Part 4
The Dragon cast into the voidless night, God’s city cometh from above, Built by the sword of Michael and his might, But founded in God’s love.
EDEN RE-OPENED
No man regarded where God sat Among the rapt seraphic brows, And God’s heart heavy grew thereat, At man’s long absence from His house.
Then from the iris-circled throne A strange and secret word is said, And straightway hath an angel flown, On wings of feathered sunlight sped, Through space to where the world shone red.
Reddest of all the stars of night To the hoar watchers of the spheres, But ashy cold to man’s dim sight, And filled with sins and woes and fears And the waste weariness of years.
(No laughter rippled in the grass, No light upon the jewelled sea; The sky hung sullenly as brass, And men went groping tortuously.)
But the stern warden of the Gate Broke his dread sword upon his knees, And opened wide the fields where wait The loveless unremembered trees, The sealed and silent mysteries.
And the scales fell from man’s eyes, And his heart woke again, as when Adam found Eve in Paradise; And joy was made complete ... and then God entered in and spoke with men.
THE HOLY SPRING
The radiant feet of Christ now lead The dancing sunny hours, The ancient Earth is young again With growing grass and warm white rain And hedgerows full of flowers.
The lilac and laburnum show The glory of their bud, And scattered on each hawthorn spray The snow-white and the crimson may-- The may as red as blood.
The bluebells in the deep dim woods Like fallen heavens lie, And daffodils and daffodils Upon a thousand little hills Are waving to the sky.
The corn imprisoned in the mould Has burst its wintry tomb, And on each burdened orchard tree Which stood an austere calvary The apple blossom bloom.
The kiss of Christ has brought to life The marvel of the sod. Oh, joy has rent its chrysalis To flash its jewelled wings, and is A dream of beauty and of bliss-- The loveliness of God.
_May 1917._
VIATICUM
Dear God, not only do Thou come at last When death hath filled my heart with dread affright, But when in gathered dark I meet aghast The mimic death that falls on me at night.
The daily dying, when alone I tread The valley of the shadow, breast the Styx, With shrouded soul and body stiff in bed ... And no companion from the welcome pyx!
How should I face disarmed and unawares The phantoms of the Pit oblivion brings-- My will surrendered, mind unapt for snares, Eyes blinded by the evil, shuddering wings,
Did not the sunset stand encoped in gold For priestly offices, ’mid censers swung, And with anointed thumb and finger hold The symbolled Godhead to my eager tongue?
Then with my body’s trance there doth descend Peace on my eyelids, goodness that shall keep My wandering feet, and at my side a friend Through all the winding caverns of my sleep.
_August 12th, 1917._
PUNISHMENT
What vengeful rod Is laid upon my bleeding shoulders? What scourge, O God, Makes known my shame to all beholders?
Through what vast skies Crashes Thy wrath like shuddering thunders?
* * * * *
Before my eyes Thou dost display the wonder of wonders!
As punishment To one whom sin should bind in prison, Hath Mercy sent Word of the crucified arisen!
Guilt’s penalty Exacted--past my reeling reason!-- Which lays on me Love--as a whip fit for my Treason!
_March 3rd, 1918._
AFTER COMMUNION
Now art Thou in my house of feeble flesh, O Word made flesh! My burning soul by Thine Caught mystically in a living mesh! Now is the royal banquet, now the wine, The body broken by the courteous Host Who is my humble Guest--a Guest adored-- Though once I spat upon, scourged at the post, Hounded to Calvary and slew my Lord!
My name is Legion, but separate and alone; Wash, wash, dear Crucified, my Pilate hand! Rejected Stone, be Thou my corner-stone! Like Mary at the cross’s foot I stand; Like Magdalene upon my sins I grieve; Like Thomas do I touch Thee and believe.
_December 16th, 1917._
THE UNIVERSAL MOTHER
Who standing thrilled in his bewilderment Can tell thy humble ways, The hidden paths on which thy white feet went Through all thy lonely days?
