Chapter 6

And now, as then she saw, She sees with shamefast awe How all unlike all slaves and tyrants born Where bondmen champ the bit And anarchs foam and flit, And day mocks day, and year puts year to scorn, Our mother bore us, English men, Ashamed of shame and strong in mercy, now as then.

We loosed not on these knaves Their scourge-tormented slaves: We held the hand that fain had risen to smite The torturer fast, and made Justice awhile afraid, And righteousness forego her ruthless right: We warred not even with these as they; We bade not them they preyed on make of them their prey.

All murderous fraud that lurks In hearts where hell's craft works Fought, crawled, and slew in darkness: they that died Dreamed not of foes too base For scorn to grant them grace: Men wounded, women, children at their side, Had found what faith in fiends may live: And yet we gave not back what righteous doom would give.

No false white flag that fawns On faith till murder dawns Blood-red from hell-black treason's heart of hate Left ever shame's foul brand Seared on an English hand: And yet our pride vouchsafes them grace too great For other pride to dream of: scorn Strikes retribution silent as the stars at morn.

And now the living breath Whose life puts death to death, Freedom, whose name is England, stirs and thrills The burning darkness through Whence fraud and slavery grew, We scarce may mourn our dead whose fame fulfils The record where her foes have read That earth shall see none like her born ere earth be dead.

THE FIRST OF JUNE

Peace and war are one in proof of England's deathless praise. One divine day saw her foemen scattered on the sea Far and fast as storm could speed: the same strong day of days Sees the imperial commonweal set friends and foemen free. Save where freedom reigns, whose name is England, fraud and fear Grind and blind the face of men who look on her and lie: Now may truth and pride in truth, whose seat of old was here, See them shamed and stricken blind and dumb as worms that die. Even before our hallowed hawthorn-blossom pass and cease, Even as England shines and smiles at last upon the sun, Comes the word that means for England more than passing peace, Peace with honour, peace with pride in righteous work well done. Crowned with flowers the first of all the world and all the year, Peace, whose name is one with honour born of war, is here.

ROUNDEL

FROM THE FRENCH OF VILLON

Death, I would plead against thy wrong, Who hast reft me of my love, my wife, And art not satiate yet with strife, But needs wilt hold me lingering long. No strength since then has kept me strong: But what could hurt thee in her life, Death?

Twain we were, and our hearts one song, One heart: if that be dead, thy knife Hath cut me off alive from life, Dead as the carver's figured throng, Death!

A ROUNDEL OF RABELAIS

Theleme is afar on the waters, adrift and afar, Afar and afloat on the waters that flicker and gleam, And we feel but her fragrance and see but the shadows that mar Theleme.

In the sun-coloured mists of the sunrise and sunset that steam As incense from urns of the twilight, her portals ajar Let pass as a shadow the light of the sound of a dream.

But the laughter that rings from her cloisters that know not a bar So kindles delight in desire that the souls in us deem He erred not, the seer who discerned on the seas as a star Theleme.

LUCIFER

_Écrasez l'infâme._--VOLTAIRE

_Les prêtres ont raison de l'appeler Lucifer._--VICTOR HUGO

Voltaire, our England's lover, man divine Beyond all Gods that ever fear adored By right and might, by sceptre and by sword, By godlike love of sunlike truth, made thine Through godlike hate of falsehood's marshlight shine And all the fume of creeds and deeds abhorred Whose light was darkness, till the dawn-star soared, Truth, reason, mercy, justice, keep thy shrine Sacred in memory's temple, seeing that none Of all souls born to strive before the sun Loved ever good or hated evil more. The snake that felt thy heel upon her head, Night's first-born, writhes as though she were not dead, But strikes not, stings not, slays not as before.

THE CENTENARY OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS

Sound of trumpets blowing down the merriest winds of morn, Flash of hurtless lightnings, laugh of thunders loud and glad, Here should hail the summer day whereon a light was born Whence the sun grew brighter, seeing the world less dark and sad. Man of men by right divine of boyhood everlasting, France incarnate, France immortal in her deathless boy, Brighter birthday never shone than thine on earth, forecasting More of strenuous mirth in manhood, more of manful joy. Child of warriors, friend of warriors, Garibaldi's friend, Even thy name is as the splendour of a sunbright sword: While the boy's heart beats in man, thy fame shall find not end: Time and dark oblivion bow before thee as their lord. Youth acclaims thee gladdest of the gods that gild his days: Age gives thanks for thee, and death lacks heart to quench thy praise.

