Chapter 10
THE HAPPY ENDING
We told dear father all our tale That night before we went to bed, And at the end his face grew pale, And he bent over us and said (Was it not strange?) he, too, was there, A weary, weary watch to keep Before the gates of the City of Sleep; But, ere we came, he did not dare Even to dream of entering in, Or even to hope for Peterkin. He was the poor blind man, he said, And we--how low he bent his head! Then he called mother near; and low He whispered to us--"Prompt me now; For I forget that song we heard, But you remember every word." Then memory came like a breaking morn, And we breathed it to him--_A child was born!_ And there he drew us to his breast And softly murmured all the rest.--
_The wise men came to greet him with their gifts of myrrh and frankincense,-- Gold and myrrh and frankincense they brought to make him mirth; And would you know the way to win to little brother Peterkin, My childhood's heart shall guide you through the glories of the earth._
Then he looked up and mother knelt Beside us, oh, her eyes were bright; Her arms were like a lovely belt All round us as we said Good-night To father: _he_ was crying now, But they were happy tears, somehow; For there we saw dear mother lay Her cheek against his cheek and say-- Hush, let me kiss those tears away.
_DEDICATION_
_What can a wanderer bring To little ones loved like you? You have songs of your own to sing That are far more steadfast and true, Crumbs of pity for birds That flit o'er your sun-swept lawn, Songs that are dearer than all our words With a love that is clear as the dawn._
_What should a dreamer devise, In the depths of his wayward will, To deepen the gleam of your eyes Who can dance with the Sun-child still? Yet you glanced on his lonely way, You cheered him in dream and deed, And his heart is o'erflowing, o'erflowing to-day With a love that--you never will need._
_What can a pilgrim teach To dwellers in fairy-land? Truth that excels all speech You murmur and understand! All he can sing you he brings; But--one thing more if he may, One thing more that the King of Kings Will take from the child on the way._
_Yet how can a child of the night Brighten the light of the sun? How can he add a delight To the dances that never are done? Ah, what if he struggles to turn Once more to the sweet old skies With praise and praise, from the fetters that burn, To the God that brightened your eyes?_
_Yes; he is weak, he will fail, Yet, what if, in sorrows apart, One thing, one should avail, The cry of a grateful heart; It has wings: they return through the night To a sky where the light lives yet, To the clouds that kneel on his mountain-height And the path that his feet forget._
_What if he struggles and still Fails and struggles again? What if his broken will Whispers the struggle is vain? Once at least he has risen Because he remembered your eyes; Once they have brought to his earthly prison The passion of Paradise._
_Kind little eyes that I love, Eyes forgetful of mine, In a dream I am bending above Your sleep, and you open and shine; And I know as my own grow blind With a lonely prayer for your sake, He will hear--even me--little eyes that were kind, God bless you, asleep or awake._
FORTY SINGING SEAMEN AND OTHER POEMS
_TO GARNETT_
FORTY SINGING SEAMEN
"In our lands be Beeres and Lyons of dyvers colours as ye redd, grene, black, and white. And in our land be also unicornes and these Unicornes slee many Lyons.... Also there dare no man make a lye in our lande, for if he dyde he sholde incontynent be sleyn."--_Mediæval Epistle, of Pope Prester John._
I
Across the seas of Wonderland to Mogadore we plodded, Forty singing seamen in an old black barque, And we landed in the twilight where a Polyphemus nodded With his battered moon-eye winking red and yellow through the dark! For his eye was growing mellow, Rich and ripe and red and yellow, As was time, since old Ulysses made him bellow in the dark! _Cho._--Since Ulysses bunged his eye up with a pine-torch in the dark!
II
_Were_ they mountains in the gloaming or the giant's ugly shoulders Just beneath the rolling eyeball, with its bleared and vinous glow, Red and yellow o'er the purple of the pines among the boulders And the shaggy horror brooding on the sullen slopes below, _Were_ they pines among the boulders Or the hair upon his shoulders? We were only simple seamen, so of course we didn't know. _Cho._--We were simple singing seamen, so of course we couldn't know.
