Chapter 7
Out of the dim magical moonlit park, Out to the workday road and wider skies: There's a warm flush in the East where day's to rise, And I'm feeling the better for Coachman John's remark.
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_A Song of Exmoor_
The Forest above and the Combe below, On a bright September morn! He's the soul of a clod who thanks not God That ever his body was born! So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away! Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
_So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away! Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!_
Hark to the tufters' challenge true, 'Tis a note that the red-deer knows! His courage awakes, his covert he breaks, And up for the moor he goes! He's all his rights and seven on top, His eye's the eye of a king, And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride Before he leaves the ling!
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Here comes Antony bringing the pack, Steady! he's laying them on! By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's time To harden your heart and be gone. Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott's passed, Right for the North they race: He's leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate, And he's setting a pounding pace!
We're running him now on a breast-high scent, But he leaves us standing still; When we swing round by Westland Pound He's far up Challacombe Hill. The pack are a string of struggling ants, The quarry's a dancing midge, They're trying their reins on the edge of the Chains While he's on Cheriton Ridge.
He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor, He's gone by Woodcock's Ley; By the little white town he's turned him down, And he's soiling in open sea. So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away! We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!
_So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away! We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!_
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_Master and Man_
Do ye ken hoo to fush for the salmon? If ye'll listen I'll tell ye. Dinna trust to the books and their gammon, They're but trying to sell ye. Leave professors to read their ain cackle And fush their ain style; Come awa', sir, we'll oot wi' oor tackle And be busy the while.
'Tis a wee bit ower bright, ye were thinkin'? Aw, ye'll no be the loser; 'Tis better ten baskin' and blinkin' Than ane that's a cruiser. If ye're bent, as I tak it, on slatter, Ye should pray for the droot, For the salmon's her ain when there's watter, But she's oors when it's oot.
Ye may just put your flee-book behind ye, Ane hook wull be plenty; If they'll no come for this, my man, mind ye, They'll no come for twenty.
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Ay, a rod; but the shorter the stranger And the nearer to strike; For myself I prefare it nae langer Than a yard or the like.
Noo, ye'll stand awa' back while I'm creepin' Wi' my snoot i' the gowans; There's a bonny twalve-poonder a-sleepin' I' the shade o' yon rowans. Man, man! I was fearin' I'd stirred her, But I've got her the noo! Hoot! fushin's as easy as murrder When ye ken what to do.
Na, na, sir, I doot na ye're willin' But I canna permit ye, For I'm thinkin' that yon kind o' killin' Wad hardly befit ye. And some work is deefficult hushin', There'd be havers and chaff: 'Twull be best, sir, for you to be fushin' And me wi' the gaff.
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_Gavotte_
(OLD FRENCH)
Memories long in music sleeping, No more sleeping, No more dumb: Delicate phantoms softly creeping Softly back from the old-world come.
Faintest odours around them straying, Suddenly straying In chambers dim; Whispering silks in order swaying, Glimmering gems on shoulders slim:
Courage advancing strong and tender, Grace untender Fanning desire; Suppliant conquest, proud surrender, Courtesy cold of hearts on fire--
Willowy billowy now they're bending, Low they're bending Down-dropt eyes; Stately measure and stately ending, Music sobbing, and a dream that dies.
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_Imogien_
(A LADY OF TENDER AGE)
Ladies, where were your bright eyes glancing, Where were they glancing yesternight? Saw ye Imogen dancing, dancing, Imogen dancing all in white? Laughed she not with a pure delight, Laughed she not with a joy serene, Stepped she not with a grace entrancing, Slenderly girt in silken sheen?
All through the night from dusk to daytime Under her feet the hours were swift, Under her feet the hours of playtime Rose and fell with a rhythmic lift: Music set her adrift, adrift, Music eddying towards the day Swept her along as brooks in Maytime Carry the freshly falling May.
