Yet from her eyes presage of victory
Looked steadfast out at mine. 
It is not to be thought of (said her eyes)
That only a foul blotch the sun may shine
On England, through low poisonous thick skies! 
Never, O never again
This pain, this pain! 
Else from that foreign earth his bones would rise
And thrust in anger at the bitter skies. 
It is not to be thought of that such prayer
Should fall unheeded back through heavy air. 
But I have heard, in the night I have heard,
When not a leaf in all the orchard stirred,
And even the water of the bourne hung still,
And the old twitching, creaking house was still,
And all was still,
What was it I heard? 
It could not be his voice, come from so far;
I know ’twas not a bird. 
It was his voice, or that lone watchful star
Creeping above the casement bar,
Saying:  Fear thou no ill,
No ill! 
Then all the silence was an echoing round,
The water and dumb trees their antique murmur found,
And clear as music came the repeated Sound: 
Fear thou no ill, no ill!

Was it her eyes or her tongue told me this?

IV

Yet but sad comfort from such pain is caught.... 
I went out from the house and climbed the coombe,
And where the first light of sweet morning hung
I found the light I sought. 
From somewhere south a bugle’s note was flung,
From somewhere north a sombre boom;
On the opposing hills white flecks and grey
Spotted the misty green,
And blue smoke wraiths around the tall trees clung. 
Presently rose thick dust clouds from the green: 
Came up, or seemed to come, the instant beat
Of marching feet;
Then with the clouds the beating died away,
And nothing was seen
But broken hills and the new flush of day.

V

All round the folding hills were like green waves,
Tossing awhile together ere they fall
And fling their salt on the steep stony beach. 
The sound I heard was sound of Roman feet—­
I saw the sparkling light on Roman glaives,
I heard the Roman speech
Answering the wild Iberian battle-call: 
They passed from sight on the long street. 
And I saw then the Mercian Kings that strode
Proudly from the small city of grey stone
And climbed the folding hills,
Past the full springs that bubbled and flowed
Through the soft valley and on to Avon stream. 
They passed—­as all things pass and seem
No other than a dream,
All but the shining and the echo gone. 
But still I listened and looked.  Their voice it was
Blown through the valley grass;
Their dust it was that sprang from the hard road
Where now these English legions flowed,
Waking the quiet like a steady wind. 
That ancient soldiery before me passed
With all that followed them, and these the last