Chapter 4

Then, as I stood, sweet sudden sounds out-swelling On the boon breeze, The church-bells' chiming echoes rang out, telling Of inland peace.

O English chimes, your music rising and falling I cannot praise, Although to me it come sweet-sad recalling Dear childish days.

Yet, English chimes,--last links of chains that sever, Worn out and done, That land and creed that I have left for ever,-- Ring on, ring on!

II.

There is much in this sea-way city I have not met with before, But one or two things I notice That I seem to have known of yore.

In the lovely tropical verdure, In the streets, behold I can The hideous English buildings And the brutal English man!

III.

I stand and watch the soldiers Marching up and down, Above the fresh green cricket-ground Just outside the town.

I stand and watch and wonder When in the English land This poor fool Tommy Atkins Will learn and understand?

Zulus, and Boers, and Arabs, All fighting to be free, Men and women and children, Murdered and maimed has he.

In India and in Ireland He's held the People down, While the robber English gentleman Took pound and penny and crown.

To make him false to his order, What was it that they gave-- To make him his brother's oppressor? The clothes and pay of a slave!

O thou poor fool, Tommy Atkins, Thou wilt be wise that day When, with eager eyes and clenched teeth, Thou risest up to say:

"_This is our well-loved England_, _And I'll free it_, _if I can_, _From every rotten bourgeois_ _And played-out gentleman_!"

IV. "HAPPY VALLEY." {66}

There is a valley green that lies 'Mid hills, the summer's bower. The many coloured butterflies Flutter from flower to flower.

And round one lush green side of it, In gardened homes are laid, With grief and care compassionate, The people of the dead.

There all the voicing summer day They sing, the happy rills. No noisy sound awakes away The echo of the hills.

A GLIMPSE OF CHINA.

I. IN A SAMPAN. (_Min River_, _Fo Kien_.)

Up in the misty morning, Up past the gardened hills, With the rhythmic stroke of the rowers, While the blue deep pales and thrills!

Past the rice-fields green low-lying, Where the sea-gull's winging down From the fleets of junks and sampans And the ancient Chinese Town!

II. IN A CHAIR. (_Foo-chow_.)

From the bright and blinding sunshine, From the whirling locust's song, Into the dark and narrow fissures Of the streets I am borne along.

Here and there dusky-beaming A sun-shaft broadens and drops On the brown bare crowd slow-passing The crowd of the open shops.

We move on over the bridges With their straight-hewn blocks of stone. And their quaint grey animal figures, And the booths the hucksters own.

Behind a linen awning Sits an ancient wight half-dead, And a little dear of a girl is Examining--his head.

On a bended bamboo shouldered, Bearing a block of stone, Two worn-out coolies half-naked Utter their grunting groan.

Children, almond-eyed beauties, Impossibly mangy curs, Take part in the motley stream of Insouciant passengers.

This is the dream, the vision That comes to me and greets-- _The vision of Retribution_ _In the labyrinthine streets_!

III. "CASTE."

These Chinese toil and yet they do not starve, And they obey, and yet they are not slaves. It is the "free-born" fuddled Englishmen That grovel rotting in their living graves.

These Chinese do not fawn with servile lips; They lift up equal eyes that ask and scan. Their degradation has escaped at least That choicest curse of all--the gentleman!

IV. OVER THE SAMOVAR. {69a} (_Foo-chow_.)

"Yes, I used always to think That you Russians knew How to make the good drink As none others do.

"And I thought moreover, (Not with the epicures), You might search the world over For such women as yours.

"In both these matters now I perceive I was right, And I really can't tell you how Much I delight

"In my third (Thanks, another cup!) Idea of the fun, When your country gets up And follows the sun!

"And just as in Europe, see, There's a conqueror nation, So why not in Asia be A like jubilation?

"Taught as well as organized, {69b} The eternal Coolie, From being robbed and despised, Takes to cutting throats duly!

"But--please, don't be flurried; For I daresay by then You'll be comfortably buried, Ladies and gentlemen!

"No more, thanks! I must be going! I'm so glad to have made this Opportunity of knowing Some more Russian ladies!"

TO JAPAN.

Simple you were, and good. No kindlier heart Beat than the heart within your gentle breast. Labour you had, and happiness, and rest, And were the maid of nations. Now you start To feverish life, feeling the poisonous smart Upon your lips of harlot lips close-pressed, The lips of her who stands among the rest With greasy righteous soul and rotten heart. O sunrise land, O land of gentleness, What madness drives you to lust's dreadful bed? O thrice accursed England, wretchedness For ever be on you, of whom 'tis said, Prostitute plague-struck, that you catch and kiss Innocent lives to make them foully dead!

DAI BUTSU. {70} (_Kama Kura_.)

