BOOK II

SING PRAISES

SATIRES

EXPLANATION

SUBTLETY OF THE SERPENT

"Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made." GENESIS iii. 1.

Through the green masses of the undergrowth, Pools of silent water, Where float large flowers and patches of white light, Crawls the serpent, subtle, sad, And tired of well-doing. Nevermore will he help humanity. Venomously he hisses at the Cherubim Whose flaming sword sears the Heavens, A sword whose flame turns every way To keep the path of the Tree-of-Life. A tropic spring, this first one, With leaves like spears and banners; But the ground is sweet with fallen petals Of great blossoms That heave their hot breath at the droning insects. The air is full of the twittering of birds, Whose innocence appeals to Adam --Already outside the garden-- While, high up in their swaying green cradles The monkeys carry on their high-pitched chatter.

The serpent reasoned thus-- "For long time have I been at war With the ape-tribe; Small apes with clutching hands, Great apes (how hideous they are!) Whom the God-of-Man Has made in the image of Man. They tried to kill me: I tried to kill them. But Adam and Eve deceived me, Looking scornfully at the great apes, They pretended to a difference. For a long time I loved them, Fascinated by their words, By their story of the Creation-- But now, O Lord, Give me a good old-fashioned ape Every time --An ape who tries to kill me Without a chatter of clean-hands, law-and-order, Crime passionel, Self-defence or helping-me-to-help-myself. I may be a snake in the grass, But I am not a hypocrite. I may change my skin, But I am not ashamed of it. I have never pretended to be a super-snake Or to walk except on my belly--

* * * * *

It is not only the ignorance of good or evil That raises the monkey above the man (Though the man knows evil and therefore prefers it), But the fact that the monkey Cannot yet disguise the good with bad words, Or the bad with good ones.

* * * * *

Never before have I been cursed; But man has made his God Curse me with black words. Now, therefore, Will I curse Mankind. --Man shall know good, but shall not act on it. He shall know good, and turn it to evil purpose. His twin curses shall be words and knowledge; I, the snake, know a thing-or-two; I know that man is a self-made monkey, --And he knows it too! But he will disguise it With a God of his making, A blustering God, a revengeful God, A God who curses the Serpent With sophistry, subtlety, and--words. But I know that Man is still An ape at heart, A talkative chattering ape. His curiosity shall discover many strange secrets, But he will use them For his two recreations, Lying and killing, Or--as he calls them-- Conversation and Sport. His words shall girdle a continent Swiftly, as a flash of fire; They shall be written down, Every day, For millions of men to read --But they will still be lies--black lies! Men shall journey the world over To kill the beasts of the field, the forest and jungle; He shall kill them secretly, without their knowing As with a thunder-bolt: But his own kind Will he kill in millions, Slaughter and butcher With the last refinements of torture. --And words, words, Shall be the cause and end of it."

As the serpent crawled away on his belly Through the silent waters of the undergrowth, He heard two sharp voices, Outside the garden. "You did"--"I didn't." "You did"--"I didn't." --"It was the serpent."

A long silence, and then the second act, When the brutal voice of the first statesman Roared out "Am I my brother's keeper?"

DE LUXE

"The Presence, that rose thus so strangely beside the waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years man had come to desire."--_Walter Pater._

MRS. FREUDENTHAL CONSULTS THE WITCH OF ENDOR

A nose, however aquiline, Escapes detection in a throng; So she hopes; but sense of sin Made her shrink and steal along

Streets glazed by mocking summer heat To semblance of a cool canal, Where iridescent insects beat Their wings upon the liquid wall,

Where radiant insects, carrion-fed, Buzz and flutter busily, Smile, or frown, or nod the head, Expressing some familiar lie.

Enter the house, ascend the stair! Consult the scintillating ball; Beatrice Freudenthal, beware! Eve felt like you before the Fall.

Within the shining mystic globe, Lies luck at bridge, or martyr's crown; A modern prophetess will probe The future--for one guinea down.

For that amount the future's sword From crystal scabbard she will drag; She can unpack the future's hoard, As we unpack a Gladstone bag.

