The Project Gutenberg EBook of Sonnets and Verse, by Hilaire Belloc This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: Sonnets and Verse Author: Hilaire Belloc Release Date: November 10, 2019 [EBook #60663] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONNETS AND VERSE *** Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) SONNETS AND VERSE BY H. BELLOC SONNETS AND VERSE BY H. BELLOC [Illustration: colophon] DUCKWORTH & CO. 3 HENRIETTA STREET, LONDON, W.C. _First Published in 1923_ _All rights reserved_ _Made and Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh_ To JOHN SWINNERTON PHILLIMORE A DEDICATION WITH THIS BOOK OF VERSE _When you and I were little tiny boys_ _We took a most impertinent delight_ _In foolish, painted and misshapen toys_ _Which hidden mothers brought to us at night._ _Do you that have the child’s diviner part--_ _The dear content a love familiar brings--_ _Take these imperfect toys, till in your heart_ _They too attain the form of perfect things._ CONTENTS I. SONNETS PAGE I. LIFT UP YOUR HEARTS IN GUMBER, LAUGH THE WEALD 3 II. I WAS LIKE ONE THAT KEEPS THE DECK BY NIGHT 4 III. RISE UP AND DO BEGIN THE DAY’S ADORNING 5 IV. THE WINTER MOON HAS SUCH A QUIET CAR 6 V. WHATEVER MOISTURE NOURISHES THE ROSE 7 VI. YOUTH GAVE YOU TO ME, BUT I’LL NOT BELIEVE 8 VII. MORTALITY IS BUT THE STUFF YOU WEAR 9 VIII. NOT FOR THE LUCKLESS BUDS OUR ROOTS MAY BEAR 10 IX. THAT WHICH IS ONE THEY SHEAR AND MAKE IT TWAIN 11 X. SHALL ANY MAN FOR WHOSE STRONG LOVE ANOTHER 12 XI. THEY THAT HAVE TAKEN WAGES OF THINGS DONE 13 XII. BEAUTY THAT PARENT IS TO DEATHLESS RHYME 14 XIII. WHAT ARE THE NAMES FOR BEAUTY? WHO SHALL PRAISE 15 XIV. LOVE WOOING HONOUR, HONOUR’S LOVE DID WIN 16 XV. YOUR LIFE IS LIKE A LITTLE WINTER’S DAY 17 XVI. NOW SHALL THE CERTAIN PURPOSE OF MY SOUL 18 XVII. BECAUSE MY FALTERING FEET MAY FAIL TO DARE 19 XVIII. WHEN YOU TO ACHERON’S UGLY WATER COME 20 XIX. WE WILL NOT WHISPER, WE HAVE FOUND THE PLACE 21 XX. I WENT TO SLEEP AT DAWN IN TUSCANY 22 XXI. ALMIGHTY GOD, WHOSE JUSTICE LIKE A SUN 23 XXII. MOTHER OF ALL MY CITIES ONCE THERE LAY 24 XXIII. NOVEMBER IS THAT HISTORIED EMPEROR 25 XXIV. HOAR TIME ABOUT THE HOUSE BETAKES HIM SLOW 26 XXV. IT FREEZES: ALL ACROSS A SOUNDLESS SKY 27 XXVI. O MY COMPANION, O MY SISTER SLEEP 28 XXVII. ARE YOU THE END, DESPAIR, OR THE POOR LEAST 29 XXVIII. BUT OH! NOT LOVELY HELEN, NOR THE PRIDE 30 XXIX. THE WORLD’S A STAGE. THE LIGHT IS IN ONE’S EYES 31 XXX. THE WORLD’S A STAGE--AND I’M THE SUPER MAN 32 XXXI. THE WORLD’S A STAGE. THE TRIFLING ENTRANCE FEE 33 II. LYRICAL, DIDACTIC AND GROTESQUE TO DIVES 37 STANZAS WRITTEN ON BATTERSEA BRIDGE DURING A SOUTH-WESTERLY GALE 39 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 42 THE FANATIC 45 THE EARLY MORNING 48 OUR LORD AND OUR LADY 49 COURTESY 51 THE NIGHT 53 THE LEADER 54 A BIVOUAC 56 TO THE BALLIOL MEN STILL IN AFRICA 57 VERSES TO A LORD WHO, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, SAID THAT THOSE WHO OPPOSED THE SOUTH AFRICAN ADVENTURE CONFUSED SOLDIERS WITH MONEY-GRUBBERS 59 THE REBEL 61 THE PROPHET LOST IN THE HILLS AT EVENING 63 THE END OF THE ROAD 65 AN ORACLE THAT WARNED THE WRITER WHEN ON PILGRIMAGE 67 THE DEATH AND LAST CONFESSION OF WANDERING PETER 68 DEDICATORY ODE 70 DEDICATION ON THE GIFT OF A BOOK TO A CHILD 78 DEDICATION OF A CHILD’S BOOK OF IMAGINARY TALES 79 HOMAGE 80 THE MOON’S FUNERAL 81 THE HAPPY JOURNALIST 83 LINES TO A DON 85 NEWDIGATE POEM 88 THE YELLOW MUSTARD 93 THE POLITICIAN OR THE IRISH EARLDOM 94 THE LOSER 96 III. SONGS NOËL 99 THE BIRDS 101 IN A BOAT 102 SONG INVITING THE INFLUENCE OF A YOUNG LADY UPON THE OPENING YEAR 104 THE RING 105 CUCKOO! 106 THE LITTLE SERVING MAID 107 AUVERGNAT 110 DRINKING SONG, ON THE EXCELLENCE OF BURGUNDY WINE 111 DRINKING DIRGE 113 WEST SUSSEX DRINKING SONG 115 A BALLAD ON SOCIOLOGICAL ECONOMICS 117 HERETICS ALL 118 HA’NACKER MILL 119 TARANTELLA 120 THE CHAUNTY OF THE “NONA” 122 THE WINGED HORSE 125 STREPHON’S SONG (FROM “THE CRUEL SHEPHERDESS”) 127 IV. BALLADES SHORT BALLADE AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS AND BOERS 131 BALLADE OF THE UNANSWERED QUESTION 134 BALLADE TO OUR LADY OF CZESTOCHOWA 136 BALLADE OF HELL AND OF MRS ROEBECK 138 BALLADE OF UNSUCCESSFUL MEN 140 BALLADE OF THE HERESIARCHS 142 V. EPIGRAMS 147 VI. THE BALLAD OF VAL-ÈS-DUNES 157 I SONNETS I Lift up your hearts in Gumber, laugh the Weald And you my mother the Valley of Arun sing. Here am I homeward from my wandering Here am I homeward and my heart is healed. You my companions whom the World has tired Come out to greet me. I have found a face More beautiful than Gardens; more desired Than boys in exile love their native place. Lift up your hearts in Gumber, laugh the Weald And you most ancient Valley of Arun sing. Here am I homeward from my wandering, Here am I homeward and my heart is healed. If I was thirsty, I have heard a spring. If I was dusty, I have found a field. II I was like one that keeps the deck by night Bearing the tiller up against his breast; I was like one whose soul is centred quite In holding course although so hardly prest, And veers with veering shock now left now right, And strains his foothold still and still makes play Of bending beams until the sacred light Shows him high lands and heralds up the day. But now such busy work of battle past I am like one whose barque at bar at last Comes hardly heeling down the adventurous breeze; And entering calmer seas, I am like one that brings his merchandise To Californian skies. III Rise up and do begin the day’s adorning; The Summer dark is but the dawn of day. The last of sunset fades into the morning; The morning calls you from the dark away. The holy mist, the white mist of the morning Was wreathing upward on my lonely way. The way was waiting for your own adorning That should complete the broad adornéd day. Rise up and do begin the day’s adorning; The little eastern clouds are dapple grey: There will be wind among the leaves to-day; It is the very promise of the morning. _Lux Tua Via Mea_: your light’s my way-- Then do rise up and make it perfect day. IV The Winter Moon has such a quiet car That all the winter nights are dumb with rest. She drives the gradual dark with drooping crest And dreams go wandering from her drowsy star Because the nights are silent do not wake But there shall tremble through the general earth, And over you, a quickening and a birth. The Sun is near the hill-tops for your sake. The latest born of all the days shall creep To kiss the tender eyelids of the year; And you shall wake, grown young with perfect sleep, And smile at the new world and make it dear With living murmurs more than dreams are deep; Silence is dead, my dawn, the morning’s here. V Whatever moisture nourishes the Rose The Rose of the World in laughter’s garden-bed Where Souls of men on faith secure are fed And spirits immortal keep their pleasure-close. Whatever moisture nourishes the Rose, The burning Rose of the world, for me the same To-day for me the spring without a name Content or Grace or Laughter overflows. This is that water from the Fount of Gold Water of Youth and washer out of cares Which Raymond of Saragossa sought of old And finding in the mountain, unawares, Returned to hear an ancient story told To Bramimond, his love, beside the marble stairs. VI Youth gave you to me, but I’ll not believe That Youth will, taking his quick self, take you. Youth’s all our Truth: he cannot so deceive. He has our graces, not our ownselves too. He still compares with time when he’ll be spent, By human doom enhancing what we are; Enriches us with rare experiment, Lends arms to leagured Age in Time’s rough war. Look! This Youth in us is an Old Man taking A Boy to make him wiser than his days. So is our old Youth our young Age’s making: So rich in time our final debt he pays. Then with your quite young arms do you me hold And I will still be young when all the World’s grown old. VII Mortality is but the Stuff you wear To show the better on the imperfect sight. Your home is surely with the changeless light Of which you are the daughter and the heir. For as you pass, the natural life of things Proclaims the Resurrection: as you pass Remembered summer shines across the grass And somewhat in me of the immortal sings. You were not made for memory, you are not Youth’s accident I think but heavenly more; Moulding to meaning slips my pen’s poor blot And opening wide that long forbidden door Where stands the Mother of God, your exemplar. How beautiful, how beautiful you are! VIII Not for the luckless buds our roots may bear Now all in bloom, now seared and cankered lying Will I entreat you, lest they should compare Foredoomed humanity with the fall of flowers. Hold thou with me the chaste communion rare And touch with life this mortal case of ours: You’re lifted up beyond the power of dying: I die, as bounded things die everywhere. You’re voiced companionship, I’m silence lonely; You’re stuff, I’m void; you’re living, I’m decay. I fall, I think, to-night and ending only; You rise, I know, through still advancing day. And knowing living gift were life for me In narrow room of rhyme I fixed it certainly. IX That which is one they shear and make it twain Who would Love’s light and dark discriminate: His pleasure is one essence with his pain, Even his desire twin brother to his hate. With him the foiled attempt is half achieving; And being mastered, to be armed a lord; And doubting every chance is still believing; And losing all one’s own is all reward. I am acquainted with misfortune’s fortune, And better than herself her dowry know: For she that is my fortune and misfortune, Making me hapless, makes me happier so: In which conceit, as older men may prove, Lies manifest the very core of Love. X Shall any man for whose strong love another Has thrown away his wealth and name in one, Shall he turn mocker of a more than brother To slight his need when his adventure’s done? Or shall a breedless boy whose mother won him In great men’s great concerns his little place Turn when his farthing honours come upon him To mock her yeoman air and conscious grace? Then mock me as you do my narrow scope, For you it was put out this light of mine: Wrongfully wrecked my new adventured hope, Wasted my wordy wealth, spilt my rich wine, Made my square ship within a league of shore Alas! To be entombed in seas and seen no more. XI They that have taken wages of things done When sense abused has blocked the doors of sense, They that have lost their heritage of the sun, Their laughter and their holy innocence; They turn them now to this thing, now to t’other, For anchor hold against swift-eddying time, Some to that square of earth which was their mother, And some to noisy fame, and some to rhyme. But I to that far morning where you stood In fullness of the body, with your hands Reposing on your walls, before your lands, And all, together, making one great good: Then did I cry “For this my birth was meant. These are my use, and this my sacrament!” XII Beauty that Parent is to deathless Rhyme Was Manhood’s maker: you shall bear a Son, Till Daughters linked adown admiring time Fulfil the mother, handing Beauty on. You shall by breeding make Life answer yet, In Time’s despite, Time’s jeer that men go void; Your stamp of heaven shall be more largely set Than my one joy, ten thousand times enjoyed. The glories of our state and its achievement, Which wait their passing, shall not pass away. I will extend our term beyond bereavement, And launch our date into a dateless day. For you shall make recórd, and when that’s sealed In Beauty made immortal, all is healed. XIII What are the names for Beauty? Who shall praise God’s pledge he can fulfil His creatures’ eyes? Or what strong words of what creative phrase Determine Beauty’s title in the skies? But I will call you Beauty Personate, Ambassadorial Beauty, and again Beauty