Part 2
Beautiful silent days, Raised from the silent past, In the pregnant chords of a once loved song Memory speaks at last.
Of the golden summer eves, Shrined in the mists of years And a world of hopes! Dear God, what hopes, Born to the soul in tears.
But the youthful hopes creep by, Stealing with solemn chime To a finite grave. They will rise in faith When Eternity conquers Time.
Dream-laden, tender song, Sacred and sweet and old, With the lingering touch of a bygone age, I have scanned again in thy down-turned page, A tale that was long since told.
The Sinner's Dreaming
When the great sun flung bands of gold (Bands to the number of seven) On the limpid sea, we followed the gold And climbed on our way to Heaven.
There to the portals of cloud and storm, Piled high in the regions of thunder, Till we reached the sky, in its columns of storm, And God's gates rolled asunder.
Below, the world like a ball of mist With us, pearl and jacinth and beryl, And it faded away, that pearl-grey mist, And we clung to the gates in peril.
Myrrh and incense, and jacinth and pearl, How we cringed on the floor of Heaven! And the great sun drew its bands from the pearl. Bands to the number of seven.
And now, as we gaze from our star-crowned sphere To the shadows, where earth is seeming, We know that that hazy circling sphere Was only a sinner's dreaming!
Woman
When God made woman Fair He made her, as the rose; Her face upturned to catch His radiant smile; His sunbeams lurked the while About her lips; with care He chose Her hair and glory, and her round white throat, The pillared keeper of her woman's note. God filled her eyes with innocence and love, And glimpsing lights from out His skies above. The Father knew that she was beautiful. And yet, to make her nobly dutiful To Him, within her breast He set a shrine, all holy and possessed In shining mystery. And few who know To enter in. The evading flame aglow That fills the shrine, is white as unshed snow. And deep within that casket of her breast Are secret joys, to God alone confessed.
Christmas
White the weather, white the weather! Stars and ice at one together, Shining frost on cracking branches, Snow in pale smooth avalanches. White the weather, wintry weather.
Wan the way, where once the heather Bloomed in radiant summer weather, Sparkling icicles moon-lustred Droop, where once the green leaves clustered. Life is sleeping, held in tether.
Once a Babe was born this weather, Three Wise Men set forth together; Once a Star of wondrous glory Told the Christ's triumphant story. Wintry weather!--God's own weather! All the world washed white together!
February
I do not sing for youth and love, For passion and desire, I only sing because the sun Is gold like shining fire; I only sing because the day Is blue, the grass is green, The birds are singing out their hearts, The waking twigs between!
Because the chestnut branch is tipped With buds of folded brown, Because the snowdrops look so white, The catkins feather down, Because the naked elms have bent To whisper me this thing-- The sap is stirring in their limbs-- How can I choose, but sing!
Oh! 'Tis May
Come and idle in the sun, Come and idle, everyone, Flowering May Is wholly gay, Come and idle in the sun.
Come and smell the new-mown lawn, Fragrant grass, and dew-wet dawn. Buds unfold, And leaves grown bold Spread great shadows on the lawn.
Come and hear the chaffinch trill, Hear the lark and thrushes thrill! Come along, _Such_ a song, Such a chorus bright and shrill.
_Won't_ you come? Hear the hum, Hear the hum of tireless bee. Come with me, Wilt not idle for a day? Wilt not shirk Thy waste of work? _This_ is life, this radiant play Nature keeps for flowering May. Buds and bees and grass and flower Make a sweeter, holier hour Than all drab years of labour dour. Come away, Come and play, Come and glory in the sun, Come and laugh! Come, everyone.
Flowering May Is fresh and gay, Come and greet the golden sun. Come away, Come and play, Come, oh! come out, everyone!