Without the agency of Man, Solely by fasting and by prayer, The wizards of Old Jenghiz Khan Could move a wine cup through the air

Until it reached him; then he drank, Fermented juice of rye or grape; The cup flew back, his courtiers shrank Away, astonished and agape.

Before the Lama turns to grapple With State-Affairs, he learns to spin (Despite Sir Isaac Newton's apple), In mid-air, sixty times--to win

Amusement mixed with approbation From sceptical ambassadors, For any kind of levitation Increases prestige with the Powers!

Such things were practised--did not tend To promote war or anarchy --Yet now such things would even end A Constitutional Monarchy.

NIGHT THOUGHTS

Magic for a holy race Is surely wrong? How strictly hidden The future, in its crystal case, Lies packed--so near and yet forbidden!

Though Gentile Kings upon their thrones May weave a spell, or dance like Tich, Yet ponder on the bleaching bones Of Saul, who sought the Endor Witch.

Now Mrs. Freudenthal has heard her call Without a qualm--yet how can she obey The bidding of the prophetess (like Saul, She has consulted Endor)? How can she

Aspire to feed the lions, yet unlike Daniel, Once there insist on resting in their den, To treat them as one would a King Charles Spaniel With frowns--with bones and biscuits, now and then?

For Mrs. Freudenthal is weary of Her auction-bridge and hissing hotel-friend, Seeks spheres where Novelist and Romanoff Eat with Artistic Ladies without end.

Money is power--a golden pedestal Atones for beauty that is long, long dead-- As Orpheus, Mrs. Kinfoot has enchanted all, The lions who have not thundered--and then fled.

Thus climbing sideways, you entice a throng Of Artists with a biscuit and a bone-- Then use them as a bait, step up a rung-- But how begin? At night she plans alone

Within the saxe-blue hotel drawing-room, The silence of South Kensington is deep, No sound except the traffic's wave-like boom --And Mrs. Kinfoot climbing in her sleep!

Thus Mrs. Freudenthal, alone, awake, And sad, broods on. Oh how, oh how begin? Till suddenly she melts--as small waves break, So laughter ripples to her fortieth chin.

For now she has it--clasps the golden key That shall unbar that stranger--Popularity. How many noses are forgiven thee, Forgotten, in the name of Charity?

First fill the coffers of the Sacred Cause, And then the stomachs of the well-to-do, Now Mrs. F. ... will be their Santa Klaus --Until herself becomes a War-horse too.

THE WAR-HORSE CHANTS

Was there war once, I have forgotten it! Was there war once? --War means more trade.

Poor Lady X Has given up her motor-car, Poor Lady Y Has shut up her house.

Was there war once? I have forgotten it. Was there war once? --Now food is here.

Now I remember How much I suffered-- Very bad form To mention the war.

Such dreadful suffering Injures my appetite-- All these brave men Dying for me--

Was there war once? Yes, I remember it. Was there ... was once...?

A TOUCH OF NATURE

Trained to a charm of manner, to a smile --Enamelled and embalmed by Madame Rose (Shame that an artist of this skill, this style, Can never sign her work), no War-Horse shows

Any emotion. The poor Spartan Youth Though the fox gnawed his entrails, would not cry; These never wince, nor hurl the mirror at Truth, Though Old Age disembowel them secretly.

Throughout the day, blue shadows in the valley Hover, crouch down, till dusk will let them rend The last light on the hills; so wrinkles rally To overwhelm them at their sudden end--

For Death strikes at the Old as well as Young, And these--and these--may die at balls or races, Or living death may make them loll the tongue, Twitching in doll-like, hideous grimaces.

The very dab of rouge, that ghastly shred Of self-respect, makes worse the look so winning Of eyes--dead eyes--that know quite well they're dead-- And yet retain a certain childish cunning.

And each day till the end, is dragged along This painted bundle, trundled in its tomb, Toward the sea where wondering children throng, Mocked by this mask, this nodding lisp of doom

That almost apes them--save the open eye Which contradicts the mouth, and knows the matter, This terrible eye that moans "I die, I die," While the poor slobbering mouth can only chatter.

Then other War-horses pause, nod, go past, --A few months younger these--and laugh together-- (She, too, was hard and bold), nor note how fast An egret's wing becomes a funeral feather.