III
But we crossed a plain of poppies, and we came upon a fountain Not of water, but of jewels, like a spray of leaping fire; And behind it, in an emerald glade, beneath a golden mountain There stood a crystal palace, for a sailor to admire; For a troop of ghosts came round us, Which with leaves of bay they crowned us, Then with grog they well nigh drowned us, to the depth of our desire! _Cho._--And 'twas very friendly of them, as a sailor can admire!
IV
There was music all about us, we were growing quite forgetful We were only singing seamen from the dirt of London-town, Though the nectar that we swallowed seemed to vanish half regretful As if we wasn't good enough to take such vittles down, When we saw a sudden figure, Tall and black as any nigger, Like the devil--only bigger--drawing near us with a frown! _Cho._--Like the devil--but much bigger--and he wore a golden crown!
V
And "What's all this?" he growls at us! With dignity we chaunted, "Forty singing seamen, sir, as won't be put upon!" "What? Englishmen?" he cries, "Well, if ye don't mind being haunted, Faith you're welcome to my palace; I'm the famous Prester John! Will ye walk into my palace? I don't bear 'ee any malice! One and all ye shall be welcome in the halls of Prester John!" _Cho._--So we walked into the palace and the halls of Prester John!
VI
Now the door was one great diamond and the hall a hollow ruby-- Big as Beachy Head, my lads, nay bigger by a half! And I sees the mate wi' mouth agape, a-staring like a booby, And the skipper close behind him, with his tongue out like a calf! Now the way to take it rightly Was to walk along politely Just as if you didn't notice--so I couldn't help but laugh! _Cho._--For they both forgot their manners and the crew was bound to laugh!
VII
But he took us through his palace and, my lads, as I'm a sinner, We walked into an opal like a sunset-coloured cloud-- "My dining-room," he says, and, quick as light we saw a dinner Spread before us by the fingers of a hidden fairy crowd; And the skipper, swaying gently After dinner, murmurs faintly, "I looks to-wards you, Prester John, you've done us very proud!" _Cho._--And we drank his health with honours, for he _done_ us _very_ proud!
VIII
Then he walks us to his garden where we sees a feathered demon Very splendid and important on a sort of spicy tree! "That's the Phoenix," whispers Prester, "which all eddicated seamen Knows the only one existent, and _he's_ waiting for to flee! When his hundred years expire Then he'll set hisself a-fire And another from his ashes rise most beautiful to see!" _Cho._--With wings of rose and emerald most beautiful to see!
IX
Then he says, "In younder forest there's a little silver river, And whosoever drinks of it, his youth shall never die! The centuries go by, but Prester John endures for ever With his music in the mountains and his magic on the sky! While _your_ hearts are growing colder, While your world is growing older, There's a magic in the distance, where the sea-line meets the sky," _Cho._--It shall call to singing seamen till the fount o' song is dry!
X
So we thought we'd up and seek it, but that forest fair defied us,-- First a crimson leopard laughs at us most horrible to see, Then a sea-green lion came and sniffed and licked his chops and eyed us, While a red and yellow unicorn was dancing round a tree! _We_ was trying to look thinner, Which was hard, because our dinner Must ha' made us very tempting to a cat o' high degree! _Cho._--Must ha' made us very tempting to the whole menarjeree!
XI
So we scuttled from that forest and across the poppy meadows Where the awful shaggy horror brooded o'er us in the dark! And we pushes out from shore again a-jumping at our shadows, And pulls away most joyful to the old black barque! And home again we plodded While the Polyphemus nodded With his battered moon-eye winking red and yellow through the dark. _Cho._--Oh, the moon above the mountains, red and yellow through the dark!
XII
Across the seas of Wonderland to London-town we blundered, Forty singing seamen as was puzzled for to know If the visions that we saw was caused by--here again we pondered-- A tipple in a vision forty thousand years ago. Could the grog we _dreamt_ we swallowed Make us _dream_ of all that followed? We were only simple seamen, so of course we didn't know! _Cho._--We were simple singing seamen, so of course we could not know!
THE EMPIRE BUILDERS
Who are the Empire-builders? They Whose desperate arrogance demands A self-reflecting power to sway A hundred little selfless lands? Lord God of battles, ere we bow To these and to their soulless lust, Let fall Thy thunders on us now And strike us equal to the dust.
