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October and Other Poems

<hr class="full" /> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/cover.jpg" width-obs="345" height-obs="500" alt="[Image of the book's cover unavailable.]" /></div> <table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="" style="margin:2em auto 2em auto;max-width:70%;"> <tr><td class="c" colspan="2">THE COLLECTED EDITION OF THE POETICAL WORKS OF A. C. SWINBURNE</td></tr> <tr><td class="c" colspan="2">In 6 Vols. Cr. 8vo. 45s. net.</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">I.</td><td class="hang">POEMS AND BALLADS (1st series)</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">II.</td><td class="hang">SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE and SONGS OF TWO NATIONS</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">III.</td><td class="hang">POEMS AND BALLADS (2nd and 3rd series), and SONGS OF THE SPRINGTIDES</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">IV.</td><td class="hang">TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE, THE TALE OF BALEN, ATALANTA IN CALYDON, ERECHTHEUS</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">V.</td><td class="hang">STUDIES IN SONG, A CENTURY OF ROUNDELS, SONNETS ON ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS, THE HEPTALOGIA, etc.</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">VI.</td><td class="hang">A MIDSUMMER HOLIDAY, ASTROPHEL, A CHANNEL PASSAGE, and other Poems</td></tr> <tr><td style="border-top:1px solid black;" class="c" colspan="2">LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN, BEDFORD ST.</td></tr> </table> <big>OCTOBER AND OTHER POEMS</big> <table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="" style="margin:2em auto 2em auto;max-width:70%;"> <tr><td class="c" colspan="2">THE GOLDEN PINE EDITION OF SWINBURNE’S WORKS</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="c" colspan="2">Each Volume Cr. 8vo. Cloth 4s. net; Leather 6s. net.</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">I.</td><td class="hang">POEMS AND BALLADS (1st series)</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">II.</td><td class="hang">POEMS AND BALLADS (2nd and 3rd series)</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">III.</td><td class="hang">SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE (Including Songs of Italy)</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">IV.</td><td class="hang">ATALANTA IN CALYDON AND ERECHTHEUS</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">V.</td><td class="hang">TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE</td></tr> <tr valign="top"><td class="rt">VI.</td><td class="hang">A STUDY OF SHAKESPEARE</td></tr> <tr><td style="border-top:1px solid black;" class="c" colspan="2">LONDON WILLIAM HEINEMANN, BEDFORD ST.</td></tr> </table> <h1> O C T O B E R AND OTHER POEMS WITH OCCASIONAL VERSES ON THE WAR</h1> BY ROBERT   BRIDGES POET LAUREATE <ANTIMG src="images/colophon.jpg" width-obs="350" alt="[Image unavailable: colophon: 1920, LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN]" /> TO GENERAL THE RIGHT HONOURABLE <big>JAN   CHRISTIAAN   SMUTS</big> Prime Minister of the Union of South Africa SOLDIER, STATESMAN, & SEER WITH THE AUTHOR’S HOMAGE {ix} <h2>PREFACE</h2> This miscellaneous volume is composed of three sections. The first twelve poems were written in 1913, and printed privately by Mr. Hornby in 1914. The last of these poems proved to be a “war poem,” and on that follow eighteen pieces which were called forth on occasion during the War, the last being a broadsheet on the surrender of the German ships. All of these verses appeared in some journal or serial. There were a few others, but they are not included in this collection, either because they are lost, or because they show decidedly inferior claims to salvage. The last six poems or sonnets are of various dates. R. B. {x} {xi} <h2>CONTENTS</h2> <table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary=""> <tr><td> </td><td class="rt">PAGE</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">October</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">1</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">The Flowering Tree</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">2</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Noel: Christmas Eve, 1913</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">4</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">In der Fremde</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">6</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">The Philosopher and his Mistress</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">7</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Narcissus</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">8</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Our Lady</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">10</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">The Curfew Tower</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">13</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Flycatchers</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">15</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Ghosts</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">16</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Έτώσιον ἄχθος ἀρούρης</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">16</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Hell and Hate</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">17</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">“Wake up, England!”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">20</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Lord Kitchener</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">22</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Ode on the Tercentenary Commemoration of Shakespeare, 1916</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">23</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">The Chivalry of the Sea</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">28</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">For “Pages Inédites,” Etc.