Part 7
Daylong does she household labour, Lights the fires and scrubs the floors, Washes up and answers doors, Ushers in the dread suburban neighbour.
Then at night she seeks her attic, Parts her clothes with those pale hands, Slips at last her shift, and stands Moon-caressed, most yearningly ecstatic,
Arms out pleads her condonation-- Hapless one! she gains no grace; They whom fairy laws abase Serve the utter term of tribulation.
Yet (though far her happy wood is) Oft her folk fly in at night, Pour sweet pity on her plight, Comfort her with gossipry and goodies.
W. W. BLAIR FISH. Oct. 1, 1916.
To an Egyptian Boy
Child of the gorgeous East, whose ardent suns Have kissed thy velvet skin to deeper lustre And given thine almond eyes A look more calm and wise Than any we pale Westerners can muster, Alas! my mean intelligence affords No clue to grasp the meaning of the words Which vehemently from thy larynx leap. How is it that the liquid language runs? "_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster---ferish--îp._"
E'en so, methinks, did CLEOPATRA woo Her vanquished victor, couched on scented roses And PHARAOH from his throne With more imperious tone Addressed in some such terms rebellious Moses; And esoteric priests in Theban shrines, Their ritual conned from hieroglyphic signs, Thus muttered incantations dark and deep To Isis and Osiris, Thoth and Shu: "_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster---ferish--îp._"
In all my youthful studies why was this Left out? What tutor shall I blame my folly on? From Sekhet-Hetepu Return to mortal view, O shade of BRUGSCH or MARIETTE or CHAMPOLLION; Expound the message latent in his speech Or send a clearer medium, I beseech; For lo! I listen till I almost weep For anguish at the priceless gems I miss: "_Nai--soring--trîf--erwonbi--aster--ferish--îp._"
To sundry greenish orbs arranged on trays-- Unripe, unluscious fruit--he draws attention. My mind, till now so dark, Receives a sudden spark That glows and flames to perfect comprehension; And I, whom no Rosetta Stone assists, Become the peer of Egyptologists, From whom exotic tongues no secrets keep; For this is what the alien blighter says: "Nice orang'; three for one piastre; very cheap."
H. W. BERRY. Jan. 8, 1919.
_In Memoriam_
In Memoriam
Algernon Charles Swinburne
BORN 1837. DIED APRIL 10, 1909.
What of the night? For now his day is done, And he, the herald of the red sunrise, Leaves us in shadow even as when the sun Sinks from the sombre skies.
High peer of SHELLEY, with the chosen few He shared the secrets of Apollo's lyre, Nor less from Dionysian altars drew The god's authentic fire.
Last of our land's great singers, dowered at birth With music's passion, swift and sweet and strong, Who taught in heavenly numbers, new to earth, The wizardry of song--
His spirit, fashioned after Freedom's mould, Impatient of the bonds that mortals bear, Achieves a franchise large and uncontrolled, Rapt through the void of air.
"What of the night?" For him no night can be; The night is ours, left songless and forlorn; Yet o'er the darkness, where he wanders free, Behold, a star is born!
SIR OWEN SEAMAN. APRIL 21, 1909.
In Memoriam
George Meredith, O.M.
BORN 1828. DIED MAY 18, 1909
Masked in the beauty of the May-dawn's birth, Death came and kissed the brow still nobly fair, And hushed that heart of youth for which the earth Still kept its morning air.
Long time initiate in her lovely lore, Now is he one with Nature's woods and streams Whereof, a Paradisal robe, he wore The visionary gleams.
Among her solitudes he moved apart; The mystery of her clouds and star-sown skies, Touched by the fusing magic of his art, Shone clear for other eyes.
When from his lips immortal music broke, It was the myriad voice of vale and hill; "The lark ascending" poured a song that woke An echo sweeter still.
Yet most we mourn his loss as one who gave The gift of laughter and the boon of tears, Interpreter of life, its gay and grave, Its human hopes and fears.
Seer of the soul of things, inspired to know Man's heart and woman's, over all he threw The spell of fancy's iridescent glow, The sheen of sunlit dew.