They laugh and mutter, make their little jokes, --And wonder if her lover had been bored "Look at the poor old thing!" The dumb voice chokes; The eye is open yet--each word a sword!

YOUTH AT THE PROW, AND PLEASURE AT THE HELM

Battista Sforza, led by unicorns, Triumphant, ever set in amber light By Piero, yet keeps her course; adorns Her empty palace, still, that floating height

Where Raphael was born--Isotta's name, Near-by, still, rose-like, clambers through the gloom Of Malatesta's temple, built to fame His pagan love, half pleasure-house, half tomb.

Then, even tyrants drunk with blood and pride, And ever vaunting poison-cup and knife, No less than angels beauty made; they died, But Art, their pleasure, still extols their life.

Thus power, thus gold, sought pleasure in the past But wooed her strangely, in a different mood --As Pallas or Minerva--things that last, Carved both in mind and heart, in stone and wood.

Now many palaces and Tuscan towns Crumble upon a half-deserted hill, Slowly their stone surrenders to the flowers; The drip and flowing of their fountains fill

The night with cool--the night that is alive With chanting frog and owl and nightingale; Who knows but that these things may yet contrive To please, when tank and war-memorial fail?

Gonzaga, D'Este, Medici are gone, Or dreary sons approach their unnoticed fall, Top-hatted, leave a beauty-hating throne To fawn upon a Mrs. Freudenthal,

Or find their pleasure at a football match --Express a dullard similarity To other ox-eyes--lifting up the latch Upon a similar vulgarity.

For pleasure, too, is old; has lost her realm, --Degraded to a mumbling hag--for now Stands Golf--for pleasure--at an armoured helm, The Cenotaph--for Youth--at iron prow!

Yet never cruelty reaped such vast reward As in these latter days, and with such ease, When the whole world became a slaughter-yard And stank with crime, and reeked with foul disease.

--No crime of passion--only crime for gold, Or crimes of rulers drunk with their stupidity; The people walk with faces deathly cold, Or marked and masked with their cupidity.

But Mrs. Freudenthal knows her own mind, And means to follow up and win the game, Seek pleasure with the others of her kind, Who live and die alike, and share the same

Ideals. A horse has focussed in its eyes Exaggerated visions of its rider, So Mrs. Freudenthal now magnifies A War-horse's importance--like a spider

She weaves her web, while brain and heart both burn To join their ranks, to rally to their banner; Beside the feeding of them, she must learn To ape the face, the smile, the talk, the manner!

THE MANNER

Allow no personality to stamp Its wayward lines upon your talk or dress; Smooth out your facial furrows, on them clamp The necessary look of nothingness.

You must acquire a careful conversation Remember that War-horses of True Breed Only feel interest--if ever--in relation To other ones--and, never, never read!

Know though the names of authors, and conceivably The names of their most fashionable book; But never talk too far, or irretrievably You blunder on the crafty fisher's hook.

Then music, as a rule, you love too well To wish to hear. But if you go, you walk About--if not too loud, it helps to swell The frankly social impulse toward talk.

You simply love the Opera, and force Your way in late, and romp from cage to cage; The prima-donna is a well-known War-horse Who fills the heart, the ear, the house, the stage!

If you see modern pictures, in their glass Ecstatically examine the old strife Between your food and figure--should he pass, Discuss with friends the painter's private life.

Though, safety-first, you find it really best To cast your rapture on the gilded air, When you find pictures dead, but smartly drest, Within the mansion of a millionaire.

Still you encourage those whom you can hire To fix on canvas, for the future race Of War-horses to simper at--admire, The painted image of your painted face.

And any artist, author, or musician, --If second-rate--is useful as a bait To fish for guests--remember words like "Titian" "--Shakespeare" "--Mozart," let go--and trust to Fate

To pull you through--avoid ideas--they're common And might crack through the varnish of your smile, Impinge upon your worship of God Mammon Filling your soul with pity, and things vile.

THE OPEN DOOR

A light, within her glassy car, betrays Folding of chins beneath the aquilinity Of heavy curling features, and displays A likeness to Assyrian Divinity.