</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">30</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Gheluvelt</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">30</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">The West Front</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">31</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">To the United States of America</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">33</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Trafalgar Square{xii}</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">34</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Christmas Eve, 1917</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">36</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">To the President of the United States of America</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">38</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Our Prisoners of War in Germany</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">39</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Harvest-Home</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">40</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">To Australia</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">42</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">The Excellent Way</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">43</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">England to India</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">45</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Britannia Victrix</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">47</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Der Tag: Nelson and Beatty</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">51</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">To Burns</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">56</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Poor Child</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">57</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">To Percy Buck</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">58</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">To Harry Ellis Wooldridge</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">59</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Fortunatus Nimium</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">60</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Democritus</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">62</td></tr> <tr><td valign="top" class="hang">Notes</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom">63</td></tr> </table> {1} <h2>OCTOBER.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> April adance in play met with his lover May where she came garlanded. The blossoming boughs o’erhead were thrill’d to bursting by the dazzle from the sky and the wild music there that shook the odorous air. </div> <div class="stanza"> Each moment some new birth hasten’d to deck the earth in the gay sunbeams. Between their kisses dreams: And dream and kiss were rife with laughter of mortal life. </div> <div class="stanza"> But this late day of golden fall is still as a picture upon a wall or a poem in a book lying open unread. Or whatever else is shrined when the Virgin hath vanishèd: Footsteps of eternal Mind on the path of the dead. </div> </div></div> {2} <h2>THE FLOWERING TREE.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> What Fairy fann’d my dreams while I slept in the sun? As if a flowering tree were standing over me: Its young stem strong and lithe went branching overhead And willowy sprays around fell tasseling to the ground All with wild blossom gay as is the cherry in May When her fresh flaunt of leaf gives crowns of golden green. </div> <div class="stanza"> The sunlight was enmesh’d in the shifting splendour And I saw through on high to soft lakes of blue sky: Ne’er was mortal slumber so lapt in luxury.{3} </div> <div class="stanza"> Rather—Endymion— would I sleep in the sun Neath the trees divinely with day’s azure above When my love of Beauty is met by beauty’s love. </div> <div class="stanza"> So I slept enchanted under my loving tree Till from his late resting the sweet songster of night Rousing awaken’d me: Then! this—the birdis note— Was the voice of thy throat which thou gav’st me to kiss. </div> </div></div> {4} <h2>NOEL: CHRISTMAS EVE, 1913. Pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> A frosty Christmas Eve when the stars were shining Fared I forth alone where westward falls the hill, And from many a village in the water’d valley Distant music reach’d me peals of bells aringing: The constellated sounds ran sprinkling on earth’s floor As the dark vault above with stars was spangled o’er. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then sped my thought to keep that first Christmas of all When the shepherds watching by their folds ere the dawn Heard music in the fields and marveling could not tell Whether it were angels or the bright stars singing.{5} </div> <div class="stanza"> Now blessed be the tow’rs that crown England so fair That stand up strong in prayer unto God for our souls: Blessed be their founders (said I) an’ our country folk Who are ringing for Christ in the belfries to-night With arms lifted to clutch the rattling ropes that race Into the dark above and the mad romping din. </div> <div class="stanza"> But to me heard afar it was starry music Angels’ song, comforting as the comfort of Christ When he spake tenderly to his sorrowful flock: The old words came to me by the riches of time Mellow’d and transfigured as I stood on the hill Heark’ning in the aspect of th’ eternal silence. </div> </div></div> {6} <h2>IN DER FREMDE.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Ah! wild-hearted wand’rer far in the world away Restless nor knowest why only thou canst not stay And now turnest trembling hearing the wind to sigh: ’Twas thy lover calling whom thou didst leave forby. </div> <div class="stanza"> So faint and yet so far so far and yet so fain— “Return belov’d to me” but thou must onward strain: Thy trembling is in vain as thy wand’ring shall be. What so well thou lovest thou nevermore shalt see. </div> </div></div> {7} <h2>THE PHILOSOPHER AND HIS MISTRESS.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> We watch’d the wintry moon Suffer her full eclipse Riding at night’s high noon Beyond the earth’s ellipse. </div> <div class="stanza"> The conquering shadow quell’d Her splendour in its robe: And darkling we beheld A dim and lurid globe; </div> <div class="stanza"> Yet felt thereat no dread, Nor waited we to see The sullen dragon fled, The heav’nly Queen go free. </div> <div class="stanza"> So if my heart of pain One hour o’ershadow thine, I fear for thee no stain, Thou wilt come forth and shine: </div> <div class="stanza"> And far my sorrowing shade Will slip to empty space Invisible, but made Happier for that embrace. </div> </div></div> {8} <h2>NARCISSUS.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Almighty wondrous everlasting Whether in a cradle of astral whirlfire Or globed in a piercing star thou slumb’rest The impassive body of God: Thou deep i’ the core of earth—Almighty!— From numbing stress and gloom profound Madest escape in life desirous To embroider her thin-spun robe. </div> <div class="stanza"> ’Twas down in a wood—they tell— In a running water thou sawest thyself Or leaning over a pool: The sedges Were twinn’d at the mirror’s brim The sky was there and the trees—Almighty!— A bird of a bird and white clouds floating And seeing thou knewest thine own image To love it beyond all else. