Chapter 4
For ah! the heart is cowed And dares not use her strength, Hears the kind impulse plead Against the common avaricious fear, Grants it but life, though sovereignty was due Or doles it sway but one day out of seven Or one a year.
So, so, and ever, so In the close-curtained court Those causes are deferred Which most import; These wait man's leisure. These daily matters elbow; Merely because His panic meanness Jibs blindly ere it hear What wisdom has prepared, Bolts headlong ere it see Her face unfold its smile. Man after man, race after race Drops jaded by the iterancy Of petty fear. Even as horses on the green steppes grazing, Hundreds scattered through lonely peacefulness, If shadow of cloud or red fox breaking earth Delude but one with dream of a stealthy foe, All are stampeded. Their frantic torrent draws in, With dire attraction, cumulative force, Stragglers grazing miles from where it started; On it thunders quite devoid of meaning. The tender private soul Thus takes contagion from the sordid crowd, And shying at mere dread of loss, Loses the whole of life. Thus, in the vortex of a base turmoil, Those myriad million energies wear down That might have raised mankind To live the life of gods. Had but my soul been his, As his was mine, Those wind-resembling accents Had found fit auditor. Their second-sighted eloquence, Welcomed with acclamation, Had fired action. But that was ages since: he was not then What now I am, Who have no longer The opportunity then mine, then missed,-- Who still am dazed and troubled Surmising others mine, others missed.
Passionate, never-wearied voice, Tombed in thy brittle shell, This human heart Thou croonest age on age, "Give and ask not, Help and blame not," Heeded less than large and mottled cowry The which at least some child may hold to ear All smiles to listen.
Thou findest parables; With fond imagination Adorning truth For the successive Unpersuaded Generations.
This boy, myself that was, Musing visions by that woman raised, Watched that land she came from, towned with ruins Send mile-long files of laden camels out With grain to hostile cities,-- Knew too the blue entrancing plain of waters Teemed with fresh shoals, buoyed up indifferently, Fisher--trader--pirate bark,-- Even the straight thought whispered at his ear, "Thy lips might join with hers as with some cousin's, Here, now, at noon, Hugging her bereaved sadness close, And still, to-night, with equal satisfaction, Thy mother's blind contentment with her son." While half-seduced, half-chafed, his mind was shaken As with conflicting gusts a choppy sea, His eyes, still greedy of their visions, Fastened a swarthy town enisled in wheat, And to the ebon threshold of each house, Conjured forth the man that each was planned for: Great creatures smiling with his father's smile, Muscular, wealthy and self-satisfied, Wearing loud-coloured raiment, earrings, chains, Armlet and buckle, all of clanking gold. His spirit drank from theirs great draughts of pride And read their minds more clearly than his own; All, with one counsel like a chorus, dinned His soul that then was mine, With truths well-proved in action. "Love is chaos, For order's sake Whatever must be, should be," Roared those bulls of Bashan. Then their proud chant argued, "How should this woman know Her little lad again, Who either now is bones Under the fertile field, Or well nigh a grown man? Say they should cross at market Both slaves would pass on, not a start the wiser. What is she then to him Or he to her After these years? To drag a life that might have been but is not With toil of mind and heart, Through dreary year on year, Neglecting for its sake the life that is, Spells folly and ingratitude to those Who treat their slaves well. Thy father's household and thyself should be More to her now than those who may be dead, The place she lives in dearer Than any unattainable far land Where she is more forgotten than old dreams. Why make the day of evil worse By dwelling on it after it has past? Near things alone are real, Now is the whole of time: Places beyond the horizon are but pictures; Memory cheats the eye with an illusion!"
"Your thoughts are sound, bold builders, I am my father's son. Behold this home-shore, these our hills, this bay, And this our slave!-- Up, work, look sharp about it!" Bounding a foot and fast retiring from her, I stoop for stones strewn thick about the sand, Aim them, fling them, And, as my idle arm resumes the knack, Score a hit and laugh To see her stumble hurt, behind the pine trunks. "Unless you work, I throw again, To it and steady at it. Mark me, drab, we Camilli Mean what we say." Stone after stone still flies, But aimed to knock chips from the pine-boles now; For she is busy gathering sticks, increasing Her distance as she may. The noon is sultry, Heated and clammy, I, Towards the live waves turning, slip my tunic, Then run in naked. Cooled and soothed by swimming, Both mind and heart from their late tumult tuned To placid acquiescent health, I float, suspended in the limpid water, Passive, rhythmically governed; So tranced worlds travel the dark shoreless ether.
