Part 1
Marlborough
and other poems
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS C. F. CLAY, MANAGER London: FETTER LANE. E.C. Edinburgh: 100 PRINCES STREET
New York: G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS Bombay, Calcutta and Madras: MACMILLAN AND Co., LTD. Toronto: J. M. DENT AND SONS, LTD. Tokyo: THE MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA
_All rights reserved_
Marlborough
and other poems
by
CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY
LATE OF MARLBOROUGH COLLEGE SOMETIME CAPTAIN IN THE SUFFOLK REGIMENT
_Third edition with illustrations in prose_
Cambridge: at the University Press 1916
_Published, January 1916_ _Second edition, slightly enlarged, February 1916_ _Reprinted, February, April, May 1916_ _Third edition, with illustrations in prose, October 1916_
PREFACE
What was said concerning the author in the preface to the first edition may be repeated here. He was born at Old Aberdeen on 19 May 1895. From 1900 onwards his home was in Cambridge. He was at Marlborough College from September 1908 till December 1913, when he was elected to a scholarship at University College, Oxford. After leaving school he spent a little more than six months in Germany, returning home on the outbreak of war. He was gazetted Second Lieutenant in the Seventh (Service) Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment in August 1914, Lieutenant in November, and Captain in the following August. His battalion was sent to France on 30 May. He was killed in action near Hulluch on 13 October 1915. “Being made perfect in a little while, he fulfilled long years.”
Many readers have asked for further information about the author or contributions from his pen. I am not able to give all that is asked for; but in this edition I have done what I can to meet the wishes of my correspondents by appending to the poems a certain number of illustrations in prose. With the exception of a few sentences from an early essay, these prose passages are all taken from his letters to his family and friends. They have been selected as illustrating some idea or subject mentioned in the poems and prominent in his own mind. But the relevancy is not always very close; the moods of the moment are sometimes expressed rather than matured judgments; and it has to be remembered that what was written was not intended for other eyes than those of the person to whom it was addressed.
With the poems it is different; and, had he lived, he would probably himself have published a selection of them with such revision as he deemed advisable. But when a suggestion about printing was made to him, soon after he had entered upon his life in the trenches of Flanders, he put the proposal aside as premature, adding “Besides, this is no time for oliveyards and vineyards, more especially of the small-holdings type. For three years or the duration of the war, let be.” His warfare is now accomplished, and his relatives have felt themselves free to publish.
The original order of the poems is retained in this edition. The first place is assigned to the title-poem; some early poems are printed at the end; the other contents are arranged in the order of their composition, as nearly as that order could be ascertained. When the date given includes the day of the month, it has been taken from the author’s manuscript; some of the other dates are approximate. Of the undated poems, XIII to XVI were received from him in October 1914, XVII to XXIV in April 1915, XXVII was found in his kit sent back from France, and XXVIII (which appeared for the first time in the second edition) was sent to a friend towards the end of July 1915. A single piece of imaginative prose has been included amongst the poems.
Some further information regarding them has been obtained recently. XVI was written when he was at the Officers’ Training Camp at Churn early in September 1914, and XVII a few days later, XV had its origin in his journey from Churn to join his regiment at Shorncliffe on 18 September. The first draft of it was sent to a friend soon afterwards with the words: “enclosed the poem which eventually came out of the first day of term at Paddington. Not much trace of the origin left; but I think it should get a prize for being the first poem written since August 4th that isn’t patriotic.” This draft differs slightly from the final form of the poem, and instead of the present title (“Whom therefore we ignorantly worship”), it is preceded by the verse “And these all, having obtained a good report through faith, received not the promise.” The poem called “Lost” (XXIV) was sent to the same friend in December 1914. “I have tried for long,” he wrote, “to express in words the impression that the land north of Marlborough must leave”; and he added, “Simplicity, paucity of words, monotony almost, and mystery are necessary. I think I have got it at last.” The signpost, which figures here as well as elsewhere in the poems, stands at “the junction of the grass tracks on the Aldbourne down--to Ogbourne, Marlborough, Mildenhall, and Aldbourne. It stands up quite alone.”
Three of the poems at least--II, VIII, and XII--were written entirely in the open air. Concerning one of these he said, “‘Autumn Dawn’ has too much copy from Meredith in it, but I value it as being (with ‘Return’) a memento of my walk to Marlborough last September [1913].” Sending his “occasional budget” in April 1915 he said, “You will notice that most of what I have written is as hurried and angular as the handwriting: written out at different times and dirty with my pocket: but I have had no time for the final touch nor seem likely to have for some time, and so send them as they are. Nor have I had time to think out (as I usually do) a rigorous selection as fit for other eyes. So these are my explanations of the fall in quality. I like ‘Le Revenant’ best, being very interested in the previous and future experience of the character concerned: but it sadly needs the file.”