From what deep root the Lily of the Lord To grace and beauty grew, Or in what fires was tempered the keen sword That pierced thy bosom through?
But we may turn and find within our hands Our souls’ strange bread and wine, The gathered meanings of thy starry lands Where mystic roses shine.
Heaven’s air might grow for us too cold and tense, Her towers far and faint, Did we not know thy sorrowful innocence, Or soldier, singer, saint,
Earth’s heroes with earth’s poor not kneel and tell Their full hearts’ burdenings To those dear eyes before which Gabriel Bent low with folded wings.
The soldier shall remember whose the heel That crushed the serpent’s head, How mighty in thy hand hath been the steel That dyed thy bosom red.
The singer weave for thee a cloak of light Where earth’s wild colours run, As God hath crowned thee with the stars of night And clothed thee with the sun.
The saint who in a cloister cool and dim His difficult road hath kept Shall think of thee whose body cloistered Him When in thy womb He slept.
And thou shalt call to thee the poor of earth To share thy joy with them, And fill them with thy magnitude and mirth In many a Bethlehem.
_February 4th, 1917._
THE BOASTER
If the last blissful star should fade and wither, If one by one Orion and the Pleiades Crash and Crumble; The lordly sun
Be turned away, a beggar, all his triumphs Gone down in doom, Wandering unregarded through the cosmos, None giving him room.
Then would I shout defiant to the whirlwinds; Boastingly cry, “Go wreck the world, its towering hills and waters! But I, even I,
“Whose body was flung out upon the dungheap With weeds to rot, Still keep my soul unshaken by the ruin That harms me not!
“True, I have fled from many a shameful battle, Did cringe and cower Before my foes, but who can ever rob me Of one great hour?”
For joy rang through me like a silver trumpet; About my head The tiny flowers flapped in the breeze like banners Of royal red.
And suddenly the seven deeps of heaven Were cloven apart, When love stood in your eyes and shone and trembled Within your heart.
_February 3rd, 1918._
UNWED
If I go down to death uncomforted By love’s great conquest and its great surrender, Bearing my soul along, unwed, unwed; (Your darling hands’ caresses swift and tender Lacking upon my head, upon my lips Your lips); and in my heart love unfulfilled, And in my eyes a blind apocalypse, Bereft of all the glory I have willed;
I shall go proudly for your dear love’s sake, Triumphant for brief memories, but tragic Because of those large hopes that fail and break Beneath Fate’s wizard-wand of cruel magic-- But ah, Fate could not touch me if I stood Completed by your love’s beatitude!
_December 15th, 1917._
WED
I know the winds are rhythmical In unison with your footfall. I know that in your heart you keep The secret of the woodland’s sleep.
You met the blossom-bearing May-- Sweet sister!--on the road half way, And she has laid upon your hair The coloured coronal you wear.
But ah! the white wings of the Dove Flutter about the head I love, And on your bosom doth repose The beauty of the Mystic Rose,
That I must add to poetry A dark and fearful ecstasy; For in the house of joy you bless Unworthiness with holiness.
ENGLAND
I
Like some good ship that founders in the sea, Like granite towers that crumble into dust, So pass the emblems of thine empery. But O immortal Mother and august, Ardours of English saint and bard and king Blend simply with thy soul, even as their bones Mingle with English soil. Their spirits sing A great song lordly as is a loud wind’s tones. Decayed by gold and ease and loathly pride, We had forgot our greatness and become Huckstering empire-builders, and denied The excellent name of freedom ... till the drum Woke glory such as met the eyes of Drake, Or Alfred when he saw the heathen break!
II
Where shall we find thee? In the avarice That robs our brave adventures? In the shame Spoiling our splendours? In the sacrifice Of tears we wrung from Ireland? Nay, thy name Is written secretly in kindliness Upon the patient faces of the poor, In that good anger wherewith thou didst bless Our hearts, when beat upon the shaking door Strong hands of hell.... Whether before the flood We sink, or out of agonies reborn Learn once again the meaning of our blood, Laughter and liberty--a sacred scorn Is ours irrevocably since we stood And heard the barbarians’ guns across the morn.
