Chapter 3

Almighty God to all mankind on Christmas Day said He: "I rent you from the old red hills and, rending, made you free. There was charter, there was challenge; in a blast of breath I gave; You can be all things other; you cannot be a slave. You shall be tired and tolerant of fancies as they fade, But if men doubt the Charter, ye shall call on the Crusade-- Trumpet and torch and catapult, cannon and bow and blade, Because it was My challenge to all the things I made."

THE NATIVITY

The thatch on the roof was as golden, Though dusty the straw was and old, The wind had a peal as of trumpets, Though blowing and barren and cold, The mother's hair was a glory Though loosened and torn, For under the eaves in the gloaming A child was born.

Have a myriad children been quickened. Have a myriad children grown old, Grown gross and unloved and embittered, Grown cunning and savage and cold? God abides In a terrible patience, Unangered, unworn, And again for the child that was squandered A child is born.

What know we of æons behind us, Dim dynasties lost long ago, Huge empires, like dreams unremembered, Huge cities for ages laid low? This at least--that with blight and with blessing With flower and with thorn, Love was there, and his cry was among them, "A child is born."

Though the darkness be noisy with systems, Dark fancies that fret and disprove, Still the plumes stir around us, above us The wings of the shadow of love: Oh! princes and priests, have ye seen it Grow pale through your scorn. Huge dawns sleep before us, deep changes, A child is born.

And the rafters of toil still are gilded With the dawn of the star of the heart, And the wise men draw near in the twilight, Who are weary of learning and art, And the face of the tyrant is darkened. His spirit is torn, For a new King is enthroned; yea, the sternest, A child is born.

And the mother still joys for the whispered First stir of unspeakable things, Still feels that high moment unfurling Red glory of Gabriel's wings. Still the babe of an hour is a master Whom angels adorn, Emmanuel, prophet, anointed, A child is born.

And thou, that art still in thy cradle, The sun being crown for thy brow. Make answer, our flesh, make an answer, Say, whence art thou come--who art thou? Art thou come back on earth for our teaching To train or to warn--? Hush--how may we know?--knowing only A child is born.

A CHILD OF THE SNOWS

There is heard a hymn when the panes dim And never before or again, When the nights are strong with a darkness long, And the dark is alive with rain.

Never we know but in sleet and in snow, The place where the great fires are, That the midst of the earth is a raging mirth And the heart of the earth a star.

And at night we win to the ancient inn Where the child in the frost is furled, We follow the feet where all souls meet At the inn at the end of the world.

The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red, For the flame of the sun is flown. The gods lie cold where the leaves lie gold. And a Child comes forth alone.

A WORD

A word came forth in Galilee, a word like to a star; It climbed and rang and blessed and burnt wherever brave hearts are; A word of sudden secret hope, of trial and increase Of wrath and pity fused in fire, and passion kissing peace. A star that o'er the citied world beckoned, a sword of flame; A star with myriad thunders tongued: a mighty word there came.

The wedge's dart passed into it, the groan of timberwains, The ringing of the rivet nails, the shrieking of the planes; The hammering on the roofs at morn, the busy workshop roar; The hiss of shavings drifted deep along the windy floor; The heat-browned toiler's crooning song, the hum of human worth-- Mingled of all the noise of crafts, the ringing word went forth.

The splash of nets passed into it, the grind of sand and shell, The boat-hook's clash, the boat-oars' jar, the cries to buy and sell, The flapping of the landed shoals, the canvas crackling free, And through all varied notes and cries, the roaring of the sea, The noise of little lives and brave, of needy lives and high; In gathering all the throes of earth, the living word went by.

Earth's giant sins bowed down to it, in Empire's huge eclipse, When darkness sat above the thrones, seven thunders on her lips, The woe of cities entered it, the clang of idols' falls, The scream of filthy Caesars stabbed high in their brazen halls, The dim hoarse Hoods of naked men, the worldrealms snapping girth, The trumpets of Apocalypse, the darkness of the earth:

The wrath that brake the eternal lamp and hid the eternal hill, A world's destruction loading, the word went onward still-- The blaze of creeds passed into it, the hiss of horrid fires, The headlong spear, the scarlet cross, the hair-shirt and the briars, The cloistered brethren's thunderous chaunt, the errant champion's song, The shifting of the crowns and thrones, the tangle of the strong.

The shattering fall of crest and crown and shield and cross and cope, The tearing of the gauds of time, the blight of prince and pope, The reign of ragged millions leagued to wrench a loaded debt, Loud with the many throated roar, the word went forward yet. The song of wheels passed into it, the roaring and the smoke The riddle of the want and wage, the fogs that burn and choke. The breaking of the girths of gold, the needs that creep and swell. The strengthening hope, the dazing light, the deafening evangel, Through kingdoms dead and empires damned, through changes without cease, With earthquake, chaos, born and fed, rose,--and the word was "Peace."

