Part 6
From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle grey Are strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day; So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloom And Summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom; For ready are the tawny hands that guard the Devon shore, The cool men, the bluff men, The keen men, the tough men, The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore!
PERCY HAZELDEN. July 7, 1915.
Southampton
The sky is grey and the clouds are weeping; Winter wails in the wind again; Night with her eyes bedimmed comes creeping; The sea is hidden in dusk and rain.
This is the gate of the path that leads us Whither our duty the goal has set; This is the way Old England speeds us-- Darkness, dreariness, wind and wet!
This is the gate where battle sends us, Gaunt and broken, in pain and pride; This is the welcome Home extends us-- Weeping rain on the cold grey tide.
Would we have balmy sunshine glowing Over the blue from the blue above? Rather the rain and the night wind blowing, Rather the way of the land we love!
W. K. HOLMES. Dec. 22, 1915.
Cottage Garden Prayer
Little garden gods, You of good bestowing, You of kindly showing Mid the potting and the pods, Watchers of geranium beds, Pinks and stocks and suchlike orders, Rose, and sleepy poppy-heads,-- Bless us in our borders, Little garden gods!
Little garden gods, Bless the time of sowing, Watering and growing; Lastly, when our sunflower nods, And our rambler's red array Waits the honey-bee her labours, Bless our garden that it may Beat our next-door neighbour's, Little garden gods!
P. R. CHALMERS. May 8, 1912.
The Devil in Devon
The Devil walked about the land And softly laughed behind his hand To see how well men worked his will And helped his darling projects still, The while contentedly they said: "There is no Devil; he is dead."
But when by chance one day in Spring Through Devon he went wandering And for an idle moment stood Upon the edge of Daccombe wood, Where bluebells almost hid the green, With the last primroses between, He bit his lip and turned away And could do no more work that day.
MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. May 26, 1920.
Dulce Domum
The air is full of rain and sleet, A dingy fog obscures the street; I watch the pane and wonder will The sun be shining on Boar's Hill, Rekindling on his western course The dying splendour of the gorse And kissing hands in joyous mood To primroses in Bagley Wood. I wish that when old Phœbus drops Behind yon hedgehog-haunted copse And high and bright the Northern Crown Is standing over White Horse Down I could be sitting by the fire In that my Land of Heart's Desire-- A fire of fir-cones and a log And at my feet a fubsy dog In Robinwood! In Robinwood! I think the angels, if they could, Would trade their harps for railway tickets Or hang their crowns upon the thickets And walk the highways of the world Through eves of gold and dawns empearled, Could they be sure the road led on Twixt Oxford spires and Abingdon To where above twin valleys stands Boar's Hill, the best of promised lands; That at the journey's end there stood A heaven on earth like Robinwood.
Heigho! The sleet still whips the pane And I must turn to work again Where the brown stout of Erin hums Through Dublin's aromatic slums And Sinn Fein youths with shifty faces Hold "Parliaments" in public places And, heaping curse on mountainous curse In unintelligible Erse, Harass with threats of war and arson Base Briton and still baser CARSON. But some day when the powers that be Demobilise the likes of me (Some seven years hence, as I infer, My actual exit will occur) Swift o'er the Irish Sea I'll fly, Yea, though each wave be mountains high, Nor pause till I descend to grab Oxford's surviving taxicab. Then "Home!" (Ah, HOME! my heart be still!) I'll say, and, when we reach Boar's Hill, I'll fill my lungs with heaven's own air And pay the cabman twice his fare, Then, looking far and looking nigh, Bare-headed and with hand on high, "Hear ye," I'll cry, "the vow I make, Familiar sprites of byre and brake, _J'y suis, j'y reste_. Let Bolshevicks Sweep from the Volga to the Styx; Let internecine carnage vex The gathering hosts of Poles and Czechs, And Jugo-Slavs and Tyrolese Impair the swart Italian's ease-- Me for Boar's Hill! These war-worn ears Are deaf to cries for volunteers; No Samuel Browne or British warm Shall drape this svelte Apolline form Till over Cumnor's outraged top The actual shells begin to drop; Till below Youlberry's stately pines Echo the whiskered Bolshy's lines And General TROTSKY'S baggage blocks The snug bar-parlour of 'The Fox.'"
