Poems (Forrest)/The king rode by

by Mabel Forrest

THE KING RODE BY

Oh, a King came riding last spring, last spring,
 By the wall where the moss cups blow;
By the short green fields and the long hop poles,
 Where the scarlet bean-flowers grow.
A King came riding out of the haze
 Of the grey old town below.

A King came riding in summer days:
 Pallid roses on lawns of dream,
Bulrush-browns by the sunny banks
 Of the low, sun-smitten stream;
And the broken peace of the pebbled ford
 Caught a jewelled feather's gleam.

For a King goes grandly in purple coat,
 Pearl-sewn sleeve, and a dagger hilt,
Diamond-dappled, with dust of stars,
 Rubies over the metal spilt.
And when a King in his pride rides by,
 Roses languish and poppies wilt.

The King has buskins of leather fine,
 He rides for pleasure, and casts his greaves;
The King has eyes that are quick as fire
 To find a dormer among the eaves.
And on the boards that were clean and white
 The print of a heel he leaves,

Moths were out in the twilight ways,
 Bistre-body and noiseless wing;
Shy jack rabbits between the stooks
 Heard a rustling along the ling,
Nor knew that the step among the fern
 Was the footfall of a King.

The smith had courted the wilful maid
 Steadily for a year or more;
And now she sews at her wedding-gown,
 Linen white from the merchant's store,
In the autumn days when the reddening vine
 Trails flamboyant from porch to door.

The smith wears greasy leathern breeks,
 His chest is hairy and strong and bare;
But his eyes, when he looks at Elspeth, seem
 The eyes of a knight who kneels in prayer;
And he scarce dare fondle her fingers 'warm,
 Nor one ringlet of her hair!

And Elspeth seems as a maiden fey,
 She sews and sews like a hunted thing,
Starts at the pipe of a lonely bird,
 Grows rose-red at a dry leaf's swing;
Then drops her needle to watch the road
 Where a King rode in the spring.