V

RHYMES FOR THE TIMES

ANTICHRIST, OR THE REUNION OF CHRISTENDOM: AN ODE

"A BILL WHICH HAS SHOCKED THE CONSCIENCE OF EVERY CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY IN EUROPE."-- _Mr. F.E. Smith_, ON THE WELSH DISESTABLISHMENT BILL.

Are they clinging to their crosses, F.E. Smith, Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses, Are they, Smith? Do they, fasting, tramping, bleeding, Wait the news from this our city? Groaning "That's the Second Reading!" Hissing "There is still Committed" If the voice of Cecil falters, If McKenna's point has pith, Do they tremble for their altars? Do they, Smith?

Russian peasants round their pope Huddled, Smith, Hear about it all, I hope, Don't they, Smith? In the mountain hamlets clothing Peaks beyond Caucasian pales, Where Establishment means nothing And they never heard of Wales, Do they read it all in Hansard With a crib to read it with-- "Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford Answered," Really, Smith?

In the lands where Christians were, F.E. Smith, In the little lands laid bare, Smith, O Smith! Where the Turkish bands are busy, And the Tory name is blessed Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy On the banners from the West! Men don't think it half so hard if Islam burns their kin and kith, Since a curate lives in Cardiff Saved by Smith.

It would greatly, I must own, Soothe me, Smith, If you left this theme alone, Holy Smith! For your legal cause or civil You fight well and get your fee; For your God or dream or devil You will answer, not to me. Talk about the pews and steeples And the Cash that goes therewith! But the souls of Christian peoples.... --Chuck it, Smith!

THE REVOLUTIONIST: OR LINES TO A STATESMAN

"I WAS NEVER STANDING BY WHILE A REVOLUTION WAS GOING ON."--_Speech by the Rt. Hon. Walter Long_.

When Death was on thy drums, Democracy, And with one rush of slaves the world was free, In that high dawn that Kings shall not forget, A void there was and Walter was not yet. Through sacked Versailles, at Valmy in the fray, They did without him in some kind of way; Red Christendom all Walterless they cross, And in their fury hardly feel their loss.... Fades the Republic; faint as Roland's horn, Her trumpets taunt us with a sacred scorn.... Then silence fell; and Mr. Long was born.

From his first hours in his expensive cot He never saw the tiniest viscount shot. In deference to his wealthy parents' whim The wildest massacres were kept from him. The wars that dyed Pall Mall and Brompton red Passed harmless o'er that one unconscious head: For all that little Long could understand The rich might still be rulers of the land. Vain are the pious arts of parenthood, Foiled Revolution bubbled in his blood; Until one day (the babe unborn shall rue it) The Constitution bored him and he slew it.

If I were wise and good and rich and strong-- Fond, impious thought, if I were Walter Long-- If I could water sell like molten gold, And make grown people do as they are told, If over private fields and wastes as wide As a Greek city for which heroes died, I owned the houses and the men inside-- If all this hung on one thin thread of habit I would not revolutionize a rabbit.

I would sit tight with all my gifts and glories, And even preach to unconverted Tories, That the fixed system that our land inherits, Viewed from a certain standpoint, has its merits. I'd guard the laws like any Radical, And keep each precedent, however small, However subtle, misty, dusty, dreamy, Lest man by chance should look at me and see me; Lest men should ask what madman made me lord Of English ploughshares and the English sword; Lest men should mark how sleepy is the nod That drills the dreadful images of God!

Walter, be wise! avoid the wild and new, The Constitution is the game for you. Walter, beware! scorn not the gathering throng It suffers, yet it may not suffer wrong, It suffers, yet it cannot suffer Long. And if you goad it these grey rules to break, For a few pence, see that you do not wake Death and the splendour of the scarlet cap, Boston and Valmy, Yorktown and Jemmappes, Freedom in arms, the riding and the routing, The thunder of the captains and the shouting, All that lost riot that you did not share--And when that riot comes--you _will_ be there.

THE SHAKESPEARE MEMORIAL

Lord Lilac thought it rather rotten That Shakespeare should be quite And therefore got on a Committee With several chaps out of the city. And Shorter and Sir Herbert Tree, Lord Rothschild and Lord Rosebery And F.C.G. and Comyns Carr, Two dukes and a dramatic star, Also a clergyman now dead; And while the vain world careless sped Unheeding the heroic name-- The souls most fed with Shakespeare's flame Still sat unconquered in a ring, Remembering him like anything.