C. H. BRETHERTON. Feb. 5, 1919.
The Seats of the Mighty
I think there can be nothing much more fair Than owning some large mansion in the shires, And living almost permanently there, In constant touch with animals and squires; Yet there is joy in peering through the gates Or squinting from the summit of a wall At other people's beautiful estates, Wondering what they have to pay in rates And coveting it all.
Yes, it is sweet to circle with one's spouse Some antique Court, constructed by QUEEN ANNE, Complete with oaks and tennis-courts and cows, And many a nice respectful serving-man, With dogs and donkeys and perhaps a swan, And lovely ladies having _such_ a time, And garden-parties always going on, And ruins where the guide-book says KING JOHN Did nearly every crime.
Yes, it is sweet; but what I want to know Is why one has to prowl about outside; Surely the Earl of Bodleton and Bow, Surely Sir Egbert and his lovely bride Should wait all eager in the entrance-way To ask us in and take us through the grounds, And give one food and worry one to stay, Instead of simply keeping one at bay With six or seven hounds.
Surely they realise one wants to see The mullioned windows in the South-West wing, The private trout-stream and the banyan-tree, The lilac bedroom where they lodged the King; Surely they know how Bolshevist we feel Outside, where shrubberies obstruct the view, Particularly as they scarce conceal The Earl and household at a hearty meal Under the old, old yew.
I do not grudge the owner of The Chase; I do not loathe the tenant of The Lea; I only want to walk about his place And just imagine it belongs to me; That is the kind of democratic sport For keeping crime and Bolshevism low; I don't imagine that the fiercest sort Feel quite so anarchist at Hampton Court, Where anyone may go.
But I dare say that many a man must take Long looks of wonderment at Number Nine, Laburnum Avenue, and vainly ache To go inside a dwelling so divine; And if indeed some Marquis knocks one day And says, "I'm tired of standing in the street; I want to see your mansion, if I may," I shall receive him in the nicest way And show him round my "seat."
A. P. HERBERT. Oct. 15, 1919.
"_Nimphidia_"
Blue Roses
Shepherd in delicate Dresden china, Loitering ever the while you twine a Garland of oddly azure roses, All for a shepherdess passing fair; Poor little shepherdess waiting there All the time for your china posies, Posies pale for her jet-black hair!
Doesn't she wait (oh the anxious glances!) Flowers for one of your stately dances, A crown to finish a dainty toilette, (Haven't the harps just now begun, Minuets 'neath a china sun?)-- Doesn't she dread that the dust may soil it, When, oh _when_ will the boy be done?
Summer and winter and still you linger, Laggard lover with lazy finger, Never your little maid's wreath completing, Still half-strung are its petalled showers; Must she wait all her dancing hours, Wait in spite of her shy entreating, Wait for ever her azure flowers?
P. R. CHALMERS. Aug. 30, 1911.
A House in a Wood
So 'tis your will to have a cell, My Betsey, of your own and dwell Here where the sun for ever shines That glances off the holly spines-- A clearing where the trunks are few, Here shall be built a house for you, The little walls of beechen stakes Wattled with twigs from hazel brakes, Tiled with white oak-chips that lie round The fallen giants on the ground; Under your little feet shall be A ground-work of wild strawberry With gadding stem, a pleasant wort Alike for carpet and dessert. Here, Betsey, in the lucid shade Come, let us twine a green stockade With slender saplings all about, And a small window to look out, So that you may be "Not at Home" If any mortal callers come. Then shall arrive to make you mirth The four wise peoples of the earth: The thrifty ants who run around To fill their store-rooms underground; The rabbit-folk, a feeble race, From out their rocky sleeping-place; The grasshoppers who have no king, Yet come in companies to sing; The lizard slim who shyly stands Swaying upon his slender hands-- I'll give them all your new address. For me, my little anchoress, I'll never stir the bracken by Your house; the brown wood butterfly, Passing you like the sunshine's fleck That gilds the nape of your warm neck, Shall still report me how you do And bring me all the news of you, And tell me (where I sit alone) How gay you are, and how you're grown A fox-glove's span in the soft weather.