Ladies, life is a changing measure, Youth is a lilt that endeth soon;
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Pluck ye never so fast at pleasure, Twilight follows the longest noon. Nay, but here is a lasting boon, Life for hearts that are old and chill, Youth undying for hearts that treasure Imogen dancing, dancing still.
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_Nel Mezzo Del Cammin_
Whisper it not that late in years Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter, Life be freed of tremor and tears, Heads be wiser and hearts be lighter. Ah! but the dream that all endears, The dream we sell for your pottage of truth-- Give us again the passion of youth, Sorrow shall fade and the world be brighter.
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_The Invasion_
Spring, they say, with his greenery Northward marches at last, Mustering thorn and elm; Breezes rumour him conquering, Tell how Victory sits High on his glancing helm.
Smit with sting of his archery, Hardest ashes and oaks Burn at the root below: Primrose, violet, daffodil, Start like blood where the shafts Light from his golden bow.
Here where winter oppresses us Still we listen and doubt, Dreading a hope betrayed: Sore we long to be greeting him, Still we linger and doubt "What if his march be stayed?"
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Folk in thrall to the enemy, Vanquished, tilling a soil Hateful and hostile grown; Always wearily, warily, Feeding deep in the heart Passion they dare not own--
So we wait the deliverer; Surely soon shall he come, Soon shall his hour be due: Spring shall come with his greenery, Life be lovely again, Earth be the home we knew.
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_Rilloby-Rill_
Grasshoppers four a-fiddling went, Heigh-ho! never be still! They earned but little towards their rent But all day long with their elbows bent They fiddled a tune called Rilloby-rilloby, Fiddled a tune called Rilloby-rill.
Grasshoppers soon on Fairies came, Heigh-ho! never be still! Fairies asked with a manner of blame, "Where do you come from, what is your name? What do you want with your Rilloby-rilloby, What do you want with your Rilloby-rill?"
"Madam, you see before you stand, Heigh-ho! never be still! The Old Original Favourite Grand Grasshopper's Green Herbarian Band, And the tune we play is Rilloby-rilloby, Madam, the tune is Rilloby-rill."
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Fairies hadn't a word to say, Heigh-ho! never be still! Fairies seldom are sweet by day, But the Grasshoppers merrily fiddled away, O but they played with a willoby-rilloby, O but they played with a willoby-will!
Fairies slumber and sulk at noon, Heigh-ho! never be still! But at last the kind old motherly moon Brought them dew in a silver spoon, And they turned to ask for Rilloby-rilloby, One more round of Rilloby-rill.
Ah! but nobody now replied, Heigh-ho! never be still! When day went down the music died, Grasshoppers four lay side by side, And there was an end of their Rilloby-rilloby, There was an end of their Rilloby-rill.
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_Pereunt Et Imputantur_
(AFTER MARTIAL)
Bernard, if to you and me Fortune all at once should give Years to spend secure and free, With the choice of how to live, Tell me, what should we proclaim Life deserving of the name?
Winning some one else's case? Saving some one else's seat? Hearing with a solemn face People of importance bleat? No, I think we should not still Waste our time at others' will.
Summer noons beneath the limes, Summer rides at evening cool, Winter's tales and home-made rhymes, Figures on the frozen pool-- These would we for labours take, And of these our business make.
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Ah! but neither you nor I Dare in earnest venture so; Still we let the good days die And to swell the reckoning go. What are those that know the way, Yet to walk therein delay?
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_Felix Antonius_
(AFTER MARTIAL)
To-day, my friend is seventy-five; He tells his tale with no regret, His brave old eyes are steadfast yet, His heart the lightest heart alive.
He sees behind him green and wide The pathway of his pilgrim years; He sees the shore, and dreadless hears The whisper of the creeping tide.
For out of all his days, not one Has passed and left its unlaid ghost To seek a light for ever lost, Or wail a deed for ever done.
So for reward of life-long truth He lives again, as good men can, Redoubling his allotted span With memories of a stainless youth.