The letter in verse, fragments of which are given on pages 73-78, was sent anonymously to an older friend whose connexion with Marlborough is commemorated in the poem entitled “J. B.” J. B. discovered the authorship of the epistle by sending the envelope to a Marlborough master, and replied in the words which, by his permission, are printed on the opposite page.
RIGHT W. R. S.
_21 September 1916._
From far away there comes a Voice, Singing its song across the sea-- Song to make man’s heart rejoice-- Of Marlborough and the Odyssey.
A voice that sings of Now and Then, Of minstrel joys and tiny towns, Of flowering thyme and fighting men, Of Sparta’s sands and Marlborough’s Downs.
God grant, dear Voice, one day again We see those Downs in April weather, And snuff the breeze, and smell the rain, And stand in C House Porch together!
CONTENTS
PAGE
I Marlborough 1
II Barbury Camp 5
III What you will 9
IV Rooks 12
V Rooks (II) 13
VI Stones 16
VII East Kennet Church at Evening 18
VIII Autumn Dawn 21
IX Return 25
X Richard Jefferies 27
XI J. B. 29
XII The Other Wise Man 31
XIII The Song of the Ungirt Runners 40
XIV German Rain 42
XV Whom therefore we ignorantly worship 43
XVI To Poets 44
XVII “A hundred thousand million mites we go” 46
XVIII Deus loquitur 48
XIX Two Songs from Ibsen’s Dramatic Poems 50
XX “If I have suffered pain” 53
XXI To Germany 56
XXII “All the hills and vales along” 57
XXIII Le Revenant 60
XXIV Lost 64
XXV Expectans expectavi 65
XXVI Two Sonnets 67
XXVII A Sonnet 69
XXVIII “There is such change in all those fields” 70
XXIX “I have not brought my Odyssey” 73
XXX In Memoriam S.C.W., V.C. 79
XXXI Behind the Lines 80
Earlier Poems:
XXXII A Call to Action 87
XXXIII Rain 91
XXXIV A Tale of Two Careers 95
XXXV Peace 100
XXXVI The River 103
XXXVII The Seekers 107
Illustrations in prose 111
I
MARLBOROUGH
I
Crouched where the open upland billows down Into the valley where the river flows, She is as any other country town, That little lives or marks or hears or knows.
And she can teach but little. She has not The wonder and the surging and the roar Of striving cities. Only things forgot That once were beautiful, but now no more,
Has she to give us. Yet to one or two She first brought knowledge, and it was for her To open first our eyes, until we knew How great, immeasurably great, we were.
I, who have walked along her downs in dreams, And known her tenderness, and felt her might, And sometimes by her meadows and her streams Have drunk deep-storied secrets of delight,
Have had my moments there, when I have been Unwittingly aware of something more. Some beautiful aspect, that I had seen With mute unspeculative eyes before;
Have had my times, when, though the earth did wear Her self-same trees and grasses, I could see The revelation that is always there, But somehow is not always clear to me.
II
So, long ago, one halted on his way And sent his company and cattle on; His caravans trooped darkling far away Into the night, and he was left alone.
And he was left alone. And, lo, a man There wrestled with him till the break of day. The brook was silent and the night was wan. And when the dawn was come, he passed away.
The sinew of the hollow of his thigh Was shrunken, as he wrestled there alone. The brook was silent, but the dawn was nigh. The stranger named him Israel and was gone.
And the sun rose on Jacob; and he knew That he was no more Jacob, but had grown A more immortal vaster spirit, who Had seen God face to face, and still lived on.
The plain that seemed to stretch away to God, The brook that saw and heard and knew no fear, Were now the self-same soul as he who stood And waited for his brother to draw near.
For God had wrestled with him, and was gone. He looked around, and only God remained. The dawn, the desert, he and God were one. --And Esau came to meet him, travel-stained.
III
So, there, when sunset made the downs look new And earth gave up her colours to the sky, And far away the little city grew Half into sight, new-visioned was my eye.
I, who have lived, and trod her lovely earth, Raced with her winds and listened to her birds, Have cared but little for their worldly worth Nor sought to put my passion into words.