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then wondering didst thou speak Of beauty and wisdom of art and worship Didst build the fanes of Zeus and Apollo The high cathedrals of Christ.{9} </div> <div class="stanza"> All that we love is thine—Almighty!— Heart-felt music and lyric song Language the eager grasp of knowledge All that we think is thine. </div> <div class="stanza"> But whence?—Beauteous everlasting!— Whence and whither? Hast thou mistaken? Or dost forget? Look again! Thou seest A shadow and not thyself. </div> </div></div> {10} <h2>OUR LADY.</h2> <h3>I.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Goddess azure-mantled and aureoled That standing barefoot upon the moon Or throned as a Queen of the earth Tranquilly smilest to hold The Child-god in thine arms, Whence thy glory? Art not she The country maiden of Galilee Simple in dowerless poverty Who from humble cradle to grave Hadst no thought of this wonder? </div> <div class="stanza"> When to man dull of heart Dawn’d at length graciously Thy might of Motherhood The starry Truth beam’d on his home; Then with insight exalted he gave thee The trappings—Lady—wherewith his art Delighteth to picture his spirit to sense And that grace is immortal.{11} </div> <div class="stanza"> Fount of creative Love Mother of the Word eternal Atoning man with God: Who set thee apart as a garden enclosed From Nature’s all-producing wilds To rear the richest fruit o’ the Life Ever continuing out from Him Urgent since the beginning. </div> </div></div> <h3>II.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Behold! Man setteth thine image in the height of Heaven And hallowing his untemper’d love Crowneth and throneth thee ador’d (Tranquilly joyous to hold The man-child in thine arms) God-like apart from conflict to save thee To guard thy weak caressive beauty With incontaminate jewels of soul Courage, patience, and self-devotion: All this glory he gave thee. </div> <div class="stanza"> Secret and slow is Nature Imperceptibly moving With surely determinate aim: To woman it fell to be early in prime{12} Ready to labour, mould, and cherish The delicate head of all Production The wistful late-maturing boy Who made Knowing of Being. </div> <div class="stanza"> Therefore art thou ador’d Mother of God in man Naturing nurse of power: They who adore not thee shall perish But thou shalt keep thy path of joy Envied of Angels because the All-father Call’d thee to mother his nascent Word And complete the creation. </div> </div></div> {13} <h2>THE CURFEW TOWER.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Thro’ innocent eyes at the world awond’ring Nothing spake to me more superbly Than the round bastion of Windsor’s wall </div> <div class="stanza"> That warding the Castle’s southern angle An old inheritor of Norman prowess Was call’d by the folk the Curfew Tow’r. </div> <div class="stanza"> Above the masonry’s rugged courses A turreted clock of Caroline fashion Told time to the town in black and gold. </div> <div class="stanza"> It charmed the hearts of Henry’s scholars As kingly a mentor of English story As Homer’s poem is of Ilion: </div> <div class="stanza"> Nor e’er in the landscape look’d it fairer Than when we saw its white bulk halo’d In a lattice of slender scaffoldings.{14} </div> <div class="stanza"> Month by month on the airy platforms Workmen labour’d hacking and hoisting Till again the tower was stript to the sun: </div> <div class="stanza"> The old tow’r? Nay a new tow’r stood there From footing to battlemented skyline And topt with a cap the slice of a cone </div> <div class="stanza"> Archæologic and counterfeited The smoothest thing in all the high-street As Eton scholars to-day may see: </div> <div class="stanza"> They—wherever else they find their wonder And feed their boyhood on Time’s enchantment— See never the Tow’r that spoke to me. </div> </div></div> {15} <h2>FLYCATCHERS.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Sweet pretty fledgelings, perched on the rail arow, Expectantly happy, where ye can watch below Your parents a-hunting i’ the meadow grasses All the gay morning to feed you with flies; </div> <div class="stanza"> Ye recall me a time sixty summers ago, When, a young chubby chap, I sat just so With others on a school-form rank’d in a row, Not less eager and hungry than you, I trow, With intelligences agape and eyes aglow, While an authoritative old wise-acre Stood over us and from a desk fed us with flies. </div> <div class="stanza"> Dead flies—such as litter the library south-window, That buzzed at the panes until they fell stiff-baked on the sill, Or are roll’d up asleep i’ the blinds at sunrise, Or wafer’d flat in a shrunken folio. </div> <div class="stanza"> A dry biped he was, nurtured likewise On skins and skeletons, stale from top to toe With all manner of rubbish and all manner of lies. </div> </div></div> {16} <h2>GHOSTS.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Mazing around my mind like moths at a shaded candle, In my heart like lost bats in a cave fluttering, Mock ye the charm whereby I thought reverently to lay you, When to the wall I nail’d your reticent effigys? </div> </div></div> <h2>Έτώσιον ἄχθος ἀρούρης</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Who goes there? God knows. I’m nobody. How should I answer? Can’t jump over a gate nor run across the meadow. I’m but an old whitebeard of inane identity. Pass on! What’s left of me to-day will very soon be nothing. </div> </div></div> {17} <h2>HELL AND HATE.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Two demons thrust their arms out over the world, Hell with a ruddy torch of fire, And Hate with gasping mouth, Striving to seize two children fair Who play’d on the upper curve of the Earth. </div> <div class="stanza"> Their shapes were vast as the thoughts of man, But the Earth was small As the moon’s rim appeareth Scann’d through an optic glass. </div> <div class="stanza"> The younger child stood erect on the Earth As a charioteer in a car Or a dancer with arm upraised; Her whole form—barely clad From feet to golden head— Leapt brightly against the uttermost azure, Whereon the stars were splashes of light Dazed in the gulfing beds of space.{18} </div> <div class="stanza"> The elder might have been stell’d to show The lady who led my boyish love; But her face was graver than e’er to me When I look’d in her eyes long ago, And the hair on her shoulders fal’n Nested its luminous brown I’ the downy spring of her wings: Her figure aneath was screen’d by the Earth, Whereoff—so small that was No footing for her could be— She appeared to be sailing free I’ the glide and poise of her flight. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then knew I the Angel Faith, Who was guarding human Love. </div> <div class="stanza"> Happy were both, of peaceful mien, Contented as mankind longeth to be, Not merry as children are; And show’d no fear of the Fiends’ pursuit, As ever those demons clutched in vain; And I, who had fear’d awhile to see Such gentleness in such jeopardy, Lost fear myself; for I saw the foes Were slipping aback and had no hold On the round Earth that sped its course.