Part 4

That band upon the sea? A sash of green that in a moment's time Becomes a girdle of wrought gold, Held by a silver clasp of surge. It cannot be. That green is now a belt of slime, And now--an iron-knotted scourge, And now--the form of some anguineal fold.

That crimson core with sepia fringe, And orange tints between, Shows how the sun's white alchemy In vain attempt is seen To paint a pansy on the sea.

That red is not the pansy's red, Nor what the garden poppy shows, Nor the vermilion that is spread Upon the pastel of the rose, But some deep smear that has its name In the sprawled characters of the flood, A splash of fire, a troubled flame, That takes its color from the blood Of one who through the night had died, Breaking his body on the tide.

VII

SCENES FROM AFAR

(_A Battlefield_)

Above the tottering ramparts of the day Massed clouds dissolve their lines; reform, and break Into a thousand fragments from the grey. Scattered, they drift awhile, then come to rest On some far shore like mariners marooned, While down the burning avenue of the west The sun drops, flaming, like an angry wound.

A raven rises from the eastern skies, Mounts up the lifted causeways of the north, Winging an arc of shadow as she flies; And soon the broken fragments close again, The straylings of her brood flock to her wings-- Whirlwind and cloud, the thunder and the rain, And what is left of night's unuttered things.

Now closed is every seam of sky and land. The air, the water and the sod are one, And every gulf of light and darkness spanned. O spirits that love the daylight and the sun, That with unerring fingers trace, When night's dark moments are outrun, The swarthy features of the morning's face; In whose involvéd weavings hour by hour Are fashioned forth the hues of nature's dress, In dew and rainbow, grass and tree and flower, And all the patterns of earth's loveliness; Whose iridescent splendors burn In vein of leaf, in curl of fern. And in the flame the summer throws Upon the poppy and the rose! Draw near with every voice that's heard In sound of cataract and bird, With every color that the spring Sheds on a blossom, blade or wing: Come with your potencies that stir The sap of life in pine and fir That high along the mountains climb; Bring rosemary and thorn and thyme And heather--all that dawn distils Of fragrance from your clouded hills: From heath and glade and marge of lake, Draw near and watch the morning break!

Wherefore should a daisy bloom, Or scent come from the thorn? What sun could penetrate this gloom, Make redolent this morn? The lark is banished from the sky, The thrush has fled the ground, Not heaven's chorus could outvie This bacchanal of sound That from the throat of fire and flood Would drown the voice of God, Answering the challenge of the blood That cries out from the clod.

Where are the lilies that your valleys yield, Or those that in foul waters blow? May not the primrose of the field Bloom near the snow? Should not the clover in the meadows bare, The sweet-briar in the hedges there, Burst red and grow?

They cannot bloom. Spring's gales have lost Their power the earth to leaven, For those dark vapors would exhaust The lavender of heaven.

VIII

A DIRGE

Now let the earth take Into its care, All that it travailed for, All that it bare.

Leaves of the forest, Yellow and red, The drifting and scattered, The dying and dead;

Grass of the hill-slopes, Sickled and dried, Vines that over-night Blasted and died;

Blossoms and flowers Nipped with the cold, Trees that have fallen A century old;

Moths of the candle-flame, Gnats from the stream, Wraiths from the moonlight, Spectres of dream;

All that the earth gave, All that it bare-- With all its far kindred Of water and air.

And in those rutted acres Which the heart's red blood has sown, Soon shall the bramble flourish Where the gentian had grown; And wherever ran the myrtle, Let the dust of thistles be shed, For these, with nightshade and burdock, Shall fast cover the dead.

IX

THE SEED MUST DIE

Ye meadows, groves, your birth renew; ye orchards, vineyards, grow! Where fast the wastrel waters of the Marne and Yser flow; On the plains bestow your verdure, to the hills your odors fling. Before the smile of Ceres, let your golden censer swing.