AT A DOG'S GRAVE

I

Good night, we say, when comes the time to win The daily death divine that shuts up sight, Sleep, that assures for all who dwell therein Good night.

The shadow shed round those we love shines bright As love's own face, when death, sleep's gentler twin, From them divides us even as night from light.

Shall friends born lower in life, though pure of sin, Though clothed with love and faith to usward plight, Perish and pass unbidden of us, their kin, Good night?

II

To die a dog's death once was held for shame. Not all men so beloved and mourned shall lie As many of these, whose time untimely came To die.

His years were full: his years were joyous: why Must love be sorrow, when his gracious name Recalls his lovely life of limb and eye?

If aught of blameless life on earth may claim Life higher than death, though death's dark wave rise high, Such life as this among us never came To die.

III

White violets, there by hands more sweet than they Planted, shall sweeten April's flowerful air About a grave that shows to night and day White violets there.

A child's light hands, whose touch makes flowers more fair, Keep fair as these for many a March and May The light of days that are because they were.

It shall not like a blossom pass away; It broods and brightens with the days that bear Fresh fruits of love, but leave, as love might pray, White violets there.

THREE WEEKS OLD

Three weeks since there was no such rose in being; Now may eyes made dim with deep delight See how fair it is, laugh with love, and seeing Praise the chance that bids us bless the sight.

Three weeks old, and a very rose of roses, Bright and sweet as love is sweet and bright. Heaven and earth, till a man's life wanes and closes, Show not life or love a lovelier sight.

Three weeks past have renewed the rosebright creature Day by day with life, and night by night. Love, though fain of its every faultless feature, Finds not words to match the silent sight.

A CLASP OF HANDS

I

Soft, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers That bask in heavenly heat When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers, Soft, small, and sweet.

A babe's hands open as to greet The tender touch of ours And mock with motion faint and fleet

The minutes of the new strange hours That earth, not heaven, must mete; Buds fragrant still from heaven's own bowers, Soft, small, and sweet.

II

A velvet vice with springs of steel That fasten in a trice And clench the fingers fast that feel A velvet vice--

What man would risk the danger twice, Nor quake from head to heel? Whom would not one such test suffice?

Well may we tremble as we kneel In sight of Paradise, If both a babe's closed fists conceal A velvet vice.

III

Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch, Two creased and dimpled wrists, That match, if mottled overmuch, Two flower-soft fists--

What heart of man dare hold the lists Against such odds and such Sweet vantage as no strength resists?

Our strength is all a broken crutch, Our eyes are dim with mists, Our hearts are prisoners as we touch Two flower-soft fists.

PROLOGUE TO DOCTOR FAUSTUS

Light, as when dawn takes wing and smites the sea, Smote England when his day bade Marlowe be. No fire so keen had thrilled the clouds of time Since Dante's breath made Italy sublime. Earth, bright with flowers whose dew shone soft as tears, Through Chaucer cast her charm on eyes and ears: The lustrous laughter of the love-lit earth Rang, leapt, and lightened in his might of mirth. Deep moonlight, hallowing all the breathless air, Made earth and heaven for Spenser faint and fair. But song might bid not heaven and earth be one Till Marlowe's voice gave warning of the sun. Thought quailed and fluttered as a wounded bird Till passion fledged the wing of Marlowe's word. Faith born of fear bade hope and doubt be dumb Till Marlowe's pride bade light or darkness come. Then first our speech was thunder: then our song Shot lightning through the clouds that wrought us wrong. Blind fear, whose faith feeds hell with fire, became A moth self-shrivelled in its own blind flame. We heard, in tune with even our seas that roll, The speech of storm, the thunders of the soul. Men's passions, clothed with all the woes they wrought, Shone through the fire of man's transfiguring thought. The thirst of knowledge, quenchless at her springs, Ambition, fire that clasps the thrones of kings, Love, light that makes of life one lustrous hour, And song, the soul's chief crown and throne of power, The hungering heart of greed and ravenous hate, Made music high as heaven and deep as fate. Strange pity, scarce half scornful of her tear, In Berkeley's vaults bowed down on Edward's bier. But higher in forceful flight of song than all The soul of man, its own imperious thrall, Rose, when his royal spirit of fierce desire Made life and death for man one flame of fire. Incarnate man, fast bound as earth and sea, Spake, when his pride would fain set Faustus free. Eternal beauty, strong as day and night, Shone, when his word bade Helen back to sight. Fear, when he bowed the soul before her spell, Thundered and lightened through the vaults of hell. The music known of all men's tongues that sing, When Marlowe sang, bade love make heaven of spring; The music none but English tongues may make, Our own sole song, spake first when Marlowe spake; And on his grave, though there no stone may stand, The flower it shows was laid by Shakespeare's hand.