Before the stars in heaven were made Our great Commander led us forth; And now the embattled lines are laid To East, to West, to South, to North; According as of old He planned We take our station in the field, Nor dare to dream we understand The splendour of the swords we wield.
We know not what the Soul intends That lives and moves behind our deeds; We wheel and march to glorious ends Beyond the common soldier's needs: And some are raised to high rewards, And some by regiments are hurled To die upon the opposing swords And sleep--forgotten by the world.
And not where navies churn the foam, Nor called to fields of fierce emprize, In many a country cottage-home The Empire-builder lives and dies: Or through the roaring streets he goes A lean and weary City slave, The conqueror of a thousand foes Who walks, unheeded, to his grave.
Leaders unknown of hopes forlorn Go past us in the daily mart, With many a shadowy crown of thorn And many a kingly broken heart: Though England's banner overhead Ever the secret signal flew, We only see its Cross is red As children see the skies are blue.
For all are Empire-builders here, Whose hearts are true to heaven and home And, year by slow revolving year, Fulfil the duties as they come; So simple seems the task, and yet Many for this are crucified; Ay, and their brother-men forget The simple wounds in palm and side.
But he that to his home is true, Where'er the tides of power may flow, Has built a kingdom great and new Which Time nor Fate shall overthrow These are the Empire-builders, these Annex where none shall say them nay Beyond the world's uncharted seas Realms that can never pass away.
NELSON'S YEAR
(1905)
I
"Hasten the Kingdom, England!" This year, a hundred years ago, The world attended, breathless, on the gathering pomp of war, While England and her deathless dead, with all their mighty hearts aglow, Swept onward like the dawn of doom to triumph at Trafalgar; Then the world was hushed to wonder As the cannon's dying thunder Broke out again in muffled peals across the heaving sea, And home the Victor came at last, Home, home, with England's flag half-mast, That never dipped to foe before, on Nelson's Victory.
II
God gave this year to England; And what He gives He takes again; He gives us life, He gives us death: our victories have wings; He gives us love and in its heart He hides the whole world's heart of pain: We gain by loss: impartially the eternal balance swings! Ay; in the fire we cherish Our thoughts and dreams may perish; Yet shall it burn for England's sake triumphant as of old! What sacrifice could gain for her Our own shall still maintain for her, And hold the gates of Freedom wide that take no keys of gold.
III
God gave this year to England; Her eyes are far too bright for tears Of sorrow; by her silent dead she kneels, too proud for pride; Their blood, their love, have bought her right to claim the new imperial years In England's name for Freedom, in whose love her children died; In whose love, though hope may dwindle, Love and brotherhood shall kindle Between the striving nations as a choral song takes fire, Till new hope, new faith, new wonder Cleave the clouds of doubt asunder, And speed the union of mankind in one divine desire.
IV
Hasten the Kingdom, England; This year across the listening world There came a sound of mingled tears where victory and defeat Clasped hands; and Peace--among the dead--stood wistfully, with white wings furled, Knowing the strife was idle; for the night and morning meet, Yet there is no disunion In heaven's divine communion As through the gates of twilight the harmonious morning pours; Ah, God speed that grander morrow When the world's divinest sorrow Shall show how Love stands knocking at the world's unopened doors.
V
Hasten the Kingdom, England; Look up across the narrow seas, Across the great white nations to thy dark imperial throne Where now three hundred million souls attend on thine august decrees; Ah, bow thine head in humbleness, the Kingdom is thine own: Not for the pride or power God gave thee this in dower; But, now the West and East have met and wept their mortal loss, Now that their tears have spoken And the long dumb spell is broken, Is it nothing that thy banner bears the red eternal cross?
VI
Ay! Lift the flag of England; And lo, that Eastern cross is there, Veiled with a hundred meanings as our English eyes are veiled; Yet to the grander dawn we move oblivious of the sign we bear, Oblivious of the heights we climb until the last be scaled; Then with all the earth before us And the great cross floating o'er us We shall break the sword we forged of old, so weak we were and blind; While the inviolate heaven discloses England's Rose of all the roses Dawning wide and ever wider o'er the kingdom of mankind.