triumphant, Beauty in the Gate, Beauty salvation of the souls of men. For Beauty was not Beauty till you came And now shall Beauty mean the sign you are; A Beacon burnt above the Dawn, a flame Like holy Lucifer the Morning Star, Who latest hangs in Heaven and is the gem On all the widowéd Night’s expectant Diadem. XIV Love wooing Honour, Honour’s love did win And had his pleasure all a summer’s day. Not understanding how the dooms begin, Love wooing Honour, wooed her life away. Then wandered he a full five years unrest Until, one night, this Honour that had died Came as he slept, in youth grown glorified And smiling like the Saints whom God has blest. But when he saw her on the clear night shine Serene with more than mortal light upon her, The boy that careless was of things divine, Small Love, turned penitent to worship Honour. So Love can conquer Honour: when that’s past Dead Honour risen outdoes Love at last. XV Your life is like a little winter’s day Whose sad sun rises late to set too soon; You have just come--why will you go away, Making an evening of what should be noon. Your life is like a little flute complaining A long way off, beyond the willow trees: A long way off, and nothing left remaining But memory of a music on the breeze. Your life is like a pitiful leave-taking Wept in a dream before a man’s awaking, A Call with only shadows to attend: A Benediction whispered and belated Which has no fruit beyond a consecrated, A consecrated silence at the end. XVI Now shall the certain purpose of my soul By blind and empty things controlled be, And mine audacious course to that far goal Fall short, confessing mere mortality. Limbs shall have movement and ignore their living, Brain wit, that he his quickness may deny. My promised hope forswears in act of giving, Time eats me up and makes my words a lie. And mine unbounded dream has found a bar, And I must worst deceit of best things bear. Now dawn’s but daybreak, seas but waters are, Night darkness only, all wide heaven just air: And you to whom these fourteen lines I tell, My beauty, my desire: but not my love as well. XVII Because my faltering feet may fail to dare The first descendant of the steps of Hell Give me the Word in time that triumphs there. I too must pass into the misty hollow Where all our living laughter stops: and hark! The tiny stuffless voices of the dark Have called me, called me, till I needs must follow: Give me the Word and I’ll attempt it well. Say it’s the little winking of an eye Which in that issue is uncurtained quite; A little sleep that helps a moment by Between the thin dawn and the large daylight. Ah! tell me more than yet was hoped of men; Swear that’s true now, and I’ll believe it then. XVIII When you to Acheron’s ugly water come Where darkness is and formless mourners brood And down the shelves of that distasteful flood Survey the human rank in order dumb. When the pale dead go forward, tortured more By nothingness and longing than by fire, Which bear their hands in suppliance with desire, With stretched desire for the ulterior shore. Then go before them like a royal ghost And tread like Egypt or like Carthage crowned; Because in your Mortality the most Of all we may inherit has been found-- Children for memory: the Faith for pride. Good land to leave: and young Love satisfied. XIX We will not whisper, we have found the place Of silence and the endless halls of sleep. And that which breathes alone throughout the deep The end and the beginning: and the face Between the level brows of whose blind eyes Lie plenary contentment, full surcease Of violence, and the passionless long peace Wherein we lose our human lullabies. Look up and tell the immeasurable height Between the vault of the world and your dear head; That’s death, my little sister, and the night Which was our Mother beckons us to bed, Where large oblivion in her house is laid For us tired children, now our games are played. XX I went to sleep at Dawn in Tuscany Beneath a Rock and dreamt a morning dream. I thought I stood by that baptismal stream Whereon the bounds of our redemption lie. And there, beyond, a radiance rose to take My soul at passing, in which light your eyes So filled me I was drunk with Paradise. Then the day broadened, but I did not wake. Here’s the last edge of my long parchment furled And all was writ that you might read it so. This sleep I swear shall last the length of day; Not noise, not chance, shall drive this dream away: Not time, not treachery, not good fortune--no, Not all the weight of all the wears of the world. XXI Almighty God, whose justice like a sun Shall coruscate along the floors of Heaven, Raising what’s low, perfecting what’s undone, Breaking the proud and making odd things even. The poor of Jesus Christ along the street In your rain sodden, in your snows unshod, They have nor hearth, nor sword, nor human meat, Nor even the bread of men: Almighty God. The poor of Jesus Christ whom no man hears Have waited on your vengeance much too long. Wipe out not tears but blood: our eyes bleed tears. Come smite our damnéd sophistries so strong That thy rude hammer battering this rude wrong Ring down the abyss of twice ten thousand years. XXII Mother of all my cities once there lay About your weedy wharves an orient shower Of spice and languorous silk and all the dower That Ocean gave you on his bridal day. And now the youth and age have passed away And all the sail superb and all the power; Your time’s a time of memory like that hour Just after sunset, wonderful and grey. Too tired to rise and much too sad to weep, With strong arm nerveless on a nerveless knee, Still to your slumbering ears the spousal deep Murmurs his thoughts of eld eternally; But your soul wakes not from its holy sleep Dreaming of dead delights beside a tideless sea. XXIII November is that historied Emperor Conquered in age but foot to foot with fate Who from his refuge high has heard the roar Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late, Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war, And arms the garrison of his last heirloom, And shakes the sky to its extremest shore With battle against irrevocable doom. Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels, He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on, Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells And final benedictions and is gone. But in my garden all the trees have shed Their legacies of the light and all the flowers are dead. XXIV Hoar Time about the House betakes him slow Seeking an entry for his weariness. And in that dreadful company distress And the sad night with silent footsteps go. On my poor fire the brands are scarce aglow And in the woods without what memories press Where, waning in the trees from less to less Mysterious hangs the hornéd moon and low. For now December, full of agéd care Comes in upon the year and weakly grieves; Mumbling his lost desires and his despair And with mad trembling hand still interweaves The dank sear flower-stalks tangled in his hair, While round about him whirl the rotten leaves. XXV It freezes: all across a soundless sky The birds go home. The governing dark’s begun. The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun; The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die. Death with his evil finger to his lip Leers in at human windows, turning spy To learn the country where his rule shall lie When he assumes perpetual generalship. The undefeated enemy, the chill That shall benumb the voiceful earth at last, Is master of our moment, and has bound The viewless wind itself. There is no sound. It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast. It freezes, and the graven twigs are still. XXVI O my companion, O my sister Sleep, The valley is all before us, bear me on. High through the heaven of evening, hardly gone, Beyond the harbour lights, beyond the steep, Beyond the land and its lost benison To where, majestic on the darkening deep, The night comes forward from Mount Aurion. O my companion, O my sister Sleep. Above the surf-line, into the night-breeze; Eastward above the ever-whispering seas; Through the warm airs with no more watch to keep. My day’s run out and all its dooms are graven. O dear forerunner of Death and promise of Haven. O my companion, O my sister Sleep. XXVII Are you the end, Despair, or the poor least Of them that cast great shadows and are lies? That dread the simple and destroy the wise, Fail at the tomb and triumph at the feast? You were not found on Olivet, dull beast, Nor in Thebaid, when the night’s agonies Dissolved to glory on the effulgent east And Jesus Christ was in the morning skies. You did not curb the indomitable crest Of Tzerna-Gora, when the Falcon-bred Screamed over the Adriatic, and their Lord Went riding out, much angrier than the rest, To summon at ban the living and the dead And break the Mahommedan with the repeated sword. XXVIII But oh! not Lovely Helen, nor the pride Of that most ancient Ilium matched with doom. Men murdered Priam in his royal room And Troy was burned with fire and Hector died. For even Hector’s dreadful day was more Than all his breathing courage dared defend The armouréd light and bulwark of the war Trailed his great story to the accustomed end. He was the city’s buttress, Priam’s Son, The Soldier born in bivouac praises great And horns in double front of battle won. Yet down he went: when unremembering fate Felled him at last with all his armour on. Hector: the horseman: in the Scæan Gate. XXIX The world’s a stage. The light is in one’s eyes. The Auditorium is extremely dark. The more dishonest get the larger rise; The more offensive make the greater mark. The women on it prosper by their shape, Some few by their vivacity. The men, By tailoring in breeches and in cape. The world’s a stage--I say it once again. The scenery is very much the best Of what the wretched drama has to show, Also the prompter happens to be dumb. We drink behind the scenes and pass a jest On all our folly; then, before we go Loud cries for “Author” ... but he doesn’t come. XXX The world’s a stage--and I’m the Super man, And no one seems responsible for salary. I roar my part as loudly as I can And all I mouth I mouth it to the gallery. I haven’t got another rhyme in “alery” It would have made a better job, no doubt If I had left attempt at Rhyming out, Like Alfred Tennyson adapting Malory. The world’s a stage, the company of which Has very little talent and less reading: But many a waddling heathen painted bitch And many a standing cad of gutter breeding. We sweat to learn our book: for all our pains We pass. The Chucker-out alone remains. XXXI The world’s a stage. The trifling entrance fee Is paid (by proxy) to the registrar. The Orchestra is very loud and free But plays no music in particular. They do not print a programme, that I know. The caste is large. There isn’t any plot. The acting of the piece is far below The very worst of modernistic rot. The only part about it I enjoy Is what was called in English the Foyay. There will I stand apart awhile and toy With thought, and set my cigarette alight; And then--without returning to the play-- On with my coat and out into the night. II LYRICAL, DIDACTIC AND GROTESQUE TO DIVES Dives, when you and I go down to Hell, Where scribblers end and millionaires as well, We shall be carrying on our separate backs Two very large but very different packs; And as you stagger under yours, my friend, Down the dull shore where all our journeys end, And go before me (as your rank demands) Towards the infinite flat underlands, And that dear river of forgetfulness-- Charon, a man of exquisite address (For, as your wife’s progenitors could tell, They’re very strict on etiquette in Hell), Will, since you are a lord, observe, “My lord, We cannot take these weighty things aboard!” Then down they go, my wretched Dives, down-- The fifteen sorts of