought the song goodly, but to the others it was well known. Then said Wood-father:

      ‘O foster-son, thy foster-brother hath sung well for a wood abider; but we are deeming that his singing shall be but as a starling to a throstle matched against thy new-come guest. Therefore, Dalesman, sing us a song of the Dale, and if ye will, let it be of gardens and pleasant houses of stone, and fair damsels therein, and swains with them who toil not over-much for a scant livelihood, as do they of the waste, whose heads may not be seen in the Holy Places.’

      Said Gold-mane: ‘Father, it is ill to set the words of a lonely man afar from his kin against the song that cometh from the heart of a noble house; yet may I not gainsay thee, but will sing to thee what I may call to mind, and it is called the Song of the Ford.’

      Therewith he sang in a sweet and clear voice: and this is the meaning of his words:

      In hay-tide, through the day new-born,

       Across the meads we come;

       Our hauberks brush the blossomed corn

       A furlong short of home.

      Ere yet the gables we behold

       Forth flasheth the red sun,

       And smites our fallow helms and cold

       Though all the fight be done.

      In this last mend of mowing-grass

       Sweet doth the clover smell,

       Crushed neath our feet red with the pass

       Where hell was blent with hell.

      And now the willowy stream is nigh,

       Down wend we to the ford;

       No shafts across its fishes fly,

       Nor flasheth there a sword.

      But lo! what gleameth on the bank

       Across the water wan,

       As when our blood the mouse-ear drank

       And red the river ran?

      Nay, hasten to the ripple clear,

       Look at the grass beyond!

       Lo ye the dainty band and dear

       Of maidens fair and fond!

      Lo how they needs must take the stream!

       The water hides their feet;

       On fair kind arms the gold doth gleam,

       And midst the ford we meet.

      Up through the garden two and two,

       And on the flowers we drip;

       Their wet feet kiss the morning dew

       As lip lies close to lip.

      Here now we sing; here now we stay:

       By these grey walls we tell

       The love that lived from out the fray,

       The love that fought and fell.

      When he was done they all said that he had sung well, and that the song was sweet. Yet did Wild-wearer smile somewhat; and Bow-may said outright: ‘Soft is the song, and hath been made by lads and minstrels rather than by warriors.’

      ‘Nay, kinswoman,’ said Wood-father, ‘thou art hard to please; the guest is kind, and hath given us that I asked for, and I give him all thanks therefor.’

      Face-of-god smiled, but he heeded little what they said, for СКАЧАТЬ