To the Wind
Wind, wind, Do you whisper eerie sonnets to the moon As it rises white and sickled? Do you croon Silver-coloured ditties pale and low As you rock the cedar branches too and fro? Do you sing to woo the bat, Is it that, is it that? Have you tunes for such a sullen little wraith, Half dream, swooping high, scarcely seen, chiefly faith? Would you hold a phantom to your breast As you murmur gently love-notes from the west?
Wind, wind, Every tree is but a harp for your desire, Every leaf a mellow string to swell your choir, Every grass a cooing reed At your need, for your need, Drums and clashing cymbals of the sea Boom a paean, hurl a flood of melody.
Wind, wind, Men have snatched an air or two Of a fantasy from you And have prisoned them in books to make them stay, Scattered fragments that your lips have blown this way. Small and shy and thin and cramped and grave, They are caged and tied to paper in a stave. Do you mind, Oh Wind?
But you laugh and troll out gaily on your way, "Keep the fragments, little earth-men, dance and play, 'Tis a dainty roundelay, Hold it, pray; hold it, pray. For myself, my breath is fierce, myself am great, For my tiny fallen airs I dare not wait; Storms beneath my rushing wings unfurled Roll the symphonies which dominate the world."
The Grey Wind
I have been, where never man went, With the grey wind: Far from the gorse and the wet earth scent I have been.
I have seen, what no man hath seen With the grey wind: I have cowered down his knees between: I have seen.
I have heard, what no man hath heard With the grey wind: The dry leaves crackle and snap at his word I have heard.
I have heard, and I watched them fly All the wild leaves In a hustled crowd, to the stormy sky, At his word.
And they swept in a whirlwind wan, Churned by his breath, Out to the windways, where never sun shone, Forth they swept.
Whiles they leapt in a maddened dance, Swung scatterwise; Eddied and swirled to a swift advance Till they crept
Spent and worn, in their frenzied fear, Leaves of brown-gold Chittering feebly in masses sere, Crazed and slow:
And I know, what never man knew, Those poor dead leaves Are the souls of men the grey wind slew-- This I know.
Poeta Nascitur
Tho' all mayn't know it, Rules only, never made a poet.
He thought to shape his writings into verse, He pruned them down to language fixed and terse, But finding that would give his tricks no play, Spurned his reserve, and tried another way.
This time he dressed the naked words with care, Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair, And studying every law of form and rhyme, Pieced up his metre into studious time.
But still, whatever medium he chose, His work remained poor, tortured, unsexed prose.
One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the vale He felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale-- Stooping, he caught a whisper from the sky That slipped from out the twilight whimsically.
Its tender sorrow touched him as it fell, Quickened his fancies, stirred his heart as well, In reverent awe he heard its mystic call, A heaven-born glory permeating all.
He did not dare to pin that whisper down To words so peacocked in a flaunting gown, The forms of metre he had conned so well Were all inadequate that sigh to tell.
No further use that artificial code, Those simpered rhymes, his petty bandbox mode Of tight-packed trumpery. No need to pace The solemn pavements of the commonplace.
Each little trick, each fantasy of art Were stones that blocked th' outpourings of his heart. He looked beyond the great inrushing sea, Seeing at last the hidden things that be!
And of the wave he learnt a cadence sweet, Strong as its life, a lilt of rippling feet, Whilst from the wind that swept the answering trees He culled the moaning rhythm of the breeze.
He weaved that whisper of the twilight sky Into a poem, soft with melody, It thrilled the soul in motion strong and free, Wild as the wave, a break of ecstasy.
It kissed the borderland 'twixt heaven and earth, Sweet in its passion, holy in its mirth-- And lo! a light gleamed through each noble line, The wind crooned softly, starways seemed to shine-- That poem--was divine.
Queen Elizabeth
She would dance a Coranto, that the French Ambassador, hidden behind a curtain, might report her sprightliness to his master.--GREENE.