But now it’s different; and I have no rest Because my hand must search, dissect and spell The beauty that is better not expressed, The thing that all can feel, but none can tell.
_1 March 1914_
II
BARBURY CAMP
We burrowed night and day with tools of lead, Heaped the bank up and cast it in a ring And hurled the earth above. And Caesar said, “Why, it is excellent. I like the thing.” We, who are dead, Made it, and wrought, and Caesar liked the thing.
And here we strove, and here we felt each vein Ice-bound, each limb fast-frozen, all night long. And here we held communion with the rain That lashed us into manhood with its thong, Cleansing through pain. And the wind visited us and made us strong.
Up from around us, numbers without name, Strong men and naked, vast, on either hand Pressing us in, they came. And the wind came And bitter rain, turning grey all the land. That was our game, To fight with men and storms, and it was grand.
For many days we fought them, and our sweat Watered the grass, making it spring up green, Blooming for us. And, if the wind was wet, Our blood wetted the wind, making it keen With the hatred And wrath and courage that our blood had been.
So, fighting men and winds and tempests, hot With joy and hate and battle-lust, we fell Where we fought. And God said, “Killed at last then? What? Ye that are too strong for heaven, too clean for hell, (God said) stir not. This be your heaven, or, if ye will, your hell.”
So again we fight and wrestle, and again Hurl the earth up and cast it in a ring. But when the wind comes up, driving the rain (Each rain-drop a fiery steed), and the mists rolling Up from the plain, This wild procession, this impetuous thing,
Hold us amazed. We mount the wind-cars, then Whip up the steeds and drive through all the world. Searching to find somewhere some brethren. Sons of the winds and waters of the world. We, who were men. Have sought, and found no men in all this world.
Wind, that has blown here always ceaselessly. Bringing, if any man can understand, Might to the mighty, freedom to the free; Wind, that has caught us, cleansed us, made us grand Wind that is we (We that were men)--make men in all this land, That so may live and wrestle and hate that when They fall at last exultant, as we fell, And come to God, God may say, “Do you come then Mildly enquiring, is it heaven or hell? Why! Ye were men! Back to your winds and rains. Be these your heaven and hell!”
_24 March 1913_
III
WHAT YOU WILL
O come and see, it’s such a sight, So many boys all doing right: To see them underneath the yoke, Blindfolded by the elder folk, Move at a most impressive rate Along the way that is called straight. O, it is comforting to know They’re in the way they ought to go. But don’t you think it’s far more gay To see them slowly leave the way And limp and loose themselves and fall? O, that’s the nicest thing of all. I love to see this sight, for then I know they are becoming men, And they are tiring of the shrine Where things are really not divine.
I do not know if it seems brave The youthful spirit to enslave, And hedge about, lest it should grow. I don’t know if it’s better so In the long end. I only know That when I have a son of mine, He shan’t be made to droop and pine. Bound down and forced by rule and rod To serve a God who is no God. But I’ll put custom on the shelf And make him find his God himself.
Perhaps he’ll find him in a tree, Some hollow trunk, where you can see. Perhaps the daisies in the sod Will open out and show him God. Or will he meet him in the roar Of breakers as they beat the shore? Or in the spiky stars that shine? Or in the rain (where I found mine)? Or in the city’s giant moan? --A God who will be all his own, To whom he can address a prayer And love him, for he is so fair, And see with eyes that are not dim And build a temple meet for him.
_June 1913_
IV
ROOKS
There, where the rusty iron lies, The rooks are cawing all the day. Perhaps no man, until he dies, Will understand them, what they say.
The evening makes the sky like clay. The slow wind waits for night to rise. The world is half-content. But they
Still trouble all the trees with cries, That know, and cannot put away, The yearning to the soul that flies From day to night, from night to day.
_21 June 1913_
V
ROOKS (II)
There is such cry in all these birds, More than can ever be express’d; If I should put it into words, You would agree it were not best To wake such wonder from its rest.
But since to-night the world is still And only they and I astir, We are united, will to will, By bondage tighter, tenderer Than any lovers ever were.
And if, of too much labouring. All that I see around should die (There is such sleep in each green thing, Such weariness in all the sky), We would live on, these birds and I.
Yet how? since everything must pass At evening with the sinking sun, And Christ is gone, and Barabbas, Judas and Jesus, gone, clean gone, Then how shall I live on?
Yet surely, Judas must have heard Amidst his torments the long cry Of some lone Israelitish bird, And on it, ere he went to die, Thrown all his spirit’s agony.