_December 24th and 26th, 1917._
LYRIC LOVE
When kindly years have given me grace To read your spirit through; To see the starlight on your face, Upon your hair the dew;
To touch the fingers of your hands, The shining wealth they hold; To find in dim and dreamy lands That tender dusks enfold
The ancient sorrows that were sealed, The hidden wells of joy, The secrets that were unrevealed To one who was a boy.
Then to my patient ponderings Will fruits of solace fall, When I have learned through many Springs, Mighty and mystical,
To hear through sounds of brooks and birds Love in the leafy grove, As in my lyric heart your words Bestir a lyric love.
Then I shall brood, grown good and wise, The truth of fairy tales, And greet romance with gay surprise In woods of nightingales.
And find, with hoary head and sage, In songs which I have sung The meanings of the end of age-- The rapture of the young!
_February 11th, 1918._
DRUMS OF DEFEAT
THE FOOL
A shout of laughter and of scorn, A million jeering lips and eyes-- And in the sight of all men born The wildest of earth’s madmen dies!
Whose trust was put in empty words To-day is numbered with the dead; To-morrow crows and evil birds Shall pluck those strange eyes from his head!
The fellows of this country clown Are scattered (fool beyond belief!), All blown away like thistledown, Except a harlot and a thief.
And shall he shatter fates with _these_? (He that would neither strive nor cry) Or thunder through the Seven Seas? Or shake the stars down from the sky?
Have mercy and humility Become unconquerable swords, That Caiaphas must tremblingly Kneel with the world’s imperial lords Before this crazy carpenter-- This body writhing on a rod-- And worship in that bloody hair The dreadful foolishness of God?
A shout of laughter and of scorn, A million jeering lips and eyes-- And in the sight of all men born The wildest of earth’s madmen dies!
DON QUIXOTE
The air is valiant with drums And honourable the skies, When he rides singing as he comes With solemn, dreamy eyes-- Of swinging of the splendid swords, And crashing of the nether lords, When Hell makes onslaught with its hordes In desperate emprise.
He rides along the roads of Spain The champion of the world, For whom great soldans live again With Moorish beards curled-- But all their spears shall not avail With one who weareth magic mail, This hero of an epic tale And his brave gauntlet hurled!
Clangour of horses and of arms Across the quiet fields, Herald and trumpeter, alarms Of bowmen and of shields; When doubt that twists and is afraid Is shattered in the last crusade, Where flaunts the plume and falls the blade The cavalier wields.
Although in that eternal cause No liegemen gather now, Or flowered dames to grant applause, Yet on his naked brow The victor’s laurels interwreath; But he no dower can bequeath But sword snapped short and empty sheath And errantry and vow!
Against his foolish innocence No man alive can stand, Nor any giant drive him hence With sling or club or brand-- For where his angry bugle blows There fall unconquerable foes; Of mighty men of war none knows To stay his witless hand.
All legendary wars grow tame And every tale gives place Before the knight’s unsullied name And his romantic face: Yea, he shall break the stoutest bars And bear his courage and his scars Beyond the whirling moons and stars And all the suns of space!
IRELAND
Beside your bitter waters rise The Mystic Rose, the Holy Tree, Immortal courage in your eyes, And pain and liberty.
The stricken arms, the cloven shields, The trampled plumes, the shattered drum, The swords of your lost battlefields To hopeless battles come.
And though your scattered remnants know Their shameful rout, their fallen kings, Yet shall the strong, victorious foe Not understand these things:
The broken ranks that never break, The merry road your rabble trod, The awful laughter they shall take Before the throne of God.
IN MEMORIAM
PATRICK HENRY PEARSE
_Executed May 3rd, 1916_
R.I.P.