For never since great Nature ran her sluices to the sea, And opened up her flood-gates at the Rain-God's first decree, Have richer tides flowed round your rooted hidings in the clay, Than these which seek quite other veins from those of yesterday.

Bring forth the fruitage of your loins in deep, impurpurate stain, Ye vines, that sprang to life from out the throes of British pain; Gird on your strength, ye pines that shade the dead on yonder height; Re-knot your tissues with the stubborn fibre of their might.

And let the rose its crimson darken towards the purple shade, Full-flushed with blood imperial--the price that Britain paid, The lily and the jonquil greet once more their native hills, Companioned by anemones and sun-crowned daffodils.

Command the earth its seed receive, in rare profusion sent, Pledged to high increase in the wine of life's last sacrament, For when sowed Nature seed like this since Time in cycles ran, Or bade the soil accept so strange, so stern a harvest plan?

X

COME NOT THE SEASONS HERE

Comes not the springtime here, Though the snowdrop came, And the time of the cowslip is near, For a yellow flame Was found in a tuft of green; And the joyous shout Of a child rang out That a cuckoo's eggs were seen.

Comes not the summer here, Though the cowslip be gone, Though the wild rose blow as the year Draws faithfully on; Though the face of the poppy be red In the morning light, And the ground be white With the bloom of the locust shed.

Comes not the autumn here, Though someone said He found a leaf in the sere By an aster dead; And knew that the summer was done, For a herdsman cried That his pastures were brown in the sun, And his wells were dried.

Nor shall the winter come, Though the elm be bare, And every voice be dumb On the frozen air; But the flap of a waterfowl In the marsh alone, Or the hoot of a hornéd owl On a glacial stone.

XI

ON THE SHORE

Come home! the year has left you old; Leave those grey stones; wrap close this shawl, Around you for the night is cold; Come home! he will not hear your call.

No sign awaits you here but the beat Of tides upon the strand, The crag's gaunt shadow with gull's feet Imprinted on the sand, And spars and sea-weed strewn Under a pale moon.

Come home! he will not hear your call; Only the night winds answer as they fall Along the shore, And evermore Only the sea-shells On the grey stones singing, And the white foam-bells Of the North Sea ringing.

XII

BEFORE A BULLETIN BOARD

(_After Beaumont-Hamél_)

God! How should letters change their color so: A little _k_ or _m_ stab like a sword; How dry, black ink should turn to red and flow, And figures leap like hydras on the board?

A woman raised her voice, and she was told That strange things happen at the will of God; Thus, dawn from midnight; thus, from fire the gold; Thus did a rose once blossom from a rod.

But stranger things to-day, than that the rod Should flower, or the cross become a crown-- Stranger than gold from fire; else how should God Bring on the night before the sun go down.

XIII

BEFORE AN ALTAR

(_After Gneudecourt_)

Break we the bread once more, The cup we pass around-- No, rather let us pour This wine upon the ground;

And on the salver lay The bread--there to remain. Perhaps, some other day, Shrovetide will come again.

Blurred is the rubric now, And shadowy the token, When blood is on the brow, And the frail body broken.

XIV

SNOWFALL ON A BATTLE-FIELD

Compassion of heaven, From night's crystal bars, Falling so gently In wreaths of white stars;

Petals of mystery Culled in far lands; Crosses of Calvary, Wrought by strange hands;

Gems from His mountains, Facets so rare, Foam from His fountain Eternally fair.

Why do they lovingly Leave their fair home, These leaves of God's gardens, To stray on earth's loam?

See how they hover Over faces so cold, How reverently cover The young and the old!

Compassion of heaven, Tears from God's eyes, Falling so gently Out of the skies.

The Great Mother

Where meet the streams from the earth's many fountains, That part from each other with myriad aims-- The Danube that springs from its far-distant mountains, The Tiber, the Seine, the Rhine and the Thames; Far from each other, independent and free, Yet do not all of them flow to the sea?

Loud do their cataracts fling out their thunder Through the deep gorges that lead them along. Hundreds of leagues divide them asunder; Yet, see how resistless their dark waters throng. In whirlpool and rapid, with agonized motion, Until they find rest in the world's level ocean.