When comes the dusk, life's cloak is thrown aside; The yellow windows shout their nakedness... Until again the weary buildings hide Their throb and stir with usual drab blackness.

So, now, swooped darkness down; outside, each lamp Showed the raw-fingers of the winter night Clutching squat horses, torn by dirt and damp, Like mouldering cardboard boxes; each small light

Within, exposed a section harsh and shrill Of life, cut off as the next scene succeeded --A broken chair, a figure standing still, A withered plant--mean drama that, unheeded,

Flashes its image on the world's dark screen But for a moment--yet the play goes on, Vibrates through worlds--to mingle in a scene Of final war or crime, or revolution;

But though finite to us, this act of blood Is meaningless, when flashed on outer dark Of whirling planets, though a curious God Might for the moment, notice a vague mark.

Again we make God in the image of Man --Imagine God has made us in His image-- Reigns Law-and-Order for another span To crush the weak in mad ferocious rage.

The wise, poor tight-rope dancers, walk again The thin-drawn wire of art and thought, out-thrust A hand to catch the comet's golden rain, Whose blossom fades within their arms to dust.

Can man be falling once more through the black Æons of hunger, ignorance and shame? --But Mrs. Freudenthal pursues her track, Intent upon it, means to win the game.

Houses rush past her--but she does not see, Her eyes are glazed, until with clarity She notes the War-horses drawn up for tea Outside the glittering home of Charity.

Upstairs, bedecked with plumes, their minds they rest On music and on muffins--all for sake Of Charity; the music gives a zest To whispered conversation--if awake,

Yet silent, the unwelcome harmony May cause the facial scaffolding to fall; They lower safety-curtains o'er each eye, And move uneasily within each stall,

For music has a strange, unwelcome power Of smearing sentiment about the mouth Like children, after eating jam, they glower In heavy, stupefaction--cross, uncouth.

The car arrives, the open door, Expels a scorching flood of light-- The noise outside dies down--the floor Is slippery and very bright.

INTRODUCING

It takes a camel thirty days To cross the sinister sand of Lop Whose Bedouin chants Allah's praise Without cessation, dare not stop.

Though unaware of the subtle danger Of buried learning, of civilisation, He feels himself on his guard--a stranger With Ignorance as his true Salvation.

Unknown to him beneath the extent Of ashen sand, old Gods lie hidden With frozen gesture, ears intent On sounds forgotten and forbidden.

--For muttering of muted bell Swells music from the nightingales Whose crystal gurglings excel The singing streams that formed these vales

So fruitfully luxuriant still To eyes closed like a curving sword --Though now no sound save droning thrill Of shifting sand is ever heard.

Yet of an influence here felt Tradition tells the Bedouin. Into grey sand the mirages melt. Spell the Arab's road to ruin.

On through the dusk he hears his name Called, then repeated--seek he must That voice which calls, like wealth or fame Only to lead from dust to dust;

Or death may come through the burning night With the drumming of a multitude, For the Devil revels in the sight Of death in the desert solitude.

Though the camel can kneel, he never prays Careless if God or Devil is near, Stoutly he bears his burden of days With Seven Stomachs--and no fear.

Yet Infant Samuel in the Old Priest's house When darkness drowned him with its shadowy torrent Felt fear at hearing his own name (who knows But that he changed it after--by Royal Warrant?)

Mrs. Freudenthal, irate, Decides to diet, to get thin. Everyone must deprecate Decay of manners. With no chin

The arrogant yet gluttonous camel Never shows satiety; Would rather rest in asphodel Than figure in Society,

But Mrs. Kinfoot, spotting a new head To add to her collection--grasps her hand, And Mrs. Freudenthal is gently led Within the portals of the Promised Land.

MALGRÉ SOI

The voices weave a web of futile sound; A fan is dropped by Lady Carabas; Restored to her: but Mrs. Kinfoot frowned, Guarding the door, as Cerberus his pass,

But suddenly, great waves of sound obtrude Upon the pleasant party in this room; While we enjoy the music's interlude, Outside there swells the trumpet-call of doom.

