Part 4

And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain, Valuing at nought Her bosom's locket, with its little chain, Love's all that Love hath brought; So must I weigh and measure Thy fading treasure, Sighing to see it go As surely as the snow.

For I have such sad knowledge of all things That shine like dew a little, all that sings And ends its song in weeping-- Such sowing and such reaping!-- There is no cure but sleeping.

IV

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

(To the Memory of Austin Dobson)

Master of the lyric inn Where the rarer sort so long Drew the rein, to 'scape the din Of the cymbal and the gong, Topers of the classic bin,-- Oporto, sherris and tokay, Muscatel, and beaujolais-- Conning some old Book of Airs, Lolling in their Queen Anne chairs-- Catch or glee or madrigal, Writ for viol or virginal; Or from France some courtly tune, Gavotte, ridotto, rigadoon; (Watteau and the rising moon); Ballade, rondeau, triolet, Villanelle or virelay, Wistful of a statelier day, Gallant, delicate, desire: Where the Sign swings of the Lyre, Garlands droop above the door, Thou, dear Master, art no more.

Lo! about thy portals throng Sorrowing shapes that loved thy song: _Taste_ and _Elegance_ are there, The modish Muses of Mayfair, _Wit_, _Distinction_, _Form_ and _Style_, _Humour_, too, with tear and smile.

Fashion sends her butterflies-- Pretty laces to their eyes, Ladies from St. James's there Step out from the sedan chair; Wigged and scented dandies too Tristely wear their sprigs of rue; Country squires are in the crowd, And little Phyllida sobs aloud.

Then stately shades I seem to see, Master, to companion thee; Horace and Fielding here are come To bid thee to Elysium. Last comes one all golden: Fame Calls thee, Master, by thy name, On thy brow the laurel lays, Whispers low--"In After Days."

TO MADAME JUMEL

Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair, Had I a god's re-animating breath, Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air Lethean and the eyeless halls of death, Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair, Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom, And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom.

Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust, Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire; Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust Would light us back to glory and desire, And swords flash forth that now ignobly rust; Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame. Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame.

Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould That lies on by-gone traffickings of state, Transformed a moment by that head of gold, Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate; To "write the Constitution!" 'twere a cold, Dusty and bloomless immortality, Without that last wild dying thought of thee.

TO A BEAUTIFUL OLD LADY

(To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hinton)

Say not--"She once was fair;" because the years Have changed her beauty to a holier thing, No girl hath such a lovely face as hers, That hoards the sweets of many a vanished spring, Stealing from Time what Time in vain would steal, Culling perfections as each came to flower, Bearing on each rare lineament the seal Of being exquisite from hour to hour.

These eyes have dwelt with beauty night and morn, Guarding the soul within from every stain, No baseness since the first day she was born Behind those star-lit brows could access again, Bathed in the light that streamed from all things fair, Turning to spirit each delicate door of sense, And with all lovely shapes of earth and air Feeding her wisdom and her innocence.

Life that, whate'er it gives, takes more away From those that all would take and little give, Enriched her treasury from day to day, Making each hour more wonderful to live; And touch by touch, with hands of unseen skill, Transformed the simple beauty of a girl, Finding it lovely, left it lovelier still, A mystic masterpiece of rose and pearl.

Her grief and joy alike have turned to gold, And tears and laughter mingled to one end, With alchemy of living manifold: If Life so wrought, shall Death be less a friend? Nay, earth to heaven shall give the fairest face, Dimming the haughty beauties of the sky; Would I could see her softly take her place, Sweeping each splendour with her queenly eye!

TO LUCY HINTON: December 19, 1921

O loveliest face, on which we look our last-- Not without hope we may again behold Somewhere, somehow, when we ourselves have passed Where, Lucy, you have gone, this face so dear, That gathered beauty every changing year, And made Youth dream of some day being old.

Some knew the girl, and some the woman grown, And each was fair, but always 'twas your way To be more beautiful than yesterday, To win where others lose; and Time, the doom Of other faces, brought to yours new bloom. Now, even from Death you snatch mysterious grace, This last perfection for your lovely face.

