Then with a sigh adown he lay And slept, nor ever woke again, For in that hour was he slain By stealthy traitors as he slept. He of a few was much bewept, But of most men was well forgot While the town's ashes still were hot The foeman on that day did burn. As for the land, great Time did turn The bloody fields to deep green grass, And from the minds of men did pass The memory of that time of woe, And at this day all things are so As first I said; a land it is Where men may dwell in rest and bliss If so they will--Who yet will not, Because their hasty hearts are hot With foolish hate, and longing vain The sire and dam of grief and pain.
Neath the bright sky cool grew the weary earth, And many a bud in that fair hour had birth Upon the garden bushes; in the west The sky got ready for the great sun's rest, And all was fresh and lovely; none the less Although those old men shared the happiness Of the bright eve, 'twas mixed with memories Of how they might in old times have been wise, Not casting by for very wilfulness What wealth might come their changing life to bless; Lulling their hearts to sleep, amid the cold Of bitter times, that so they might behold Some joy at last, e'en if it lingered long. That, wearing not their souls with grief and wrong, They still might watch the changing world go by, Content to live, content at last to die. Alas! if they had reached content at last It was perforce when all their strength was past; And after loss of many days once bright, With foolish hopes of unattained delight.
Across the gap made by our English hinds, Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds The withy round the hurdles of his fold; Down in the foss the river fed of old, That through long lapse of time has grown to be The little grassy valley that you see.
Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still, The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear The barley mowers on the trenchéd hill, The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir, All little sounds made musical and clear Beneath the sky that burning August gives. While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.
Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these, Must we still waste them, craving for the best, Like lovers o'er the painted images Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed? Have we been happy on our day of rest? Thine eyes say "yes,"--but if it came again, Perchance its ending would not seem so vain.