Mosaic tombs or unmarked graves--asunder Are rent. King Dodon rises from the dead And while the quivering heavens thunder, He smooths his robe, then calmly shakes his head

Free of the ages' dust--but now the voices Of these condemned (for judgment will not tarry) Shrill out in woe; but one, alone, rejoices, For Mrs. Kinfoot scents another quarry.

The Army of the Dead are on the march To meet their Maker on his ivory throne; He sits beneath the rainbow's radiant arch, Dispensing judgment. Oh! atone, atone!

But Mrs. Kinfoot saw a sailor-sinner [*] --With one arm--leave St. Paul's and walk away And Mrs. Kinfoot longed to give a dinner To meet the Judge upon the Judgment day!

[*] Editor's note: Lord Nelson(?).

Above God's head a dozen suns kept guard Like sentinels. Her erring feet were led Up to a crowded mount, where God's regard Was fixed upon her, while He gravely said:

"Anne Kinfoot, worthy mother, and good wife, Your weakness and your faults are all forgiven; Go you, my child, to everlasting life, And take your husband, also, up to Heaven."

But she could see the Counsellors and Kings And brilliant bearers of a famous name, Tangled with snakes and horrid crawling things Sent down to torture and eternal flame.

Then Mrs. Kinfoot lied in agony: "Oh, Lord, I am as others of my class and station," She cried, "Oh, have me bound, and burnt and gored Oh! send me down to suffer my damnation.

I swear I beat my children!" Oh, despondent She was; "I am a sinner. I will tell How I escaped a Ducal Co-respondent Last year--my God--I must insist on--Hell.

But the Great Judge was not deceived--He knew The worthy virtue of the Kinfoot line; Yet as she went to Heaven, constant, true To principle, she murmured, "Will you dine

To meet..." but dragged away, she dwells on high And notes, but rather disapproves the eccentricity Of Saints and Early Christians, who try To lessen the burden of her domesticity.

She has to play upon a golden harp, Join in the chorus of the heavenly choir; Her answers to the Saints are sometimes sharp, She longs to singe her wings, and share the fire.

Night never comes, so when she tries to flee To that perpetual party down below, The angels catch her, shouting out with glee, "Dear Mrs. Kinfoot--you are good!----We know!"

PARADISE REGAINED

Poor Mrs. Kinfoot closed her wings, leant out From the Gold Bar of Heaven, Shed tears, like icicles, to flout Hell's suffering, to leaven

The Torment of the Upper Ten-- --Or was it because now and then

She heard the glad hilarious cries, (A party down below again) Till tears formed in her jungle-eyes For torture she could not attain?

Or heard the strains that she adored --Not martyrs seeking the Lost Chord

As here, nor Heber's hints of ire-- But Russian Music, for the latter Was sent down to eternal fire To promote fashionable chatter,

Which, as on earth, when music sounds E'en torture cannot keep in bounds.

And Jacob's ladder, as she leans Invites escape; with deep delight She recollects what "climbing" means! --But angels guard her day and night,

Or rather day and day, because Eternal glory never thaws

To dusk--again strange music blares Its strangled message through all space, While, lit by multi-coloured flares, Hell's blackness gains a certain grace.

* * * * *

"Oh, Heaven is dull," cried Mrs. Kinfoot, "dull!" --And then the Gold Bar snap'd --And like a bull

She charged the universe full-tilt. The roseate domes The golden minarets, the opal towers Of Heaven speed above, while hot wind foams About her, seems to wither them like flowers.

Old Jacob climbing up his Freudian stair Bowed down with age--is taken unaware,

Slithers, then falls--but, like a shooting-star, Falls Mrs. Kinfoot past him. As she spins, Hell's legions stop to watch her, though still far Away, chant gladly "Mrs. Kinfoot wins!

Can you consign to everlasting flame The Woman who beats Jacob at his game?"

And oh! the people, oh! the parties here! Musician, Author, Artist, Aristocrat! Dear Lady Carabas, with Mr. Queer; The Cosmopolitan Marquise, with that

Old Duchess of St. Dodo, whose tiara Is made of snakes and scorpions--they are a

Present from the Devil, whose assistance She claimed on earth--Himself now welcomes in The new arrival, saying "For Persistence You have no equal, so, though free from Sin,

We here create you Honorary Member, Beginning from the Fifth day of November,

(A Saint's day here)." Now authors and Debrett Mingle their laughing tears to music's swell, For here are some whom she has never met --And Mrs. Kinfoot finds her Heaven in Hell!

