Part 4

O thou who ’neath the umbrageous trees That line the Avenue Louise Did’st spread in Belgian sun and breeze Thy buds about, I come to weep thy destinies My Brussels Sprout:

Who, on this drear December day, Rearest above mine Essex clay Thy wand of buds as green as they Who spend their Yule Hearing remoter church-bells play In St. Gudule.

Hail, noble alien, I see Thou bear’st in exile and for me A neat-curl’d row of progeny, (Not all unlike Some purse-proud donor’s family, By John van Eyck)

For me unmindful of thy place (Comrade of carpets and of lace) Who class thee with the vulgar race Of Beet and Bean, And call thee—to thy very face— The Knobby-green.

THE CARCANET

The world’s a quarry for whose spoils Love, the untiring miner, toils Early and late, such stones to get As may be cut devised and set Into his mistress’ carcanet.

Alack that love can never choose But bring thee pebbles of no use:— Glance at the gift and thou shalt see Each facet in his treasury Of stones doth but diminish thee.

TO A TOWN CRIER

“Whiffin, proclaim silence!”—_Pickwick_

Whiffin, with all thy faults, I love thee still, Thee and thine ancient office and the sweet Metallic peal that quelled the popular heat When party strife ran high in Eatanswill; Who now with quavering eloquence would’st fill, And tidings of a pilfered purse, the street Maddened with motors and the armoured fleet Of base mechanical engines out to kill. Go, thou sole arbiter of Buff and Blue, Time hath prevailed against thee, yield the floor, Toll, on bare sufferance, from door to door, The hooters hold the highway;—as for you, You voice the missing ha’pence of the poor, And they the incomes of the well-to-do.

THE TALE OF JOCKO

A STORY FOR A CHILD

I

An old white Jocko, kindly and urbane, Lived with a little girl called Betsey-Jane, He was her oldest friend, thin was his hair, One arm he lacked, but Jocko did not care, No more did Betsey-Jane;—his eyes were gone, His figure flat, but all his teeth were on, Stitched to his mouth, a row of beady pearls More white than those of many little girls. All day to please he did his docile best And only squeaked when Betsey punched his chest; When bed-time came and Nurse tucked Betsey in, Warm in her cot he slept beneath her chin.

II

Now Betsey-Jane was rather more than two And just about as good as I and you;— She’d learnt to talk, but not learnt when to stop, Her yellow hair swung round her in a mop, Round was her face, her eyes were opened wide And only blinked in sleep or when she cried; White frocks she had and blue her pinafore With scarlet stitching at the neck, and more Delights she had than many girls and boys,— Father and Mother, Nurse and many toys To comfort her, but, more than all the rest, There is no doubt she loved her Jocko best.

III

Yet Jocko’s life was not a life of ease,— We think to do entirely as we please, Age teaches otherwise. One evil day A cat approached the cushion where he lay And tore away his inoffensive hair And left him with his leathern skin laid bare, Silent upon the rug. His Betsey-Jane Found him with tears and kissed him well again; But she herself, forgetful of her grief, Laughed when they dressed him in a handkerchief Just like a doll, but Jocko did not mind, He still forgave her for his heart was kind.

IV

Thus did our Jocko play, for Betsey’s sake, The Grand Domestic Game of Give and Take, Until her rudeness to her friend was such As makes men say “This is a straw too much.” One day he sat, as docile as a lamb, By Betsey-Jane who, upright in her pram, Refused to sleep and went from bad to worse, Kicked off her rug and disobeyed her nurse; And though her Jocko did not speak his mind And only stared to see her so unkind, In Endless Street, some yards from their abode, She picked him up and flung him in the road.

V

On sped the pram nor did the nurse’s pace Leave time to miss our hero from his place. Flat by the curb lay Jocko, still and pale, Till a rude sparrow plucked him by the tail And up he sat;—the sparrow hopped around And eyed him seated sadly on the ground, Propped up against the parapet and grey With grime and dust that in the gutter lay. Then Jocko spoke, he smoothed his sullied fur With one long trembling paw, and thought of her And said, all torn betwixt his love and pain,— “I will go back no more to Betsey-Jane.”

