What then is this, That the summer's bliss Somewhat ye fail In your treasure's tale? What then have ye lost, And what call ye the cost Of the months of life Since winter's strife? For unseldom the summer sun curseth the Dale With the tears thrust aback and the unuttered wail. Forsooth o'er-well The tale may we tell: Tis the spear and the sword And the House of the Sward. The bright and the best Have gone to their rest, And our eyes are blind Their eyes to find. In mead and house wend we because they were stayed, And we stand up because in the earth they were laid. Would ye call them aback Then, to look on your lack? Nay, we would that their tale From our hearts ne'er should fail. This then maketh you sad, That such dear death they had? This night are we sad For the joy that we had, And their memory's beginning Great grief would be winning. But while weareth away, And e'en woe waxeth gay. In fair words is it told, Weighed e'en as fine gold; Sweet as wind of the south Grows the speech in the mouth. And from father to son speeds the tale of the true, Of the brave that forbore that the brethren might do. When this was sung then each man went home to his house. But it is said that these staves were made by Osberne, and that he taught them to the Western men as well as to the Eastern. Chapter XXXVII. Osberne Takes Leave of Wethermel The next day at even, when all the folk were gathered before the porch of the hall at Wethermel, making the most of that fair time, Osberne craved silence a while, and when men were hushed he spake: "Kinsmen and friends, I make it known to you that I must needs depart from you tomorrow morning, though wheresoever I may be I shall ever hold in my heart the hope of coming back to Wethermel; for it will be well enough known to most of you that I love the Dale with great love, and this stead in especial. But now I may not abide here longer, to such a pass are things come with me.