FIVE PORTRAITS AND A GROUP

I. THE GENERAL'S WIFE REFUSES

It isn't that I don't like them, My dear Mrs. Kinfoot, But I know I am not clever, And I like your old friends best.

As for the General He disapproves of Art, And does not believe in it. He has noticed That Artists Have an odd look in their eyes, And a shifty expression. In fact, The General disapproves of Art.

He finds that Artists Are stupid And difficult to talk to-- He remembers meeting one In '97 Who was not interested In Polo, --And appeared To be unaware of the existence Of the old Duke of Cambridge.

My husband didn't get angry, He just said to him, like that, "What are you interested in? _ART_, I suppose?"

In spite of this The General thinks That music is more dangerous --And subversive of discipline Than painting-- For--in painting-- That is to say In good painting-- You can see put down on canvas What you can see yourself-- --And you can touch it With your finger-- A picture should be the same As a coloured photograph, Except that the camera Reveals things Invisible to the Human Eye; That is wrong! (By the Human Eye The General says He means His own eye) But in Music You can see nothing, And you are unable To touch it With your fingers; The General disapproves of Art, --But it makes him positively nervous To hear music.

The General says that, As far as he can make out, All musicians Have been German-- But he can only remember The name of one-- Nietzsche! As the war Was German in origin, It is obvious that it was made By German Composers And _not_ By German Generals --Many of whom were fine fellows Who loved a good joke. The General remembers one Who laughed like anything At one of his stories. The war was made by German musicians --Just as surely As our own Pacific and imaginative policy Was interpreted By Kipling and Lady Butler.

"Never trust a Man Who plays the piano," The General says. He thinks that In the main, The British have a sound interest In this matter. Probably Charles I, Played the piano-- And, at any rate, He collected Pictures.

The English would never Behead anyone For governing badly; It is only Barbarians, Like the Russians, Who would do this. The General Disapproves of Art.

But, of all these things, The General says He dislikes poetry most, Kipling is different; He is a Man-of-the-World. But the General says That if he got hold Of one of these long-haired Conscientious Objectors, Who write things Which don't even rhyme He'd---- So you see, dear, That it's better for us Not to come.

II. AUX BORDS DE LA MER

Where frightened woolly clouds, like sheep Scurry across blue skies; where sleep Sings from the little waves that reach In strict formation to the beach, Are houses--covers of red-plush, To hide our thoughts in, lest we blush.

* * * * *

Here live kind ladies--hence they come To persecute us--I am dumb When they give from wide saucer-eye Intolerable sympathy, Or testify solicitude, By platitude on platitude, Mix Law-and-Order, Church-and-State With little tales of Bishop Tait, Or harass my afflicted soul With most fantastic rigmarole Of Bolshevik and Pope in league With Jewish and Sinn-Fein intrigue-- I love to watch them, as they troop Revolving, through each circus-hoop Of new-laid eggs--left at the door-- With Patriotism--for the Poor-- Of ball-committee, Church Bazaar, All leading up to a great war, A new great war--greater by far --Oh! much more great--than any war.

Kind lady, leave me, go enthral The pauper-ward, and hospital!

III. GIARDINO PUBBLICO

Petunias in mass formation, An angry rose, a hard carnation, Hot yellow grass, a yellow palm Rising, giraffe-like, into calm --All these glare hotly in the sun. Behind are woods, where shadows run Like water through the dripping shade That leaves and laughing wind have made. Here silence, like a silver bird, Pecks at the fruit-ripe heat. We heard Townward, the voices, glazed with starch, Of Tourists on belated march From church to church, to praise by rule The beauties of the Tuscan school, Clanging of trams, a hidden flute, Sharp as the taste of unripe fruit; Street organs join with tolling bell To threaten us with both Heaven and Hell, But through all taps a nearing sound As of stage-horses pawing ground. Then like a whale, confined in cage, (In grandeur of a borrowed carriage) The old Marchesa swam in sight In tinkling jet that caught the light, Making the sun hit out each tone As if it played a xylophone, Till she seems like a rainbow, where She swells, and whale-like, spouts the air.