* * * *
No? Then we'll wander home together.
MRS. HELEN PARRY EDEN. July 24, 1912.
A Song of Syrinx
Little lady, whom 'tis said Pan tried very hard to please, I expect before you fled 'Neath the wondering willow-trees, Ran away from his caress In the Doric wilderness, That you'd led him on a lot, Said you would, and then would not,-- No way that to treat a man, Little lady loved of Pan!
I expect you'd dropped your eyes (Eyes that held your stream's own hue, Kingfishers and dragon-flies Sparkling in their ripple blue), And you'd tossed your tresses up, Yellow as the cool king-cup, And you'd dimpled at his vows Underneath the willow boughs, Ere you mocked him, ere you ran, Little lady loved of Pan!
So they've turned you to a reed, As the great Olympians could, You've to bow, so they've decreed, When old Pan comes through the wood, You've to curtsey and to gleam In the wind and in the stream (Which are forms, I've heard folks say, That the god adopts to-day), And we watch you bear your ban, Little lady loved of Pan!
For in pleasant spots you lie Where the lazy river is, Where the chasing whispers fly Through the beds of bulrushes, Where the big chub, golden dun, Turns his sides to catch the sun, Where one listens for the queer Voices in the splashing weir, Where I know that still you can Weave a spell to charm a man, Little lady loved of Pan!
P. R. CHALMERS. Sept. 13, 1911.
Honey Meadow
Here, Betsey, where the sainfoin blows Pink and the grass more thickly grows, Where small brown bees are winging To clamber up the stooping flowers, We'll share the sweet and sunny hours Made murmurous with their singing.
Dear, it requires no small address In such a billowy floweriness For you, so young, to sally; Yet would you still out-stay the sun And linger when his light was done Along the haunted valley.
O small brown fingers, clutched to seize The biggest blooms, don't spill the bees; Imagine what contempt he Would meet who ventured to arrive Home, of an evening, at the hive With both his pockets empty!
Moreover, if you steal their share, The bees become too poor to spare Their sweets nor part with any Honey at tea-time; so for you What were for them a cell too few Would be a sell too many!
Or, what were worse for you and me, They might admire the industry So thoughtlessly paraded, And, tired of their brown queen, maintain That no one needed Betsey-Jane As urgently as they did.
So would you taste in some far clime The plunder of eternal thyme And you would quite forget us, Our cottage and these English trees, When you were Queen of Honey Bees At Hybla or Hymettus.
MRS. HELEN PARRY EDEN. Sept. 18, 1912.
A Dream
And at night we'd find a town, Flat-roofed, by a star-strewn sea, Where the pirate crew came down To a long-forgotten quay, And we'd meet them in the gloaming, Tarry pigtails, back from roaming, With a pot of pirate ginger for the likes of her and me!
She was small and rather pale, Grey-eyed, grey as smoke that weaves, And we'd watch them stowing sail, Forty most attractive thieves; Propped against the porphyry column, She was seven, sweet and solemn, And she'd hair blue-black as swallows when they flit beneath the eaves.
On the moonlit sands and bare, Clamorous, jewelled in the dusk, There would be an Eastern Fair, We could smell the mules and musk, We could see the cressets flaring, And we'd run to buy a fairing Where a black man blew a fanfare on a carven ivory tusk;
And we'd stop before the stall Of a grave green-turbaned khan, Gem or flower--he kept them all-- Persian cat or yataghan, And I'd pay a golden guinea And she'd fill her holland pinny With white kittens and red roses and blue stones from Turkestan!
* * * *
London streets have flowers anew, London shops with gems are set; When you've none to give them to, What is pearl or violet? Vain things both and emptinesses, So they wait a dream-Princess's Coming, if she's sweet and solemn with grey eyes and hair of jet!
P. R. CHALMERS. Jan. 24, 1912.
A Vagrant
The humble bee No skep has he, No twisted, straw-thatched dome, A ferny crest Provides his nest, The mowing-grass his home.
The crook-beaked shrike His back may spike And pierce him with a thorn; The humble bee A tramp is he And there is none to mourn.
O'er bank and brook, In wooded nook, He wanders at his whim, Lives as he can, Owes naught to man, And man owes naught to him.