VI

“I will arise and go beyond the din Of towns to where the endless woods begin, There among tangled oaks and lowly ways Of undergrowth to end my dreary days; I will seek acorns, beech-nuts, hips and haws And pluck them down with my prehensile paws; While the grey rabbits, never shy with me, From holes around my sandy-rooted tree Come out to nibble in the gentle rain,— A calmer life than that with Betsey-Jane. Long is the way, but I will make a start, A carrier shall take me in his cart.”

VII

This said, he rose, and sought with feeble pace, For he was stiff and sore, the Market Place; Where, without horses and their shafts turned down, Are ranged the carts that come into the town; Until at dusk, all loaded up, they’re gone. He found the cart that went to Clarendon. Beneath it lay a yellow dog who shook His brazen collar, but his churlish look Passed off when Jocko hailed the man inside Who, loading parcels and not looking, cried,— “We start in Butcher Row, sir, from the Bear. At four o’clock.” Said Jocko “I’ll be there.”

VIII

All was arranged, and he could do no more But pass the time until the clock struck four. He wandered up the Market; far and wide The burly drovers elbowed him aside, The sheep regarded him with mild surprise Behind their hurdles, and the hairy eyes Of families of little porkers stared And cart-horses with braided tresses glared And stamped upon the cobbles. From their shed The calves looked bluntly round and many a head Of penned-up fowls peered through a wiry door,— “Jocko!” they cackled, “we will meet once more!”

IX

Out of the Market Place an alley led To Poultry Cross and old white Jocko sped Beneath its shelter and surveyed the stalls Which here sell hobby horse, tops and balls, And tins for little cakes. One stall was full Of button-cards and reels and hanks of wool, Another sold you sage and pansy roots, And this, red carpet-slippers, hob-nailed boots And clogs, and hanging on a string by twos A row of little russet leather shoes; Tears filled his eyes, he turned to look again,— “Those shoes,” said he, “are just like Betsey-Jane.”

X

While thus he spake two farmers sauntered past And turned to stare at Jocko, said the last,— “I saw that monkey next a Spanish hen, The little beast has wandered from his pen!” Jocko is captured by the portly pair, They lead him, passive, to the Market Square; Once more the hens their throats exultant crane,— “Jocko!” they cackle; “Here he is again!” The farmers stuff our hero, sad and sore, Into a vacant pen and slam the door:— Through the grim wires the searching breezes moan And Jocko sits there shivering alone.

XI

The time lagged on; some children through his door Prodded his fur with sticks, the clock struck four. Now is the time, but Jocko does not care, When carriers are starting from the Bear; Fast in his pen, and all his anger gone, No longer would he live at Clarendon. Home was his one desire. “At six,” he said, “My Betsey-Jane is kissed, and goes to bed, Her bath-tub by the nursery fire will be, She will come in and look around for me And sob all night beneath her counterpane For her lost Jocko—little Betsey-Jane!”

XII

While Jocko thus lamented, through the crowd There came a little girl who sobbed aloud And clutched her Mother’s hand; ’twas Betsey-Jane, Who all the afternoon had sought in vain Her Jocko cast away in Endless Street; Tired are her little gaitered legs, her feet So weary, each new thought of Jocko brings New tears to wet her woollen bonnet strings And drip from each blue tassel to the ground. She would not look on all the beasts around, But Jocko saw her coat, and “Betsey-Jane,” He cried, “Do come and take me home again!”

XIII

Alas, they did not hear, his voice was low, With chill and hunger, Mother turned to go; But Betsey-Jane looked sadly back and then Beheld him upright in his distant pen. She dropped her Mother’s hand and with a shout Of “Jocko, Jocko!” ran to get him out;— Two shame-faced men undid at her commands His cage and Mother put him in her hands, She clasped him closely, not a word was said, And laid her tearful cheek against his head.