boots you kept for town, The hat to meet the Devil in; the plain But costly ties; the cases of champagne; The solid watch, and seal, and chain, and charm; The working model of a Burning Farm (To give the little Belials); all the three Biscuits for Cerberus; the guarantee From Lambeth that the Rich can never burn, And even promising a safe return; The admirable overcoat, designed To cross Cocytus--very warmly lined: Sweet Dives, you will leave them all behind And enter Hell as tattered and as bare As was your father when he took the air Behind a barrow-load in Leicester Square. Then turned to me, and noting one that brings With careless step a mist of shadowy things: Laughter and memories, and a few regrets, Some honour, and a quantity of debts, A doubt or two of sorts, a trust in God, And (what will seem to you extremely odd) His father’s granfer’s father’s father’s name, Unspoilt, untitled, even spelt the same; Charon, who twenty thousand times before Has ferried Poets to the ulterior shore, Will estimate the weight I bear, and cry-- “Comrade!” (He has himself been known to try His hand at Latin and Italian verse, Much in the style of Virgil--only worse) “We let such vain imaginaries pass!” Then tell me, Dives, which will look the ass-- You, or myself? Or Charon? Who can tell? They order things so damnably in Hell. STANZAS WRITTEN ON BATTERSEA BRIDGE DURING A SOUTH-WESTERLY GALE The woods and downs have caught the mid-December, The noisy woods and high sea-downs of home; The wind has found me and I do remember The strong scent of the foam. Woods, darlings of my wandering feet, another Possesses you, another treads the Down; The South West Wind that was my elder brother Has come to me in town. The wind is shouting from the hills of morning, I do remember and I will not stay. I’ll take the Hampton road without a warning And get me clean away. The Channel is up, the little seas are leaping, The tide is making over Arun Bar; And there’s my boat, where all the rest are sleeping And my companions are. I’ll board her, and apparel her, and I’ll mount her, My boat, that was the strongest friend to me-- That brought my boyhood to its first encounter And taught me the wide sea. Now shall I drive her, roaring hard a’ weather, Right for the salt and leave them all behind; We’ll quite forget the treacherous streets together And find--or shall we find? There is no Pilotry my soul relies on Whereby to catch beneath my bended hand, Faint and beloved along the extreme horizon That unforgotten land. We shall not round the granite piers and paven To lie to wharves we know with canvas furled. My little Boat, we shall not make the haven-- It is not of the world. Somewhere of English forelands grandly guarded It stands, but not for exiles, marked and clean; Oh! not for us. A mist has risen and marred it:-- My youth lies in between. So in this snare that holds me and appals me, Where honour hardly lives nor loves remain, The Sea compels me and my County calls me, But stronger things restrain. * * * * * England, to me that never have malingered, Nor spoken falsely, nor your flattery used, Nor even in my rightful garden lingered:-- What have you not refused? THE SOUTH COUNTRY When I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind. The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea; And it’s there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me. The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle-walls a man may see The mountains far away. The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song. But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise. I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the Downs So noble and so bare. A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend? I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald, They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed. If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told. I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me. THE FANATIC Last night in Compton Street, Soho, A man whom many of you know Gave up the ghost at half past nine. That evening he had been to dine At Gressington’s--an act unwise, But not the cause of his demise. The doctors all agree that he Was touched with cardiac atrophy Accelerated (more or less) By lack of proper food, distress, Uncleanliness, and loss of sleep. He was a man that could not keep His money (when he had the same) Because of creditors who came And took it from him; and he gave So freely that he could not save. But all the while a sort of whim Persistently remained with him, Half admirable, half absurd: To keep his word, to keep his word.... By which he did not mean what you And I would mean (of payments due Or punctual rental of the Flat-- He was a deal too mad for that) But--as he put it with a fine Abandon, foolish or divine-- But “That great word which every man Gave God before his life began.” It was a sacred word, he said, Which comforted the pathless dead And made God smile when it was shown Unforfeited, before the Throne. And this (he said) he meant to hold In spite of debt, and hate, and cold; And this (he said) he meant to show As passport to the Wards below. He boasted of it and gave praise To his own self through all his days. He wrote a record to preserve How steadfastly he did not swerve From keeping it; how stiff he stood Its guardian, and maintained it good. He had two witnesses to swear He kept it once in Berkeley Square. (Where hardly anything survives) And, through the loneliest of lives He kept it clean, he kept it still, Down to the last extremes of ill. So when he died, of many friends Who came in crowds from all the ends Of London, that it might be known They knew the man who died alone, Some, who had thought his mood sublime And sent him soup from time to time, Said, “Well, you cannot make them fit The world, and there’s an end of it!” But others, wondering at him, said: “The man that kept his word is dead!” Then angrily, a certain third Cried, “Gentlemen, he kept his word. And as a man whom beasts surround Tumultuous, on a little mound Stands Archer, for one dreadful hour, Because a Man is born to Power-- And still, to daunt the pack below, Twangs the clear purpose of his bow, Till overwhelmed he dares to fall: So stood this bulwark of us all. He kept his word as none but he Could keep it, and as did not we. And round him as he kept his word To-day’s diseased and faithless herd, A moment loud, a moment strong, But foul forever, rolled along.” THE EARLY MORNING The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother. The moon on my left and the dawn on my right. My brother, good morning: my sister, good night. OUR LORD AND OUR LADY They warned Our Lady for the Child That was Our blessed Lord, And She took Him into the desert wild, Over the camel’s ford. And a long song She sang to Him And a short story told: And She wrapped Him in a woollen cloak To keep Him from the cold. But when Our Lord was grown a man The Rich they dragged Him down, And they crucified Him in Golgotha, Out and beyond the Town. They crucified Him on Calvary, Upon an April day; And because He had been her little Son She followed Him all the way. Our Lady stood beside the Cross, A little space apart, And when She heard Our Lord cry out A sword went through Her Heart. They laid Our Lord in a marble tomb, Dead, in a winding sheet. But Our Lady stands above the world With the white Moon at Her feet. COURTESY Of Courtesy, it is much less Than Courage of Heart or Holiness, Yet in my Walks it seems to me That the Grace of God is in Courtesy. On Monks I did in Storrington fall, They took me straight into their Hall; I saw Three Pictures on a wall, And Courtesy was in them all. The first the Annunciation; The second the Visitation; The third the Consolation, Of God that was Our Lady’s Son. The first was of Saint Gabriel; On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell; And as he went upon one knee He shone with Heavenly Courtesy. Our Lady out of Nazareth rode-- It was Her month of heavy load; Yet was Her face both great and kind, For Courtesy was in Her Mind. The third it was our Little Lord, Whom all the Kings in arms adored; He was so small you could not see His large intent of Courtesy. Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son, Go bless you, People, one by one; My Rhyme is written, my work is done. THE NIGHT Most holy Night, that still dost keep The keys of all the doors of sleep, To me when my tired eyelids close Give thou repose. And let the far lament of them That chaunt the dead day’s requiem Make in my ears, who wakeful lie, Soft lullaby. Let them that guard the horned moon By my bedside their memories croon. So shall I have new dreams and blest In my brief rest. Fold your great wings about my face, Hide dawning from my resting-place, And cheat me with your false delight, Most Holy Night. THE LEADER The sword fell down: I heard a knell; I thought that ease was best, And sullen men that buy and sell Were host: and I was guest. All unashamed I sat with swine, We shook the dice for war, The night was drunk with an evil wine-- But she went on before. _She rode a steed of the sea-foam breed,_ _All faery was her blade,_ _And the armour on her tender limbs_ _Was of the moonshine made._ By God that sends the master-maids, I know not whence she came, But the sword she bore to save the soul Went up like an altar flame Where a broken race in a desert place Call on the Holy Name. _We strained our eyes in the dim day-rise,_ _We could not see them plain;_ _But two dead men from Valmy fen_ _Rode at her bridle-rein._ I hear them all, my fathers call, I see them how they ride, And where had been that rout obscene Was an army straight with pride. A hundred thousand marching men, Of squadrons twenty score, And after them all the guns, the guns, But she went on before. _Her face was like a king’s command_ _When all the swords are drawn._ _She stretched her arms and smiled at us,_ _Her head was higher than the hills._ _She led us to the endless plains._ _We lost her in the dawn._ A BIVOUAC I You came without a human sound, You came and brought my soul to me; I only woke, and all around They slumbered on the firelit ground, Beside the guns in Burgundy. II I felt the gesture of your hands, You signed my forehead with the Cross; The gesture of your holy hands Was bounteous--like the misty lands Along the Hills in Calvados. III But when I slept I saw your eyes, Hungry as death, and very far. I saw demand in your dim eyes Mysterious as the moons that rise At midnight, in the Pines of Var. TO THE BALLIOL MEN STILL IN AFRICA Years ago when I was at Balliol, Balliol men--and I was one-- Swam together in winter rivers, Wrestled together under the sun. And still in the heart of us, Balliol, Balliol, Loved already, but hardly known, Welded us each of us into the others: Called a levy and chose her own. Here is a House that armours a man With the eyes of a boy and the heart of a ranger, And a laughing way in the teeth of the world And a holy hunger and thirst for danger: Balliol made me, Balliol fed me, Whatever I had she gave me again: And the best of Balliol loved and led me. God be with you, Balliol men. I have said it before, and I say it again, There was treason done, and a false word spoken, And England under the dregs of men, And bribes about, and a treaty broken: But angry, lonely, hating it still, I wished to be there in spite of the wrong. My heart was heavy for Cumnor Hill And the hammer of galloping all day long. Galloping outward into the weather, Hands a-ready and battle in all: Words together and wine together And song together in Balliol Hall. Rare and single! Noble and few!... Oh! they have wasted you over the sea! The only brothers ever I knew, The men that laughed and quarrelled with me. * * * * * Balliol made me, Balliol fed me, Whatever I had