So with your spirit was it day by day, That spirit unextinguishably gay, That to the very border of the shade Laughed on the muttering darkness unafraid. We shall be lonely for your lovely face, Lonely for all your great and gracious ways, But for your laughter loneliest of all.

Yet in our loneliness we think of one Lonely no more, who, on the heavenly stair, Awaits your face, and hears your step at last, His dreamer's eyes a glory like the sun, Again in his sad arms to hold you fast, All your long honeymoon in heaven begun.

Thinking on that, O dear and loveliest friend, We, in that bright beginning of this end, Must bate our grief, and count our mortal loss Only as his and your immortal gain, Glad that for him and you it is so well.

Lucy, O Lucy, a little while farewell.

V

OTHER MATTERS, SACRED AND PROFANE

THE WORLD'S MUSQUETEER: TO MARSHAL FOCH

(_Ballade à double refrain_)

Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer, Comrade at arms, on your bronzed cheek we press The soldier's kiss, and drop the soldier's tear; Brother by brother fought we in the stress Of the locked steel, all the wild work that fell For our reluctant doing; we that stormed hell And smote it down together, in the sun Stand here once more, with all our fighting done, Garlands upon our helmets, sword and lance Quiet with laurel, sharing the peace they won: Soldier that saved the world in saving France.

Soldier that saved the world in saving France, France that was Europe's dawn when light was none, Clear eyes that with eternal vigilance Pierce through the webs in nether darkness spun, Soul of man's soul, his sentinel upon The ramparts of the world: Ah! France, 'twas well This soldier with the sword of Gabriel Was yours and ours in all that dire duresse, This soldier, gentle as a child, that here Stands shy and smiling 'mid a world's caress-- Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer.

Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer, True knight and succourer of the world's distress His might and skill we laurel, but more dear Our soldier for that "parfit gentlenesse" That ever in heroic hearts doth dwell, That soul as tranquil as a vesper bell, That glory in him that would glory shun, Those kindly eyes alive with Gascon fun, D'Artagnan's brother--still the old romance Runs in the blood, thank God! and still shall run: Soldier that saved the world in saving France.

ENVOI

Soldier that saved the world in saving France, Foch, to America's deep heart how near; Betwixt us twain shall never come mischance. Warrior that fought that war might disappear, Far and for ever far the unborn year That turns the ploughshare back into the spear-- But, must it come, then Foch shall lead the dance: Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer.

WE ARE WITH FRANCE

We are with France--not by the ties Of treaties made with tongue in cheek, The ancient diplomatic lies, The paper promises that seek To hide the long maturing guile, Planning destruction with a smile.

We are with France by bonds no seal Of the stamped wax and tape can make, Bonds no surprise of ambushed steel With sneering devil's laughter break; Nor need we any plighted speech For our deep concord, each with each.

As ancient comrades tried and true No new exchange of vows demand, Each knows of old what each will do, Nor needs to talk to understand; So France with us and we with France-- Enough the gesture and the glance.

In a shared dream our loves began, Together fought one fight and won, The Dream Republican of Man, And now as then our dream is one; Still as of old our hearts unite To dream and battle for the Right.

Nor memories alone are ours, But purpose for the Future strong, Across the seas two signal towers, Keeping stern watch against the Wrong; Seeking, with hearts of deep accord, A better wisdom than the Sword.

We are with France, in brotherhood Not of the spirit's task alone, But kin in laughter of the blood: Where Paris glitters in the sun, A second home, like boys, we find, And leave our grown-up cares behind.

SATAN: 1920

I read there is a man who sits apart, A sort of human spider in his den, Who meditates upon a fearful art-- The swiftest way to slay his fellow men. Behind a mask of glass he dreams his hell: With chemic skill, to pack so fierce a dust Within the thunderbolt of one small shell-- Sating in vivid thought his shuddering lust-- Whole cities in one gasp of flame shall die, Swept with an all-obliterating rain Of sudden fire and poison from the sky; Nothing that breathes be left to breathe again-- And only gloating eyes from out the air Watching the twisting fires, and ears attent For children's cries and woman's shrill despair, The crash of shrines and towers in ruin rent.