And from the world's frontiers came the world's races, Diverse as their colors and languages run; Life bade them stand with alien faces, With wrongs to requite, till Death made them one With the silence that broods on his passionless land, By the call of his voice and the seal of his hand.

Repose now their ashes in earth's tender keeping-- Dust unto dust, as the autumn leaves fall; Peace, peace at last to tired eyes sleeping, To Saxon, and Teuton, to Latin and Gaul; Back to the great Mother--thus it must be, As their home-rivers flow to the sea.

In Memoriam

I

The Dead! Upon a purple-bordered scroll We wrote their names; then gazed awhile, and said: "These are the fallen; these, our honored dead, The silent ones in Death's vast muster roll. This one was strong and ruddy; that one frail, Though fleet of foot and keen. The first one met His fate in that fierce fight at Courcelette; The other died of wounds at Passchendaele."

And thus we mused, pointing from name to name With sad, slow count. We spoke of things like grass, And withered leaves, and faded flowers, birth, Old age, decay and dust, glory and fame, And other strange mortalities that pass At length into the all-insatiate earth.

II

Then, suddenly, through the mist that wrapped our sight, An utterance fell, as of great waters flowing-- Slow, but with mightier accent ever growing Around a blazing shaft of central light: "Fallen! There is no downward plunge. The estate Is high. Go!--roll thy plumb-line up, and ask Thy Master for His measures, as the task Is one that would the heavens triangulate,"

And so were compassed life's fine agonies; By ranging hopes, and longings cut adrift From earth's unstable shores; by faiths that spanned Illimitable wastes and wrecking seas; By noble strands of nature, scattered swift From the white fingers of God's spacious hand.

The Hidden Scar

No blow, no threat, no movement of the hand. No word burst from the leash of calm control, Betraying passions slumbering in the soul; But friendship's added years could not withstand A curve that rose unbidden and unplanned From the flexed silence of the lips--a dart That struck, rending the texture of the heart, And, entering deeper, seared like a brand.

Some years have passed. To-day, no lure of mine Restores the confidence he gave of old; The outer court of strangers with its forms Of soulless exchange--there we meet. The shrine Within where sacred fires once burned is cold, And love no more the ashen altar warms.

Evening

So calm the air; the sunset's dying beat Wafts slowly to me from the distant brim Of silent waters; evening shadows dim Press close the day's spent hours, loath to greet The veiled advance of night; slumbering sweet The stillness as the purple threads the rim Of yonder crimson, preluding a hymn Of choral wavelets silvering at my feet.

O restful solitude! Here life's frail trust Grows, nurtured near the heart of mystery, Expands into fruition, from the clod Of cynic trappings, orbs to symmetry-- The place where light strikes through Time's circling dust, And reverent hush attends the tread of God.

In a Beloved Home

(_To W. H. G._)

Without, the heavy vapors in an endless train Along the river's gorge drag wearily. Autumn has fled, and winter's mastery Takes votive tribute from his white domain; The Northern winds unleashed bring in the rain Which, blending at the night's austerity, Turns into hail and white-flaked fantasy That weirdly haunt the streaming window-pane.

Within, a peace that only heaven sends To men who, pilgrims though they be, yet know Life's simple gifts--a home, the heart of friends, The company of the past; a fragrant briar; All these were ours, for in the hearth's rich glow Even Hamlet came and brooded on the fire.

The Conclusion of "Rachel"

(_A story of the sea_)

IN MEMORY OF R. S. LE D.