XIV

So back to Endless Street and once again Our Jocko slumbers close to Betsey-Jane, Clutched in her little fingers’ rosy snare, Among the sleepy tangles of her hair, Seen dimly through her cot’s surrounding rail. And here are morals tied to Jocko’s Tale:— “Though hurt your feelings never try to roam For there are many places worse than home.” And yet another,—“Never slight or spurn A good old friend, they say a worm will turn; And such-like stories end in deeper pain Than that of Jocko and his Betsey-Jane.”

THE WAG-TAIL

By brook and bent, Alert and diligent, All day my merry wag-tail went,

Soberly clad She seemed, in feathers sad Which yet a fair white braiding had;

Nor did she fail With jerking beak and tail Quite to dislodge th’ incurious snail,

And thence away To the pollard where all day Her brown big-footed babies lay.

—I do desire No better, nor look higher, Pied wag-tail, than thy plain attire;

Nor would I roam Afar, but kindly come Back to th’ acclaiming mouths at home.

Like thee to run About my works begun And pluck delights from ev’ry one.

Where (might I do’t) Living, my only suit, And dead, my dearest attribute.

HIGH TIDE AT BATTERSEA

So now my Thames is fairly on the turn And plain it is the sum of water seeks That ocean which the flood so late did spurn With long reluctance in the little creeks; Now the great barges tethered to their buoys (Their gulls still seated in deliberate loads) Swing round majestical and, with no noise, Face the hid sea beyond these sullen roads. Even so my soul which did so long abide With thoughts so fledged and meditative freighted Hath veered about and answered to the tide, Glad, and her faithless station abdicated;— Lord, ere this lovely ebb shall set for me, Slip thou my chain and lure me out to sea.

TO MY DAUGHTER

WHO TELLS ME SHE CAN DRESS HERSELF

So, dear, have you and Nurse conspired In secret, and all eyes evaded, Till you can boast yourself attired Unwatched, uncounselled and unaided?

Perfect in button, tape and hook, You’ve learned the knack, you come to tell us, And while you turn that we may look I own I am a little jealous

That she has taught you with success How to assume your frock and shed it, That you have learnt the art to dress And Abigail’s is all the credit.

Yet my devotion has its will, Nor can I lightly yield to Nurse all The praise, for I have prompted still A spiritual dress rehearsal;

On your soft hair a helmet placed, Fastened your breastplate like a bib on, And tied the Truth about your waist Where she is proud to tie your ribbon.

Each has her task, decorous, sweet, Fair, to surpass your friends, she made you, While for your hidden foes’ defeat I in your Pauline arms arrayed you.

For, though you tire of sash and gown And fold them up for good, there’s no day When these, that I have made your own, Shall be a burden or démodés.

Yet, though the clasps endure, I know I’ll wish our handiwork were neater When at celestial gates you show The well-worn harness to St. Peter.

THE BABY GOAT

Four alders guard a bridge of planks And waveless waters filmed with brown, A rugged lawn’s uneven banks Slope gently down, And there, still chafing at the chain That girds his slim pathetic throat, They’ve picketed our friend again— The Baby Goat.

Treading alone the watered vale, Betsey and I, beside the marsh Often we linger to bewail His durance harsh; What plaints allure my baby’s feet, What tethered struggles claim her sighs, What shrill protestant whinnies greet Her long good-byes.

Once we repassed the lonely ground Below the alders where he feeds And spied his stunted horns girt round With flow’ring weeds, Two merry wenches and a child Caressed his grey ill-fitting coat And, lolling in the sedge, beguiled The Baby Goat.

Now, for long days companionless, His soft blunt nose, his agate eyes, His raised remonstrant brows express The sad surprise Wherewith the desolate green waste O’erloads his heart who at the edge Of stagnant waters kneels to taste The thankless sedge.