And of the fellowship of that great Age For whose return our eyes have waited long, None left so rich a twofold heritage Of high romance and song.
We knew him, fronted like the Olympian gods, Large in his loyalty to land and friend, Fearless to fight alone with Fortune's odds, Fearless to face the end.
And he is dead. And at the parting sign We speak, too late, the love he little guessed, And bid him in the nation's heart for shrine Take his eternal rest.
SIR OWEN SEAMAN. May 26, 1909.
In Memoriam
William Booth
FOUNDER AND COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE SALVATION ARMY.
BORN 1829. DIED AUGUST 20, 1912.
As theirs, the warrior knights of Christian fame, Who for the Faith led on the battle line, Who stormed the breach and swept through blood and flame Under the Cross for sign,
Such was his life's crusade; and, as their death Inspired in men a purpose pure of taint-- In some great cause to give their latest breath-- So died this soldier-saint.
Nay, his the nobler warfare, since his hands Set free the thralls of misery and her brood-- Hunger and haunting shame and sin that brands-- And gave them hope renewed.
Bruised souls, and bodies broken by despair, He healed their heartache and their wounds he dressed, And drew them, so redeemed, his task to share, Sworn to the same high quest.
Armed with the Spirit's wisdom for his sword, His feet with tidings of salvation shod, He knew no foes save only such as warred Against the peace of God.
Scorned or acclaimed, he kept his harness bright, Still, through the darkest hour, untaught to yield And at the last, his face toward the light, Fell on the victor's field.
No laurelled blazon rests above his bier, Yet a great people bows its stricken head Where he who fought without reproach or fear, Soldier of Christ, lies dead.
SIR OWEN SEAMAN. Aug. 28, 1912.
_The War_
Wireless
There sits a little demon Above the Admiralty, To take the news of seamen Seafaring on the sea; So all the folk aboard-ships Five hundred miles away Can pitch it to their Lordships At any time of day.
The cruisers prowl observant; Their crackling whispers go; The demon says, "Your servant," And lets their Lordships know; A fog's come down off Flanders? A something showed off Wick? The captains and commanders Can speak their Lordships quick.
The demon sits a-waking; Look up above Whitehall-- E'en now, mayhap, he's taking The Greatest Word of all; From smiling folk aboard-ships He ticks it off the reel:-- "An' may it please your Lordships: A Fleet's put out o' Kiel!"
P. R. CHALMERS. Nov. 11, 1914.
Guns of Verdun
Guns of Verdun point to Metz From the plated parapets; Guns of Metz grin back again O'er the fields of fair Lorraine.
Guns of Metz are long and grey Growling through a summer day; Guns of Verdun, grey and long, Boom an echo of their song.
Guns of Metz to Verdun roar, "Sisters, you shall foot the score"; Guns of Verdun say to Metz, "Fear not, for we pay our debts."
Guns of Metz they grumble, "When?" Guns of Verdun answer then, "Sisters, when to guard Lorraine Gunners lay you East again!"
P. R. CHALMERS. Sept. 2, 1914.
The Woods of France
MIDSUMMER 1915.
Not this year will the hamadryads sing The old-time songs of Arcady that ran Down the Lycæan glades; the joyous ring Of satyr dancers call away their clan; Not this year follow on the ripened Spring The Summer pipes of Pan.
Cometh a time--as times have come before-- When the loud legions rushing in array, The flying bullet and the cannon roar, Scatter the Forest Folk in pale dismay To hie them far from their green dancing floor, And wait a happier day.
Yet think not that your Forest Folk are dead; To this old haunt, when friend has vanquished foe, They will return anon with lightsome tread And labour that this place they love and know, All broken now and bruised, may raise its head And still in beauty grow.
Wherefore they wait the coming of good time In the green English woods down Henley way, In meadows where the tall cathedrals chime, Or watching from the white St. Margaret's Bay, Or North among the heather hills that climb Above the Tweed and Tay.
And you, our fighters in the woods of France, Take heart and smite their enemy, the Hun, Who knows not Arcady, by whom the dance Of fauns is scattered, at whose deeds the sun Hides in despair; strike boldly and perchance The work will soon be done.
