Now once again a herald crossed the green To tell the showman that a feast was laid, A supper for the artists who had played By the Queen's order, in a tent without.

In the bright moonlight at the gate the rout Of courtiers, formed procession to be gone, Orders were called, steel clinked, and jewels shone, The watchers climbed the banks and took their stands.

The circus artists shook each others' hands, Their quarrels were forgotten and forgiven, Old friendships were restored and sinners shriven.

"We find we cannot part from Will," they said.

And while they talked the juggler took the maid Molly, the singer, to the hawthorn glade Behind the green-striped tent, and told his love, A wild delight, beyond her hope, enough Beyond her dream to brim her eyes with tears.

Now came a ringing cry to march; and cheers Rose from the crowd; the bright procession fared Back to the city while the trumpets blared.

So the night ended, and the Court retired.

Back to the town the swaying torches reeked, Within the green-striped tent the lights expired, The dew dript from the canvas where it leaked.

Dark, in the showman's van, a cricket creaked, But, near the waggons, fire was glowing red On happy faces where the feast was spread.

Gladly they supped, those artists of the show; Then by the perfect moon, together timed, They struck the green-striped tent and laid it low, Even as the quarter before midnight chimed.

Then putting-to the piebald nags, they climbed Into their vans and slowly stole away Along Blown Hilcote on the Icknield Way.

And as the rumbling of the waggons died By Aston Tirrold and the Moretons twain, With axle-clatter in the countryside, Lit by the moon and fragrant from the rain, King Cole moved softly in the Ring again, Where now the owls and he were left alone: The night was loud with water upon stone.

He watched the night; then taking up his flute, He breathed a piping of this life of ours, The half-seen prize, the difficult pursuit, The pa.s.sionate l.u.s.ts that shut us in their towers, The love that helps us on, the fear that lowers, The pride that makes us and the pride that mars, The beauty and the truth that are our stars.

And man, the marvellous thing, that in the dark Works with his little strength to make a light, His wit that strikes, his hope that tends, a spark, His sorrow of soul in toil, that brings delight, His friends, who make salt sweet and blackness bright, His birth and growth and change; and death the wise, His peace, that puts a hand upon his eyes.

All these his pipings breathed of, until twelve Struck on the belfry tower with tremblings numb (Such as will shudder in the axe's helve When the head strikes) to tell his hour was come.

Out of the living world of Christendom He dimmed like mist till one could scarcely note The robins nestling to his old grey coat.

Dimmer he grew, yet still a glimmering stayed Like light on cobwebs, but it dimmed and died.

Then there was naught but moonlight in the glade, Moonlight and water and an owl that cried.

Far overhead a rush of birds' wings sighed, From migrants going south until the spring.

The night seemed fanned by an immortal wing.

But where the juggler trudged beside his love Each felt a touching from beyond our ken, From that bright kingdom where the souls who strove, Live now forever, helping living men.

And as they kissed each other; even then Their brows seemed blessed, as though a hand unseen Had crowned their loves with never-withering green.

[Ill.u.s.tration]