In this grey morning wrapped in mist and rain You stood erect beneath the sullen sky, A heart which held its peace and noble pain, A brave and gentle eye!
The last of all your silver songs are sung; Your fledgling dreams on broken wings are dashed-- For suddenly a tragic sword was swung And ten true rifles crashed.
By one who walks aloof in English ways Be this high word of praise and sorrow said: He lived with honour all his lovely days, And is immortal, dead!
MATER DESOLATA
TO MARGARET PEARSE
To you the dreary night’s long agony, The anguish, and the laden heart that broke Its vase of burning tears, the voiceless cry,-- And then the horror of that blinding stroke! To you all this--and yet to you much more. God pressed into the chalice of your pain A starry triumph, when the sons you bore Were written on the roll of Ireland’s slain. Let no man touch your glorious heritage, Or pluck one pang of sorrow from your heart, Or stain with any pity the bright page Emblazoning the holy martyrs’ part. Ride as a queen your splendid destiny, Since death is swallowed up in victory!
THE STIRRUP CUP
Draw rein; there’s the inn where the lamps show plain-- Where we never may drink together again. While the stars are lost in the slate-cold sky Let us drink good ale before we die In the wind and bitter rain!
Your sword is made ready upon your hip? Then once again, man, in good-fellowship! Though hunted and outlawed and fugitive We shall drink together again if we live-- Set the tankard to your lip!
_Honour and death and_--how goes the tune? See the clouds rift and disrobe the moon! And a blood-red streak in the sullen skies And--_Honour and death and adventure’s eyes_-- Now spurs--for they’ll be here soon!
THE ENSIGN
High up above the wooded ridge Beams out a round benignant moon Upon the village and the bridge Through which the slumberous waters croon.
Now polished silver is the mill; And, clad in ghostly mysteries, The church tower glimmers on the hill Among the sad, abiding trees;
And watched by its familiar star Sleeps each small house, so still and white-- From all the noise and blood of war, O God, how far removed to-night!
Unconscious of their destiny How many drew this air for breath; Here lived and loved ... and now they see The terrible, swift shape of death.
The bounty of these quiet skies, The tender beauty of these lands, Still sheds a peace upon their eyes, And binds their hearts and nerves their hands.
That they who only thought to know This valley in the moonlight furled, Have heard immortal trumpets blow, And shake the pillars of the world!
BALLADE OF ORCHARDS
Though Jeshurun kicks and grows fatter and fatter, And chinks in his pockets the gold of his gain, Yet up in the gables the young sparrows chatter, The corn-fields are rich with the promise of grain, The hedges are yellow, and (balm to the brain!) Their pink and white blossoms the cherry trees scatter-- _The blossoming orchards of England remain!_
Long lines of our soldiers swing by with a clatter, To die in their thousands by river and plain, In lands where the gathering loud torrents batter, They heap the hills high with heroical slain-- But far in the weald how the misty moons wane! And deep in a silence no anger can shatter _The blossoming orchards of England remain!_
The world is a fool and as mad as a hatter-- And poets and lovers were sent her for bane-- Yet theirs are the ears which can catch the first patter, The prophet of all God’s abundance of rain, The smell of earth earthy and wholesome again; And from the drenched ground where the spent bullets spatter _The blossoming orchards of England remain!_
_L’Envoi_
Princes and potentates, ye whom men flatter, Harken a moment to this my refrain-- Ye shall pass as a dream, and it will not much matter-- _The blossoming orchards of England remain!_
A GREAT WIND
A great wind blows through the pine trees, A clean salt wind from sea, A loud wind full of all healing Blows kindly but boisterously; Oh, a good wind blows through the pine trees And the heart and mind of me!
A wind stirs the long grass lightly And the dear young flowers of May, And blows in the English meadows The breath of a Summer’s day-- But this wind rings with honour And is wet with the cold sea spray.
There are straits where the tall ships founder And no live thing may draw breath, Where men look at splendid, angry skies And hear what the thunder saith: Where men look their last at glory And bravely drink of death.