she gave me again; And the best of Balliol loved and led me, God be with you, Balliol men. VERSES TO A LORD WHO, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, SAID THAT THOSE WHO OPPOSED THE SOUTH AFRICAN ADVENTURE CONFUSED SOLDIERS WITH MONEY-GRUBBERS You thought because we held, my lord, An ancient cause and strong, That therefore we maligned the sword: My lord, you did us wrong. We also know the sacred height Up on Tugela side, Where those three hundred fought with Beit And fair young Wernher died. The daybreak on the failing force, The final sabres drawn: Tall Goltman, silent on his horse, Superb against the dawn. The little mound where Eckstein stood And gallant Albu fell, And Oppenheim, half blind with blood Went fording through the rising flood-- My Lord, we know them well. The little empty homes forlorn, The ruined synagogues that mourn, In Frankfort and Berlin; We knew them when the peace was torn-- We of a nobler lineage born-- And now by all the gods of scorn We mean to rub them in. THE REBEL There is a wall of which the stones Are lies and bribes and dead men’s bones. And wrongfully this evil wall Denies what all men made for all, And shamelessly this wall surrounds Our homesteads and our native grounds. But I will gather and I will ride, And I will summon a countryside, And many a man shall hear my halloa Who never had thought the horn to follow; And many a man shall ride with me Who never had thought on earth to see High Justice in her armoury. When we find them where they stand, A mile of men on either hand, I mean to charge from right away And force the flanks of their array, And press them inward from the plains, And drive them clamouring down the lanes, And gallop and harry and have them down, And carry the gates and hold the town. Then shall I rest me from my ride With my great anger satisfied. Only, before I eat and drink, When I have killed them all, I think That I will batter their carven names, And slit the pictures in their frames, And burn for scent their cedar door, And melt the gold their women wore, And hack their horses at the knees, And hew to death their timber trees, And plough their gardens deep and through-- And all these things I mean to do For fear perhaps my little son Should break his hands, as I have done. THE PROPHET LOST IN THE HILLS AT EVENING Strong God which made the topmost stars To circulate and keep their course, Remember me; whom all the bars Of sense and dreadful fate enforce. Above me in your heights and tall, Impassable the summits freeze, Below the haunted waters call Impassable beyond the trees. I hunger and I have no bread. My gourd is empty of the wine. Surely the footsteps of the dead Are shuffling softly close to mine! It darkens. I have lost the ford. There is a change on all things made. The rocks have evil faces, Lord, And I am awfully afraid. Remember me: the Voids of Hell Expand enormous all around. Strong friend of souls, Emmanuel, Redeem me from accursed ground. The long descent of wasted days, To these at last have led me down; Remember that I filled with praise The meaningless and doubtful ways That lead to an eternal town. I challenged and I kept the Faith, The bleeding path alone I trod; It darkens. Stand about my wraith, And harbour me--almighty God. THE END OF THE ROAD IN THESE BOOTS AND WITH THIS STAFF Two hundred leaguers and a half Walked I, went I, paced I, tripped I, Marched I, held I, skelped I, slipped I, Pushed I, panted, swung and dashed I; Picked I, forded, swam and splashed I, Strolled I, climbed I, crawled and scrambled, Dropped and dipped I, ranged and rambled; Plodded I, hobbled I, trudged and tramped I, And in lonely spinnies camped I, And in haunted pinewoods slept I, Lingered, loitered, limped and crept I, Clambered, halted, stepped and leapt I; Slowly sauntered, roundly strode I, And ... (Oh! Patron saints and Angels That protect the four Evangels! And you Prophets vel majores Vel incerti, vel minores, Virgines ac confessores Chief of whose peculiar glories Est in Aula Regis stare Atque orare et exorare Et clamare et conclamare Clamantes cum clamoribus Pro Nobis Peccatoribus.) Let me not conceal it.... _Rode I._ (For who but critics could complain Of “riding” in a railway train?) Across the valley and the high-land, With all the world on either hand Drinking when I had a mind to, Singing when I felt inclined to; Nor ever turned my face to home Till I had slaked my heart at Rome. AN ORACLE THAT WARNED THE WRITER WHEN ON PILGRIMAGE Matutinus adest ubi Vesper, et accipiens te Saepe recusatum voces intelligit hospes Rusticus ignotas notas, ac flumina tellus Occupat--In sancto tum, tum, stans Aede caveto Tonsuram Hirsuti Capitis, via namque pedestrem Ferrea praeveniens cursum, peregrine, laborem Pro pietate tua inceptum frustratur, amore Antiqui Ritus alto sub Numine Romae. _Translation of the above_:-- When early morning seems but eve And they that still refuse receive: When speech unknown men understand; And floods are crossed upon dry land. Within the Sacred Walls beware The Shaven Head that boasts of Hair, For when the road attains the rail The Pilgrim’s great attempt shall fail. THE DEATH AND LAST CONFESSION OF WANDERING PETER When Peter Wanderwide was young He wandered everywhere he would: And all that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good. When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre, He chanted in heroic tone To priests and people gathered there: “If all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day, I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array. “Almighty God will surely cry, ‘St Michael! Who is this that stands With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands, “‘And on his arm the stirrup-thongs, And in his gait the narrow seas, And in his mouth Burgundian songs, But in his heart the Pyrenees?’ “St Michael then will answer right (And not without angelic shame), ‘I seem to know his face by sight: I cannot recollect his name ...?’ “St Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too: ‘I know him for the best of men That ever wallopped barley brew. “‘And though I did not know him well And though his soul were clogged with sin, _I_ hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Be welcome, noble Peterkin.’ “Then shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor, And tell the Blessed doubtful things Of Val d’Aran and Perigord.” * * * * * This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide. He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died. DEDICATORY ODE I mean to write with all my strength (It lately has been sadly waning), A ballad of enormous length-- Some parts of which will need explaining.[A] Because (unlike the bulk of men Who write for fame or public ends), I turn a lax and fluent pen To talking of my private friends.[B] For no one, in our long decline, So dusty, spiteful and divided, Had quite such pleasant friends as mine, Or loved them half as much as I did. * * * * * The Freshman ambles down the High, In love with everything he sees, He notes the racing autumn sky. He sniffs a lively autumn breeze. “Can this be Oxford? This the place?” (He cries) “of which my father said The tutoring was a damned disgrace, The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead? “Can it be here that Uncle Paul Was driven by excessive gloom, To drink and debt, and, last of all, To smoking opium in his room? “Is it from here the people come, Who talk so loud, and roll their eyes, And stammer? How extremely rum! How curious! What a great surprise. “Some influence of a nobler day Than theirs (I mean than Uncle Paul’s), Has roused the sleep of their decay, And flecked with life their crumbling walls. “O! dear undaunted boys of old, Would that your names were carven here, For all the world in stamps of gold, That I might read them and revere. “Who wrought and handed down for me This Oxford of the larger air, Laughing, and full of faith, and free, With youth resplendent everywhere?” Then learn: thou ill-instructed, blind, Young, callow, and untutored man, Their private names were....[C] Their club was called REPUBLICAN. * * * * * Where on their banks of light they lie, The happy hills of Heaven between, The Gods that rule the morning sky Are not more young, nor more serene Than were the intrepid Four that stand, The first who dared to live their dream. And on this uncongenial land To found the Abbey of Theleme. We kept the Rabelaisian plan:[D] We dignified the dainty cloisters With Natural Law, the Rights of Man, Song, Stoicism, Wine and Oysters. The library was most inviting: The books upon the crowded shelves Were mainly of our private writing: We kept a school and taught ourselves. We taught the art of writing things On men we still should like to throttle: And where to get the Blood of Kings At only half a crown a bottle. * * * * * Eheu Fugaces! Postume! (An old quotation out of mode); My coat of dreams is stolen away My youth is passing down the road. * * * * * The wealth of youth, we spent it well And decently, as very few can. And is it lost? I cannot tell: And what is more, I doubt if you can. The question’s very much too wide, And much too deep, and much too hollow, And learned men on either side Use arguments I cannot follow. They say that in the unchanging place, Where all we loved is always dear, We meet our morning face to face And find at last our twentieth year.... They say (and I am glad they say) It is so; and it may be so: It may be just the other way, I cannot tell. But this I know: From quiet homes and first beginning, Out to the undiscovered ends, There’s nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends. * * * * * But something dwindles, oh! my peers, And something cheats the heart and passes, And Tom that meant to shake the years Has come to merely rattling glasses. And He, the Father of the Flock, Is keeping Burmesans in order, An exile on a lonely rock That overlooks the Chinese border. And One (Myself I mean--no less), Ah!--will Posterity believe it-- Not only don’t deserve success, But hasn’t managed to achieve it. Not even this peculiar town Has ever fixed a friendship firmer, But--one is married, one’s gone down, And one’s a Don, and one’s in Burmah. * * * * * And oh! the days, the days, the days, When all the four were off together: The infinite deep of summer haze, The roaring boast of autumn weather! * * * * * I will not try the reach again, I will not set my sail alone, To moor a boat bereft of men At Yarnton’s tiny docks of stone. But I will sit beside the fire, And put my hand before my eyes, And trace, to fill my heart’s desire, The last of all our Odysseys. The quiet evening kept her tryst: Beneath an open sky we rode, And passed into a wandering mist Along the perfect Evenlode. The tender Evenlode that makes Her meadows hush to hear the sound Of waters mingling in the brakes, And binds my heart to English ground. A lovely river, all alone, She lingers in the hills and holds A hundred little towns of stone, Forgotten in the western wolds. * * * * * I dare to think (though meaner powers Possess our thrones, and lesser wits Are drinking worser wine than ours, In what’s no longer Austerlitz) That surely a tremendous ghost, The brazen-lunged, the bumper-filler, Still sings to an immortal toast, The Misadventures of the Miller. The unending seas are hardly bar To men with such a prepossession: We were? Why then, by God, we _are_-- Order! I call the Club to session! You do retain the song we set, And how it rises, trips and scans? You keep the sacred memory yet, Republicans? Republicans? You know the way the words were hurled, To break the worst of fortune’s rub? I give the toast across the world, And drink it, “Gentlemen: the Club.” DEDICATION ON THE GIFT OF A BOOK TO A CHILD Child! do not throw this book about! Refrain from the unholy pleasure Of cutting all the pictures