"Where should this stream of pictures tend?" No, Bottomley, you will not ask; To you I am quite free to send The unexpected, unexplained, You will not take me thus to task.
So they be painted well, they live; If ill, they yet may cling to fame Associated with your name. In which case you, and not I, give That we are both contented with.
* * * * *
THOMAS MOULT
DOWN HERE THE HAWTHORN
Down here the hawthorn.... And a stir of wings, Spring-lit wings that wake Sudden tumult in the brake, Tumult of blossom tide, tumult of foaming mist Where the bright bird's tumultuous feathers kissed. White mists are blinding me, White mist of hedgerow, white mist of wings. Down here the hawthorn And a stir of wings.... Softly swishing, swift with spray All along the green laneway Dewdimmed, sunwashed, windsweet and winter-free They flash upon the light, They swing across the sight, I cannot see, I cannot see!...
Down here the flowering hawthorn flings Sleet of petals, petalled shells Spread the coloured air that sings Magic and a myriad spells Spun by my count of Springs. Down here the hawthorn.... And the flower-foam stirred By a Spring-lit bird. White hawthorn mist is blinding me. I lower my gaze, and on this old Brown bridle road Crusted with golden moss and mould The hedgerow flings Lush carpetings, Blossom woven carpetings light lain Under the farmer's lumbering load; And, floating past the spent March wrack, The footstep trail, the traveller's track. Down here the hawthorn.... White mists are blinding me, White mists that rime the fresh green bank Where fernleaf-fall And sorrel tall Upwaving, rank on rank, Shall flush the bed whereon the windflowers sank.
I turn these Spring-bewildered eyes of mine, I seek above the surf of hedgerow line Where peeping branches reach, and reaching twine Faint cherry or plum or eglantine. But with pretence of whisperings The year's young mischief-wind shall take By storm these shy striplings, And soon or later shake Their slender limbs, and make Free with their clinging may-- Strip from them in a single boisterous day Their first and last vesture of pale bloom spray. So, as to meet such lack In bush or brack, The kindly hedgerows make Sure of a Springtime for these frailer things, Shedding on each the lavish creamthorn flake. Down here the hawthorn.... On all the green leaf-clusters round me clings Thickly a spray of gentle blossomings Everywhere as with many bells The young year with white magic swells. The morning rings. White mist is blinding me, I cannot see, I cannot see!
Blind grows the coloured air that sings The marvel of a myriad spells Spun by my count of Springs. Sleet of petals, petalled shells Falling with sudden poignancy (As the sleet stings) Upon the lightheart-hope which only clear sight knows. And slowly drifts, Lingering among the snows Nor, though the snow lifts, Ever goes The wistful heartache as the fresh Spring flows With slipping sureness to the time of the rose, and the withered rose. Down here the hawthorn.... And heaping blossom stirred By a joy-swift bird. White mists are blinding me, White mist of hedgerow, white mist of wings. The bird's flight flings Deep carpetings Over the wrack Of my life's track. Down here the hawthorn.... The air of coloured years is blurred By the Spring, by a bird. White mists are blinding me, White mists on the years to be. I cannot see, I cannot see....
INVOCATION
Hurl down, harsh hills, your bitterness Of wind and storm. Stem ye the drift of herded men With your uncouthness So, tasting of your power, they press Back shrinking where upon their warm Safe ways of smoothness They feed their various lusts again.
Guard ye, wild hills, with scar and whip Your outlawry Lest alien-hearted pigmies tame Your trackless boulders, And with their unclean cunning slip The leash of civilry Fast round your shoulders. O keep ye from that shame.
Or they shall surely come, black hordes Swarming as lice With their obscenities and greed Across your fastness, Even your peaks that swing white swords, Rent, splintered ice Into the vastness Of skies where fanged winds feed.
Hurl down, harsh hills, your bitterness, Guard ye with flail Of shattering wind and thong of sleet Your pride uplifting To the impaled stars; be pitiless Before this unquiet trail Of man-herds drifting Against your stone still feet.