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_Ireland, Ireland_
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Down thy valleys green and sad, Still thy spirit wanders wailing, Wanders wailing, wanders mad.
Long ago that anguish took thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and fair, Spoilers strong in darkness took thee, Broke thy heart and left thee there.
Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Still thy spirit wanders mad; All too late they love that wronged thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and sad.
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_Hymn_
IN THE TIME OF WAR AND TUMULTS
O Lord Almighty, Thou whose hands Despair and victory give; In whom, though tyrants tread their lands, The souls of nations live;
Thou wilt not turn Thy face away From those who work Thy will, But send Thy peace on hearts that pray, And guard Thy people still.
Remember not the days of shame, The hands with rapine dyed, The wavering will, the baser aim, The brute material pride:
Remember, Lord, the years of faith, The spirits humbly brave, The strength that died defying death, The love that loved the slave;
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The race that strove to rule Thine earth With equal laws unbought: Who bore for Truth the pangs of birth, And brake the bonds of Thought.
Remember how, since time began, Thy dark eternal mind Through lives of men that fear not man Is light for all mankind.
Thou wilt not turn Thy face away From those who work Thy will, But send Thy strength on hearts that pray For strength to serve Thee still.
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_The Building of the Temple_
(AN ANTHEM HEARD IN CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL)
_The Organ._
O Lord our God, we are strangers before Thee, and sojourners, as were all our fathers: our days on the earth are as a shadow, and there is none abiding.
O Lord God of our fathers, keep this for ever in the imagination of the thoughts of Thy people, and prepare their heart unto Thee.
And give unto Solomon my son a perfect heart to keep Thy commandments, and to build the palace for the which I have made provision.
_Boys' voices._
O come to the Palace of Life, Let us build it again. It was founded on terror and strife, It was laid in the curse of the womb, And pillared on toil and pain, And hung with veils of doom, And vaulted with the darkness of the tomb.
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_Men's voices._
O Lord our God, we are sojourners here for a day, Strangers and sojourners, as all our fathers were: Our years on the earth are a shadow that fadeth away; Grant us light for our labour, and a time for prayer.
_Boys._
But now with endless song, And joy fulfilling the Law; Of passion as pure as strong And pleasure undimmed of awe; With garners of wine and grain Laid up for the ages long, Let us build the Palace again And enter with endless song, Enter and dwell secure, forgetting the years of wrong.
_Men._
O Lord our God, we are strangers and sojourners here, Our beginning was night, and our end is hid in Thee: Our labour on the earth is hope redeeming fear, In sorrow we build for the days we shall not see.
_Boys._
Great is the name Of the strong and skilled, Lasting the fame Of them that build:
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The tongues of many nations Shall speak of our praise, And far generations Be glad for our days.
_Men._
We are sojourners here as all our fathers were, As all our children shall be, forgetting and forgot: The fame of man is a murmur that passeth on the air, We perish indeed if Thou remember not.
We are sojourners here as all our fathers were, Strangers travelling down to the land of death: There is neither work nor device nor knowledge there, O grant us might for our labour, and to rest in faith.
_Boys._
In joy, in the joy of the light to be,
_Men._
O Father of Lights, unvarying and true,
_Boys._
Let us build the Palace of Life anew.
_Men._
Let us build for the years we shall not see.
_Boys._
Lofty of line and glorious of hue, With gold and pearl and with the cedar tree,
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_Men._
With silence due And with service free,
_Boys._
Let us build it for ever in splendour new.
_Men._
Let us build in hope and in sorrow, and rest in Thee.
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_Epistle_
TO COLONEL FRANCIS EDWARD YOUNGHUSBAND
Across the Western World, the Arabian Sea, The Hundred Kingdoms and the Rivers Three, Beyond the rampart of Himalayan snows, And up the road that only Rumour knows, Unchecked, old friend, from Devon to Thibet, Friendship and Memory dog your footsteps yet.