To you, so fighting, messengers will bring The comfort of quiet places; in the din Of battle you shall hear the murmuring Of the home winds and waters; there will win Through to your hearts the word, "Still Pan is king; His Midsummer is in."
C. HILTON BROWN. June 23, 1915.
Summer and Sorrow
Brier rose and woodbine flaunting by the wayside, Field afoam with ox-eyes, crowfoot's flaming gold, Poppies in the corn-rig, broom on every braeside, Once again 'tis summer as in years of old-- Only in my bosom lags the winter's cold.
All among the woodland hyacinths are gleaming; O the blue of heaven glinting through the trees! Lapped in noonday languor Nature lies a-dreaming, Lulled to rest by droning clover-haunting bees. (Deeper dreams my dear love, slain beyond the seas.)
Lost against the sunlight happy larks are singing, Lowly list their loved ones nestled in the plain; Bright about my pathway butterflies are winging, Fair and fleet as moments mourned for now in vain-- In my eyes the shadow, at my heart the pain.
A. B. GILLESPIE. July 28, 1915.
Defaulters
For an extra drink Defaulters we, We cuts the lawn in front of the Mess; We're shoved in clink, Ten days C.B., And rolls the lawn in front of the Mess.
We picks up weeds And 'umps the coal; We trims the lawn in front of the Mess; We're plantin' seeds, The roads we roll, Likewise the lawn in front of the Mess.
The Officers they Are sloshin' balls On the lawn we've marked in front of the Mess; And every day Our names they call To rake the lawn in front of the Mess.
And once a while They 'as a "do" On the lawn in front of the Officers' Mess. Ain't 'arf some style, Band playin' too, On our bloomin' lawn in front of the Mess.
They dances about And digs their 'eels In our lawn in front of the Officers' Mess; There ain't no doubt As 'ow we feels For the lawn in front of the Officers' Mess.
The turf's gone west, And so you see There ain't much lawn in front of the Mess. We does our best, Gets more C.B., And mends the lawn in front of the Mess.
The C.O., who Sez 'e can see We loves the lawn in front of the Mess 'E knows this too-- Without C.B. There'd be no lawn in front of the Mess.
C. T. PEZARE. Aug. 11, 1915.
A Canadian to His Parents
Mother and Dad, I understand At last why you've for ever been Telling me how that way-off land Of yours was Home; for since I've seen The place that up to now was just a name I feel the same.
The college green, the village hall, St. Paul's, The Abbey, how could I Spell out your meaning, I whose all Was peaks that pricked a sun-down sky And endless prairie lands that stretched below Their pathless snow?
But now I've trodden magic stairs Age-rounded in a Norman fane, Beat time to bells that trembled prayers Down spangly banks of country lane, Throbbed with the universal heart that beats In London streets.
I'd heard of world-old chains that bind So tight that she can scarcely stir, Till tired Old England drops behind Live nations more awake than her, Like us out West. I thought it all was true Before I knew.
But England's sure what she's about, And moves along in work and rest Too big and set for brag and shout, And so I never might have guessed All that she means unless I'd watched her ways These battle-days.
And now I've seen what makes me proud Our chaps have proved a soldier's right To England; glad that I'm allowed My bit with her in field and fight; And since I'm come to join them Over There I claim my share.
C. CONWAY PLUMBE. Sept. 1, 1915.
"_Quat' Sous Lait_"
Marie Thérèse is passing fair, Marie Thérèse has red gold hair, Marie Thérèse is passing shy, And Marie Thérèse is passing by; Soldiers lounging along the street Smile as they rise to their aching feet, And with aching hearts they make their way After the maiden for _quat' sous lait_.
Beer in the mug is amber brown, Beer in the mug is the stuff to drown Dust and drought and a parching thirst; Beer in the mug comes an easy first, Except when Marie Thérèse is near, With the sun in her tresses so amber clear; Then quickly we leave our estaminets For Marie Thérèse's _quat' sous lait_.