High in the sun the sneering airmen glide, Glance at wrist-watches: scarce a minute gone And London, Paris, or New York has died! Scarce twice they look, then turn and hurry on. And, far away, one in his quiet room Dreams of a fiercer dust, a deadlier fume: The wireless crackles him, "Complete success"; "Next time," he smiles, "in half a minute less!" To this the climbing brain has won at last-- A nation's life gone like a shrivelled scroll-- And thus To-Day outstrips the dotard Past! I envy not that man his devil's soul.

UNDER WHICH KING . . . ?

The fight I loved--the good old fight-- Was clear as day 'twixt Might and Right; Satrap and slave on either hand, Tiller and tyrant of the land; One delved the earth the other trod, The writhing worm, the thundering god. Lords of an earth they deemed their own, The tyrants laughed from throne to throne, Scattered the gold and spilled the wine, And deemed their foolish dust divine; While, 'neath their heel, sublimely strove The martyred hosts of Human Love.

Such was the fight I dreamed of old 'Twixt Labour and the Lords of Gold; I deemed all evil in the king, In Demos every lovely thing. But now I see the battle set-- Albeit the same old banners yet-- With no clear issue to decide, With Right and Might on either side; Yet small the rumour is of Right-- But the bared arms of Might and Might Brandish across the hate-filled lands, With blood alike on both their hands.

MAN, THE DESTROYER

O spirit of Life, by whatsoe'er a name Known among men, even as our fathers bent Before thee, and as little children came For counsel in Life's dread predicament, Even we, with all our lore, That only beckons, saddens and betrays, Have no such key to the mysterious door As he that kneels and prays.

The stern ascension of our climbing thought, The martyred pilgrims of the soaring soul, Bring us no nearer to the thing we sought, But only tempt us further from the goal; Yea! the eternal plan Darkens with knowledge, and our weary skill But makes us more of beast and less of man, Fevered to hate and kill.

Loves flees with frightened eyes the world it knew, Fades and dissolves and vanishes away, And the sole art the sons of men pursue Is to out-speed the slayer and to slay: And lovely secrets won From radiant nature and her magic laws Serve but to stretch black deserts in the sun, And glut destruction's jaws.

Life! is it sweet no more? the same blue sky Arches the woods; the green earth, filled with trees, Glories with song, happy it knows not why, Painted with flowers, and warm with murmurous bees; This earth, this golden home, Where men, like unto gods, were wont to dwell, Was all this builded, with the stars for dome, For man to make it hell?

Was it for this life blossomed with fair arts, That for some paltry leagues of stolen land, Or some poor squabble of contending marts, Murder shall smudge out with its reeking hand Man's faith and fanes alike; And man be man no more--but a brute brain, A primal horror mailed and fanged to strike, And bring the Dark again?

Fool of the Ages! fitfully wise in vain; Surely the heavens shall laugh!--the long long climb Up to the stars, to dash him down again! And all the travail of slow-moving Time And birth of radiant wings, A dream of pain, an agony for naught! Highest and lowest of created things, Man, the proud fool of thought.

THE LONG PURPOSES OF GOD

To Man in haste, flushed with impatient dreams Of some great thing to do, so slowly done, The long delay of Time all idle seems, Idle the lordly leisure of the sun; So splendid his design, so brief his span, For all the faith with which his heart is burning, He marvels, as he builds each shining plan, That heaven's wheel should be so long in turning, And God more slow in righteousness than Man.

Evil on evil mock him all about, And all the forces of embattled wrong, There are so many devils to cast out-- Save God be with him, how shall Man be strong? With his own heart at war, to weakness prone, And all the honeyed ways of joyous sinning, How in this welter shall he hold his own, And, single-handed, e'er have hopes of winning? How shall he fight God's battle all alone?