PROLOGUE TO ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM

Love dark as death and fierce as fire on wing Sustains in sin the soul that feels it cling Like flame whose tongues are serpents: hope and fear Die when a love more dire than hate draws near, And stings to death the heart it cleaves in twain, And leaves in ashes all but fear and pain. Our lustrous England rose to life and light From Rome's and hell's immitigable night, And music laughed and quickened from her breath, When first her sons acclaimed Elizabeth. Her soul became a lyre that all men heard Who felt their souls give back her lyric word. Yet now not all at once her perfect power Spake: man's deep heart abode awhile its hour, Abode its hour of utterance; not to wake Till Marlowe's thought in thunderous music spake. But yet not yet was passion's tragic breath Thrilled through with sense of instant life and death, Life actual even as theirs who watched the strife, Death dark and keen and terrible as life. Here first was truth in song made perfect: here Woke first the war of love and hate and fear. A man too vile for thought's or shame's control Holds empire on a woman's loftier soul, And withers it to wickedness: in vain Shame quickens thought with penitential pain: In vain dark chance's fitful providence Withholds the crime, and chills the spirit of sense: It wakes again in fire that burns away Repentance, weak as night devoured of day. Remorse, and ravenous thirst of sin and crime, Rend and consume the soul in strife sublime, And passion cries on pity till it hear And tremble as with love that casts out fear. Dark as the deed and doom he gave to fame For ever lies the sovereign singer's name. Sovereign and regent on the soul he lives While thought gives thanks for aught remembrance gives, And mystery sees the imperial shadow stand By Marlowe's side alone at Shakespeare's hand.

PROLOGUE TO OLD FORTUNATUS

The golden bells of fairyland, that ring Perpetual chime for childhood's flower-sweet spring, Sang soft memorial music in his ear Whose answering music shines about us here. Soft laughter as of light that stirs the sea With darkling sense of dawn ere dawn may be, Kind sorrow, pity touched with gentler scorn, Keen wit whose shafts were sunshafts of the morn, Love winged with fancy, fancy thrilled with love, An eagle's aim and ardour in a dove, A man's delight and passion in a child, Inform it as when first they wept and smiled. Life, soiled and rent and ringed about with pain Whose touch lent action less of spur than chain, Left half the happiness his birth designed, And half the power, unquenched in heart and mind. Comrade and comforter, sublime in shame, A poor man bound in prison whence he came Poor, and took up the burden of his life Smiling, and strong to strive with sorrow and strife, He spake in England's ear the poor man's word, Manful and mournful, deathless and unheard. His kind great heart was fire, and love's own fire, Compassion, strong as flesh may feel desire, To enkindle pity and mercy toward a soul Sunk down in shame too deep for shame's control. His kind keen eye was light to lighten hope Where no man else might see life's darkness ope And pity's touch bring forth from evil good, Sweet as forgiveness, strong as fatherhood. Names higher than his outshine it and outsoar, But none save one should memory cherish more: Praise and thanksgiving crown the names above, But him we give the gift he gave us, love.

PROLOGUE TO THE DUCHESS OF MALFY

When Shakespeare soared from life to death, above All praise, all adoration, save of love, As here on earth above all men he stood That were or are or shall be--great, and good, Past thank or thought of England or of man-- Light from the sunset quickened as it ran. His word, who sang as never man may sing And spake as never voice of man may ring, Not fruitless fell, as seed on sterile ways, But brought forth increase even to Shakespeare's praise. Our skies were thrilled and filled, from sea to sea, With stars outshining all their suns to be. No later light of tragic song they knew Like his whose lightning clove the sunset through. Half Shakespeare's glory, when his hand sublime Bade all the change of tragic life and time Live, and outlive all date of quick and dead, Fell, rested, and shall rest on Webster's head. Round him the shadows cast on earth by light Rose, changed, and shone, transfiguring death and night. Where evil only crawled and hissed and slew On ways where nought save shame and bloodshed grew, He bade the loyal light of honour live, And love, when stricken through the heart, forgive. Deep down the midnight of the soul of sin He lit the star of mercy throned therein. High up the darkness of sublime despair He set the sun of love to triumph there. Things foul or frail his touch made strong and pure, And bade things transient like to stars endure. Terror, on wings whose flight made night in heaven, Pity, with hands whence life took love for leaven, Breathed round him music whence his mortal breath Drew life that bade forgetfulness and death Die: life that bids his light of fiery fame Endure with England's, yea, with Shakespeare's name.