His Mother is his chiefest lack Who in some heathy upland place Tidied his sturdy socks of black And licked his face; He turns to see us saunter by The level highway hand-in-hand— I think the Baby Goat knows why We understand.

BOURNEMOUTH TO POOLE

I BOURNEMOUTH

Quite given o’er to shameful destinies Yet may I muse what graces once were thine Whose little brooks descend the tawny chine So silver-silent on their gold degrees; Whose smiles, like hers of Cyprus, from the seas Have drawn the tremulous mirth wherewith they shine Under the coif of heaven that doth confine Thy tender headlands and their tress of trees. Poor beauty, with thy dowry of bright sand, Poured out in softness, to chance comers shown, So fallen;—doth it much import what hand Cast the rude lot that shred thy purple gown, Or, on this lovely and reluctant land, Who stamped this monstrous image of a town?

II POOLE HARBOUR

O valiant reach of land that doth include The striving sea in such a large embrace! O valiant homes that overlook the face Of water by a hundred keels subdued! Poole, thou art map of thine own fortitude, And, in thy building, eloquent of a race That singed the beard of Spain and for a lace Fought on this quay the Georgian excise-brood. Old, and thy harbour skies more scantly sparred, Thy constant stones survey the fickle flow Of Tide and Time; and on thy casements barred Burns Memory like a crimson afterglow, Bright as the blood-red hollyhocks that blow Through the grey timber in this silent yard.

THE JAPANESE DUCKLING

The shop-girl in my fingers laid The Yellow Duckling, Mother paid A silver coin to set him free And so he came to live with me.

I kissed his baby feathers sweet, His callow bill and parchment feet; And so his love for me began— My Yellow Duckling from Japan.

And he forgot his native nest, Forgot the way his plumy breast Parted the waters as they ran Amid strange weeds in far Japan.

And he forgot the yellow child Whose narrow eye-lids on him smiled:— I kissed him, and he settled down To live with me in London town.

THE PRIVET HEDGE

The common pavement dull and grey Is strewn with leafy wands to-day, And sceptres green to the curb’s edge— For they have cut the privet hedge.

My Baby gathers, bending down, The branches swept by Mother’s gown And carries home into the house Those magical and royal boughs.

But O the milky blossoms sweet That scented all the sunny street— Crushed by the Baby’s sandalled tread They lie behind her, brown and dead.

THE VEGETARIAN’S DAUGHTER

She ate her oat-cake by the fire, Her bath was done and dried her hair, Her nightgown was her sole attire, Her towel steamed across a chair.

And as the oat-cake contour grew Eroded as a tide-worn cape, She named the jagged residue After the beast most like its shape.

“This is a pig, a growly bear, A baa-sheep” (and she bit him)—thus Her speech flowed on, to my despair Incredibly carnivorous.

At last, all wreathed in drowsy smiles, She munched the final gee-gee’s head— “Ah, Betsey, what would Eustace Miles, And what would Bernard Shaw have said?”

HONEY MEADOW

Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows, Pink and the grass more thickly grows, Where small brown bees are winging To clamber up the stooping flowers, We’ll share the sweet and sunny hours Made murmurous with their singing.

Dear, it requires no small address In such a billowy floweriness For you, so young, to sally: Yet would you still out-stay the sun And linger when his light was done Along the haunted valley.

O small brown fingers, clutched to seize The biggest blooms, don’t spill the bees; Imagine what contempt he Would meet who ventured to arrive Home, of an evening, at the hive, With both his pockets empty!

Moreover, if you steal their share, The bees become too poor to spare Their sweets nor part with any Honey at tea-time; so for you What were for them a cell too few Would be a sell too many!

Or, what were worse for you and me, They might admire the industry So thoughtlessly paraded, And, tired of their brown queen, maintain That no one needed Betsey-Jane As urgently as they did.

So should you taste in some far clime The plunder of eternal thyme And you would quite forget us, Our cottage and these English trees, When you were Queen of Honey Bees At Hybla or Hymettus.