And that immortal cry which welled For Judas, ever afterwards Passion on passion still has swelled And sweetened, till to-night these birds Will take my words, will take my words,
And wrapping them in music meet Will sing their spirit through the sky, Strange and unsatisfied and sweet-- That, when stock-dead am I, am I, O, these will never die!
_July 1913_
VI
STONES
This field is almost white with stone That cumber all its thirsty crust. And underneath, I know, are bones. And all around is death and dust.
And if you love a livelier hue-- O, if you love the youth of year, When all is clean and green and new, Depart. There is no summer here.
Albeit, to me there lingers yet In this forbidding stony dress The impotent and dim regret For some forgotten restlessness.
Dumb, imperceptibly astir, These relics of an ancient race, These men, in whom the dead bones were, Still fortifying their resting-place.
Their field of life was white with stones; Good fruit to earth they never brought. O, in these bleached and buried bones Was neither love nor faith nor thought.
But like the wind in this bleak place, Bitter and bleak and sharp they grew. And bitterly they ran their race, A brutal, bad, unkindly crew:
Souls like the dry earth, hearts like stone. Brains like that barren bramble-tree: Stern, sterile, senseless, mute, unknown-- But bold, O, bolder far than we!
_14 July 1913_
VII
EAST KENNET CHURCH AT EVENING
I stood amongst the corn, and watched The evening coming down. The rising vale was like a queen, And the dim church her crown.
Crown-like it stood against the hills. Its form was passing fair. I almost saw the tribes go up To offer incense there.
And far below the long vale stretched. As a sleeper she did seem That after some brief restlessness Has now begun to dream.
(All day the wakefulness of men, Their lives and labours brief, Have broken her long troubled sleep. Now, evening brings relief.)
There was no motion there, nor sound. She did not seem to rise. Yet was she wrapping herself in Her grey of night-disguise.
For now no church nor tree nor fold Was visible to me: Only that fading into one Which God must sometimes see.
No coloured glory streaked the sky To mark the sinking sun. There was no redness in the west To tell that day was done.
Only, the greyness of the eve Grew fuller than before. And, in its fulness, it made one Of what had once been more.
There was much beauty in that sight That man must not long see. God dropped the kindly veil of night Between its end and me.
_24 July 1913_
VIII
AUTUMN DAWN
And this is morning. Would you think That this was the morning, when the land Is full of heavy eyes that blink Half-opened, and the tall trees stand Too tired to shake away the drops Of passing night that cling around Their branches and weigh down their tops: And the grey sky leans on the ground? The thrush sings once or twice, but stops Affrighted by the silent sound. The sheep, scarce moving, munches, moans. The slow herd mumbles, thick with phlegm. The grey road-mender, hacking stones, Is now become as one of them. Old mother Earth has rubbed her eyes And stayed, so senseless, lying down. Old mother is too tired to rise And lay aside her grey nightgown, And come with singing and with strength In loud exuberance of day, Swift-darting. She is tired at length, Done up, past bearing, you would say. She’ll come no more in lust of strife, In hedges’ leap, and wild birds’ cries, In winds that cut you like a knife, In days of laughter and swift skies, That palpably pulsate with life, With life that kills, with life that dies. But in a morning such as this Is neither life nor death to see, Only that state which some call bliss, Grey hopeless immortality. Earth is at length bedrid. She is Supinest of the things that be: And stilly, heavy with long years, Brings forth such days in dumb regret, Immortal days, that rise in tears, And cannot, though they strive to, set.
* * * * *
The mists do move. The wind takes breath. The sun appeareth over there, And with red fingers hasteneth From Earth’s grey bed the clothes to tear, And strike the heavy mist’s dank tent. And Earth uprises with a sigh. She is astir. She is not spent. And yet she lives and yet can die. The grey road-mender from the ditch Looks up. He has not looked before. The stunted tree sways like the witch It was: ’tis living witch once more. The winds are washen. In the deep Dew of the morn they’ve washed. The skies Are changing dress. The clumsy sheep Bound, and earth’s many bosoms rise, And earth’s green tresses spring and leap About her brow. The earth has eyes, The earth has voice, the earth has breath, As o’er the land and through the air, With wingéd sandals, Life and Death Speed hand in hand--that winsome pair!
_16 September 1913_
IX
RETURN
Still stand the downs so wise and wide? Still shake the trees their tresses grey? I thought their beauty might have died Since I had been away.
I might have known the things I love, The winds, the flocking birds’ full cry, The trees that toss, the downs that move, Were longer things than I.