Yvonne Pol of _La Belle Française_ Cannot compare with Marie Thérèse; Berthe of the "Coq" looks old and staid When one but thinks of our dairymaid; Beer in the mug is good to quench Thirsts of men who can speak no French; Heaven is ours who can smile and say, "Marie Thérèse, give me _quat' sous lait_."
DENIS GARSTIN. Aug. 18, 1915.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
LT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE. Dec. 8, 1915.
_Dulce et Decorum_
O young and brave, it is not sweet to die, To fall and leave no record of the race, A little dust trod by the passers-by, Swift feet that press your lonely resting-place; Your dreams unfinished, and your song unheard-- Who wronged your youth by such a careless word?
All life was sweet--veiled mystery in its smile; High in your hands you held the brimming cup; Love waited at your bidding for a while, Not yet the time to take its challenge up; Across the sunshine came no faintest breath To whisper of the tragedy of death.
And then, beneath the soft and shining blue, Faintly you heard the drum's insistent beat; The echo of its urgent note you knew, The shaken earth that told of marching feet; With quickened breath you heard your country's call, And from your hands you let the goblet fall.
You snatched the sword, and answered as you went, For fear your eager feet should be outrun, And with the flame of your bright youth unspent Went shouting up the pathway to the sun. O valiant dead, take comfort where you lie. So sweet to live? Magnificent to die!
MRS. ROBERTSON GLASGOW. Jan. 26, 1916.
The Nurse
Here in the long white ward I stand, Pausing a little breathless space, Touching a restless fevered hand, Murmuring comfort's commonplace--
Long enough pause to feel the cold Fingers of fear about my heart; Just for a moment, uncontrolled, All the pent tears of pity start.
While here I strive, as best I may, Strangers' long hours of pain to ease, Dumbly I question--_Far away Lies my beloved even as these?_
MISS G. M. MITCHELL. Aug. 30, 1916.
Jimmy--Killed in Action
Horses he loved, and laughter, and the sun, A song, wide spaces and the open air; The trust of all dumb living things he won, And never knew the luck too good to share.
His were the simple heart and open hand, And honest faults he never strove to hide; Problems of life he could not understand, But as a man would wish to die he died.
Now, though he will not ride with us again, His merry spirit seems our comrade yet, Freed from the power of weariness or pain, Forbidding us to mourn--or to forget.
W. K. HOLMES. Aug. 1, 1917.
The Inn o' the Sword
A SONG OF YOUTH AND WAR.
Roving along the King's highway I met wi' a Romany black. "Good day," says I; says he, "Good day, And what may you have in your pack?" "Why, a shirt," says I, "and a song or two To make the road go faster." He laughed: "Ye'll find or the day be through There's more nor that, young master. Oh, roving's good and youth is sweet And love is its own reward; But there's that shall stay your careless feet When ye come to the Sign o' the Sword."
"Riddle me, riddlemaree," quoth I, "Is a game that's ill to win, And the day is o'er fair such tasks to try"-- Said he, "Ye shall know at the inn." With that he suited his path to mine And we travelled merrily, Till I was ware of the promised sign And the door of an hostelry. And the Romany sang, "To the very life Ye shall pay for bed and board; Will ye turn aside to the House of Strife? Will ye lodge at the Inn o' the Sword?"
Then I looked at the inn 'twixt joy and fear, And the Romany looked at me. Said I, "We ha' come to a parting here And I know not who you be." But he only laughed as I smote on the door: "Go, take ye the fighting chance; Mayhap I once was a troubadour In the knightly days of France. Oh, the feast is set for those who dare And the reddest o' wine outpoured; And some sleep sound after peril and care At the Hostelry of the Sword."
A. L. JENKINS. Jan. 24, 1917.
The Lighted Way
Little beam of purest ray Lying like a path of glory Through the chimney-pots that sway Over London's topmost storey, Lighting to the knightly fray Pussies black and brown and gray, Lovesick tenors young and gay, Whiskered bassos old and hoary, Shining from my attic room Thou dost lure them to their doom.
How could I without thine aid Greet their ill-timed serenade? How discover in the dark If the hair-brush found its mark, Or distinguish hits from misses As the whistling soap-dish hisses, Lifting like a bursting bomb James, the next door neighbour's Tom?