VII
Hasten the Kingdom, England; For then all nations shall be one; One as the ordered stars are one that sing upon their way, One with the rhythmic glories of the swinging sea and the rolling sun, One with the flow of life and death, the tides of night and day; One with all dreams of beauty, One with all laws of duty; One with the weak and helpless while the one sky burns above; Till eyes by tears made glorious Look up at last victorious, And lips that starved break open in one song of life and love.
VIII
Hasten the Kingdom, England; And when the Spring returns again Rekindle in our English hearts the universal Spring, That we may wait in faith upon the former and the latter rain, Till all waste places burgeon and the wildernesses sing; Pour the glory of thy pity Through the dark and troubled city; Pour the splendour of thy beauty over wood and meadow fair; May the God of battles guide thee And the Christ-child walk beside thee With a word of peace for England in the dawn of Nelson's Year.
IN TIME OF WAR
I
To-night o'er Bagshot heath the purple heather Rolls like dumb thunder to the splendid West; And mighty ragged clouds are massed together Above the scarred old common's broken breast; And there are hints of blood between the boulders, Red glints of fiercer blossom, bright and bold; And round the shaggy mounds and sullen shoulders The gorse repays the sun with savage gold.
And now, as in the West the light grows holy, And all the hollows of the heath grow dim, Far off, a sulky rumble rolls up slowly Where guns at practice growl their evening hymn.
And here and there in bare clean yellow spaces The print of horse-hoofs like an answering cry Strikes strangely on the sense from lonely places Where there is nought but empty heath and sky.
The print of warlike hoofs, where now no figure Of horse or man along the sky's red rim Breaks on the low horizon's rough black rigour To make the gorgeous waste less wild and grim;
Strangely the hoof-prints strike, a Crusoe's wonder, Framed with sharp furze amongst the footless fells, A menace and a mystery, rapt asunder, As if the whole wide world contained nought else,--
Nought but the grand despair of desolation Between us and that wild, how far, how near, Where, clothed with thunder, nation grapples nation, And Slaughter grips the clay-cold hand of Fear.
II
And far above the purple heath the sunset stars awaken, And ghostly hosts of cloud across the West begin to stream, And all the low soft winds with muffled cannonades are shaken, And all the blood-red blossom draws aloof into a dream; A dream--no more--and round the dream the clouds are curled together; A dream of two great stormy hosts embattled in the sky; For there against the low red heavens each sombre ridge of heather Up-heaves a hedge of bayonets around a battle-cry;
Melts in the distant battle-field or brings the dream so near it That, almost, as the rifted clouds around them swim and reel, A thousand grey-lipped faces flash--ah, hark, the heart can hear it-- The sharp command that lifts as one the levelled lines of steel.
And through the purple thunders there are silent shadows creeping With murderous gleams of light, and then--a mighty leaping roar Where foe and foe are met; and then--a long low sound of weeping As Death laughs out from sea to sea, another fight is o'er.
Another fight--but ah, how much is over? Night descending Draws o'er the scene her ghastly moon-shot veil with piteous hands; But all around the bivouac-glare the shadowy pickets wending See sights, hear sounds that only war's own madness understands.
No circle of the accursed dead where dreaming Dante wandered, No city of death's eternal dole could match this mortal world Where men, before the living soul and quivering flesh are sundered, Through all the bestial shapes of pain to one wide grave are hurled.
But in the midst for those who dare beyond the fringe to enter Be sure one kingly figure lies with pale and blood-soiled face, And round his brows a ragged crown of thorns; and in the centre Of those pale folded hands and feet the sigil of his grace.
See, how the pale limbs, marred and scarred in love's lost battle, languish; See how the splendid passion still smiles quietly from his eyes: Come, come and see a king indeed, who triumphs in his anguish, Who conquers here in utter loss beneath the eternal skies.
For unto lips so deadly calm what answer shall be given? Oh pale, pale king so deadly still beneath the unshaken stars, Who shall deny thy kingdom here, though heaven and earth were riven, With the last roar of onset in the world's intestine wars?
The laugh is Death's; he laughs as erst o'er hours that England cherished, "Count up, count up the stricken homes that wail the first-born son, Count by your starved and fatherless the tale of what hath perished; Then gather with your foes and ask if you--or I--have won."