So Elizabeth danced And the guest was entranced As she tripped the Coranto, and curtseyed and swayed In a robe of rich stuff, Jewelled slashings and ruff, And a stomacher stiff, thick with pearlings and braid. Ho! he peeped round the curtain, 'Tis perfectly certain Enraptured of mien At the tiptoeing Queen, In a courtly way, in a Frenchy way, In a naughty way, in that Tudor day.
Yes, he peeped round the screen, And he sniggered ("I ween, This is only a woman to flatter and kiss, A creature of vanity")--"Madam, what bliss To have witnessed such grace, such elegant----" here He could find no more words, and emotion 'twas clear Choked all further utterance, For never had such a dance Entered his thought. Such slippers! and ought He to mention the hose? All of silk to suppose? Had the muse from Olympus stepped down for a while Terpsichore style? Then quite without guile He bowed very low in his Frenchified way, In that courtly way, of a far-off day, And the laugh of the lady was merry and gay.
And all throughout Europe the fame of her spread, Her frivolous tricks, and the foreigners said It was only a princess, a slave to her pride, True child of a mother a king had decried!-- So she thwarted and twisted the world to her whim As he misunderstood her--she outwitted him!
Now one day it arose that King Philip of Spain, Incensed at her folly, essayed yet again To bring her to reason Just at his own season. So he sent his Ambassador, Spanish Mendoza, To this slippery Queen, with a message sub rosa.
"Nay, by mine honour," she simpered. "How now, Is it truce to my jest? 'Tis a pity I trow. It were best to be merry!" She yawned very wide, And the Spaniard furtively smiled at her side. 'Twas only a woman to flatter and kiss, 'Twould be easy to manage a creature like this!
Hard-headed and wise, sat the gaunt English Queen, Her words were unyielding, her purse it was mean-- The Spanish Ambassador Writhed like a matador! Beaten and wounded, he played to her vanity. --It was tucked out of sight--and with Spanish profanity He cursed all the Protestants under his breath, And committed them gently to burnings and death; But never an inch did Elizabeth yield, And the messenger saw that his mission was sealed, In that far-off day. And Elizabeth laughed In a curious way That was subtle with craft: "Under favour, you may Tell your master in Spain, that my country comes first. I am England, and English, its best and its worst. Tell him my subjects I love as my children, Tell him they thirst but their mouths will be filled when They meet him at sea. Give that greeting from me."
Back to Madrid went that Spanish Ambassador, Broken and bruised like a bull-beaten matador, And he bowed very low (It was etiquette so) And he cried, "Oh, that Queen is the devil in sooth. A fool, Sire, 'twas thought, for she danced so uncouth! But her bargains are hard as her heart and her hand, As her dreary dominions, her men and her land! And never be gulled by her feminine vanity, 'Tis only a pose, all her vacant inanity! Let us man an armada to crush her and raid her, To send her to hell to the demons who made her!"
And they came, as you know: Heavy ships big and slow In a lumbering way, in a blundering way In that Tudor day. Proudly up channel their galleons swept, Swiftly our pinnaces hustled and leapt At their rear. Dogs tracking their prey And biting and snapping And snarling and yapping, Delighted and fierce at the chance of a fray.
God! How the Spaniards fled in a panic When our fire-ships had neared them, And blazed them, and seared them, Wrapping their hulks in red flamings Satanic! God, how they scattered, Slipped anchor, and shattered, Sails tattered, Masts battered, Up to the north whilst a mighty sou'-wester Rose wildly and strong, to hinder and pester Their perilous flight; how they foundered and sank On that treacherous bank, Lost, lost evermore On our alien shore.
With their grim freight of death And the poisonous breath Of scurvy and pestilence, hunger, despair, The struggling remainder of galleons bear Them back to the port of Corunna again, All, all that is left to the pride of proud Spain.
Courageous and calm, with the valour of men Elizabeth waited the chances; and then "My children are fed And their enemies dead," Cried the frivolous Queen. Majestic of mien She towered, her wisdom and high inspiration, The might of a people, the soul of a nation.