Lord Lilac did not long remain. Lord Lilac did not come again. He softly lit a cigarette And sought some other social set Where, in some other knots or rings, People were doing cultured things, --Miss Zwilt's Humane Vivarium --The little men that paint on gum --The exquisite Gorilla Girl.... He sometimes, in this giddy whirl (Not being really bad at heart), Remembered Shakespeare with a start-- But not with that grand constancy Of Clement Shorter, Herbert Tree, Lord Rosebery and Comyns Carr And all the other names there are; Who stuck like limpets to the spot, Lest they forgot, lest they forgot.

Lord Lilac was of slighter stuff; Lord Lilac had had quite enough.

THE HORRIBLE HISTORY OF JONES

Jones had a dog; it had a chain; Not often worn, not causing pain; But, as the I.K.L. had passed Their "Unleashed Cousins Act" at last, Inspectors took the chain away; Whereat the canine barked "hurray"! At which, of course, the S.P.U. (Whose Nervous Motorists' Bill was through), Were forced to give the dog in charge For being Audibly at Large. None, you will say, were now annoyed, Save haply Jones--the yard was void. But something being in the lease About "alarms to aid police," The U.S.U. annexed the yard For having no sufficient guards Now if there's one condition The C.C.P. are strong upon It is that every house one buys Must have a yard for exercise; So Jones, as tenant, was unfit. His state of health was proof of it. Two doctors of the T.T.U.'s Told him his legs from long disuse, Were atrophied; and saying "So From step to higher step we go Till everything is New and True," They cut his legs off and withdrew. You know the E.T.S.T.'s views Are stronger than the T.T.U.'s: And soon (as one may say) took wing The Arms, though not the Man, I sing. To see him sitting limbless there Was more than the K.K. could bear "In mercy silence with all speed That mouth there are no hands to feed; What cruel sentimentalist, O Jones, would doom thee to exist-- Clinging to selfish Selfhood yet? Weak one! Such reasoning might upset The Pump Act, and the accumulation Of all constructive legislation; Let us construct you up a bit--" The head fell off when it was hit: Then words did rise and honest doubt, And four Commissions sat about Whether the slash that left him dead Cut off his body or his head.

An author in the Isle of Wight Observed with unconcealed delight A land of old and just renown Where Freedom slowly broadened down From Precedent to Precedent.... And this, I think, was what he meant.

THE NEW FREETHINKER

John Grubby, who was short and stout And troubled with religious doubt, Refused about the age of three To sit upon the curate's knee; (For so the eternal strife must rage Between the spirit of the age And Dogma, which, as is well known. Does simply hate to be outgrown). Grubby, the young idea that shoots, Outgrew the ages like old boots; While still, to all appearance, small, Would have no Miracles at all; And just before the age of ten Firmly refused Free Will to men. The altars reeled, the hen-ens shook, Just as he read of in the book; Flung from his house went forth the youth Alone with tempests and the Truth, Up to the distant city and dim Where his papa had bought for him A partnership in Chepe and Deer Worth, say, twelve hundred pounds a year. But he was resolute. Lord Brute Had found him useful; and Lord Loot, With whom few other men would act, Valued his promptitude and tact; Never did even philanthropy Enrich a man more rapidly: Twas he that stopped the Strike in Coal, For hungry children racked his soul; To end their misery there and then He filled the mines with Chinamen-- Sat in that House that broke the Kings, And voted for all sores of things-- And rose from Under-Sec. to Sec. Some grumbled. Growlers who gave less Than generous worship to success, The little printers in Dundee Who got ten years for blasphemy, (Although he let them off with seven) Respect him rather less than heaven. No matter. This can still be said: Never to supernatural dread, Never to unseen deity, Did Sir John Grubby bend the knee; Never did dream of hell or wrath Turn Viscount Grubby from his path; Nor was he bribed by fabled bliss To kneel to any world but this. The curate lives in Camden Town, His lap still empty of renown, And still across the waste of years John Grubby, in the House of Peers, Faces that curate, proud and free, And never sits upon his knee.

IN MEMORIAM P.D.

NICE, JANUARY 30, 1914.

If any in an island cradle curled Of comfort, may make offerings to you, Who in the day of all denial blew A bugle through the blackness of the world,

An English hand would touch your shroud, in trust That truth again be told in English speech. And we too yet may practise what we preach, Though it were practising the bayonet thrust.

Cutting that giant neck from sand to sand, From sea to sea; it was a little thing Beside your sudden shout and sabre-swing That cut the throat of thieves in every land.

Heed not if half-wits mock your broken blade: Mammon our master doeth all things ill. You are the Fool that charged a windmill. Still, The Miller is a Knave; and was afraid.

Lay down your sword. Ruin will know her own. Let each small statesman sow his weak wild oat, Or turn his coat to decorate his coat, Or take the throne and perish by the throne.

Lay down your sword. And let the White Flag fade To grey; and let the Red Flag fade to pink, For these that climb and climb; and cannot sink So deep as death and honour, Déroulède.