There is much afoot this evening In these pine woods by the sea, And no branch shall endure until morning That is rotten on the tree-- Nor any decayed thing endure in my soul When God’s wind blows through me!
BIRTHDAY SONNET
How shall I find the words of perfect praise, To give you back the gladness and the mirth, With which you filled my hands, the lyric days Your gracious bounty gave me in my dearth? My song fails on the wing, and yet I know The meaning of Spring’s living ecstasy, The laughing prophecy the March winds blow Among the buds, and through the heart of me.
I know, I know the rose and silver dress, Wherewith God clothed that clear and virginal morn, Which came to you in joyful gentleness, The hour of shy delight when you were born. I know the innocence and sweet surprise, The waiting earth made ready for your eyes.
_March 27th, 1917_
SILENCE
Though I should deck you with my jewelled rhyme, And spread my songs a carpet at your feet, Where men may see unchanged through changing time Your face a pattern in sad songs and sweet; Though I should blow your honour through the earth Or touch your gentleness on gentle strings, Or sing abroad your beauty and your worth-- Dearest, yet these were all imperfect things.
Rather in lovely silence will I keep The heart’s shut song no words of mine may mar, No words of mine enrich. The ways of sleep And prayer and pain, all things that lonely are, All humble things that worship and rejoice Shall weave a spell of silence for my voice.
AT YELVERTON
When into Yelverton I came I found the bracken all aflame, The tors in their unyielding line, The air as comforting as wine, The swinging wind, the singing sun At Yelverton.
At Yelverton the moor is kind And blows its healing through my mind, The hunchback skyline lies a mist Of purple and of amethyst, And up and down the smooth roads run At Yelverton.
At Yelverton a man may stand, The whole of Devon within his hand, The tors in their austerity, And far away the basking sea, A cloth of shining silver spun At Yelverton.
At Yelverton a man may keep Deep silence and a deeper sleep, Yet know the brave recurring dream Of kingly cider, queenly cream To bless him when his days are done At Yelverton.
THE JOY OF THE WORLD
For your joy do the long grasses rustle, the tree-tops stir Where the wind moves eagerly through the pine and the fir; Alert for your coming the woods and the meadows all wait; The buttercups grow and the turtle calls to his mate.
And God for your Clothing fashioned in patience the sun, A cloak wrought of glory and fire where dreadful dyes run, Saffron and Crimson and sapphire and gold, as is meet; And stars to be set on your head and stars under your feet.
For you, His most lovely of daughters, the mighty God bowed From heaven to give you your dowry of sunset and cloud; And splendid in light and in worship were Gabriel’s wings, When he breathed in your bosom the hope of impossible things.
Sudden and dear was the secret he whispered to you, Of one who should quietly fall to the earth with the dew; As dew that at night in the valleys distils upon fleece, With no shattering trump did He come but in terrible peace.
In your hands that are sweeter than honey, in all the wide earth God laid the desire of the nations, their home and their mirth, And gave to your merciful keeping man’s joy and man’s rest, And under incredible skies a babe at your breast.
And though the stars wane and the royal deep colours should fade, Yet still shall endure in the heart and the lips of a Maid, The sweep of the archangel’s pinions--the humble accord-- The song--the dim stable--the night--and the birth of the Lord!
For your joy do the long grasses rustle, the tree-tops stir Where the wind moves eagerly through the pine and the fir; Alert for your coming the woods and the meadows all wait; The buttercups grow and the turtle calls to his mate.
GRATITUDE
How shall I answer God and stand, My naked life within my hand, To plead upon the Judgment Day? Seeing the glory in array Of cherubim and seraphim, What answer shall I give to Him?
I was too dull of heart and sense To read His cryptic providence, Its strange and intricate device Was hidden from my foolish eyes. My gratitude could not reach up To the sharing of His awful cup, To the blinding light of mystery And the painful pomp of sanctity.