No hive receives The sweets he gives, No flowers for him are sown, Yet wild and gay He hums his way, A nomad on his own.
MISS JESSIE POPE. May 20, 1914.
"Treasure Island"
A lover breeze to the roses pleaded, Failed and faltered, took heart and advanced; Up over the peaches, unimpeded, A great Red Admiral ducked and danced; But the boy with the book saw not, nor heeded, Reading entranced--entranced!
He read, nor knew that the fat bees bumbled; He woke no whit to the tea-bell's touch, The browny pigeons that wheeled and tumbled, (For how should a pirate reck of such?). He read, and the flaming flower-beds crumbled, At tap of the sea-cook's crutch!
And lo, there leapt for him dolphins running The peacock seas of the buccaneer, Lone, savage reefs where the seals lay sunning, The curve of canvas, the creak of gear; For ever the Master's wondrous cunning Lent him of wizard lear!
* * * *
But lost are the garden days of leisure, Lost with their wide-eyed ten-year-old, Yet if you'd move to a bygone measure, Or shape your heart to an ancient mould, Maroons and schooners and buried treasure Wrought on a page of gold,--
Then take the book in the dingy binding, Still the magic comes, bearded, great, And swaggering files of sea-thieves winding Back, with their ruffling cut-throat gait, Reclaim an hour when we first went finding Pieces of Eight--of Eight.
P. R. CHALMERS. July 5, 1911.
Bazar
Dive in from the sunlight, smiting like a falchion, Underneath the awnings to the sudden shade, Saunter through the packed lane, many-voiced, colourful, Rippling with the currents of the South and Eastern trade.
Here are Persian carpets, ivory and peach-bloom, Tints to fill the heart of any child of man, Here are copper rose-bowls, leopard-skins, emeralds, Scarlet slippers curly-toed and beads from Kordofan.
Water-sellers pass with brazen saucers tinkling; Hajjis in the doorways tell their amber beads; Buy a lump of turquoise, a scimitar, a neckerchief Worked with rose and saffron for a lovely lady's needs.
Here we pass the goldsmiths, copper, brass and silver-smiths, All a-clang and jingle, all a-glint and gleam; Here the silken webs hang, shimmering, delicate, Soft-hued as an afterglow and melting as a dream.
Buy a little blue god brandishing a sceptre, Buy a dove with coral feet and pearly breast, Buy some ostrich feathers, silver shawls, perfume jars, Buy a stick of incense for the shrine that you love best.
MISS MACKELLAR. July 23, 1913.
A Fairy went A-Marketing
A fairy went a-marketing-- She bought a little fish; She put it in a crystal bowl Upon a golden dish; All day she sat in wonderment And watched its silver gleam. And then she gently took it up And slipped it in a stream.
A fairy went a-marketing-- She bought a coloured bird; It sang the sweetest, shrillest song That ever she had heard; She sat beside its painted cage And listened half the day, And then she opened wide the door And let it fly away.
A fairy went a-marketing-- She bought a winter gown All stitched about with gossamer And lined with thistledown; She wore it all the afternoon With prancing and delight, Then gave it to a little frog To keep him warm at night.
A fairy went a-marketing-- She bought a gentle mouse To take her tiny messages, To keep her tiny house; All day she kept its busy feet Pit-patting to and fro, And then she kissed its silken ears, Thanked it, and let it go.
MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. Jan. 2, 1918.
Fairies in the Malverns
As I walked over Hollybush Hill The sun was low and the winds were still, And never a whispering branch I heard Nor ever the tiniest call of a bird.
And when I came to the topmost height Oh, but I saw such a wonderful sight, All about on the hill-crest there The fairies danced in the golden air.
Danced and frolicked with never a sound In and out in a magical round; Wide and wider the circle grew Then suddenly melted into the blue.
* * * *
As I walked down into Eastnor Vale The stars already were twinkling pale, And over the spaces of dew-white grass I saw a marvellous pageant pass.
Tiny riders on tiny steeds Decked with blossoms and armed with reeds, With gossamer banners floating far And a radiant queen in an ivory car.
The beeches spread their petticoats wide And curtseyed low upon either side; The rabbits scurried across the glade To peep at the glittering cavalcade.