{19} </div> <div class="stanza"> The painted figures never could move, But the artist’s mind was there: The longer I look’d the more I knew They were falling, falling away below To the darkness out of sight. </div> </div></div> December 16, 1913.{20} <h2>“WAKE UP, ENGLAND!”[A]</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Thou careless, awake! Thou peacemaker, fight! Stand England for honour And God guard the Right! </div> <div class="stanza"> Thy mirth lay aside, Thy cavil and play; The fiend is upon thee And grave is the day. </div> <div class="stanza"> * * * </div> <div class="stanza"> Through fire, air and water Thy trial must be; But they that love life best Die gladly for thee. </div> <div class="stanza"> * * * </div> <div class="stanza"> Much suffering shall cleanse thee But thou through the flood Shalt win to salvation, To beauty through blood.{21} </div> <div class="stanza"> Up, careless, awake! Ye peacemakers, fight! Stand England for honour, And God guard the Right! </div> </div></div> August, 1914. <div class="footnote">[A] See notes at end of volume. </div> {22} <h2>LORD KITCHENER.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Unflinching hero, watchful to foresee And face thy country’s peril wheresoe’er, Directing war and peace with equal care, Till by long toil ennobled thou wert he Whom England call’d and bade “Set my arm free To obey my will and save my honour fair”— What day the foe presumed on her despair And she herself had trust in none but thee: </div> <div class="stanza"> Among Herculean deeds the miracle That mass’d the labour of ten years in one Shall be thy monument. Thy work is done Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea-swell Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun. </div> </div></div> {23} <h2>ODE ON THE TERCENTENARY COMMEMORATION OF SHAKESPEARE, 1916.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Kind dove-wing’d Peace, for whose green olive-crown The noblest kings would give their diadems, Mother who hast ruled our home so long, How suddenly art thou fled! Leaving our cities astir with war; And yet on the fair fields deserted Lingerest, wherever the gaudy seasons Deck with excessive splendour The sorrow-stricken year, Where cornlands bask and high elms rustle gently, And still the unweeting birds sing on by brae and bourn. </div> <div class="stanza"> The trumpet blareth and calleth the true to be stern Be then thy soft reposeful music dumb; Yet shall thy lovers awhile give ear —Tho’ in war’s garb they come— To the praise of England’s gentlest son; Whom when she bore the Muses lov’d Above the best of eldest honour{24} —Yea, save one without peer— And by great Homer set, Not to impugn his undisputed throne, The myriad-hearted by the mighty-hearted one. </div> <div class="stanza"> For God of His gifts pour’d on him a full measure, And gave him to know Nature and the ways of men: To dower with inexhaustible treasure A world-conquering speech, Which surg’d as a river high-descended That gathering tributaries of many lands Rolls through the plain a bounteous flood, Picturing towers and temples And ruin of bygone times, And floateth the ships deep-laden with merchandise Out on the windy seas to traffic in foreign climes. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thee Shakespeare to-day we honour; and evermore, Since England bore thee, the master of human song, Thy folk are we, children of thee, Who knitting in one her realm And strengthening with pride her sea-borne clans, Scorn’st in the grave the bruize of death. All thy later-laurel’d choir Laud thee in thy world-shrine: London’s laughter is thine; One with thee is our temper in melancholy or might, And in thy book Great-Britain’s rule readeth her right.{25} </div> <div class="stanza"> Her chains are chains of Freedom, and her bright arms Honour Justice and Truth and Love to man. Though first from a pirate ancestry She took her home on the wave, Her gentler spirit arose disdainful, And smiting the fetters of slavery Made the high seaways safe and free, In wisdom bidding aloud To world-wide brotherhood, Till her flag was hail’d as the ensign of Liberty, And the boom of her guns went round the earth in salvos of peace. </div> <div class="stanza"> And thou, when Nature bow’d her mastering hand To borrow an ecstasy of man’s art from thee, Thou her poet secure as she Of the shows of eternity, Didst never fear thy work should fall To fashion’s craze nor pedant’s folly Nor devastator whose arrogant arms Murder and maim mankind; Who when in scorn of grace He hath batter’d and burn’d some loveliest dearest shrine, Laugheth in ire and boasteth aloud his brazen god. </div> <div class="stanza"> * * * * * {26}</div> <div class="stanza"> I saw the Angel of Earth from strife aloof Mounting the heavenly stair with Time on high, Growing ever younger in the brightening air Of the everlasting dawn: It was not terror in his eyes nor wonder, That glance of the intimate exaltation Which lieth as Power under all Being, And broodeth in Thought above, As a bird wingeth over the ocean, Whether indolently the heavy water sleepeth Or is dash’d in a million waves, chafing or lightly laughing. </div> <div class="stanza"> I hear his voice in the music of lamentation, In echoing chant and cadenced litany, In country song and pastoral piping And silvery dances of mirth: And oft, as the eyes of a lion in the brake, His presence hath startled me, In austere shapes of beauty lurking, Beautiful for Beauty’s sake; As a lonely blade of life Ariseth to flower whensoever the unseen Will Stirreth with kindling aim the dark fecundity of Being. </div> <div class="stanza"> Man knoweth but as in a dream of his own desire The thing that is good for man, and he dreameth well:{27} But the lot of the gentle heart is hard That is cast in an epoch of life, When evil is knotted and demons fight, Who know not, they, that the lowest lot Is treachery hate and trust in sin And perseverance in ill, Doom’d to oblivious Hell, To pass with the shames unspoken of men away, Wash’d out with their tombs by the grey unpitying tears of Heaven. </div> <div class="stanza"> But ye, dear Youth, who lightly in the day of fury Put on England’s glory as a common coat, And in your stature of masking grace Stood forth warriors complete, No praise o’ershadoweth yours to-day, Walking out of the home of love To match the deeds of all the dead.— Alas! alas! fair Peace, These were thy blossoming roses. Look on thy shame, fair Peace, thy tearful shame! Turn to thine isle, fair Peace; return thou and guard it well! </div> </div></div> {28} <h2>THE CHIVALRY OF THE SEA. DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES FISHER, LATE STUDENT OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD, LOST IN THE “INVINCIBLE.”