* * * * *

And as she drove, she imposed her will Upon all things both live and still; Lovers hid quickly--none withstood That awful glance of widowhood; Each child, each tree, the shrilling heat Became encased in glacial jet, The very songbird in the air Became a scarecrow, dangling there, While, if you turned to stare, you knew The punishment Lot's wife went through.

* * * * *

Her crystal cage moves on. Stagnation Now thaws again to animation; Gladly the world receives reprieve Till six o'clock to-morrow eve, When punctual as the sun, she'll drive Life out of everything alive, Then in gigantic glory, fade Sunward, through the western glade....

IV. ULTIMATE JUDGMENT

Within the sunny greenness of the close, Secure, a heavy breathing fell, then rose-- Here undulating chins sway to and fro, As heavy blossoms do; the cheek's faint glow Points to post-prandial port. The willow weeps Hushed are the birds--in fact--the Bishop sleeps.

Then, suddenly, the wide sky blazes red; Up from their graves arise the solemn dead, The world is shaken; buildings fall in twain, Exulting hills shout loud, then shout again While, with the thunder of deep rolling drums The angels sing---- At last Salvation comes. The weak, the humble, the disdained, the poor Are judged the first, and climb to Heaven's door.

* * * * * *

The Bishop wakes to see his palace crash Down on the rocking ground--but in a flash It dawns upon him;--with impressive frown, He sees his second-housemaid in a crown, In rainbow robes that glisten like a prism "I warned them..." said the Bishop-- "Bolshevism!"

V. AN OLD-FASHIONED SPORTSMAN

We thank thee, O Lord, That the War is over. We can now Turn our attention Again To money-making. Railway-Shares must go up; Wages must come down; Smoke shall come out Of the chimneys of the North, And we will manufacture battle-ships. We thank thee, O Lord, But we must refuse To consider Music, Painting, or Poetry.

Our sons and brothers Went forth to fight, To kill certain things, Cubism, Futurism and Vers-libre "All this Poetry-and-Rubbish," We said "Will not stand the test of war." We will not read a book --Unless it is a best seller. There has been enough art In the past, Life is concerned With killing and maiming. If they cannot kill men Why can't they kill animals?

There is still Big Game in Africa --Or there might be trouble Among the natives. We thank thee, O Lord, But we will not read poetry.

But as the Pharisees Approached the tomb They saw the boulder Rolled back, And that the tomb was empty --They said "It's very disconcerting." I am not at all Narrow-minded. I know a tune When I hear one, And I know What I like-- I did not so much mind That He blasphemed Saying that He was the Son-of-God, But He was never What I call A Sportsman; He went out into the desert For forty days --And never shot anything And when He hoped He would drown He walked on the water.

... No--we will not read poetry.

THE GROUP

ENGLISH TEA-ROOMS

Why do they sit in darkness, Hiss like geese? Outside the sun flashes his strong wings Against the green-slit shutters, Through which you can see Him bathing in the street. Like a bird he preens himself at the windows, Then dances back with the swimming flash of a gold-fish. Why do you hiss like geese, What do you hide, With your thin sibilance of genteel speech?

* * * * *

The Colonel, usually a rollicking character, In the manner of El Capitano, Simpers, like any schoolgirl. Miss Vera complains that her brother Is suffering from catarrh. On the other hand Hotel-life is easier than home-life, She just rings the bell, Orders anything she wants, --And there it is--punctual to the minute. Both Sir William and his daughter Are pleased with their holiday; Admire the flora and the fauna; Miss Ishmael sketches, and the place abounds In peasants, picturesque old-bit-and-corner--

* * * * *

If they should die... Say only this of them, That there's a corner in some foreign field That is for ever England... They travel; yet all foreign things Are barr'd and bolted out of range ... While England benefits by the exchange.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

The gilt-fring'd earth has sadly spun A sector of its lucent arc About the disillusioned sun Of Autumn. The bright angry spark

Of Heaven in each upturned eye Denotes religious ecstasy.