Far and farther I saw them go And vanish into the woods below; Then over the shadowy woodland ways I wandered home in a sweet amaze.
* * * *
But Malvern people need fear no ill Since fairies bide in their country still.
MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. Aug. 28, 1918.
Fairy Music
When the fiddlers play their tunes you may sometimes hear, Very softly chiming in, magically clear, Magically high and sweet, the tiny crystal notes Of fairy voices bubbling free from tiny fairy throats.
When the birds at break of day chant their morning prayers Or on sunny afternoons pipe ecstatic airs, Comes an added rush of sound to the silver din-- Songs of fairy troubadours gaily joining in.
When athwart the drowsy fields summer twilight falls, Through the tranquil air there float elfin madrigals; And in wild November nights, on the winds astride, Fairy hosts go rushing by, singing as they ride.
Every dream that mortals dream, sleeping or awake, Every lovely fragile hope--these the fairies take, Delicately fashion them and give them back again In tender limpid melodies that charm the hearts of men.
MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. Sept. 18, 1918.
Sometimes
Some days are fairy days. The minute that you wake You have a magic feeling that you never could mistake; You may not see the fairies, but you know they're all about, And any single minute they might all come popping out; You want to laugh, you want to sing, you want to dance and run, Everything is different, everything is fun; The sky is full of fairy clouds, the streets are fairy ways-- _Anything_ might happen on truly fairy days.
Some nights are fairy nights. Before you go to bed You hear their darling music go chiming in your head; You look into the garden and through the misty grey, You see the trees all waiting in a breathless kind of way. All the stars are smiling; they know that very soon The fairies will come singing from the land behind the moon. If only you could keep awake when Nurse puts out the light... _Anything_ might happen on a truly fairy night.
MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. June 16, 1920.
The Wild Swan
[Lament on a very rare bird who recently appeared in England, and was immediately shot.]
Over the sea (ye maids) a wild swan came; (O maidens) it was but the other day; Men saw him as he passed with earnest aim To some sequestered spot down Norfolk way-- A thing whose like had not been seen for years: _Lament, ye damsels, nor refuse your tears._
Serene, he winged his alabaster flight Neath the full beams of the mistaken sun O'er gazing crowds, till at th' unwonted sight Some unexpected sportsman with a gun Brought down the bird, all fluff, mid sounding cheers: _Mourn, maidens, mourn, and wipe the thoughtful tears._
Well you may weep. No common bird was he. Has it not long been known, the whole world wide, A wild swan is a prince of faerie, Who comes in such disguise to choose his bride From those of humble lot and tame careers, _Of whom I now require some punctual tears._
Wherefore, I say, let every scullion-wench Grieve, nor the dairy-maid from sobs refrain; The sad postmistress, too, should feel the wrench, And the lone tweeny of her loss complain; Let one--let all afflict the listening spheres: _Deplore, ye maids, his fate with rueful tears._
It was for these he sought this teeming land, High on the silvery wings of old romance; One knows not where he had bestowed his hand, But e'en the least had stood an equal chance Of such fair triumph o'er her bitter peers _And the sweet pleasure of their anguished tears._
O prince of faerie! O stately swan! And ye, whose hopes are with the might-have-beens, Curst be the wretch through whom those hopes have gone, Who blew your magic swain to smithereens; Let your full sorrows whelm his stricken ears; _Lament, ye damsels, nor refuse your tears._
CAPT. KENDALL. March 18, 1914.
The Strange Servant
Tall she is, and straight and slender, With soft hair beneath a cap Pent and pinned; within her lap Weep her lily hands, for work too tender.
She's a fairy, through transgression Doomed to doff her webby smock, Doomed to rise at six o'clock, Doomed to bear a mistress's repression.
Once she romped in fairy revels Down the dim moon-dappled glades, Rode on thrilling honey-raids, Danced the glow-lamps out on lawny levels.
Ere her trouble she was tiny: 'Tis her doom to be so tall; Thus her hair no more will fall To her feet, all shimmering and sunshiny.
O her eyes--like pools at twilight, Mournful, whence pale radiance peers! O her voice, that throbs with tears In the attic 'neath the staring skylight!