* * * * *
ROBERT NICHOLS
PAEAN
ON SEEING A PORTRAIT OF BLAKE.
Something moves in his dust, Flame sleeps beneath the crust; O whence had he those eyes Lit with celestial surprise? From what world blew that gust? Are we near to Paradise?
Gather a chaplet of five stars And the opalescent hue Of the aureole brightness cast-- Red, hardly red, and blue, scarce blue,-- Round th' immaculate frosty moon, Splintering light in glacial spars, When November's loudening blast Sweeps heaven's floor till burnished More crystal than at August noon, So we fit radiance may cast Before his feet, around his head.
How visits he an earthly place, Wanders among a mortal race? How were his footsteps led That still about his face Lingers a ghostly trace Of a secret influence shed By a Hand the world denies, In a land her most son flies, As a gift upon him thrust For an end he knoweth not, Yet will shine because he must, Shine and sing because he must Reap a wrong he soweth not Of contempt anger and distrust For a world which boweth not To the Flame which binds our dust.
Go net the moon, go snare the sun, Set them upon his either hand! Beneath his heels Leviathan Roll your thick coils! His head be spanned By rainbows tripled! Set a gem At the Cross-scabbard of his sword Whiter than lambwool or lilystem! Place on his brow the diadem Given the warrior of the Lord, The crown-turrets of Jerusalem!
* * * * *
EDEN PHILPOTTS
THE FALL
I'll sing a song of kings and queens And falling leaves and flying rain, With Time to mow, and Fate who gleans Their good and evil, boon and bane.
I'll sing a song of leaves and rains And flying queens and falling kings. Yet doubt not reason still remains Snug hidden at the core of things.
For every year an autumn brings To round the root and fat the sheaves And haply garner queens and kings With falling rain and flying leaves.
The rain is salt with tears of queens The leaves are red with blood of kings; Unknowing what the mystery means We puzzle at these splendid things.
For why great kings and rains should fall, And wherefore leaves and queens should fly, Or such rare wonders be at all, You cannot tell; no more can I.
Yet this we know: new leaves and rain Anon shall crown the vernal scene, But dust of dynasts not again Blows up into a king or queen.
GHOSTIES AT THE WEDDING.
Turn down a glass afore his place; Draw up the dog-eared chair; For though we shall not see his face, I think he will be here Our wedding day to share.
Turn up the glass where she would be And put a red rose there. Her quick, grey eyes we cannot see, But weren't they everywhere, And shall not they be here?
Though them old blids are in the grave And their good light's gone out, We'd sooner their kind ghosties have Than all the living rout As will be there no doubt.
For some are dead as cannot die. Some flown as cannot flee. You still do fancy 'em near by. 'Tis so with him and she, At any rate to we.
* * * * *
ARTHUR K. SABIN
FOUR LYRICS
I.
When old Anacreon sang the wine Which made his utterance divine, Perchance the eyes he gazed into Were lucent as the sun-touched dew-- Brighter, perchance, than yours; and yet Eyes like yours, smoulderingly lit With the calm passion of the spirit. No young Greek maid did e'er inherit.... Ah! twenty years are not enough To mould to such celestial stuff A soul, my dear, as yours is moulded, Wherein all dreams of life lie folded, And through whose doors a friend may slip Into serene companionship.
II.
She came, as one who in the light Of many a sunset hour had grown Half sad, half glad, because the night So soon about her would be thrown. With melancholy ages old, And laughter fragrant as the Spring, She came, and in her low voice told Tales of rich joy and sorrowing. She led me to her garden, fair With flowers I love and whispering trees, And to her arbour sheltered there In peace, all redolent of peace. With rapt delight of halting speech, And commune, such as those have felt Whose minds move silent each by each. Whose hopes are kindred hopes, we dwelt. But though with love and dreams of gold She wove rare charms about that nest, My heart lay aching still, and cold: I could not rest, I could not rest.
III.
The birds are quiet on the boughs, And quiet are my slumbering trees.... O come a short while to my house And share these evening silences.
Come! for the sunset's weary smile Has faded; night is failing deep: And we will rest a little while And talk together ere we sleep.
IV.
