We be the Gods of the East, 82 We lent to Alexander the strength of Hercules, 145 We meet in an evil land, 78 What is a woman that you forsake her, 60 What is the moral? Who rides may read, 64 What of the hunting, hunter bold?, 247 'What's that that hirples at my side?', 283 When a lover hies abroad, 81 When first by Eden Tree, 140 When I left home for Lalage's sake, 102 When the cabin port-holes are dark and green, 182 When the drums begin to beat, 288 When the Earth was sick and the Skies were grey, 30 When the Great Ark, in Vigo Bay, 109 When the robust and Brass-bound Man commissioned first for sea, 263 When the water's countenance, 277 When ye say to Tabaqui, 'My Brother!' when ye call the Hyena to meat, 252 Where's the lamp that Hero lit 157 Who gives him the Bath? 54 Who knows the heart of the Christian? How does he reason? 75 Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him 85 You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old 250 Your jar of Virginny 105 Your tiercel's too long at hack, Sir. He's no eyass 206 THE RECALL I am the land of their fathers. In me the virtue stays. I will bring back my children, After certain days. Under their feet in the grasses My clinging magic runs. They shall return as strangers, They shall remain as sons. Over their heads in the branches Of their new-bought, ancient trees, I weave an incantation And draw them to my knees. Scent of smoke in the evening. Smell of rain in the night, The hours, the days and the seasons, Order their souls aright; Till I make plain the meaning Of all my thousand years-- Till I fill their hearts with knowledge. While I fill their eyes with tears. PUCK'S SONG See you the ferny ride that steals Into the oak-woods far? O that was whence they hewed the keels That rolled to Trafalgar. And mark you where the ivy clings To Bayham's mouldering walls? O there we cast the stout railings That stand around St. Paul's. See you the dimpled track that runs All hollow through the wheat? O that was where they hauled the guns That smote King Philip's fleet. Out of the Weald, the secret Weald, Men sent in ancient years, The horse-shoes red at Flodden Field, The arrows at Poitiers. See you our little mill that clacks, So busy by the brook? She has ground her corn and paid her tax Ever since Domesday Book.