</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Over the warring waters, beneath the wandering skies, The heart of Britain roameth, the Chivalry of the sea, Where Spring never bringeth a flower, nor bird singeth in a tree; Far, afar, O beloved, beyond the sight of our eyes, Over the warring waters, beneath the stormy skies. </div> <div class="stanza"> Staunch and valiant-hearted, to whom our toil were play, Ye man with armour’d patience the bulwarks night and day, Or on your iron coursers plough shuddering through the Bay, Or neath the deluge drive the skirmishing sharks of war: Venturous boys who leapt on the pinnace and row’d from shore, A mother’s tear in the eye, a swift farewell to say, And a great glory at heart that none can take away.{29} </div> <div class="stanza"> Seldom is your home-coming; for aye your pennon flies In unrecorded exploits on the tumultuous wave; Till, in the storm of battle, fast-thundering upon the foe, Ye add your kindred names to the heroes of long-ago, And mid the blasting wrack, in the glad sudden death of the brave, Ye are gone to return no more.—Idly our tears arise; Too proud for praise as ye lie in your unvisited grave, The wide-warring water, under the starry skies. </div> </div></div> {30} <h2>FOR “PAGES INÉDITES,” Etc. April, 1916.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> By our dear sons’ graves, fair France, thou’rt now to us, endear’d; Since no more as of old stand th’ English against thee in fight, But rallying to defend thee they die guarding thy beauty From blind envious Hate and Perfidy leagued with Might. </div> </div></div> <h2>GHELUVELT. EPITAPH ON THE WORCESTERS. OCTOBER 31, 1914.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Askest thou of these graves? They’ll tell thee, O stranger, in England How we Worcesters lie where we redeem’d the battle. </div> </div></div> {31} <h2>THE WEST FRONT. AN ENGLISH MOTHER, ON LOOKING INTO MASEFIELD’S “OLD FRONT LINE.”</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> No country know I so well as this landscape of hell. Why bring you to my pain these shadow’d effigys Of barb’d wire, riven trees, the corpse-strewn blasted plain? </div> <div class="stanza"> And the names—Hebuterne Bethune and La Bassée— I have nothing to learn— Contalmaison, Boisselle, And one where night and day my heart would pray and dwell; </div> <div class="stanza"> A desert sanctuary, where in holy vigil Year-long I have held my faith against th’ imaginings Of horror and agony in an ordeal above{32} </div> <div class="stanza"> The tears of suffering and took aid of angels: This was the temple of God: no mortuary of kings Ever gathered the spoils of such chivalry and love: </div> <div class="stanza"> No pilgrim shrine soe’er hath assembled such prayer— With rich incense-wafted ritual and requiem Not beauteous batter’d Rheims nor lorn Jerusalem. </div> </div></div> {33} <h2>TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA April, 1917.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Brothers in blood! They who this wrong began To wreck our commonwealth, will rue the day When first they challenged freemen to the fray, And with the Briton dared the American. Now are we pledged to win the Rights of man; Labour and justice now shall have their way, And in a League of Peace—God grant we may— Transform the earth, not patch up the old plan. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sure is our hope since he, who led your nation, Spake for mankind; and ye arose in awe Of that high call to work the world’s salvation; Clearing your minds of all estranging blindness In the vision of Beauty, and the Spirit’s law, Freedom and Honour and sweet Loving-kindness. </div> </div></div> {34} <h2>TRAFALGAR SQUARE September, 1917.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Fool that I was: my heart was sore, Yea sick for the myriad wounded men, The maim’d in the war: I had grief for each one: And I came in the gay September sun To the open smile of Trafalgar Square; Where many a lad with a limb fordone Loll’d by the lion-guarded column That holdeth Nelson statued thereon Upright in the air. </div> <div class="stanza"> The Parliament towers and the Abbey towers, The white Horseguards and grey Whitehall, He looketh on all, Past Somerset House and the river’s bend To the pillar’d dome of St. Paul, That slumbers confessing God’s solemn blessing On England’s glory, to keep it ours— While children true her prowess renew And throng from the ends of the earth to defend Freedom and honour—till Earth shall end.{35} </div> <div class="stanza"> The gentle unjealous Shakespeare, I trow, In his country tomb of peaceful fame, Must feel exiled from life and glow If he think of this man with his warrior claim, Who looketh o’er London as if ’twere his own, As he standeth in stone, aloft and alone, Sailing the sky with one arm and one eye. </div> </div></div> {36} <h2>CHRISTMAS EVE, 1917</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Many happy returns, sweet Babe, of the day! Didst not thou sow good seed in the world, thy field? Cam’st thou to save the poor? Thy poor yet pine. Thousands to-day suffer death-pangs like thine; Our jewels of life are spilt on the ground as dross; Ten thousand mothers stand beneath the cross. Peace to men of goodwill was the angels’ song: Now there is fiercer war, worse filth and wrong. If thou didst sow good seed, is this the yield? Shall not thy folk be quell’d in dead dismay? </div> <div class="stanza"> Nay, with a larger hope we are fed and heal’d Than e’er was reveal’d to the saints who died so strong; For while men slept the seed had quicken’d unseen. England is as a field whereon the corn is green. </div> <div class="stanza"> Of trial and dark tribulation this vision is born— Britain as a field green with the springing corn. While we slumber’d the seed was growing unseen. Happy returns of the day, dear Babe, we say.{37} </div> <div class="stanza"> England has buried her sins with her fathers’ bones. Thou shalt be throned on the ruin of kingly thrones. The wish of thine heart is rooted in carnal mind; For good seed didst thou sow in the world thy field: It shall ripen in gold and harvest an hundredfold. Peace shall come as a flood upon all mankind; Love shall comfort and succour the poor that are pined. </div> <div class="stanza"> Wherever our gentle children are wander’d and sped, Simple apostles thine of the world to come, They carried the living seed of the living Bread. The angel-song and the gospel of Christendom, That while the nation slept was springing unseen. </div> <div class="stanza"> So tho’ we be sorely stricken we feel no dread: Our thousand sons suffer death-pangs like thine: It shall ripen in gold and harvest an hundredfold: Peace and Love shall hallow our care and teen, Shall bind in fellowship all the folk of the earth To kneel at thy cradle, Babe, and bless thy birth. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ring we the bells up and down in country and town, And keep the old feast unholpen of preacher or priest, Wishing thee happy returns, and thy Mother May, Ever happier and happier returns, dear Christ, of thy day! </div> </div></div> {38} <h2>TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA August, 1918.