Now by nailing half a kipper Neath thy radiance I can down (Aiming carefully at the brown With a bootjack or a slipper) Half the amorous cats in Town. Now as I remove my boots I can count the stricken brutes, Chalking as I pass to bed On the wall above my head, "Thirteen wounded, seven dead."
I have strafed the surly Fritz In the neighbourhood of "Wipers," Bombed the artless Turk to bits, Potted his elusive snipers, Blown his comfortable lair Like a nest of stinging vipers Several hundred feet in air; But the sport was tame, I wis, In comparison with this, When the bottle built for stout Lays the chief soprano out, And the heavy letter-weight Drums on her astonished mate, Ginger Bill, the bass, who falls Uttering fearful caterwauls.
* * * *
(_Later._) Baleful shaft of light, Blazing like a ruddy beacon, Guiding through the starless night Zeppelins that come to wreak on Sleeping Londoners the might Of Teutonic _schrecklichkeit_, Tears bedew the pillow white Which I lay my blenching cheek on, For the minion of the law, Who in peace-time droops and drowses, From a point of vantage saw, Gleaming high above the houses, Thee, incriminating ray, And--there is a fine to pay.
C. H. BRETHERTON. Nov. 8, 1916.
Hymn for High Places
In darkened days of strife and fear, When far from home and hold, I do essay my soul to cheer As did wise men of old; When folk do go in doleful guise And are for life afraid, I to the hills will lift mine eyes From whence doth come mine aid.
I shall my soul a temple make Where hills stand up on high; Thither my sadness shall I take And comfort there descry; For every good and noble mount This message doth extend-- That evil men must render count And evil days must end.
For, sooth, it is a kingly sight To see God's mountain tall That vanquisheth each lesser height As great hearts vanquish small; Stand up, stand up, ye holy hills, As saints and seraphs do, That ye may bear these present ills And lead men safely through.
Let high and low repair and go To where great hills endure; Let strong and weak be there to seek Their comfort and their cure; And for all hills in fair array Now thanks and blessings give, And, bearing healthful hearts away, Home go and stoutly live.
C. HILTON BROWN. Aug. 22, 1917.
To Smith in Mesopotamy
Master of Arts, how is it with you now? Our spires stand up against the saffron dawn And Isis breaks in silver at the prow Of many a skiff, and by each dewy lawn Purple and gold the tall flag-lilies stand; And SHELLEY sleeps above his empty tomb Hard by the staircase where you had your room, And all the scented lilacs are in bloom, But you are far from this our fairy-land.
Your heavy wheel disturbs the ancient dust Of empires dead ere Oxford saw the light. Those flies that form a halo round your crust And crawl into your sleeping-bag at night-- Their grandsires drank the blood of NADIR SHAH, And tapped the sacred veins of SULEYMAN; There flashed dread TIMOUR'S whistling yataghan, And soothed the tiger ear of GENGHIZ KHAN The cream of Tartary's battle-drunk "Heiyah!"
And yonder, mid the colour and the cries Of mosque and minaret and thronged bazaars And fringéd palm-trees dark against the skies HARUN AL RASCHID walked beneath the stars And heard the million tongues of old Baghdad, Till out of Basrah, as the dawn took wing, Came up the laden camels, string on string; But now there is not left them anything Of all the wealth and wisdom that they had.
Somehow I cannot see you, lean and browned, Chasing the swart Osmanli through the scrub Or hauling railroad ties and "steel mild round" Sunk in the sands of Irak to the hub, Heaping coarse oaths on Mesopotamy; But rather strewn in gentlemanly ease In some cool _serdab_ or beneath the trees That fringe the river-bank you hug your knees And watch the garish East go chattering by.
And at your side some wise old priest reclines And weaves a tale of dead and glorious days When MAMUN reigned; expounds the heavenly signs Whose movements fix the span of mortal days; Touches on Afreets and the ways of Djinns; Through his embroidered tale real heroes pass, RUSTUM the bold and BAHRAM the wild ass, Who never dreamed of using poisoned gas Or spread barbed wire before the foeman's shins.