We, too, have spun our Sunday round Of Church and beef and after-sleep In houses where obtrudes no sound But breathing, regular and deep,

Till Sabbath sentiment, well-fed, Demands a visit to the Dead.

For Autumn leaves sad thoughts beget, As from life's tree they clatter down, And Death has caught some in her net Even on Sunday,--in this Town,

Tho' money and food and sleep are sweet! The dead leaves rattle down the street.

Fat bodies, silk-enmeshed, inflate Their way along; if Death comes soon They'll leave this food-sweet earth to float Heavenward, like some huge balloon.

Religion dims each vacant eye As we approach the cemet'ry.

Proudly we walk; with care we bend To lead our children by the hand, Here, where all, rich and poor, must end --This portal to a better land

To which--if in good business-- We have hereditary access;

Where to afford the Saints relief From prayer and from religious questions, Round after round of deathless beef Flatters celestial digestions;

Where, in white robe, with golden crown, We watch our enemies sent down,

To other spheres, while we lean out, Divinest pity in our eyes, And wonder why these sinners flout Our kindly pitying surprise,

Why look so angry when we play On gold harps as they go away,

A hymn tune, dear, familiar? But now we stand within the space Where marble females drape a tear Above a whisker'd marble face.

"Isn't it pretty?" Even now Rich and exotic blossoms grow

About each granite monument Of men frock-coated, unaware Of Judgment; what emolument Requites a weeping willow's care?

Look! Over there a broken column Is watched by one geranium,

Whose scorching scarlet tones uphold Damnation and eternal fire To those who will not reckon gold-- Who are not worthy of their hire,

For marble tombs are prized above Such brittle things as thought or love.

The crystal web of dusk now clings From evergreen to tropic tree, Toss'd by the wind that subtly brings A mingled scent of mould and tea

That causes silence to be rent By one scream--childish, but intent.

For children will not realise That they should rest without a sound With folded hands and downcast eyes Here, in the Saint's Recruiting Ground.

And so, in sorrow, we turn back To hasten on our high-tea track.

But after, in the night, we dream Of Heaven as a marbled bank, In which, in one continual stream, We give our gold for heavenly rank,

Where each Saint, standing like a sentry, Explains a mystic double-entry.

The Director of the Bank is God-- Stares our foes coldly in the face, But gives us quite a friendly nod, And beckons us to share His place.

CORPSE DAY

_July_ 19th, 1919.

Dusk floated up from the earth beneath, Held in the arms of the evening wind --The evening wind that softly creeps Along the jasper-terraces, To bear with it The old, sad scent Of midsummer, of trees and flowers Whose bell-shaped blossoms, shaken, torn By the rough fingers of the day Ring out their frail and honeyed notes.

* * * * *

Up from the earth there rose Sounds of great triumph and rejoicing.

* * * * *

Our Lord Jesus, the Son of Man, Smiled And leant over the ramparts of Heaven. Beneath Him Through the welling clouds of darkness He could see The swarming of mighty crowds. It was in the Christian Continent, Especially, That the people chanted Hymns and pæans of joy. But it seemed to Our Lord That through the noisy cries of triumph He could still detect A bitter sobbing --The continuous weeping of widows and children Which had haunted Him for so long, Though He saw only The bonfires, The arches of triumph, The processions, And the fireworks That soared up Through the darkening sky, To fall in showers of flame Upon the citadel of Heaven. As a rocket burst, There fell from it, Screaming in horror, Hundreds of men Twisted into the likeness of animals --Writhing men Without feet, Without legs, Without arms, Without faces....

The earth-cities still rejoiced. Old, fat men leant out to cheer From bone-built palaces. Gold flowed like blood Through the streets; Crowds became drunk On liquor distilled from corpses. And peering down The Son of Man looked into the world; He saw That within the churches and the temples His image had been set up; But, from time to time, Through twenty centuries, The priests had touched up the countenance So as to make war more easy Or intimidate the people-- Until now the face Had become the face of Moloch! The people did not notice The change ... But Jesus wept!