out! Preserve it as your chiefest treasure. Child, have you never heard it said That you are heir to all the ages? Why, then, your hands were never made To tear these beautiful thick pages! Your little hands were made to take The better things and leave the worse ones: They also may be used to shake The Massive Paws of Elder Persons. And when your prayers complete the day, Darling, your little tiny hands Were also made, I think, to pray For men that lose their fairylands. DEDICATION OF A CHILD’S BOOK OF IMAGINARY TALES WHEREIN WRONG-DOERS SUFFER And is it true? It is not true! And if it was it wouldn’t do For people such as me and you, Who very nearly all day long Are doing something rather wrong. HOMAGE I There is a light around your head Which only Saints of God may wear, And all the flowers on which you tread In pleasaunce more than ours have fed, And supped the essential air Whose summer is a-pulse with music everywhere. II For you are younger than the mornings are That in the mountains break; When upland shepherds see their only star Pale on the dawn, and make In his surcease the hours, The early hours of all their happy circuit take. THE MOON’S FUNERAL I The Moon is dead. I saw her die. She in a drifting cloud was drest, She lay along the uncertain west, A dream to see. And very low she spake to me: “I go where none may understand, I fade into the nameless land, And there must lie perpetually.” And therefore I, And therefore loudly, loudly I And high And very piteously make cry: “The Moon is dead. I saw her die.” II And will she never rise again? The Holy Moon? Oh, never more! Perhaps along the inhuman shore Where pale ghosts are Beyond the low lethean fen She and some wide infernal star.... To us who loved her never more, The Moon will never rise again. Oh! never more in nightly sky Her eye so high shall peep and pry To see the great world rolling by. For why? The Moon is dead. I saw her die. THE HAPPY JOURNALIST I love to walk about at night By nasty lanes and corners foul, All shielded from the unfriendly light And independent as the owl. By dirty grates I love to lurk; I often stoop to take a squint At printers working at their work. I muse upon the rot they print. The beggars please me, and the mud: The editors beneath their lamps As--Mr Howl demanding blood, And Lord Retender stealing stamps, And Mr Bing instructing liars, His elder son composing trash; Beaufort (whose real name is Meyers) Refusing anything but cash. I like to think of Mr Meyers, I like to think of Mr Bing. I like to think about the liars: It pleases me, that sort of thing. Policemen speak to me, but I, Remembering my civic rights, Neglect them and do not reply. I love to walk about at nights! At twenty-five to four I bunch Across a cab I can’t afford. I ring for breakfast after lunch. I am as happy as a lord! LINES TO A DON Remote and ineffectual Don That dared attack my Chesterton, With that poor weapon, half-impelled, Unlearnt, unsteady, hardly held, Unworthy for a tilt with men-- Your quavering and corroded pen; Don poor at Bed and worse at Table, Don pinched, Don starved, Don miserable; Don stuttering, Don with roving eyes, Don nervous, Don of crudities; Don clerical, Don ordinary, Don self-absorbed and solitary; Don here-and-there, Don epileptic; Don puffed and empty, Don dyspeptic; Don middle-class, Don sycophantic, Don dull, Don brutish, Don pedantic; Don hypocritical, Don bad, Don furtive, Don three-quarters mad; Don (since a man must make an end), Don that shall never be my friend. * * * * * Don different from those regal Dons! With hearts of gold and lungs of bronze, Who shout and bang and roar and bawl The Absolute across the hall, Or sail in amply bellowing gown Enormous through the Sacred Town, Bearing from College to their homes Deep cargoes of gigantic tomes; Dons admirable! Dons of Might! Uprising on my inward sight Compact of ancient tales, and port And sleep--and learning of a sort. Dons English, worthy of the land; Dons rooted; Dons that understand. Good Dons perpetual that remain A landmark, walling in the plain-- The horizon of my memories-- Like large and comfortable trees. * * * * * Don very much apart from these, Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted, Don to thine own damnation quoted, Perplexed to find thy trivial name Reared in my verse to lasting shame. Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing, Repulsive Don--Don past all bearing. Don of the cold and doubtful breath, Don despicable, Don of death; Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level; Don evil; Don that serves the devil. Don ugly--that makes fifty lines. There is a Canon which confines A Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse If written in Iambic Verse To fifty lines. I never cut; I far prefer to end it--but Believe me I shall soon return. My fires are banked, but still they burn To write some more about the Don That dared attack my Chesterton. NEWDIGATE POEM A PRIZE POEM SUBMITTED BY MR LAMBKIN, THEN SCHOLAR AND LATER FELLOW OF BURFORD COLLEGE, TO THE EXAMINERS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD ON THE PRESCRIBED POETIC THEME SET BY THEM IN 1893, “THE BENEFITS OF THE ELECTRIC LIGHT” Hail, Happy Muse, and touch the tuneful string! The benefits conferred by Science[E] I sing. Under the kind Examiners’ direction[F] I only write about them in connection With benefits which the Electric Light Confers on us; especially at night. These are my theme, of these my song shall rise. My lofty head shall swell to strike the skies.[G] And tears of hopeless love bedew the maiden’s eyes. Descend, O Muse, from thy divine abode, To Osney, on the Seven Bridges Road; For under Osney’s solitary shade The bulk of the Electric Light is made. Here are the works;--from hence the current flows Which (so the Company’s prospectus goes) Can furnish to Subscribers hour by hour No less than sixteen thousand candle power,[H] All at a thousand volts. (It is essential To keep the current at this high potential In spite of the considerable expense.) The Energy developed represents, Expressed in foot-tons, the united forces Of fifteen elephants and forty horses. But shall my scientific detail thus Clip the dear wings of Buoyant Pegasus? Shall pure statistics jar upon the ear That pants for Lyric accents loud and clear? Shall I describe the complex Dynamo Or write about its Commutator? No! To happier fields I lead my wanton pen, The proper study of mankind is men. Awake, my Muse! Portray the pleasing sight That meets us where they make Electric Light. Behold the Electrician where he stands: Soot, oil, and verdigris are on his hands; Large spots of grease defile his dirty clothes, The while his conversation drips with oaths. Shall such a being perish in its youth? Alas! it is indeed the fatal truth. In that dull brain, beneath that hair unkempt, Familiarity has bred contempt. We warn him of the gesture all too late: Oh, Heartless Jove! Oh, Adamantine Fate! A random touch--a hand’s imprudent slip-- The Terminals--a flash--a sound like “Zip!” A smell of burning fills the started Air-- The Electrician is no longer there! But let us turn with true Artistic scorn From facts funereal and from views forlorn Of Erebus and Blackest midnight born.[I] Arouse thee, Muse! and chaunt in accents rich The interesting processes by which The Electricity is passed along: These are my theme: to these I bend my song. It runs encased in wood or porous brick Through copper wires two millimetres thick, And insulated on their dangerous mission By indiarubber, silk, or composition. Here you may put with critical felicity The following question: “What is Electricity?” “Molecular Activity,” say some, Others when asked say nothing, and are dumb. Whatever be its nature, this is clear: The rapid current checked in its career, Baulked in its race and halted in its course[J] Transforms to heat and light its latent force: It needs no pedant in the lecturer’s chair To prove that light and heat are present there. The pear-shaped vacuum globe, I understand, Is far too hot to fondle with the hand. While, as is patent to the meanest sight, The carbon filament is very bright. As for the lights they hang about the town, Some praise them highly, others run them down. This system (technically called the Arc), Makes some passages too light, others too dark. But in the house the soft and constant rays Have always met with universal praise. For instance: if you want to read in bed No candle burns beside your curtain’s head, Far from some distant corner of the room The incandescent lamp dispels the gloom, And with the largest print need hardly try The powers of any young and vigorous eye. Aroint thee, Muse! Inspired the poet sings! I cannot help observing future things! Life is a vale, its paths are dark and rough Only because we do not know enough: When Science has discovered something more We shall be happier than we were before. Hail, Britain, Mistress of the Azure Main, Ten thousand Fleets sweep over thee in vain! Hail, Mighty Mother of the Brave and Free, That beat Napoleon, and gave birth to me! Thou that canst wrap in thine emblazoned robe One quarter of the habitable globe. Thy mountains, wafted by a favouring breeze, Like mighty rocks withstand the stormy seas. Thou art a Christian Commonwealth; and yet Be thou not all unthankful--nor forget As thou exultest in Imperial Might The Benefits of the Electric Light. THE YELLOW MUSTARD Oh! ye that prink it to and fro, In pointed flounce and furbelow, What have ye known, what can ye know That have not seen the mustard grow? The yellow mustard is no less Than God’s good gift to loneliness; And he was sent in gorgeous press To jangle keys at my distress. I heard the throstle call again, Come hither, Pain! come hither, Pain! Till all my shameless feet were fain To wander through the summer rain. And far apart from human place, And flaming like a vast disgrace, There struck me blinding in the face The livery of the mustard race. * * * * * To see the yellow mustard grow Beyond the town, above, below; Beyond the purple houses, oh! To see the yellow mustard grow! THE POLITICIAN OR THE IRISH EARLDOM A strong and striking Personality, Worth several hundred thousand pounds-- Of strict political Morality-- Was walking in his park-like Grounds; When, just as these began to pall on him (I mean the Trees, and Things like that), A Person who had come to call on him Approached him, taking off his Hat. He said, with singular veracity: “I serve our Sea-girt Mother-Land In no conspicuous capacity. I am but an Attorney; and I do a little elementary Negotiation, now and then, As Agent for a Parliamentary Division of the Town of N.... “Merely as one of the Electorate-- A member of the Commonweal-- Before completing my Directorate, I want to know the way you feel On matters more or less debatable; As--whether our Imperial Pride Can treat as taxable or rateable The Gardens of....” His host replied: “The Ravages of Inebriety (Alas! increasing day by day!) Are undermining all Society. I do not hesitate to say My country squanders her abilities, Observe how Montenegro treats Her Educational Facilities.... ... As to the African defeats, “I bitterly deplored their frequency; On Canada we are agreed, The Laws protecting Public Decency Are very, very lax indeed! The Views of most of the Nobility Are very much the same as mine, On Thingumbob’s eligibility.... I trust that you remain to dine?” His Lordship pressed with importunity, As rarely he had pressed before. * * * * * It gave them both an opportunity To know each other’s value more. THE LOSER He lost his money first of all --And losing that is half the story-- And later on he tried a fall With Fate, in things less transitory. He lost his heart--and found it dead-- (His one and only true discovery), And after that he lost his head, And lost his chances of recovery. He