Let not the scornful ask me what avails So small a pack to follow mighty trails: Long since I saw what difference must be Between a stream like you, a ditch like me. This drains a garden and a homely field Which scarce at times a living current yield; The other from the high lands of his birth Plunges through rocks and spurns the pastoral earth, Then settling silent to his deeper course Draws in his fellows to augment his force, Becomes a name, and broadening as he goes, Gives power and purity where'er he flows, Till, great enough for any commerce grown, He links all nations while he serves his own.
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Soldier, explorer, statesman, what in truth Have you in common with homekeeping youth? "Youth" comes your answer like an echo faint; And youth it was that made us first acquaint. Do you remember when the Downs were white With the March dust from highways glaring bright, How you and I, like yachts that toss the foam, From Penpole Fields came stride and stride for home? One grimly leading, one intent to pass, Mile after mile we measured road and grass, Twin silent shadows, till the hour was done, The shadows parted and the stouter won. Since then I know one thing beyond appeal-- How runs from stem to stern a trimbuilt keel. Another day--but that's not mine to tell, The man in front does not observe so well; Though, spite of all these five-and-twenty years, As clear as life our schoolday scene appears. The guarded course, the barriers and the rope; The runners, stripped of all but shivering hope; The starter's good grey head; the sudden hush; The stern white line; the half-unconscious rush; The deadly bend, the pivot of our fate; The rope again; the long green level straight; The lane of heads, the cheering half unheard; The dying spurt, the tape, the judge's word.
You, too, I doubt not, from your Lama's hall Can see the Stand above the worn old wall,
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Where then they clamoured as our race we sped, Where now they number our heroic dead.* As clear as life you, too, can hear the sound Of voices once for all by "lock-up" bound, And see the flash of eyes still nobly bright But in the "Bigside scrimmage" lost to sight.
Old loves, old rivalries, old happy times, These well may move your memory and my rhymes; These are the Past; but there is that, my friend, Between us two, that has nor time nor end. Though wide apart the lines our fate has traced Since those far shadows of our boyhood raced, In the dim region all men must explore-- The mind's Thibet, where none has gone before-- Rounding some shoulder of the lonely trail We met once more, and raised a lusty hail.
"Forward!" cried one, "for us no beaten track, No city continuing, no turning back: The past we love not for its being past, But for its hope and ardour forward cast: The victories of our youth we count for gain Only because they steeled our hearts to pain, And hold no longer even Clifton great Save as she schooled our wills to serve the State.
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Nay, England's self, whose thousand-year-old name Burns in our blood like ever-smouldering flame, Whose Titan shoulders as the world are wide And her great pulses like the Ocean tide, Lives but to bear the hopes we shall not see-- Dear mortal Mother of the race to be."
Thereto you answered, "Forward! in God's name; I own no lesser law, no narrower claim. A freeman's Reason well might think it scorn To toil for those who may be never born, But for some Cause not wholly out of ken, Some all-directing Will that works with men, Some Universal under which may fall The minor premiss of our effort small; In Whose unending purpose, though we cease, We find our impulse and our only peace."
So passed our greeting, till we turned once more, I to my desk and you to rule Indore. To meet again--ah! when? Yet once we met, And to one dawn our faces still are set.
EXETER, _September_ 10, 1904.
* In the school quadrangle at Clifton, the site from which, upon occasion, the grand stand used to overlook the Close, is now occupied by the Memorial to those Cliftonians who fell in the South African War.