It may be that in future years, When life serenely yields its best Of steadfast joy and fleeting tears, And, blessing, you move on, thrice blest,--
Amid glad tasks of love and home, And fond caresses every day, A softened thought of me shall come And fly to reach me when you pray;
Then I shall tremble where I sit Unhelped through those gray years to be, As, like a benediction, it Shall flood in sweetness over me.
* * * * *
MARGARET SACKVILLE
THE RETURN
Last night, within our little town The Dead came marching through; In a long line, like living men, Just as they used to do.
Only, so long a line it seemed You'd think the Judgment Day Had dawned, to see them slowly pass, With faces turned one way.
They walked no longer foe and foe But brother bound to brother; Poor men, common men they walked Friendly to one another.
Just as in life they might have done Who stabbed and slew instead.... So quietly and evenly they walked These million gentle dead.
TO----
I.
1
Was it for you the aching past alone Lived, that on you might fall the shadow of it? For you, for you kings climbed a ravished throne, And all these menacing, quenched fires were lit. Wars that have left no more than a grey trace, Where are they? Scattered foam, blown dust--ah, me! How have they found their way into your face? The new day is not yours, you only see A battle raging in a desert place, And blood-stained warriors seeking Sanctuary.
2
I cannot love you in the street; I met You in the street once and turned my head away, But I will meet you where the red sunset With forlorn fire flashes the leaping spray. We are too old, too old for all this noise, No wine of such new vintage shall control Us who have known, what passionate joys Once in some far, dark City of the Soul. We are kings still and have, as kings, the choice To spurn the proffered half and claim the whole.
3
Let us find out a new way; for it is plain That all these old, worn, trodden roads suffice Only those who will return again Seeking shelter in their homes from Paradise. Oh! let us find some solitary, green Forgotten garden, where the sunrays fall All blind and blurred and indistinct between Cypresses lofty as earth's boundary wall; Beneath whose shade shall glimmer forth half seen Your face through the soft darkness when I call.
II.
1
If one, with visionary pen, should write The love which might be ours, how would he call These strange, perplexing fires veiled servants light Down the dark vistas of our empty hall? That love which might be ours, how would he name That love? No bitter leaving of the brine, No white or fading blossom twined like flame Round any brow, Christian or Erycine, Not all those loves blown to a windy fame Shall find their counterpart in yours and mine.
2
Not Tristram, not Isolde, wild shades which dip Their pinions like blown gulls in a waste sea, Nor those mute lovers, who still, lip on lip, Float on for ever, though they have ceased to be, Not any of those who loved once;--far apart We wander; the years have made us weak, we fail To rush together with a single heart, And we shall meet at last, only as pale Autumnal mists no sun's shaft cleaves apart When all the winds are still and no ships sail.
III.
1
Yet we shall meet--it may be we shall meet And count our days up-gathered, one by one, Like poppies plucked among the burnished wheat, Beneath the red gaze of the August sun; And all our scattered dreams shall flutter home At last. Oh! silent, age-long wandering What since your setting forth have ye become? What gift from those far waters do ye bring?-- _A splash of rain, salt taste of frozen foam, Green sea-weed trailing from a broken wing_.
2
Or we shall find each other--on the brink Of sleep some day, when the cool evening airs Blow bubbles round the pool where wood-birds drink; Or in the common Inn of wayfarers: Both weary, both beside the wide fireplace Drowsing, till at some sudden spark up-blown Shall each awake to find there face to face You and I very tired and alone; And lo! your welcome from my eyes shall gaze And in your eyes there shall I find my own.
3
I will pursue thee down these solitudes Therefore, and thou shalt yet escape me not. I will set traps for thee of subtle moods And wound thee with the arrows of my thought. In thickest forest ways though thou lie hid, Or in some autumn vale of Brocelinde, Or in whatever place of magic forbid, I will pierce through the woven branches like a wind, And drag thee from thy hiding-place amid The secret laughter of the fairy-kind.
4
Oh, triumph still delaying! I must pass Lonely a long time yet, for I know well No fugitive fair dream that ever was Left anywhere traces where her footprints fell. I, lonely hunter in the woods of sleep. The hunt is up--away! I ride, I ride On a white steed, where black-boughed fir-trees keep Watch and the kindly world is shut outside. I am afraid, the haunted woods are deep! I am afraid--afraid! Where dost thou hide?