L'Envoie
(And even to-day I will wager that no man Can fathom the mind or the depths of a woman!)
The Death of Queen Elizabeth
Only So lonely, Was ever woman quite so lonely? Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchanged For nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged, Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor, Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before-- Elizabeth.
Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrown That gorgeous England, which was once her own. Those solemn courtiers pacing to and fro Outside the palace, neither care nor know The dying Queen is lonely!
Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate? And she, contemptuous victim once of hate And score of plots, plunges her naked sword Thrice through the arras, which had never stirred-- Afraid!--_Elizabeth?_
Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old, She shivers, this gay daughter of a gold Entrancing age. The debonair gallant Who sang her, now the mocking sycophant. The ministers she trusted, gone. The throne She loved with all her passion, left for one Of stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, she Shrinks from the new and cold sobriety Of chill advancing fashion. Only Death To woo this poor--this great Elizabeth! Was ever woman quite so lonely?
The Plea of the Antarctic
The best people to judge are those who served under Captain Scott. Had we been in the same place as the victims we should have wished our bodies to remain at rest where we had given our best efforts in the cause we earnestly believed in.--COMMANDER EVANS.
Out of the ice-bound realms a clear voice said, "Give me the right to bury my great dead. No green-girt lands can honour them as I, Nor wrap them round in such pale purity.
"Leave them with me, alone in my white world, Place England's flag above their cairns unfurled. I need great souls! Great Hero souls to bless And consecrate my snowy wilderness."
The Stranger in London
'Tis a big, big place!-- And the clouds that gather the grey skies in Are frayed by chimneys black and old, Serried stacks of grime and sin. And every road and every street Has a secret tale to guard and hold, Mid the echoing tones of passing feet. Oh weary place! Brimmed up with life, confused in sound, I have little part in your daily round, For I wander lonely--stranger bound.
There are houses surely which open their door To those they know, For me they stand in a formal row Story on story, floor upon floor, Shielding themselves from the crimson sun, From the on-rolling mutter Of traffic and wagon, of footstep and cry, With curtain and shutter. Mute houses which shun All light, sound and me Inexorably.
Sometimes when I toss on my pillow at night, When the spluttering rain Spreads the smuts on the pane, I dream that those mansions relax their grim pride And opening wide Their intimate hearts to me, Chill taciturnity Melts in the warmth of rich colour and fire. Vast halls are alight With radiant desire To show hospitality. Lavish regality Squanders the staircase in flowers and green. And I wander unseen Through the great pillared corridors, kiss the soft red Of the shimmering hangings; the sensuous glow Ablaze in the hearth thrills me throughly, I know There is place for me there, in those homes I thought dead.
But sleep's "Open, Sesame" Fails with the light, Forcing the hopes of me Back into night. Never to open, never to see Stern cold houses Closed to me!
Gathering storms which smirch the sky, Burst your bonds, for up on high May I come in? I have no part in this world, no home, No love to hold me. Bid me come, I would warm myself at your great round sun, I would open your windows one by one. Your little stars and your crescent moon. I am tired and thin, I think I shall come and see you soon. May I come in, may I come in?
The Transvaal in June
Under the deep blue vault Of a hot relentless sky, Burns the hot red deep, and the hot red road, And the choking dust like a rust corrode Soars up in spirals high.
Under the sun-gilt span Of a hot and brazen sky, Cries the thirsty drift for a summer rain, Baring its naked stones in vain And its mud in misery.
Under the cloudless curve Of a wide remorseless sky Sleeps the patchy scrub of the sweeping veld And the slim blue gums, and the wattle belt Where the shrike broods watchfully.
Under the sullen glare Of the grim unblinking sky The hot dorp pants, the red roofs daze, The mule tracks scorch, the iron-stones blaze In their sun-struck agony.