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> See England’s stalwart daughter, who made emprise ’Gainst her own mother, freeborn of the free, Who slew her sons for her slaves’ liberty, See for mankind her majesty arise! From her new world her unattainted eyes Espy deliverance, and her bold decree Speaks for Great Britain’s wide confederacy: The folk shall rule, if only they be wise. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ambition, hate, revenge, the secret sway Of priest and kingcraft shall be done away By faith in beauty, chivalry and good. One God made all, and will all wrongs forgive Save their hell-heart who stab man’s hope to live In mutual freedom, peace and brotherhood. </div> </div></div> {39} <h2>OUR PRISONERS OF WAR IN GERMANY October, 1918.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Prisoners to a foe inhuman, Oh! but our hearts rebel: Defenceless victims ye are, in claws of spite a prey, Conquering your torturers, enduring night and day Malice, year-long drawn out your noble spirits to quell. Fearsomer than death this rack they ranged, and reckon’d well ’Twould harrow our homes, and plied, such devilish aim had they, That England roused to rage should wrong with wrong repay, And smirch her envied honour in deeds unspeakable. </div> <div class="stanza"> Nor trouble we just Heaven that quick revenge be done On Satan’s chamberlains highseated in Berlin; Their reek floats round the world on all lands ’neath the sun: Tho’ in craven Germany was no man found, not one With spirit enough to cry Shame!—Nay, but on such sin {40} Follows Perdition eternal ... and it has begun. </div> </div></div> <h2>HARVEST-HOME VERSES TO THE AMERICANS ON THEIR THANKSGIVING DAY, CELEBRATED IN ENGLAND NOVEMBER 28, 1918.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> A toast for West and East Drink on this Thursday feast Last in November, The year when Albion’s lands Across the sea join hands— Drink and remember! </div> <div class="stanza"> Nineteen-eighteen fulfill’d The kindly purpose will’d By the Ever-living, When first in hope upstay’d The Pilgrim Fathers made Harvest thanksgiving. </div> <div class="stanza"> And since the seed bore fruit, Which they went forth to root In the wildernesses, Ye now return to find The Rose that they resigned With their distresses.{41} </div> <div class="stanza"> ’Twas when the wide world o’er, Whatever peaceful shore Britons inherit, Britons claim’d right of birth, And fought hell in the mirth Of Shakespeare’s spirit. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then your true heart was stirr’d, Your arm raised, and your word Went forth, forecasting That the great war should cease In British bonds of peace, Peace everlasting. </div> <div class="stanza"> The good God bless this day, And we for ever and aye Keep our love living, Till all men ’neath heaven’s dome Sing Freedom’s Harvest-home In one Thanksgiving! </div> </div></div> {42} <h2>TO AUSTRALIA WITH THE WOUNDED AND THE SURVIVORS OF 1914 RETURNING HOME IN AUTUMN, 1918.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> A loving message at Christmastide, Sent round the world to the underside A-sail in the ship that across the foam Carries the wounded Aussies home, Who rallied at War’s far-thundering call, When England stood with her back to the wall, To fight for Freedom, that ne’er shall die So long as on earth the old flag fly. </div> <div class="stanza"> O hearts so loving, eager and bold— Whose praise hath claim to be writ on the sky In letters of gold, of fire and gold— Never shall prouder tale be told, Than how ye fought as the knights of old “Against the heathen in Turkye In Flanders Artois and Picardie:” But above all triumph that else ye have won This is the goodliest deed ye have done, To have seal’d with blood in a desperate day The love-bond that binds us for ever and aye. </div> </div></div> September, 1918.{43} <h2>THE EXCELLENT WAY</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Man’s mind that hath this earth for home Hath too its far-spread starry dome Where thought is lost in going free, Prison’d but by infinity. He first in slumbrous babyhood Took conscience of his heavenly good; Then with his sins grown up to youth Wept at the vision of God’s truth. </div> <div class="stanza"> Soon in his heart new hopes awoke As poet sang or prophet spoke: Temples arose and stone he taught To stand agaze in trancèd thought: He won the trembling air to tell Of far passions ineffable, Feeding the hungry things of sense With instincts of omniscience, Immortal modes that should abide Cherish’d by love and pious pride, That unborn children might inherit The triumph of his holy spirit,{44} Outbidding Nature, to entice Her soul from her own Paradise, Till her wild face had fallen to shame Had he not praised her in God’s name. </div> <div class="stanza"> Alas! poor man, what blockish curse Would violate thy universe, To enchain thy freedom and entomb Thy pleasance in devouring gloom? Behold thy savage foes of yore With woes of pestilence and war, Siva and Moloch, Odin and Thor, Rise from their graves to greet amain The deeds that give them life again. </div> <div class="stanza"> Poor man, sunk deeper than thy slime In blood and hate, in terror and crime, Thou who wert lifted on the wings Of thy desire, the king of kings, In promise beyond ken sublime: O thou man-soul, who mightest climb To heavenly happiness, whereof Thine easy path were Mirth and Love! </div> </div></div> October, 1918.{45} <h2>ENGLAND TO INDIA Christmas, 1918.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Beautiful is man’s home: how fair, Wrapt in her robe of azurous air, The Earth thro’ stress of ice and fire Came on the path of God’s desire, Redeeming Chaos, to compose Exquisite forms of lily and rose, With every creature a design Of loveliness or craft divine Searchable and unsearchable, And each insect a miracle! </div> <div class="stanza"> Truth is as Beauty unconfined: Various as Nature is man’s Mind: Each race and tribe is as a flower Set in God’s garden with its dower Of special instinct; and man’s grace Compact of all must all embrace. China and Ind, Hellas or France, Each hath its own inheritance;{46} And each to Truth’s rich market brings Its bright divine imaginings, In rival tribute to surprise The world with native merchandise. Nor least in worth nor last in years Of artists, poets, saints and seers, England, in her far northern sea, Fashion’d the jewel of Liberty, Fetch’d from the shore of Palestine (Land of the Lily and mystic Vine). Where once in the everlasting dawn Christ’s Love-star flamed, that heavenly sign Whereto all nations shall be drawn, Unfabled Magi, and uplift Each to Love’s cradle his own gift. </div> <div class="stanza"> Thou who canst dream and understand, Dost thou not dream for thine own land This dream of Truth, and contemplate That happier world, Love’s free Estate? Say, didst thou dream, O Sister fair, How hand in hand we entered there? </div> </div></div> {47} <h2>BRITANNIA VICTRIX</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Careless wast thou in thy pride, Queen of seas and countries wide, Glorying on thy peaceful throne:— Can thy love thy sins atone? What shall dreams of glory serve, If thy sloth thy doom deserve, When the strong relentless foe Storm thy gates to lay thee low? </div> <div class="stanza"> Careless, ah! he saw thee leap Mighty from thy startled sleep, Heard afar thy challenge ring: ’Twas the world’s awakening. </div> <div class="stanza"> Welcome to thy children all Rallying to thee without call Oversea, the sportive sons From thy vast dominions! Stern in onset or defence, Terrible in their confidence.