He hath no lightnings in his puny hand, Nor starry servitors to work his will, Only his soul and his strong purpose planned, His dream of goodness and his hate of ill; He, but a handful of the eddying dust, At the wind's fancy shaped, from nowhere blowing; A moment man--then, with another gust, A formless vapour into nowhere going, Even as he dreams back into darkness thrust.

O so at least it seems--if life were his A little longer! grant him thrice his years, And God should see a better world than this, Pure for the foul, and laughter for the tears: So fierce a flame to burn the dross away Dreams in his spark of life so swiftly fleeing: If Man can do so much in one short day, O strange it seems that an Eternal Being Should in his purposes so long delay.

Easy to answer--lo! the unfathomed time Gone ere each small perfection came to flower, Ere soul shone dimly in the wastes of slime; Wouldst thou turn Hell to Heaven in an hour? Easy to say--God's purposes are long, His ways and wonders far beyond our knowing, He hath mysterious ministers even in wrong, Sure is His harvest, though so long His sowing: So say old poets with persuasive tongue.

And yet--and yet--it seems some swifter doom From so august a hand might surely fall, And all earth's rubbish in one flash consume, And make an end of evil once for all . . . But vain the questions and the answers vain, Who knows but Man's impatience is God's doing? Who knows if evil be so swiftly slain? Be sure none shall escape, with God pursuing. Question no more--but to your work again!

BALLADE TO A DEPARTING GOD

God of the Wine List, roseate lord, And is it really then good-by? Of Prohibitionists abhorred, Must thou in sorry sooth then die, (O fatal morning of July!) Nor aught hold back the threatened hour That shrinks thy purple clusters dry? Say not good-by--but _au revoir_!

For the last time the wine is poured, For the last toast the glass raised high, And henceforth round the wintry board, As dumb as fish, we'll sit and sigh, And eat our Puritanic pie, And dream of suppers gone before, With flying wit and words that fly-- Say not good-by--but _au revoir_!

'Twas on thy wings the poet soared, And Sorrow fled when thou wentst by, And, when we said "Here's looking toward" . . . It seemed a better world, say I, With greener grass and bluer sky . . . The writ is on the Tavern Door, And who would tipple on the sly? . . . 'Tis not good-by--but _au revoir_!

ENVOI

Gay God of Bottles, I deny Those brave tempestuous times are o'er; Somehow I think, I scarce know why, 'Tis not good-by--but au revoir!

BALLADE OF THE ABSENT GUEST

Friends whom to-night once more I greet, Most glad am I with you to be, And, as I look around, I meet Many a face right good to see; But one I miss--ah! where is he?-- Of merry eye and sparkling jest, Who used to brim my glass for me; I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest.

Low lies he in his winding-sheet, By organized hypocrisy Hurled from his happy wine-clad seat, Stilled his kind heart and hushed his glee; His very name daren't mention we, That good old friend who brought such zest, And set our tongues and spirits free: I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest.

No choice to-night 'twixt "dry" or "sweet," 'Twixt red or white, 'twixt Rye,--ah! me-- Or Scotch--and think! we live to see't-- No whispered word, nor massive fee, Nor even influenza plea, Can raise a bubble; but, as best We may, we make our hollow spree: I drink--in what?--the Absent Guest.

ENVOI

Friends, good is coffee, good is tea, And water has a charm unguessed-- And yet--that brave old deity! I drink--in tears--the Absent Guest.

TOBACCO NEXT

They took away your drink from you, The kind old humanizing glass; Soon they will take tobacco too, And next they'll take our demi-tasse. Don't say, "The bill will never pass," Nor this my warning word disdain; You said it once, you silly ass-- Don't make the same mistake again.

We know them now, the bloodless crew, We know them all too well, alas! There's nothing that they wouldn't do To make the world a Bible class; Though against bottled beer or Bass I search the sacred text in vain To find a whisper--by the Mass! Don't make the same mistake again.

Beware these legislators blue, Pouring their moral poison-gas On all the joys our fathers knew; The very flowers in the grass Are safe no more, and, lad and lass, 'Ware the old birch-rod and the cane! Here comes our modern Hudibras!-- Don't make the same mistake again.