* * * * *
W. KEAN SEYMOUR
FRUITAGE
For her the proud stars bend, she sees, As never yet, dim sorceries Breaking in silver magic wide On the blue midnight's swirling tide, With arrowy mist and spearing flame That out of central beauty came. The innumerate splendours of the skies Are thronging in her shining eyes; Her body is a fount of light In the plumed garden of the night; Her lily breasts have known the bliss Of the cool air's unfaltering kiss. She is made one with loveliness, Enfranchised from the world's distress, Given utterly to joy, a bride With a bride's hunger satisfied. Now, though she heavily walk, and know The sharp premonitory throe And the life leaping in the gloom Of her most blessed and chosen womb, It is as though foot never was So light upon the glimmering grass. She is shot through with the stars' light, Helped by their calm, unwavering might. In tall, lone-swaying gravity Stoops to her there the eternal tree Whose myriad fruitage ripens on Beneath the light of moon and sun.
IN THE WOOD
Lone shadows move, The night air stirs; This hour of dying Dreams was hers.
In this dusk place Her throat gleamed white In glimmering beauty Of starlight.
Nightingales sang Exultant bliss; The snared stars saw us Sway, and kiss.
Now the bats whirr, The barn owls hoot, Her loveliness Is dust, is mute.
Peace comes not here, No dream-bird trills: They haunt her lodging In the hills.
SIESTA
Bring me some oranges on blue china, With a jade-and-silver spoon, And drowse on your silken mats beside me In the burning noon.
Bring me red wine in cups of crystal, With melons on chrysoprase, And place them softly with jewelled fingers Before my gaze.
Hasten, my dove of scented whisperings, My lily, my Xacan! Bring bubbling pipes for the cool shadows, And my peacock fan.
And bid Isarrib, my chief musician, Weave quiet songs within, That my soul in the circles of a great glamour May float and spin.
And O, you gaudy and whistling parrots In your high, flowered maze, Still your harsh, petulant quarrelling With the mocking jays.
TO ONE WHO EATS LARKS
Ah, my brave Vitellius! Ah, your tastes are marvellous! When you eat your singing birds Do you leave the bones--and words, The proud music in the throat?... Not a note, not a note? Doubtless they were not so pleasant As the brains of a young pheasant, Or flamingoes' tongues, whose duty Never was to utter beauty. But they sang, but they fluted And your rasping lies confuted, And your ugliness laid bare With a lyric in the air. So you bought them on a string, Dangling balls that used to sing, And you gave them to the cook With a fat and happy look.
But you ask me why this fuss! Ah, my brave Vitellius, I am never sure your stringers May not string you other singers, May not tire of lark and wren And attempt to sell you men. Please forgive me, but I've made Certain songs ... and I'm afraid!
IF BEAUTY CAME TO YOU
If Beauty came to you, Ah, would you know her grace, And could you in your shadowed prison view Unscathed her face?
Stepping as noiselessly As moving moth-wings, so Might she come suddenly to you or me And we not know.
Amid these clangs and cries, Alas, how should we hear The shy, dim-woven music of her sighs As she draws near.
Threading through monstrous, black, Uncharitable hours, Where the soul shapes its own abhorred rack Of wasted powers?
* * * * *
HORACE SHIPP
PRISON
I.
The dreadful days go up and up, to fall Through twilight to the sleepless dusk again, Like tortured flies upon a window pane. Wingless or broken-winged, They crawl and crawl ... Meaningless, striving--nowhere after all, Till one is tired of heeding. Tired. A stain of drab unloveliness the days remain Unmoving now, save that across the wall, A patch of sun behind a shadow of bars, Creeps in a stupor. Greys, Grins bloodily, Falters and dies.
Outside a day may slip From noon-glow to a miracle of stars With hours that flush and flood eternity; Whilst here The stagnant waters drip ... and drip.
II.
They tell me I have sinned; that long ago (Weeks--or a cycle of eternity) This thing of dead desire lived lustily, Was stirred with passion, and sinned. It may be so; As seas or hills may be. I only know God's world has shrunken, And that misery, Shrinking my heart, has closed her walls on me, Till in the dead, still soul the senses grow Carious as the ulcer of thought eats deep. Heavy, the slow lusts pace the barren mind From end to end. Barred door and window, Wall inexorable. And the horrors creep on padded feet like warders. Then the blind, pitiful night When hot tears scald and fall.
III.