* * * * *

The breeze, that with the morn had freshened up, Now with the mid-day died. Far to the east, The horizon, clear at dawn, slowly withdrew, Its lines dissolving moodily in mist. The after hours grew still in sullen peace, Save where the ground-swell, uttering a weird note, Broke the dead silence. Soon (a globe of fire Behind a bank of smoke that thickened fast Against a dull circumference of grey) The moon arose, and tongueless vapors stole Heavily athwart the sea. Within her home The widow sat alone, peering afar Through the raised window at the distant point Round which the vessel in the morning sailed. She sat, her long, thin fingers intertwined And resting in her lap, and now and then With drooping head she prayed, or seemed to pray, Though neither words nor sound escaped her lips. There she remained until the smaller hours Had passed; then took her lamp and went to bed-- And yet more from the habit of the night Than from the weary willingness of sleep. Later than usual did the morning break; The drops were splashing on the window-pane; A heavy fog came drifting down the shore, Shrouding both sea and land. The dread North-East Was hoisting forth the signals of her power In scurrying fog, and intermittent gusts Of rain. The shoremen, hurrying to the beach, Pulled high and dry their boats, and ran their skiffs To safer moorings, well inside the bar. Another night, and still the blast increased Its power, tearing, lifting cottage roofs, But nowhere did it make completer ruin Than in the heart of Rachel. By the light Of a small lamp she watched the weather glass, And saw how, as she tapped it every hour, The dark line sank. It was now, she thought, the ship Had reached the weltering tide-rips off Cape Race. Would the frail timbers stand the shock of waves? And how avoid the reefs when neither moon Nor stars gave to the compass friendly aid? There seemed no limit to the rising scale Through which the tempest climbed. At times it paused To speak with tragic whisperings that clutched The widow's pulse, and then with fearful shriek It filed her nerve, while from the distant seas There came long, whistling interludes of death. Another morning came. The fog had blown Away, and through the rift of clouds that massed The eastern vault, the fitful sunlight gleamed Upon white billows that a thousand leagues Had come, and now with jealous leap sought heights Unscalable, save to the petrel's wings. A week passed by with heavy-shodden feet; The hours seemed weighted with unnatural calm, So different from the lightsome, freshening stir That follows in the usual wake of gales. Summer had taken leave, and yet the air Seemed bashful of the fall, for every day Mirrored the one before, as if the storm Had over-wrought its ends, and paralyzed The will of nature for the season's change. The village-folk again commenced their work, Rebuilding stages which the wind had wrecked And littered round the beach; but work was done By hands scarce conscious of the task, for thought Was dazed, and eyes saw nothing but the sea. So Rachel moved within her home. Some friends Had come to see her, and had gone away, Saying among themselves how old she looked. How wan her face, and how her hair had turned Within so short a time to ashen grey. A picture of her son hung on the wall, A boy of three within his father's arms. How often had she, in the earlier years Following her husband's death, gazed on the face, And mused upon the likeness of the two. And now each night she got up from her bed, Lighted the lamp and held it near the frame, While questionings beat sorely at her heart, Notes of despair unuttered by the lips: Was this, then, after all, the goal of years-- The end for which the lad was born, had lived, Had grown, for which by night and day she strove, The guerdon of life's vigils, and the crown Of Love's recordless givings? Nor was left The mother's ancient right, inalienable, To challenge death within the last great hour, And from his hands to wrest the life she loved. There flashed now through her mind, as every time She looked upon his face, a night long past, When croup had racked his frame--when she had fought Death with a woman's courage as she watched The cradle's tiny heavings, till the dawn Revealed the cooling moisture on the brow, And told her she had won. In that high test She well remembered how her rising strength Could pit itself against the Adversary, Emerge, though weakened with the night's long fight, Triumphant, glad, rejoicing with the morn. Absorbed now with the picture and the past, She gazed so long that now and then the boy Seemed to her wondering eye to stir, and smile, And move his lips as if he wished to speak, And for a passing moment did a hope Flicker a feeble path across her breast, That the black menace of the past few days Might prove the hideous phantom of a dream, When, sudden, through the night's dull gloom, a moan, Escaping from the swell, smote on her ear, And brought her thoughts back to the eastern storm. At length, one morning, into port there sailed A vessel from the harbor of St. John's; Rounding the cape, she picked up here and there, Tidings of wreckage all along the shore-- Remnants of spars and cordage, casks and planks, And canvas rent in shreds. She brought a tale That bore direct upon the village homes. A naiad's head, carven in wood, was found, Thrown high upon the reef, the self-same head That marked the _Swallow's_ prow, and, lying near, A plank that had the vessel's name inscribed. Throughout the days and weeks following the storm She often left her home to wander off, Searching as if some object of her love Had strayed upon the moor or on the beach. At times she stood awhile and looked, with eyes That somehow had forgotten how to weep, Far out to sea. At times she made her way Along the shore to where two beetling crags Rose from their slippery base, as if they'd break The waves with a last crash. There in the cleft, With arms outstretched, she would implore the sea Give up its dead, while the resurgent tides, Upbraided, would creep guiltily away. One evening, when the east winds blew, and rain Fell chill upon her, there had come a friend Who led her gently to her cottage home, And through a long and restless night had stayed In watchful ministry close by her bed, Soothing the urge of hectic on her brow, And answering with a voice instinct with peace, The breaking, wayward fragments of her lips. Another morn and sleep. With a white hand The day was ushered in. The seams of pain And arid loss which each awakening light Had freely veined, now reappeared no more. The fall's loud blast that whirled the senile leaves Above the trees, she did not hear; nor sound Of breaking seas, nor swirl of surge or foam.