ENVOI

Prince, vanished is the rail of brass, So mark me well and my refrain-- Tobacco next! you silly ass, Don't make the same mistake again.

BALLADE OF THE PAID PURITAN

In vain with whip and knotted cord The hirelings of hypocrisy Would make us comely for the Lord: Think ye God works through such as ye-- Paid Puritan, plump Pharisee, And lobbyist fingering his fat bill, Reeking of rum and bribery: God needs not you to work His will.

We know you whom you serve, abhorred Traducers of true piety, What tarnished gold is your reward In Washington and Albany; 'Tis not from God you take your fee, Another's purpose to fulfil, You that are God's worst enemy: God needs not you to work His will.

Not by the money-changing horde, Base traders in the sanctuary, Nor by fanatic fire and sword, Shall man grow as God wills him be; In his own heart a voice hath he That whispers to him small and still; God gives him eyes His good to see: God needs not you to work His will.

ENVOI

Dear Prince, a sinner's honesty Is more to God, much nearer still, Than the bribed hypocritic knee: God needs not you to work His will.

THE OVERWORKED GHOST

When the embalmer closed my eyes, And all the family went in black, And shipped me off to Paradise, I had no thought of coming back; I dreamed of undisturbed repose Until the Judgment Day went crack, Tucked safely in from top to toes.

"I've done my bit," I said. "I've earned The right to take things at my ease!" When folk declared the dead returned, I called it all tomfooleries. "They are too glad to get to bed, To stretch their weary limbs in peace; Done with it all--the lucky dead!"

But scarcely had I laid me down, When comes a voice: "Is that you, Joe? I'm calling you from Williamstown! Knock once for 'yes,' and twice for 'no.'" Then, hornet-mad, I knocked back two-- The table shook, I banged it so-- "Not Joe!" they said, "Then tell us who?

"We're waiting--is there no one here, No friend, you have a message for?" But I pretended not to hear. "Perhaps he fell in the great war?" "Perhaps he's German?" someone said; "How goes it on the other shore?" "That's no way to address the dead!"

And so they talked, till I got sore, And made the blooming table rock, And ribald oaths and curses swore, And strange words guaranteed to shock. "He's one of those queer spooks they call A poltergeist--the ghosts that mock, Throw things--" said one, who knew it all.

"I wish an old thigh-bone was round To break your silly head!" I knocked. "A humourist of the burial-ground!" A bright young college graduate mocked. Then a young girl fell in a trance, And foamed: "Get out--we are deadlocked-- And give some other ghost a chance!"

Such was my first night in the tomb, Where soft sleep was to hold me fast; I little knew my weary doom! It even makes a ghost aghast To think of all the years in store-- The slave, as long as death shall last, To ouija-boards forevermore.

For morning, noon, and night they call! Alive, some fourteen hours a day I worked, but now I work them all. No sooner down my head I lay, A lady writer knocks me up About a novel or a play, Nor gives me time for bite or sup.

I hear her damned typewriter click With all the things she says I say, You'd think the public would get sick; And that's my only hope--some day! Then séances, each night in dozens I must attend, their parts to play For dead grandpas and distant cousins.

O for my life to live again! I'd know far better than to die; You'd never hear me once complain, Could I but see the good old sky, For here they work me to the bone; "Rest!"--don't believe it! Well, good-by! That's Patience Worth there on the phone!

THE VALIANT GIRLS

The valiant girls--of them I sing-- Who daily to their business go, Happy as larks, and fresh as spring; They are the bravest things I know. At eight, from out my lazy tower, I watch the snow, and shake my head; But yonder petticoated flower Braves it alone, with aery tread; Nor wind, nor rain, nor ice-fanged storm, Frightens that valiant little form.

Strange! she that sweetens all the air, The New York sister of the rose, To a grim office should repair, With picture-hat and silken hose, And strange it is to see her there, With powder on her little nose; And yet how business-like is she, With pad and pencil on her knee.