AN ELEGY, FOR FATHER ANSELM, OF THE ORDER OF REFORMED CISTERCIANS, GUEST-MASTER AND PARISH PRIEST

“Et pastores erant in regione eadem vigilantes”

You to whose soul a death propitious brings Its Heaven, who attain a windless bourne Of sanctity beyond all sufferings, It is not ours to mourn;

For you, to whom the earth could nothing give, Who knew no hint of our inspirèd pride, You could not very well be said to live Until the day you died.

’Tis upon us—father and kindly friend, Holy and cheerful host—the unbidden guests You welcomed and the souls you would amend, The weight of sorrow rests.

From Sarum in the mesh of her five streams, Her idle belfries and her glittering vanes, We are clomb to where the cloud-race dusks and gleams On turf of upland plains.

Southward the road through juniper and briar Clambers the down, untrodden and unworn Save where some flock pitted the chalky mire With little feet at dawn.

Twice in a week the hooded carrier’s lamp, Flashing on wayside flints and grasses, spills Its misty radiance where the dews lie damp Among the untended hills;

Here lies the hamlet ringed with grassy mound And brambled barrow where, superbly dead, The dust of pagans turned to holy ground Beneath your humble tread.

Here we descend at drooping dusk the side Of the stony down beneath the planted ring Of beeches where you showed with pastoral pride The folded lambs in spring;

Here pull at eve the self-same bell that hastened Your rough-shod feet behind the hollow door— Yet never see you stand, the chain unfastened, Your lantern on the floor.

Others will spread the board now you are gone Here where you smiled and gave your guests to eat, Learning your menial kingliness from One Who washed His servants’ feet;

Along the slumbering corridor betimes Others will knock and other footsteps pass Down the wet lane e’er the thin shivering chimes Toll for the early mass.

Yet in the chapel’s self no sorrows sing In the strange priest’s voice, nor any dolour grips The heart because it is not you who bring Your Master to its lips.

Here let us leave the things you would not have— Vain grief and sorrow useless to be shown— “God’s gift and the Community’s I gave And nothing of my own,”

You would have said, self-deemed of no more worth Than the green hands that guard a poppy’s grace,— Blows the eternal flower and back to earth Tumbles the withered case.

Nay, but Our Lord hath made renouncement vain, Himself into those humble hands let fall, Guerdon of willing poverty and pain, The greatest gift of all;

To you and all who in that life austere Mid fields remote your harsher labours ply Singing His praise, girt round from year to year With sheep-bells and the sky—

This, that to you is larger audience given Where prayer and praise with sighing pinions shod Piercing the starry ante-rooms of Heaven Sway the designs of God:

And now yourself, standing where late hath stood The echo of your voice, are prayer and praise— O sweet reward and unsurpassing good For that small gift of days.

Yourself, who now have heard such summoning And seen such burning clarities alight As broke the vigilant shepherds’ drowsy ring On the predestined night,

Who made such haste as theirs who rose and trod To Bethlehem the dew-encumbered grass, Trustful to see the showing forth of God And the Word come to pass;

With how much more than home-spun Israelites’ Poor hungry glimpse of Godhead are you blest Whom Mary shows for more than mortal nights The Jewel on her breast.

Yet, as one kneeling churl might chance to think Of the wan herd behind their wattled bars, Moving unshepherded with bells that clink And stir beneath the stars,

And, for the thought’s space wishing he were back, Pray to that Sum of Sweetness for his sheep— “Take them, O Thou that dost supply our lack, Into Thy hands to keep,”

So you who in His presence move and live Recall amid your glad celestial cares Your chosen office, to your children give The charity of prayers.

THE REGRET

The mallow blooms in late July Along the dusty track To Romsey where the waters run And Norman stones confront the sun— Ah, Dear, that all our work were done And we were getting back!

The whinchat in the willow runs From silver stair to stair, Cocks his white eyebrow, tunes his throat And plans his little creaking note To please the leaves that past him float— Ah, Dear, that we were there!