A Fragment from a Story

I

(THADDEUS, _a traveller, speaking to Julian, an old man_)

. . . . . . . . . . . . Fields far and near, Hills, ridges, valleys, lowlands, marsh and plain, Far to the horizon's utmost rim were filled With clashing millions. All earth's tribes Had by some common instinct gathered there, Peopling the shadows of the awful zone-- The forest shades, the fissures of great rocks, And caverns cut within the rotted mould; Each nation's youth, its lithest, strongest, best, Closed up the crimson rendezvous. The streams That ran their livid washings through the clefts Of spade or nature's highways, fouled and choked With drifted foliage of a year grown old, Too soon, with autumn's hectic leaves and limbs, And sheddings rare of dearer castaways. As leaves fall, so upon the plains fell men; Some tossed awhile within the gust of combat, High on the sweltered air, returned to earth As flesh and blood and bone unrecognized, And indistinguishable dust. Some swayed, Not knowing why they did, as if a breath Of unnamed pestilence had touched their senses, Robbed them of aim and guidance. Thus they drooped And fell; and others could not die till hours Wore into days and nights. Restless they moved. And shuddered; clutched convulsively at stones Or roots, and clenched their teeth upon their hands, Stifling their moans. And lads of growing years, Who pain or weariness had never known, Lay in strange sleep upon the fields, alone, Or huddled up in ghastly heaps where death Had flung them. Night winds gambolled with their hair, Golden and brown and dark--they heeded not. And far along the distant battle lines-- Movements as various as the tides, the rise The flow, the swift recessions of despair; Huge gaps that rendered void the toil of years. The lines re-formed and the price paid; strong men Who lunged and parried thrusts and lunged again, Struck and were struck, unknown to each the foes, Save in the general quarrel and its cause. And through the lulls of intermittent fight Was blown death's bitterest music--the low sob Of brothers mourning brothers dead, the curse Of fallen men that had not seen their foes, The unavailing moan that answers moan At night in the far comradeship of wounds. Then, strangest of all sights, the harvest moon A moment broke through misty cloud, and shed Upon the fields a sickly, yellow light, Disclosing pallid faces, blue, strained lips, And eyes that stared, amazed, through open lids That had no time to shut--that looked and asked But one eternal question. Then the moon Grew dimmer as the mist increased, and showed, In hazy outlines, hurrying forms that moved In twos and threes, from place to place, and laid Upon the stretchers, one by one, the dead, Torn, jagged, mud-smeared and crumpled, carrying them To rows of damp, deep trenches, newly dug, Where they were placed in groups of eight or ten, In order, side by side, and face to face-- And the moon shone full again--the harvest moon.

JULIAN.