lost his honour bit by bit Until the thing was out of question. He worried so at losing it, He lost his sleep and his digestion. He lost his temper--and for good-- The remnants of his reputation, His taste in wine, his choice of food, And then, in rapid culmination, His certitudes, his sense of truth, His memory, his self-control, The love that graced his early youth, And lastly his immortal soul. III SONGS NOËL I On a winter’s night long time ago (_The bells ring loud and the bells ring low_), When high howled wind, and down fell snow (Carillon, Carilla). Saint Joseph he and Nostre Dame, Riding on an ass, full weary came From Nazareth into Bethlehem. And the small child Jesus smile on you. II And Bethlehem inn they stood before (_The bells ring less and the bells ring more_), The landlord bade them begone from his door (Carillon, Carilla). “Poor folk” (says he), “must lie where they may, For the Duke of Jewry comes this way, With all his train on a Christmas Day.” And the small child Jesus smile on you. III Poor folk that may my carol hear (_The bells ring single and the bells ring clear_), See! God’s one child had hardest cheer! (Carillon, Carilla). Men grown hard on a Christmas morn; The dumb beast by and a babe forlorn. It was very, very cold when our Lord was born. And the small child Jesus smile on you. IV Now these were Jews as Jews must be (_The bells ring merry and the bells ring free_). But Christian men in a band are we (Carillon, Carilla). Empty we go, and ill be-dight, Singing Noël on a Winter’s night. Give us to sup by the warm firelight, And the small child Jesus smile on you. THE BIRDS When Jesus Christ was four years old, The angels brought Him toys of gold, Which no man ever had bought or sold. And yet with these He would not play. He made Him small fowl out of clay, And blessed them till they flew away: _Tu creasti Domine_. Jesus Christ, Thou child so wise, Bless mine hands and fill mine eyes, And bring my soul to Paradise. IN A BOAT Lady! Lady! Upon Heaven-height, Above the harsh morning In the mere light. Above the spindrift And above the snow, Where no seas tumble, And no winds blow. The twisting tides, And the perilous sands Upon all sides Are in your holy hands. The wind harries And the cold kills; But I see your chapel Over far hills. My body is frozen, My soul is afraid: Stretch out your hands to me, Mother and maid. Mother of Christ, And Mother of me, Save me alive From the howl of the sea. If you will Mother me Till I grow old, I will hang in your chapel A ship of pure gold. SONG INVITING THE INFLUENCE OF A YOUNG LADY UPON THE OPENING YEAR I You wear the morning like your dress And are with mastery crowned; Whenas you walk your loveliness Goes shining all around. Upon your secret, smiling way Such new contents were found, The Dancing Loves made holiday On that delightful ground. II Then summon April forth, and send Commandment through the flowers; About our woods your grace extend A queen of careless hours. For oh, not Vera veiled in rain, Nor Dian’s sacred Ring, With all her royal nymphs in train Could so lead on the Spring. THE RING When I was flying before the King In the wood of Valognes in my hiding, Although I had not anything I sent a woman a golden ring. A Ring of the Moors beyond Leon With emerald and with diamond stone, And a writing no man ever had known, And an opal standing all alone. The shape of the ring the heart to bind: The emerald turns from cold to kind: The writing makes her sure to find:-- But the evil opal changed her mind. Now when the King was dead, was he, I came back hurriedly over the sea From the long rocks in Normandy To Bosham that is by Selsey. And we clipt each other knee to knee. But what I had was lost to me. CUCKOO! In woods so long time bare. Cuckoo! Up and in the wood, I know not where Two notes fall. Yet I do not envy him at all His phantasy. Cuckoo! I too, Somewhere, I have sung as merrily as he Who can dare, Small and careless lover, so to laugh at care, And who Can call Cuckoo! In woods of winter weary, In scented woods, of winter weary, call Cuckoo! In woods so long time bare. THE LITTLE SERVING MAID I There was a Queen of England, And a good Queen too. She had a house in Powis Land With the Severn running through; And Men-folk and Women-folk Apprenticed to a trade; But the prettiest of all Was a Little Serving Maid. II “Oh Madam, Queen of England! Oh will you let me go! For there’s a Lad in London And he would have it so. And I would have it too, Madam, And with him would I bide; And he will be the Groom, Madam, And I shall be the Bride!” III “Oh fie to you and shame to you, You Little Serving Maid! And are you not astonied? And are you not afraid? For never was it known Since Yngelonde began That a Little Serving Maid Should go a-meeting of a man! IV Then the Little Serving Maid She went and laid her down, With her cross and her bede, In her new courting gown. And she called in Mother Mary’s name And heavily she sighed: “I think that I have come to shame!” And after that she died. V The good Queen of England Her women came and ran: “The Little Serving Maid is dead From loving of a man!” Said the good Queen of England “That is ill news to hear! Take her out and shroud her, And lay her on a bier.” VI They laid her on a bier, In the court-yard all; Some came from Foresting, And some came from Hall. And Great Lords carried her, And proud Priests prayed. And that was the end Of the Little Serving Maid. AUVERGNAT There was a man was half a clown (It’s so my father tells of it). He saw the church in Clermont town And laughed to hear the bells of it. He laughed to hear the bells that ring In Clermont Church and round of it; He heard the verger’s daughter sing, And loved her for the sound of it. The verger’s daughter said him nay; She had the right of choice in it. He left the town at break of day: He hadn’t had a voice in it. The road went up, the road went down, And there the matter ended it. He broke his heart in Clermont town, At Pontgibaud they mended it. DRINKING SONG ON THE EXCELLENCE OF BURGUNDY WINE My jolly fat host with your face all a-grin, Come, open the door to us, let us come in. A score of stout fellows who think it no sin If they toast till they’re hoarse, and they drink till they spin, Hoofed it amain, Rain or no rain, To crack your old jokes, and your bottles to drain. Such a warmth in the belly that nectar begets As soon as his guts with its humour he wets, The miser his gold, and the student his debts, And the beggar his rags and his hunger forgets. For there’s never a wine Like this tipple of thine From the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine. Outside you may hear the great gusts as they go By Foy, by Duerne, and the hills of Lerraulx, But the rain he may rain, and the wind he may blow, If the Devil’s above there’s good liquor below. So it abound, Pass it around, Burgundy’s Burgundy all the year round. DRINKING DIRGE A thousand years ago I used to dine In houses where they gave me such regale Of dear companionship and comrades fine That out I went alone beyond the pale; And riding, laughed and dared the skies malign To show me all the undiscovered tale-- But my philosophy’s no more divine, I put my pleasure in a pint of ale. And you, my friends, oh! pleasant friends of mine, Who leave me now alone, without avail, On Californian hills you gave me wine, You gave me cider-drink in Longuevaille; If after many years you come to pine For comradeship that is an ancient tale-- You’ll find me drinking beer in Dead Man’s Chine. I put my pleasure in a pint of ale. In many a briny boat I’ve tried the brine, From many a hidden harbour I’ve set sail, Steering towards the sunset where there shine The distant amethystine islands pale. There are no ports beyond the far sea-line, Nor any halloa to meet the mariner’s hail; I stand at home and slip the anchor-line. I put my pleasure in a pint of ale. ENVOI Prince! Is it true when you go out to dine You bring your bottle in a freezing pail? Why then you cannot be a friend of mine. _I_ put my pleasure in a pint of ale. WEST SUSSEX DRINKING SONG They sell good Beer at Haslemere And under Guildford Hill. At Little Cowfold as I’ve been told A beggar may drink his fill: There is a good brew in Amberley too, And by the bridge also; But the swipes they take in at Washington Inn Is the very best Beer I know. _Chorus._ With my here it goes, there it goes, All the fun’s before us: The Tipple’s Aboard and the night is young, The door’s ajar and the Barrel is sprung, I am singing the best song ever was sung And it has a rousing chorus. If I were what I never can be, The master or the squire: If you gave me the hundred from here to the sea, Which is more than I desire: Then all my crops should be barley and hops, And did my harvest fail I’d sell every rood of mine acres I would For a belly-full of good Ale. _Chorus._ With my here it goes, there it goes, All the fun’s before us: The Tipple’s aboard and the night is young, The door’s ajar and the Barrel is sprung, I am singing the best song ever was sung And it has a rousing Chorus. A BALLAD ON SOCIOLOGICAL ECONOMICS A while ago it came to pass (Merry we carol it all the day), There sat a man on the top of an ass (Heart be happy and carol be gay In spite of the price of hay). And over the down they hoofed it so (Happy go lucky has best of fare), The man up above and the brute below (And singing we all forget to care A man may laugh if he dare). Over the stubble and round the crop (Life is short and the world is round), The donkey beneath and the man on the top (Oh! let good ale be found, be found, Merry good ale and sound). It happened again as it happened before (Tobacco’s a boon but ale is bliss), The moke in the ditch and the man on the floor (And that is the moral to this, to this Remarkable artifice). HERETICS ALL Heretics all, whoever you be, In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea, You never shall have good words from me. _Caritas non conturbat me._ But Catholic men that live upon wine Are deep in the water, and frank, and fine; Wherever I travel I find it so, _Benedicamus Domino_. On childing women that are forlorn, And men that sweat in nothing but scorn: That is on all that ever were born, _Miserere Domine_. To my poor self on my deathbed, And all my dear companions dead, Because of the love that I bore them, _Dona Eis Requiem_. HA’NACKER MILL Sally is gone that was so kindly Sally is gone from Ha’nacker Hill. And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly And ever since then the clapper is still, And the sweeps have fallen from Ha’nacker Mill Ha’nacker Hill is in Desolation: Ruin a-top and a field unploughed. And Spirits that call on a fallen nation Spirits that loved her calling aloud: Spirits abroad in a windy cloud. Spirits that call and no one answers; Ha’nacker’s down and England’s done. Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers And never a ploughman under the Sun. Never a ploughman. Never a one. TARANTELLA Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? And the tedding and the spreading Of the straw for a bedding, And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees, And the wine that tasted of the tar? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers (Under the vine of the dark verandah)? Do you remember an Inn, Miranda, Do you remember an Inn? And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers Who hadn’t got a penny, And who weren’t paying any, And the hammer at the doors and the Din? And the Hip! Hop! Hap! Of the clap Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl Of the girl gone chancing, Glancing, Dancing, Backing and advancing, Snapping of the clapper to the spin Out and in---- And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the Guitar! Do you remember an Inn, Miranda? Do you remember an Inn? Never more; Miranda, Never more. Only the high peaks hoar: And Aragon a torrent at the door. No sound In the walls of the Halls where falls The tread Of the feet of the dead to the ground No sound: But the boom Of the far Waterfall like Doom. THE CHAUNTY OF THE “NONA” I Come list all ye Cullies and Doxies so dear, You shall hearken to the tale of the Bold Marineer That took ship out of Holyhead and drove her so hard Past Bardsey, Pwlheli, Port Madoc, and Fishguard-- _Past Bardsey, Pwlheli, Port Madoc, and Fishguard_. II Then he dropped out of Fishguard on a calm Summer’s day, By St David’s and Strumbles and across St Bride’s Bay; Circumnavigating Skomer, that Island, around, With the heart of a Lion he threaded Jack Sound-- _With the heart of a Lion he threaded Jack Sound_. III But from out the Main Ocean there rolled a great cloud, So he clawed into Milford Haven by the Fog Blast so loud, Until he dropped anchor in a deep-wooded bay, Where all night with Old Sleep and Quiet Sadness he lay-- _Where all night with Old Sleep and Quiet Sadness he lay_. IV Next morning was a Doldrum, and he whistled for a breeze, Which came from the N.N.W.’ard all across the high seas; And in passing St Govan’s lightship he gave them good night, But before it was morning he raised Lundy Light-- _Before it was morning he had raised Lundy Light_. V Then he tossed for twelve hours in that horrible place Which is known to the Mariner as the Great White Horse Race, Till with a slant about three bells, or maybe near four, He saw white water breaking upon Loud Appledore-- _He saw white water breaking upon Loud Appledore_. VI The Pirates of Appledore, the Wines of Instow; But her nose is for Bideford with the tide at the flow. Rattle anchor, batten hatches, and leave your falls curled. The Long Bridge of Bideford is the end of the World-- _The Long Bridge of Bideford is the end of the World_. THE WINGED HORSE I It’s ten years ago to-day you turned me out o’ doors To cut my feet on flinty lands and stumble down the shores, And I thought about the all-in-all, oh more than I can tell! But I caught a horse to ride upon and I rode him very well, He had flame behind the eyes of him and wings upon his side. And I ride, and I ride! II I rode him out of Wantage and I rode him up the hill, And there I saw the Beacon in the morning standing still, Inkpen and Hackpen and southward and away High through the middle airs in the strengthening of the day, And there I saw the channel-glint and England in her pride. And I ride, and I ride! III And once a-top of Lambourne down toward the hill of Clere I saw the Host of Heaven in rank and Michael with his spear, And Turpin out of Gascony and Charlemagne the Lord, And Roland of the marches with his hand upon his sword For the time he should have need of it, and forty more beside. And I ride, and I ride! IV For you that took the all-in-all the things you left were three. A loud voice for singing and keen eyes to see, And a spouting well of joy within that never yet was dried! And I ride. STREPHON’S SONG (FROM “THE CRUEL SHEPHERDESS”) When I was not much older Than Cupid, but bolder, I asked of his Mother in passing her bower What it was in their blindness Men asked of her kindness And she said it was nought but a delicate flower: Such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower! This morning you kissed me, By noon you dismissed me As though such great things were the jest of one hour, And you left me still wondering If I were not too blundering To deal with that delicate, delicate flower: ’Tis such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower! For if that’s the complexion Of Ladies’ affection I must needs be a fool to remain in their power; But there’s that in me burning Which brings me returning To beg for the delicate, delicate flower; To implore for that delicate, delicate flower! IV BALLADES SHORT BALLADE AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS AND BOERS I Gigantic daughter of the West (The phrase is Tennysonian), who From this unconquerable breast The vigorous milk of Freedom drew --We gave it freely--shall the crest Of Empire in your keeping true, Shall England--I forget the rest, But Consols are at 82. II Now why should anyone invest, As even City people do (His Lordship did among the rest), When stocks--but what is that to you? And then, who ever could have guessed About the guns--and horses too!-- Besides, they knew their business best, And Consols are at 82. III It serves no purpose to protest, It isn’t manners to halloo About the way the thing was messed-- Or vaguely call a man a Jew. A gentleman who cannot jest Remarked that we should muddle through (The continent was much impressed), And Consols are at 82. _Envoi._ And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s Rest And Myberg in the Great Karroo (A desert to the south and west), And Consols are at 82. _Postscript._ Permit me--if you do not mind-- To add it would be screaming fun If, after printing this, I find Them after all at 81. Or 70 or 63, Or 55 or 44, Or 39 and going free, Or 28--or even more. No matter--take no more advice From doubtful and intriguing men. Refuse the stuff at any price, And slowly watch them fall to 10. Meanwhile I feel a certain zest In writing once again the new Refrain that all is for the best, And Consols are at 82. _Last Envoi._ Prince, you and I were barely thirty-three, And now I muse and wonder if it’s true, That you were you and I myself was me, And 3 per cents were really 82! BALLADE OF THE UNANSWERED QUESTION I What dwelling hath Sir Harland Pott That died of drinking in Bungay? Nathaniel Goacher who was shot Towards the end of Malplaquet? The only thing that we can say, (The only thing that has been said) About these gentlemen is, “Nay! But where are the unanswering dead” II Lord Bumplepuppy, too, that got The knock from Messrs Dawkins’ dray? And Jonas, whom the Cachalot Begulphed in Esdraelon Bay? The Calvinistic John McKay, Who argued till his nostrils bled, And dropped in apoplexy? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead? III And Heliodorus too, that hot Defender of the Roman sway; And He, the author of the “_Tot Mercedes dant Victoriæ_,” And all the armoured squadrons gay That ever glory nourishèd In all the world’s high charges? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead? _Envoi_ Prince, have you ever learnt to pray Upon your knees beside your bed? You miserable waxwork? Nay! But where are the unanswering dead? BALLADE TO OUR LADY OF CZESTOCHOWA I Lady and Queen and Mystery manifold And very Regent of the untroubled sky, Whom in a dream St Hilda did behold And heard a woodland music passing by: You shall receive me when the clouds are high With evening and the sheep attain the fold. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die. II Steep are the seas and savaging and cold In broken waters terrible to try; And vast against the winter night the wold, And harbourless for any sail to lie. But you shall lead me to the lights, and I Shall hymn you in a harbour story told. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die. III Help of the half-defeated, House of gold, Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory; Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled, The Battler’s vision and the World’s reply. You shall restore me, O my last Ally, To vengeance and the glories of the bold. This is the faith that I have held and hold, And this is that in which I mean to die. _Envoi_ Prince of the degradations, bought and sold, These verses, written in your crumbling sty, Proclaim the faith that I have held and hold And publish that in which I mean to die. BALLADE OF HELL AND OF MRS ROEBECK I I’m going out to dine at Gray’s With Bertie Morden, Charles and Kit, And Manderly who never pays, And Jane who wins in spite of it, And Algernon who won’t admit The truth about his curious hair And teeth that very nearly fit:-- And Mrs Roebeck will be there. II And then to-morrow someone says That someone else has made a hit In one of Mister Twister’s plays. And off we go to yawn at it; And when it’s petered out we quit For number 20, Taunton Square, And smoke, and drink, and dance a bit:-- And Mrs Roebeck will be there. III And so through each declining phase Of emptied effort, jaded wit, And day by day of London days Obscurely, more obscurely, lit; Until the uncertain shadows flit Announcing to the shuddering air A Darkening, and the end of it:-- And Mrs Roebeck will be there. _Envoi_ Prince, on their iron thrones they sit, Impassible to our despair, The dreadful Guardians of the Pit:-- And Mrs Roebeck will be there. BALLADE OF UNSUCCESSFUL MEN I The cause of all the poor in ’93: The cause of all the world at Waterloo: The shouts of what was terrible and free Behind the guns of _Vengeance_ and her crew: The Maid that rode so straightly and so true And broke the line to pieces in her pride-- They had to chuck it up; it wouldn’t do; The Devil didn’t like them, and they died. II Cæsar and Alexander shall agree That right athwart the world their bugles blew: And all the lads that marched in Lombardy Behind the young Napoleon charging through: All that were easy swordsmen, all that slew The Monsters, and that served our God and tried The temper of this world--they lost the clue. The Devil didn’t like them, and they died. III You, the strong sons of anger and the sea, What darkness on the wings of battle flew? Then the great dead made answer: “Also we With Nelson found oblivion: Nelson, who When cheering out of port in spirit grew To be one purpose with the wind and tide-- Our nameless hulks are sunk and rotted through: The Devil didn’t like us and we died.” _Envoi_ Prince, may I venture (since it’s only you) To speak discreetly of The Crucified? He was extremely unsuccessful too: The Devil didn’t like Him, and He died. BALLADE OF THE HERESIARCHS I John Calvin whose peculiar fad It was to call God murderous, Which further led that feverish cad To burn alive the Servetus. The horrible Bohemian Huss, The tedious Wycliffe, where are they? But where is old Nestorius? The wind has blown them all away. II The Kohen out of Novdograd Who argued from the Roman Jus “_Privata fasta nihil ad Rem nisi sint de sacribus_.” And Hume, who made a dreadful fuss About the Resurrection Day And said it was ridiculous-- The wind has blown them all away. III Of Smith the gallant Mormon lad That took of wives an over-plus: Johanna Southcott who was mad And nasty Nietzsche, who was worse. Of Tolstoy, the Eccentric Russ, Our strong Posterity shall say: “Lord Jesus! What are these to us? The wind has blown them all away!” _Envoi_ Prince, should you meet upon a bus A man who makes a great display Of Dr Haeckel, argue thus:-- The wind has blown them all away. V EPIGRAMS I _On His Books_ When I am dead, I hope it may be said: “His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.” II _On Noman, a Guest_ Dear Mr Noman, does it ever strike you, The more we see of you, the less we like you? III _A Trinity_ Of three in One and One in three My narrow mind would doubting be Till Beauty, Grace and Kindness met And all at once were Juliet IV _On Torture, a Public Singer_ Torture will give a dozen pence or more To keep a drab from bawling at his door. The public taste is quite a different thing-- Torture is positively paid to sing. V _On Paunch, a Parasite_ Paunch talks against good liquor to excess, And then about his raving Patroness; And then he talks about himself. And then We turn the conversation on to men. VI _On Hygiene_ Of old when folk lay sick and sorely tried The doctors gave them physic, and they died. But here’s a happier age: for now we know Both how to make men sick and keep them so. VII _On Lady Poltagrue, a Public Peril_ The Devil, having nothing else to do, Went off to tempt My Lady Poltagrue. My Lady, tempted by a private whim, To his extreme annoyance, tempted him. VIII _The Mirror_ The mirror held your fair, my Fair, A fickle moment’s space. You looked into mine eyes, and there For ever fixed your face. Keep rather to your looking-glass Than my more faithful eyes: It told the truth--Alas! my lass, My constant memory lies. IX _The Elm_ This is the place where Dorothea smiled. I did not know the reason, nor did she. But there she stood, and turned, and smiled at me: A sudden glory had bewitched the child. The corn at harvest, and a single tree. This is the place where Dorothea smiled. X _The Telephone_ To-night in million-voicèd London I Was lonely as the million-pointed sky Until your single voice. Ah! So the Sun Peoples all heaven, although he be but one. XI _The Statue_ When we are dead, some Hunting-boy will pass And find a stone half-hidden in tall grass And grey with age: but having seen that stone (Which was your image), ride more slowly on. XII _Epitaph on the Favourite Dog of a Politician_ Here lies a Dog: may every Dog that dies Lie in security--as this Dog lies. XIII _Epitaph on the Politician Himself_ Here richly, with ridiculous display, The Politician’s corpse was laid away. While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged. XIV _Another on the Same_ This, the last ornament among the peers, Bribed, bullied, swindled and blackmailed for years: But Death’s what even Politicians fail To bribe or swindle, bully or blackmail. XV _On Mundane Acquaintances_ Good morning, Algernon: Good morning, Percy. Good morning, Mrs Roebeck. Christ have mercy! XVI _On a Rose for Her Bosom_ Go, lovely rose, and tell the lovelier fair That he which loved her most was never there. XVII _On the Little God_ Of all the gods that gave me all their glories To-day there deigns to walk with me but one. I lead him by the hand and tell him stories. It is the Queen of Cyprus’ little son. XVIII _On a Prophet_ Of old ’twas Samuel sought the Lord: to-day The Lord runs after Samuel--so they say. XIX _On a Dead Hostess_ Of this bad world the loveliest and the best Has smiled and said “Good Night,” and gone to rest. XX _On a Great Election_ The accursèd power which stands on Privilege (And goes with Women, and Champagne and Bridge) Broke--and Democracy resumed her reign: (Which goes with Bridge, and Women and Champagne). XXI _On a Mistaken Mariner_ He whistled thrice to pass the Morning Star, Thinking that near which was so very far. So I, whenas I meet my Dearest Dear, Still think that far which is so very near. XXII _On a Sleeping Friend_ Lady, when your lovely head Droops to sink among the Dead, And the quiet places keep You that so divinely sleep; Then the dead shall blessèd be With a new solemnity, For such Beauty, so descending, Pledges them that Death is ending. Sleep your fill--but when you wake Dawn shall over Lethe break. XXIII _Fatigued_ I’m tired of Love: I’m still more tired of Rhyme. But Money gives me pleasure all the time. XXIV _On Benicia, who Wished Him Well_ Benicia wished me well; I wished her well. And what I wished her more I may not tell. XXV _The False Heart_ I said to Heart, “How goes it?” Heart replied: “Right as a Ribstone Pippin!” But it lied. XXVI _Partly from the Greek_ She would be as the stars in your sight That turn in the endless hollow; That tremble, and always follow The quiet wheels of the Night. VI THE BALLAD OF VAL-ÈS-DUNES THE VICTORY OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR IN HIS YOUTH OVER THE REBELS AT VAL-ÈS-DUNES IN THE YEAR 1047 [This piece of verse is grossly unhistorical. Val-ès-Dunes is not on the sea but inland. No Norman blazoned a shield or a church window in the middle eleventh century, still less would he frame one in silver, and I doubt gilt spurs. It was not the young Bastard of Falaise, but the men of the King in Paris that really won the battle. There was nothing Scandinavian left in Normandy, and whatever there had been five generations before was slight. The Colentin had no more Scandinavian blood than the rest. There is no such place as Longuevaile. There is a Hauteville, but it has no bay and had nothing to do with the Harcourts, and the Harcourts were not of Bloodroyal--and so forth.] I The men that lived in Longuevaile Came out to fight by bands. They jangled all in welded mail, Their shields were rimmed of silver pale And blazoned like a church-vitrail: Their swords were in their hands. But the harsh raven of the Old Gods Was on the rank sea-sands. _There rose a wind on heath and den:_ _The sky went racing grey._ _The Bastard and his wall of men_ _Were a charger’s course away._ II The Old Gods of the Northern Hall Are in their narrow room. Their thrones are flanked of spearmen tall, The three that have them in their thrall, Sit silently before them all, They weave upon their loom; And round about them as they weave The Scalds sing doom. III The Bastard out of Normandy Was angry for his wrong. His eyes were virginal to see, For nothing in his heart had he But a hunger for his great degree; And his back was broad and strong As are the oxen of the field, That pull the ploughs along. IV He saw that column of cavalry wheel, Split outward, and deploy. He heard, he heard the Oliphant peal. He crooked an angry knee to feel The scabbard against his gilded heel. He had great joy: And he stood upright in the stirrup steel. Because he was a boy. * * * * * _We faced their ordering, all the force,_ _And there was little sound;_ _But Haribert-Le-Marshall’s horse_ _Pawed heavily the ground._ V As the broad ships out of Barbary Come driving from the large, With yards a-bend and courses free, And tumbling down their decks a-lee, The hurrahing of the exultant sea, So drave they to the charge. But the harsh raven of the Old Gods Was on the rank sea-marge. VI The Old Gods of the Northern Hall Are crownéd for the tomb. Their biers are flanked of torches tall, And through the flames that leap and fall There comes a droning and a call To the night’s womb, As the tide beneath a castle wall Goes drumming through the gloom. VII They tonsured me but Easter year, I swore to Christ and Rome. My name is not mine older name.... But ah! to see them as they came, With thundering and with points aflame, I smelt foam. And my heart was like a wandering man’s, Who piles his boat on Moorna sands And serves a slave in alien lands, And then beneath a harper’s hands Hears suddenly of home. * * * * * _For their cavalry came in a curling leaf,_ _They shouted as they drave,_ _And the Bastard’s line was like a reef_ _But theirs was like a wave._ VIII As the broad ships out of Barbary Strike rock. And the stem shatters, and the sail flaps; Streaming seaward; and the taut shroud snaps, And the block Clatters to the deck of the wreck. So did the men of Longuevaile Take the shock. IX Our long line quivered but it did not break, It countered and was strong. The first bolt went through the wind with a wail, And another and a-many with a thudding on the mail; Pattered all the arrows in an April hail; Whistled the ball and thong: And I, the priest, with that began The singing of my song. X Press inward, inward, Normandy; Press inward, Cleres and Vaux; Press inward, Mons and Valery; Press inward, Yvetot. Stand hard the men of the Beechen Ford (Oh! William of Falaise, my lord!) Battle is a net and a struggle in a cord. Battle is a wrestler’s throw. The middle holding as the wings made good, The far wings closing as the centre stood. Battle is a mist and battle is a wood, And battle is won so. XI The fishermen fish in the River of Seine, They haul the long nets in. They haul them in and they haul again, (The fishermen fish in the River of Seine) They haul them in and they haul again, A million glittering fin: With the hauling in of our straining ends That Victory did begin. XII The tall son of the Seven Winds Galloped hot-foot from the Hither Hithe. So strongly went he down the press, Almost he did that day redress With his holping and his hardiness, For his sword was like a scythe In Arques when the grass is high, And all the swaithes in order lie, And there’s the bailiff standing by-- A gathering of the tithe. XIII And now, go forward, Normandy, Go forward all in one. The press was caught and trampled and it broke From the sword and its swinger and the axe’s stroke, Pouring through the gap in a whirl of smoke As a blinded herd will run. And so fled many and a very few With mounts all spent would staggering pursue, But the race fell scattered as the evening grew: The battle was over and done. * * * * * _Like birds against the reddening day_ _They dwindled one by one,_ _And I heard a trumpet far away_ _At the setting of the sun._ * * * * * XIV The stars were in the Eternal Sky, It was calm in Massared; Richard, Abbot of Leclair, and I And a Picard Priest that held on high A Torch above his head; We stumbled through the darkening land Assoiling with anointed hand The dying and the dead. XV How many in the tufted grass, How many dead there lay. For there was found the Fortenbras And young Garain of Hault, alas! And the Wardens of the Breton pass Who were lords of his array, And Hugh that trusted in his glass But came not home the day. XVI I saw the miller of Martindall, I saw that archer die. The blunt quarrel caught him at the low white wall, And he tossed up his arrow to the Lord God of all, But long before the first could fall His soul was in the sky. XVII The last of all the lords that sprang From Harcourt of the Crown, He parried with the shield and the silver rang, But the axe fell heavy on the helm with a clang And the girths parted and the saddle swang, And he went down: He never more sang winter songs In his high town. XVIII In his high town that Faëry is, And stands on Harcourt bay, The fisher surging through the night Takes bearing by that castle height, And moors him harboured in the bight, And watches for the day. But with the broadening of the light, It vanishes away. XIX In his high town that Faëry is, And stands on Harcourt Lea. To summon him up his arrier-ban, His writ beyond the mountains ran; My father was his serving man, Although the farm was free. Before the angry wars began He was a friend to me. XX The night before the boy was born There came a Priest who said That he had seen red Aldeborn, The star of hate in Taurus’ horn, Which glared above a field of corn, And covered him with dread. I wish to God I had not held The cloth in which he bled. * * * * * XXI The Horse from Cleres and Valery, The foot from Yvetot, And all the men of the Harbour Towns That live by fall and flow. And all the men of the Beechen Ford --Oh! William of Falaise, my lord!-- And all the sails in Michael’s ward, And all the shields of Caux, Shall follow you out across the world, With sword and lance and bow, To Beachy and to Pevensey Bar, To Chester through the snow, With sack and pack and camping tent, A-grumbling as they go: My lord is William of Falaise. Haro! FOOTNOTES: [A] But do not think I shall explain To any great extent. Believe me, I partly write to give you pain, And if you do not like me, leave me. [B] And least of all can you complain, Reviewers, whose unholy trade is, To puff with all your might and main Biographers of single ladies. [C] Never mind. [D] The plan forgot (I know not how, Perhaps the Refectory filled it), To put a chapel in; and now We’re mortgaging the rest to build it. [E] To be pronounced as a monosyllable in the Imperial fashion. [F] Mr Punt, Mr Howl, and Mr Grewcock (now, alas, deceased). [G] A neat rendering of “Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.” [H] To the Examiners: These facts (of which I guarantee the accuracy) were given me by a Director. [I] A reminiscence of Milton: “Fas est et ab hoste docere.” [J] Lambkin told me he regretted this line, which was for the sake of Rhyme. He would willingly have replaced it, but to his last day could construct no substitute. 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