Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WAITHMAN'S WAIL, by WILLIAM MOTHERWELL


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WAITHMAN'S WAIL, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: My heart is sick! My heart is sick!
Last Line: In this my dying dream.
Alternate Author Name(s): Brown, Isaac
Subject(s): Grief; Hunting; Sorrow; Sadness; Hunters


THE waithman goode of Silverwoode,
That bowman stout and hende,
In donjon gloom abydes his doome;
God dele him getil ende.

It breakes trew herte to see him sterte,
Whenas the small birdes sing;
And then to hear his sighynges drere
Whenas his fetters ryng.

Of bowe and shafte he bin bereft,
And eke of bugil horne;
A goodlye wighte, by craftie slyghte,
Alake! is overborne.

-- OLD BALLAD.

MY heart is sick! my heart is sick!
And sad as heart can be;
It pineth for the forest brook,
And for the forest tree;
It pineth for all gladsome things
That haunt the woodlands free.

O Silverwood, sweet Silverwood,
Thy leaves be large and long;
And there, God wot, in summer eve,
To list the small bird's song,
Were med'cine to the heart that breaks,
Like mine, in prison strong.

The sun, in idle wantonness,
Shines in this dungeon cold,
But his bright glance, through Silverwood,
I never shall behold!
I ne'er shall see each broad leaf gleam
Like banner-flag of gold.

It pains me, this o'ermastering light,
Fast flooding from the sky,
That streams through these black prison bars
In sheerest mockery,
Recalling thoughts, by green woods bred,
To mad me ere I die.

Dear western wind, now blowing soft
Upon my faded cheek,
Thy angel whisperings seem even now
Of Silverwood to speak;
Of streams and bowers that make man's heart
As very woman's weak.

Soft western wind, with music fraught,
Of all to heart most dear;
Of birds that sing in greenest glade,
Of streams that run so clear;
Why pour thy sweetness o'er the heart
That wastes in dungeon drear?

The sunshine's for the jocund heart,
The breeze is for the free;
They be for those who bend stout bow
Beneath the greenwood tree.
Sun ne'er should shine, breeze never blow,
For fettered slave like me.

I hear the hawk's scream in the wood,
The brayings of gaunt hound,
The sharp sough of the feathered shaft,
The bugle's thrilling sound;
I hear them; and, oh God, these limbs
With Spanish irons bound!

Strike these foul fetters from my wrist,
These shackles from my knee,
Set this foot 'gainst an earthfast stone,
This back 'gainst broad oak tree;
Give but one span of earth for fight,
And I once more am free!

A single hand, a single brand,
Against uncounted foes;
A heart that's withered like a leaf,
In brooding o'er its woes
Are surely not such deadly odds
For stout men to oppose.

But no; bound here midst rotting straw,
Within this noisome cell,
They joy to see a proud heart break,
And ring its own sad knell;
They joy to hear me, Silverwood,
Bid thee and life farewell.

So let it be; sweet Silverwood,
On daylight's latest beam,
My spirit seeks again thy glades
Revisits flower and stream;
And fleets through thee, unchanged in love,
In this my dying dream.





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