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_An Essay on Criticism_
'Tis hard to say if greater waste of time Is seen in writing or in reading rhyme; But, of the two, less dangerous it appears To tire our own than poison others' ears. Time was, the owner of a peevish tongue, The pebble of his wrath unheeding flung, Saw the faint ripples touch the shore and cease, And in the duckpond all again was peace. But since that Science on our eyes hath laid The wondrous clay from her own spittle made, We see the widening ripples pass beyond, The pond becomes the world, the world a pond, All ether trembles when the pebble falls, And a light word may ring in starry halls. When first on earth the swift iambic ran Men here and there were found but nowhere Man. From whencesoe'er their origin they drew, Each on its separate soil the species grew, And by selection, natural or not, Evolved a fond belief in one small spot. The Greek himself, with all his wisdom, took For the wide world his bright Aegean nook, {221}
For fatherland, a town, for public, all Who at one time could hear the herald bawl: For him barbarians beyond his gate Were lower beings, of a different date; He never thought on such to spend his rhymes, And if he did, they never read the _Times_. Now all is changed, on this side and on that, The Herald's learned to print and pass the hat; His tone is so much raised that, far or near, All with a sou to spend his news may hear,-- And who but, far or near, the sou affords To learn the worst of foreigners and lords! So comes the Pressman's heaven on earth, wherein One touch of hatred proves the whole world kin-- "Our rulers are the best, and theirs the worst, Our cause is always just and theirs accurst, Our troops are heroes, hirelings theirs or slaves, Our diplomats but children, theirs but knaves, Our Press for independence justly prized, Theirs bought or blind, inspired or subsidized. For the world's progress what was ever made Like to our tongue, our Empire and our trade?" So chant the nations, till at last you'd think Men could no nearer howl to folly's brink; Yet some in England lately won renown By howling word for word, but upside down.
But where, you cry, could poets find a place (If poets we possessed) in this disgrace? {222}
Mails will be mails, Reviews must be reviews, But why the Critic with the Bard confuse? Alas! Apollo, it must be confessed Has lately gone the way of all the rest. No more alone upon the far-off hills With song serene the wilderness he fills, But in the forum now his art employs And what he lacks in knowledge gives in noise. At first, ere he began to feel his feet, He begged a corner in the hindmost sheet, Concealed with Answers and Acrostics lay, And held aloof from Questions of the Day. But now, grown bold, he dashes to the front, Among the leaders bears the battle's brunt, Takes steel in hand, and cheaply unafraid Spurs a lame Pegasus on Jameson's Raid, Or pipes the fleet in melodrama's tones To ram the Damned on their Infernal Thrones.
Sure, Scriblerus himself could scarce have guessed The Art of Sinking might be further pressed: But while these errors almost tragic loom The Indian Drummer has but raised a boom. "So well I love my country that the man Who serves her can but serve her on my plan; Be slim, be stalky, leave your Public Schools To muffs like Bobs and other flannelled fools; The lordliest life (since Buller made such hay) Is killing men two thousand yards away;
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You shoot the pheasant, but it costs too much And does not tend to decimate the Dutch; Your duty plainly then before you stands, Conscription is the law for seagirt lands; Prate not of freedom! Since I learned to shoot I itch to use my ammunition boot."
An odd way this, we thought, to criticize-- This barrackyard "Attention! d---- your eyes!" But England smiled and lightly pardoned him, For was he not her Mowgli and her Kim? But now the neighbourhood remonstrance roars, He's naughty still, and naughty out of doors. 'Tis well enough that he should tell Mamma Her sons are tired of being what they are, But to give friendly bears, expecting buns, A paper full of stale unwholesome Huns-- One might be led to think, from all this work, That little master's growing quite a Turk.
O Rudyard, Rudyard, in our hours of ease (Before the war) you were not hard to please: You loved a regiment whether fore or aft, You loved a subaltern, however daft, You loved the very dregs of barrack life, The amorous colonel and the sergeant's wife. You sang the land where dawn across the Bay Comes up to waken queens in Mandalay, The land where comrades sleep by Cabul ford, And Valour, brown or white, is Borderlord, {224}
The secret Jungle-life of child and beast, And all the magic of the dreaming East. These, these we loved with you, and loved still more The Seven Seas that break on Britain's shore, The winds that know her labour and her pride, And the Long Trail whereon our fathers died.