Johannesburg
Miraculous city! Thoughts stupendous to crush the wise, Buildings monstrous which brush the skies! Raise your eyes In awe. Yet pity This marvellous, golden, mushroom city.
Hear the roar! Like the moan of the sea, when the wave curls back From the granite rock which whirls it back, A great unceasingly grinding drone In a heavy unyielding monotone. 'Tis the frenzied wail of the lost in pain, The shriek of the damned raised in vain, Again! again! And the stamping machine with a brutal joy Wrenches the gold from its quartz alloy, Crushing the tortured stone to dust As it yields the ore To the vast unquenchable thirst for lust.
_Feel_ the south wind! As it sweeps the veld with its icy breath, Biting the scrub with its teeth of death, lifting the dust like a phantom shroud From the tailing heaps, in a veil of cloud. Scattering the belching smoke, which flies From the chimney line that marks the rise Of the Main Reef ridge. Some devil's bridge To bind the town to the broad full plain Which rolls beyond, like the boundless main.
Precocious town! The forward child of a youthful state So young in years. So rich, so great In gilt renown, And glittering fate! Oh! ponder deep, all ye! Yet pity This marvellous, golden, old-young city!
In the Land of the Silences
She stood before the tent, a winging tent In thicknesses of canvas, taut and strong, Burning beneath a sun unreticent, Raised upon planks, and lashed with rope and thong. And she was fair, a sprig of English May, Born for the kiss of merriment and day.
Wide from the tent, like swell on swell of sea The great veld swept and rolled in curves away, A shabby patch of God's eternity Neglected by the angels, bare and grey, Wind-swept and solitary. Dick and she Had made this veld their home for seasons three.
_Well_ she remembered that first reckless ride, Their wedding journey over spruit and land, The barbed-wire straggling snares, the kopje side, The crumbling blockhouse dreaming of command, Holding a loot of empty pot and tin, Which once had held a soldier guard within.
The mud-dogged drift, the dust all baked and red Twisting in spiral devils, raw as rust, Those lonely crosses leaning on their dead, Murmuring Africa was never just. "She knows no pity," shrieked the fierce South wind, "She steals your youth and stultifies your mind."
On, on they flew, past Kaffir boom and kraal, Thorn wacht-een-beetje, fleshy aloe clump, Through the charred stretches of the high Transvaal, By meerkat hole, and rounded white-ant hump Of tunnelled earth. She laughed; the air was wild, Strong with exhilaration, undefiled.
At last they reined. Across the scrub and veld Dick pointed with his sjambok to the white Outspreading tent, then to the wattle belt That marshalled thinly in the shimmering light. "There lies our home, dear love, for you and me." She looked up gladly, smiled him tenderly.
Summer had followed winter, radiant, rich, Reckless with life, extravagant in bloom, Mad for the first wild draught of water, which Burst from the thunder-clouds, whose massive gloom Blackened the skies, then splitting, ripped and tore Deep gorges through the tracks, with deafening roar.
The storms swept by. A fairyland of green Mantled the waking plains; wide star-like flowers Sprang to their feet; the streams ran strong and clean, The soft mimosa sprinkled into showers Of golden balls. The oleander hedge Swayed to the line of gums with leaves on edge.
And it was summer now. Beth crossed the sloot, Grown arrogant with rains, which lapped her square Of gorgeous garden, swirling to the spruit Beyond, in childish hurry. Was he there? She scanned the far horizon. No, no sign-- Of man or beast to break the distance line.
Stay, was that he beyond the drift? Ah no, Only her wishes trembling in the air And mirage heat. A train sedate and slow Wheeled round the kopje far away. The glare Of brazen sun beat in her eyes. Too late!-- He would not come to-night! In lonely state
She must endure these o'ercharged dragging hours, This th' unspoken horror of her life, The dread that sapped her strength, and drained her powers, The guarded secret of a brave man's wife! Dick would come back to-morrow with the light Of morn. But fear would be her Lord to-night.