{48} </div> <div class="stanza"> Dauntless wast thou, fair goddess, ’Neath the cloud of thy distress; Fierce and mirthful wast thou seen In thy toil and in thy teen; While the nations looked to thee, Spent in worldwide agony. </div> <div class="stanza"> Oft, throughout that long ordeal Dark with horror-stricken duty, Nature on thy heart would steal Beckoning thee with heavenly beauty, Heightening ever on thine isle All her seasons’ tranquil smile; Till thy soul anew converted, Roaming o’er the fields deserted, By thy sorrow sanctified, Found a place wherein to hide. </div> <div class="stanza"> Soon fresh beauty lit thy face, Then thou stood’st in Heaven’s high grace: Sudden in air on land and sea Swell’d the voice of victory. </div> <div class="stanza"> Now when jubilant bells resound And thy sons come laurel-crown’d, After all thy years of woe Thou no longer canst forgo, Now thy tears are loos’d to flow.{49} </div> <div class="stanza"> Land, dear land, whose sea-built shore Nurseth warriors evermore, Land, whence Freedom far and lone Round the earth her speech has thrown Like a planet’s luminous zone,— In thy strength and calm defiance Hold mankind in love’s alliance! </div> <div class="stanza"> Beauteous art thou, but the foes Of thy beauty are not those Who lie tangled and dismay’d; Fearless one, be yet afraid Lest thyself thyself condemn In the wrong that ruin’d them. </div> <div class="stanza"> God, who chose thee and upraised ’Mong the folk (His name be praised!), Proved thee then by chastisement Worthy of His high intent, Who, because thou could’st endure, Saved thee free and purged thee pure, Won thee thus His grace to win, For thy love forgave thy sin, For thy truth forgave thy pride, Queen of seas and countries wide,— He who led thee still will guide.{50} </div> <div class="stanza"> Hark! thy sons, those spirits fresh Dearly housed in dazzling flesh, Thy full brightening buds of strength, Ere their day had any length Crush’d, and fallen in torment sorest, Hark! the sons whom thou deplorest Call—I hear one call; he saith: “Mother, weep not for my death: ’Twas to guard our home from hell, ’Twas to make thy joy I fell Praising God, and all is well. What if now thy heart should quail And in peace our victory fail! If low greed in guise of right Should consume thy gather’d might, And thy power mankind to save Fall and perish on our grave! On my grave, whose legend be Fought with the brave and joyfully Died in faith of victory. Follow on the way we won! Thou hast found, not lost thy son.” </div> </div></div> November 23, 1918.{51} <h2>DER TAG: NELSON AND BEATTY A BROADSHEET.</h2> <h3>1.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> No doubt ’twas a truly Christian sight When the German ships came out of the Bight, But it can’t be said it was much of a fight That grey November morning; The wonderful day, the great Der Tag, Which Prussians had vow’d with unmannerly brag Should see Old England lower her flag Some grey November morning. </div> </div></div> <h3>2.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> The spirit of Nelson, that haunts the Fleet, Had come whereabouts the ships must meet, But he fear’d there was some decoy or cheat That grey November morning, When the enemy led by a British scout Stole ’twixt our lines ... and never a shout Or a signal; and never a gun spoke out That grey November morning. </div> </div></div> {52} <h3>3.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> So he shaped his course to the Admiral’s ship, Where Beatty stood with hand on hip Impassive, nor ever moved his lip That grey November morning; And touching his shoulder he said: “My mate, Am I come too soon or am I too late? Is it friendly manœuvres or pageant of State This grey November morning?” </div> </div></div> <h3>4.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Then Beatty said: “As Admiral here In the name of the King I bid you good cheer: It’s not my fault that it looks so queer This grey November morning; But there come the enemy all in queues; They can fight well enough if only they choose; Small blame to me if the fools refuse, This grey November morning. </div> </div></div> <h3>5.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “That’s Admiral Reuter, surrendering nine Great Dreadnoughts, all first-rates of the line; Beyond, in the haze that veils the brine This grey November morning,{53} Loom five heavy Cruisers, and light ones four, With a tail of Destroyers, fifty or more, Each squadron under its Commodore, This grey November morning. </div> </div></div> <h3>6.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “The least of all those captive queens Could have knock’d your whole navy to smithereens, And nothing said of the other machines, On a grey November morning, The aeroplanes and the submarines, Bombs, torpedoes, and Zeppelins, Their floating mines and their smoky screens, Of a grey November morning. </div> </div></div> <h3>7.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “They’ll rage like bulls sans reason or rhyme, And next day, as if ’twere a pantomime, They walk in like cows at milking-time, On a grey November morning. We’re four years sick of the pestilent mob; —You’ve heard of our biblical Battle in Gob?— At times it was hardly a gentleman’s job Of a grey November morning.”{54} </div> </div></div> <h3>8.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Then Nelson said: “God bless my soul! How things are changed in this age of coal; For the spittle it isn’t with you I’d condole This grey November morning. By George! you’ve netted a monstrous catch: You’ll be able to pen the best dispatch That ever an Admiral wrote under hatch On a grey November morning. </div> </div></div> <h3>9.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> “I like your looks and I like your name: My heart goes out to the old fleet’s fame, And I’m pleased to find you so spry at the game This grey November morning. Your ships, tho’ I don’t half understand Their build, are stouter and better mann’d Than anything I ever had in command Of a grey November morning.” </div> </div></div> <h3>10.