SONNET WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON

TO A POPULAR LEADER MUCH TO BE CONGRATULATED ON THE AVOIDANCE OF A STRIKE AT CHRISTMAS.

I know you. You will hail the huge release, Saying the sheathing of a thousand swords, In silence and injustice, well accords With Christmas bells. And you will gild with grease The papers, the employers, the police, And vomit up the void your windy words To your New Christ; who bears no whip of cords For them that traffic in the doves of peace.

The feast of friends, the candle-fruited tree, I have not failed to honour. And I say It would be better for such men as we, And we be nearer Bethlehem, it we lay Shot dead on scarlet snows for liberty, Dead in the daylight upon Christmas Day.

A SONG OF SWORDS

"A DROVE OF CATTLE CAME INTO A VILLAGE CALLED SWORDS, AND WAS STOPPED BY THE RIOTERS."---_Daily Paper_.

In the place called Swords on the Irish road It is told for a new renown How we field the horns of the cattle, and how We will hold the horns of the devil now Ere the lord of bell, with the horn on his brow, Is crowned in Dublin town

Light in the East and light in the West, And light on the cruel lords, On the souls that suddenly all men knew, And the green flag flew and the red flag flew, And many a wheel of the world stopped, too, When the cattle were stopped at Swords.

Be they sinners or less than saints That smite in the street for rage, We know where the shame shines bright; we know You that they smite at, you their foe, Lords of the lawless wage and low. This is your lawful wage.

You pinched a child to a torture price That you dared not name in words; So black a jest was the silver bit That your own speech shook for the shame of And the coward was plain as a cow they hit When the cattle have strayed at Swords.

The wheel of the torment of wives went round To break men's brotherhood; You gave the good Irish blood to grease The clubs of your country's enemies; You saw the brave man beat to the knees: And you saw that it was good.

The rope of the rich is long and long-- The longest of hangmen's cords; But the kings and crowds are holding their bream, In a giant shadow o'er all beneath Where God stands holding the scales of Death Between the cattle and Swords.

Haply the lords that hire and lend, The lowest of all men's lords, Who sell their kind like kine at a fair. Will find no head of their cattle there; But faces of men where cattle were: Faces of men--and Swords.

And the name shining and terrible, The sternest of all man's words, Still mark that place to seek or shun, In the streets where the struggling cattle run-- Grass and a silence of judgment done In the place that is called Swords.

A SONG OF DEFEAT

The line breaks and the guns go under, The lords and the lackeys ride the plain; I draw deep breaths of the dawn and thunder, And the whole of my heart grows young again. For our Chiefs said "Done," and I did not deem it; Our Seers said "Peace," and it was not peace; Earth will grow worse till men redeem it, And wars more evil, ere all wars cease. But the old flags reel and the old drums rattle. As once in my life they throbbed and reeled; I have found ray youth in the lost battle, I have found my heart on the battlefield. For we that fight till the world is free, We are not easy in victory: We have known each other too long, my brother, And fought each other, the world and we.

And I dream of the days when work was scrappy, And rare in our pockets the mark of the mint, When we were angry and poor and happy, And proud of seeing our names in print. For so they conquered and so we scattered, When the Devil rode and his dogs smelt gold, And the peace of a harmless folk was shattered; When I was twenty and odd years old. When the mongrel men that the market classes Had slimy hands upon England's rod, And sword in hand upon Afric's passes Her last Republic cried to God. For the men no lords can buy or sell, They sit not easy when all goes well. They have said to each other what naught can smother, They have seen each other, our souls and hell.

It is all as of old; the empty clangour. The Nothing scrawled on a five-foot page, The huckster who, mocking holy anger, Painfully paints his face with rage. And the faith of the poor is faint and partial, And the pride of the rich is all for sale, And the chosen heralds of England's Marshal Are the sandwich-men of the "Daily Mail." And the niggards that dare not give are glutted, And the feeble that dare not fail are strong, So while the City of Toil is gutted, I sit in the saddle and sing my song. For we that fight till the world is free, We have no comfort in victory; We have read each other as Cain his brother, We know each other, these slaves and we.

SONNET

ON HEARING A LANDLORD ACCUSED (FALSELY, FOR ALL THE BARD CAN SAY) OF NEGLECTING ONE OF THE NUMEROUS WHITE HORSES THAT WERE OR WERE NOT CONNECTED WITH ALFRED THE GREAT

If you have picked your lawn of leaves and snails, If you have told your valet, even with oaths, Once a week or so, to brush your clothes. If you have dared to clean your teeth, or nails, While the Horse upon the holy mountain fails-- Then God that Alfred to his earth betrothes Send on you screaming all that honour loathes, Horsewhipping, Hounsditch, debts, and _Daily Mails_.