III
The world rolls on; and love and peace are mated: Still on the breast of England, like a star, The blood-red lonely heath blows, consecrated, A brooding practice-ground for blood-red war.
Yet is there nothing out of tune with Nature There, where the skylark showers his earliest song, Where sun and wind have moulded every feature, And one world-music bears each note along.
There many a brown-winged kestrel swoops or hovers In poised and patient quest of his own prey; And there are fern-clad glens where happy lovers May kiss the murmuring summer noon away.
There, as the primal earth was--all is glorious Perfect and wise and wonderful in view Of that great heaven through which we rise victorious O'er all that strife and change and death can do.
No nation yet has risen o'er earth's first nature; Though love illumed each individual mind, Like some half-blind, half-formed primeval creature The State still crawled a thousand years behind.
Still on the standards of the great World-Powers Lion and bear and eagle sullenly brood, Whether the slow folds flap o'er halcyon hours Or stream tempestuously o'er fields of blood.
By war's red evolution we have risen Far, since fierce Erda chose her conquering few, And out of Death's red gates and Time's grey prison They burst, elect from battle, tried and true.
But now Death mocks at youth and love and glory, Chivalry slinks behind his loaded mines, With meaner murderous lips War tells her story, And round her cunning brows no laurel shines.
And here to us the eternal charge is given To rise and make our low world touch God's high: To hasten God's own kingdom, Man's own heaven, And teach Love's grander army how to die.
No kingdom then, no long-continuing city Shall e'er again be stablished by the sword; No blood-bought throne defy the powers of pity, No despot's crown outweigh one helot's word.
Imperial England, breathe thy marching orders: The great host waits; the end, the end is close, When earth shall know thy peace in all her borders, And all her deserts blossom with thy Rose.
Princedoms and peoples rise and flash and perish As the dew passes from the flowering thorn; Yet the one Kingdom that our dreams still cherish Lives in a light that blinds the world's red morn.
Hasten the Kingdom, England, the days darken; We would not have thee slacken watch or ward, Nor doff thine armour till the whole world hearken, Nor till Time bid thee lay aside the sword.
Hasten the Kingdom; hamlet, heath, and city, We are all at war, one bleeding bulk of pain; Little we know; but one thing--by God's pity-- We know, and know all else on earth is vain.
We know not yet how much we dare, how little; We dare not dream of peace; yet, as at need, England, God help thee, let no jot or tittle Of Love's last law go past thee without heed.
_Who saves his life shall lose it!_ The great ages Bear witness--Rome and Babylon and Tyre Cry from the dust-stopped lips of all their sages,-- There is no hope if man can climb no higher.
England, by God's grace set apart to ponder A little while from battle, ah, take heed, Keep watch, keep watch, beside thy sleeping thunder; Call down Christ's pity while those others bleed;
Waken the God within thee, while the sorrow Of battle surges round a distant shore, While Time is thine, lest on some deadly morrow The moving finger write--_but thine no more_.
Little we know--but though the advancing æons Win every painful step by blood and fire, Though tortured mouths must chant the world's great pæans, And martyred souls proclaim the world's desire;
Though war be nature's engine of rejection, Soon, soon, across her universal verge The soul of man in sacred insurrection Shall into God's diviner light emerge.
Hasten the Kingdom, England, queen and mother; Little we know of all Time's works and ways; Yet this, this, this is sure: we need none other Knowledge or wisdom, hope or aim or praise,
But to keep this one stormy banner flying In this one faith that none shall e'er disprove, Then drive the embattled world before thee, crying, There is one Emperor, whose name is Love.
ODE FOR THE SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY OF SWINBURNE
I
He needs no crown of ours, whose golden heart Poured out its wealth so freely in pure praise Of others: him the imperishable bays Crown, and on Sunium's height he sits apart: He hears immortal greetings this great morn: Fain would we bring, we also, all we may, Some wayside flower of transitory bloom, Frail tribute, only born To greet the gladness of this April day Then waste on death's dark wind its faint perfume.
II
Here on this April day the whole sweet Spring Speaks thro' his music only, or seems to speak. And we that hear, with hearts uplift and weak, What can we more than claim him for our king? Here on this April day (and many a time Shall April come and find him singing still) He is one with the world's great heart beyond the years, One with the pulsing rhyme Of tides that work some heavenly rhythmic will And hold the secret of all human tears.