</h3> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Then Beatty spoke: “Sir! none of my crew, All bravest of brave and truest of true, Is thinking of me so much as of you This grey November morning.”{55} And Nelson replied: “Well, thanks f’ your chat. Forgive my intrusion! I take off my hat And make you my bow ... we’ll leave it at that, This grey November morning.”{56} </div> </div></div> <h2>“TO BURNS” TOAST FOR THE GREENOCK CLUB DINNER, JANUARY, 1914.</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> To Burns! brave Scotia’s laurel’d son Who drove his plough on Helicon— Who with his Doric rhyme erewhile Taught English bards to mend their style— And by the humour of his pen Fairly befool’d auld Nickie-ben ... Blithe Robbie Burns! we love thee well Because thou wert so like thysel’, And in full cups with festive cheer We toast thy fame from year to year. </div> </div></div> {57} <h2>POOR CHILD</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> On a mournful day When my heart was lonely, O’er and o’er my thought Conned but one thing only, </div> <div class="stanza"> Thinking how I lost Wand’ring in the wild-wood The companion self Of my careless childhood. </div> <div class="stanza"> How, poor child, it was I shall ne’er discover, But ’twas just when he Grew to be thy lover, </div> <div class="stanza"> With thine eyes of trust And thy mirth, whereunder All the world’s hope lay In thy heart of wonder. </div> <div class="stanza"> Now, beyond regrets And faint memories of thee. Saddest is, poor child, That I cannot love thee. </div> </div></div> {58} <h2>TO PERCY BUCK</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Folk alien to the Muse have hemm’d us round And fiends have suck’d our blood: our best delight Is poison’d, and the year’s infective blight Hath made almost a silence of sweet sound. But you, what fortune, Percy, have you found At Harrow? doth fair hope your toil requite? Doth beauty win her praise and truth her right, Or hath the good seed fal’n on stony ground? </div> <div class="stanza"> Ply the art ever nobly, single-soul’d Like Brahms, or as you ruled in Wells erewhile, —Nor yet the memory of that zeal is cold— Where lately I, who love the purer style, Enter’d, and felt your spirit as of old Beside me, listening in the chancel-aisle. </div> </div></div> 1904.{59} <h2>TO HARRY ELLIS WOOLDRIDGE</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Love and the Muse have left their home, now bare Of memorable beauty, all is gone, The dedicated charm of Yattendon, Which thou wert apt, dear Hal, to build and share. What noble shades are flitting, who while-ere Haunted the ivy’d walls, where time ran on In sanctities of joy by reverence won, Music and choral grace and studies fair! </div> <div class="stanza"> These on some kindlier field may Fate restore, And may the old house prosper, dispossest Of her whose equal it can nevermore Hold till it crumble: O nay! and the door Will moulder ere it open on a guest To match thee in thy wisdom and thy jest. </div> </div></div> October, 1905.{60} <h2>FORTUNATUS NIMIUM</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> I have lain in the sun I have toil’d as I might I have thought as I would And now it is night. </div> <div class="stanza"> My bed full of sleep My heart of content For friends that I met The way that I went. </div> <div class="stanza"> I welcome fatigue While frenzy and care Like thin summer clouds Go melting in air. </div> <div class="stanza"> To dream as I may And awake when I will With the song of the birds And the sun on the hill.{61} </div> <div class="stanza"> Or death—were it death— To what should I wake Who loved in my home All life for its sake? </div> <div class="stanza"> What good have I wrought? I laugh to have learned That joy cannot come Unless it be earned; </div> <div class="stanza"> For a happier lot Than God giveth me It never hath been Nor ever shall be. </div> </div></div> {62} <h2>DEMOCRITUS</h2> <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> Joy of your opulent atoms! wouldst thou dare Say that Thought also of atoms self-became, Waving to soul as light had the eye in aim; And so with things of bodily sense compare Those native notions that the heavens declare, Space and Time, Beauty and God—Praise we his name!— Real ideas, that on tongues of flame From out mind’s cooling paste leapt unaware? </div> <div class="stanza"> Thy spirit, Democritus, orb’d in the eterne Illimitable galaxy of night Shineth undimm’d where greater splendours burn Of sage and poet: by their influence bright We are held; and pouring from his quenchless urn Christ with immortal love-beams laves the height. </div> </div></div> 1919.{63} <h2>NOTES</h2> Poem 3.—As the metre or scansion of this poem was publicly discussed and wrongly analysed by some who admired its effects, it may be well to explain that it and the three other poems in similar measure, “Flowering Tree,” “In der Fremde,” “The West Front,” are strictly syllabic verse on the model left by Milton in “Samson Agonistes”; except that his system, which depended on exclusion of extra-metrical syllables (that is, syllables which did not admit of resolution by “elision” into a disyllabic scheme) from all places but the last, still admitted them in that place, thereby forbidding inversion of the last foot. It is natural to conclude that, had he pursued his inventions, his next step would have been to get rid of this anomaly; and if that is done, the result is the new rhythms that these poems exhibit. In this sort of prosody rhyme is admitted, like alliteration, as an ornament at will; it is not needed. My four experiments are confined to the twelve-syllable verse. It is probably agreed that there are possibilities in that long six-foot line which English poetry has not fully explored. Poem 12, “Hell and Hate.”—This poem was written December 16, 1913. It is the description of a little picture hanging in my bedroom; it had been painted for me{64} as a New Year’s gift more than thirty years before, and I described it partly because I never exactly knew what it meant. When the war broke out I remembered my poem and sent it to The Times, where it appeared in the Literary Supplement September 24, 1914. Poem 13, “Wake up, England!”—This motto is the King’s well-known call to the country in 1901 at the Guildhall. The verses appeared in The Times on August 8, 1914. There were three other stanzas, which are better omitted; and the last two lines, which were printed in capitals and ran thus, <div class="poetry"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> England stands for honour, May God defend the right, </div> </div></div> were purposely set out of metre. In the second stanza the words “The fiend” are what I originally wrote, and I think that the friends who persuaded me to substitute “Thy foe” will no longer wish to protest. BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND <hr class="full" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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