PROLOGUE TO THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY

Fire, and behind the breathless flight of fire Thunder that quickens fear and quells desire, Make bright and loud the terror of the night Wherein the soul sees only wrath for light. Wrath winged by love and sheathed by grief in steel Sets on the front of crime death's withering seal. The heaving horror of the storms of sin Brings forth in fear the lightning hid therein, And flashes back to darkness: truth, found pure And perfect, asks not heaven if shame endure. What life and death were his whose raging song Bore heaven such witness of the wild world's wrong, What hand was this that grasped such thunder, none Knows: night and storm seclude him from the sun. By daytime none discerns the fire of Mars: Deep darkness bares to sight the sterner stars, The lights whose dawn seems doomsday. None may tell Whence rose a world so lit from heaven and hell. Life-wasting love, hate born of raging lust, Fierce retribution, fed with death's own dust And sorrow's pampering poison, cross and meet, And wind the world in passion's winding-sheet. So, when dark faith in faith's dark ages heard Falsehood, and drank the poison of the Word, Two shades misshapen came to monstrous birth, A father fiend in heaven, a thrall on earth: Man, meanest born of beasts that press the sod, And die: the vilest of his creatures, God. A judge unjust, a slave that praised his name, Made life and death one fire of sin and shame. And thence reverberate even on Shakespeare's age A light like darkness crossed his sunbright stage. Music, sublime as storm or sorrow, sang Before it: tempest like a harpstring rang. The fiery shadow of a name unknown Rose, and in song's high heaven abides alone.

PROLOGUE TO THE BROKEN HEART

The mightiest choir of song that memory hears Gave England voice for fifty lustrous years. Sunrise and thunder fired and shook the skies That saw the sun-god Marlowe's opening eyes. The morn's own music, answered of the sea, Spake, when his living lips bade Shakespeare be, And England, made by Shakespeare's quickening breath Divine and deathless even till life be death, Brought forth to time such godlike sons of men That shamefaced love grows pride, and now seems then. Shame that their day so shone, so sang, so died, Remembering, finds remembrance one with pride. That day was clouding toward a stormlit close When Ford's red sphere upon the twilight rose. Sublime with stars and sunset fire, the sky Glowed as though day, nigh dead, should never die. Sorrow supreme and strange as chance or doom Shone, spake, and shuddered through the lustrous gloom. Tears lit with love made all the darkening air Bright as though death's dim sunrise thrilled it there And life re-risen took comfort. Stern and still As hours and years that change and anguish fill, The strong secluded spirit, ere it woke, Dwelt dumb till power possessed it, and it spoke. Strange, calm, and sure as sense of beast or bird, Came forth from night the thought that breathed the word; That chilled and thrilled with passion-stricken breath Halls where Calantha trod the dance of death. A strength of soul too passionately pure To change for aught that horror bids endure, To quail and wail and weep faint life away Ere sovereign sorrow smite, relent, and slay, Sustained her silent, till her bridal bloom Changed, smiled, and waned in rapture toward the tomb. Terror twin-born with pity kissed and thrilled The lips that Shakespeare's word or Webster's filled: Here both, cast out, fell silent: pity shrank, Rebuked, and terror, spirit-stricken, sank: The soul assailed arose afar above All reach of all but only death and love.

PROLOGUE TO A VERY WOMAN

Swift music made of passion's changeful power, Sweet as the change that leaves the world in flower When spring laughs winter down to deathward, rang From grave and gracious lips that smiled and sang When Massinger, too wise for kings to hear And learn of him truth, wisdom, faith, or fear, Gave all his gentler heart to love's light lore, That grief might brood and scorn breed wrath no more. Soft, bright, fierce, tender, fitful, truthful, sweet, A shrine where faith and change might smile and meet, A soul whose music could but shift its tune As when the lustrous year turns May to June And spring subsides in summer, so makes good Its perfect claim to very womanhood. The heart that hate of wrong made fire, the hand Whose touch was fire as keen as shame's own brand When fraud and treason, swift to smile and sting, Crowned and discrowned a tyrant, knave or king, False each and ravenous as the fitful sea, Grew gently glad as love that fear sets free. Like eddying ripples that the wind restrains, The bright words whisper music ere it wanes. Ere fades the sovereign sound of song that rang As though the sun to match the sea's tune sang, When noon from dawn took life and light, and time Shone, seeing how Shakespeare made the world sublime, Ere sinks the wind whose breath was heaven's and day's, The sunset's witness gives the sundawn praise.

PROLOGUE TO THE SPANISH GIPSY