III
For he, the last of that immortal race Whose music, like a robe of living light Re-clothed each new-born age and made it bright As with the glory of Love's transfiguring face, Reddened earth's roses, kindled the deep blue Of England's radiant, ever-singing sea, Recalled the white Thalassian from the foam. Woke the dim stars anew And triumphed in the triumph of Liberty, We claim him; but he hath not here his home.
IV
Not here; round him to-day the clouds divide: We know what faces thro' that rose-flushed air Now bend above him: Shelley's face is there, And Hugo's, lit with more than kingly pride. Replenished there with splendour, the blind eyes Of Milton bend from heaven to meet his own, Sappho is there, crowned with those queenlier flowers Whose graft outgrew our skies, His gift: Shakespeare leans earthward from his throne With hands outstretched. He needs no crown of ours.
IN CLOAK OF GREY
I
Love's a pilgrim, cloaked in grey, And his feet are pierced and bleeding: Have ye seen him pass this way Sorrowfully pleading? Ye that weep the world away, Have ye seen King Love to-day?--
II
Yea, we saw him; but he came Poppy-crowned and white of limb! Song had touched his lips with flame, And his eyes were drowsed and dim; And we kissed the hours away Till night grew rosier than the day.--
III
Hath he left you?--Yea, he left us A little while ago, Of his laughter quite bereft us And his limbs of snow; We know not why he went away Who ruled our revels yesterday.--
IV
Because ye did not understand Love cometh from afar, A pilgrim out of Holy Land Guided by a star: Last night he came in cloak of grey, Begging. Ye knew him not: he went his way.
A RIDE FOR THE QUEEN
Queen of queens, oh lady mine, You who say you love me, Here's a cup of crimson wine To the stars above me; Here's a cup of blood and gall For a soldier's quaffing! What's the prize to crown it all? Death? I'll take it laughing! I ride for the Queen to-night!
Though I find no knightly fee Waiting on my lealty, High upon the gallows-tree Faithful to my fealty, What had I but love and youth, Hope and fame in season? She has proved that more than truth Glorifies her treason!
Would that other do as much? Ah, but if in sorrow Some forgotten look or touch Pierce her heart to-morrow She might love me yet, I think; So her lie befriends me, Though I know there's darker drink Down the road she sends me.
Ay, one more great chance is mine (Can I faint or falter?) She shall pour my blood like wine, Make my heart her altar, Burn it to the dust! For, there, What if o'er the embers She should stoop and--I should hear-- "_Hush! Thy love remembers!_"
One more chance for every word Whispered to betray me, While she buckled on my sword Smiling to allay me; One more chance; ah, let me not Mar her perfect pleasure; Love shall pay me, jot by jot, Measure for her measure.
Faith shall think I never knew, I will be so fervent! Doubt shall dream I dreamed her true As her war-worn servant! Whoso flouts her spotless name (Love, I wear thy token!) He shall face one sword of flame Ere the lie be spoken!
All the world's a-foam with may, (Fragrant as her bosom!) Could I find a sweeter way Through the year's young blossom, Where her warm red mouth on mine Woke my soul's desire?... Hey! The cup of crimson wine, Blood and gall and fire!
Castle Doom or Gates of Death? (Smile again for pity!) "Boot and horse," my lady saith, "Spur against the City, Bear this message!" God and she Still forget the guerdon; Nay, the rope is on the tree! That shall bear the burden! I ride for the Queen to-night!
SONG
I
When that I loved a maiden My heaven was in her eyes, And when they bent above me I knew no deeper skies; But when her heart forsook me My spirit broke its bars, For grief beyond the sunset And love beyond the stars.
II
When that I loved a maiden She seemed the world to me: Now is my soul the universe, My dreams the sky and sea: There is no heaven above me, No glory binds or bars My grief beyond the sunset, My love beyond the stars.
III
When that I loved a maiden I worshipped where she trod; But, when she clove my heart, the cleft Set free the imprisoned god: Then was I king of all the world, My soul had burst its bars, For grief beyond the sunset And love beyond the stars.
THE HIGHWAYMAN