He sits. Upon the kingly head doth rest The round-balled wimple, and the heavy rings Touch on the shoulders where the shadow clings. The downward garment shows the ambiguous breast; The face--that face one scarce can look on lest One learn the secret of unspeakable things; But the dread gaze descends with shudderings, To the veiled couched knees, the hands and thumbs close-pressed. O lidded, downcast eyes that bear the weight Of all our woes and terrible wrong's increase: Proud nostrils, lips proud-perfecter than these, With what a soul within you do you wait! Disdain and pity, love late-born of hate, Passion eternal, patience, pain and peace!

"ENGLAND."

Where'er I go in this dense East, In sunshine or shade, I retch at the villainous feast That England has made.

And my shame cannot understand, As scorn springs elate, How I ever loved that land That now I hate!

THE FISHERMAN. (_Mindanao_, _Philippines_.)

In the dark waveless sea, Deep blue under deep blue, The fisher drifts by on the tide In his small pole-balanced canoe.

Above him the cloud-clapped hills Crown the dense jungly sweeps; The cocoa-nut groves hedge round The hut where the beach-wave sleeps.

Is it not better so To be as this savage is, Than to live the wage-slave's life Of hopeless agonies?

A SOUTH-SEA ISLANDER.

Aloll in the warm clear water, On her back with languorous limbs, She lies. The baby upon her breasts Paddles and falls and swims.

With half-closed eyes she smiles, Guarding it with her hands; And the sob swells up in my heart-- In my heart that understands.

_Dear_, _in the English country_, _The hatefullest land on earth_, _The mothers are starved and the children die_, _And death is better than birth_!

NEW GUINEA "CONVERTS."

I saw them as they were born, Erect and fearless and free, Facing the sun and the wind Of the hills and the sea.

I saw them naked, superb, Like the Greeks long ago, With shield and spear and arrow Ready to strike and throw.

I saw them as they were made By the Christianizing crows, Blinking, stupid, clumsy In their greasy ill-cut clothes:

I heard their gibbering cant, And they sung those hymns that smell Of poor souls besotted, degraded With the fear of "God" and "hell."

And I thought if Jesus could see them, He who loved the freedom, the light, And loathed those who compassed heaven And earth for one proselyte,

To make him, etcetera, etcetera,-- Then this sight, as on me or you, Would act on him like an emetic, And he'd have to go off and spue.

O Jesus, O man of the People, Who died to abolish all this-- The pharisee rank and respectable, The scribe and the greedy priest--

O Jesus, O sacred Socialist, You would die again of shame, If you were alive and could see What things are done in your name.

A DEATH AT SEA. (_Coral Sea_, _Australia_.)

I.

Dead in the sheep-pen he lies, Wrapped in an old brown sail. The smiling blue sea and the skies Know not sorrow nor wail.

Dragged up out of the hold, Dead on his last way home, Worn-out, wizened, a Chinee old,-- O he is safe--at home!

Brother, I stand not as these Staring upon you here. One of earth's patient toilers at peace I see, I revere!

II.

In the warm cloudy night we go From the motionless ship; Our lanterns feebly glow; Our oars drop and drip.

We land on the thin pale beach, The coral isle's round us; A glade of driven sand we reach; Our burial ground's found us.

There we dig him a grave, jesting; We know not his name. What heeds he who is resting, resting? Would I were the same!

Come away, it is over and done! Peace and he shall not sever, By moonlight nor light of the sun, For ever and ever!

III. "DIRGE."

"Sleep in the pure driven sand, (No one will know) In the coral isle by the land Where the blue tides come and go.

"Alive, thou wert poor, despised; Dead, thou canst have What mightiest monarchs have prized, An eternal grave!

"Alone with the lovely isles, With the lovely deep, Where the sea-winds sing and the sunlight smiles Thou liest asleep!"

III. "AUSTRALIA: VICTORIA--NEW SOUTH WALES--QUEENSLAND."

THE OUTCASTS. (_Melbourne_.)

Here to the parks they come, The scourings of the town, Like weary wounded animals Seeking where to lie them down.

Brothers, let us take together An easeful period. There is worse than to be as we are-- Cast out, not of men but of God!

VICTORIA TO JAMES MOORHOUSE, {76}

_Bishop of Melbourne_, _who left Melbourne for the Bishopric of Manchester_, 10_th_ _March_ 1886.

He came, a stranger, and we gave him welcome More as loved friend than rumour's honoured guest. He spoke! Were we, then, all so slack to listen? To hail him as our wisest, noblest, best? _Why did he leave us_?

He toiled! And we, we under such a leader, Forgot all other creeds, but that he taught, And proud of our clear answer to his summons, Forgot all other fights but that he fought! _Why did he leave us_?

He wearied! 'Twas too great, he said, the burden. We saw it and we cried with anxious love; "What does he (Let him back!) down in the battle? Is not the general's place at rest above?" _Why did he leave us_?

He left us for a "wider sphere of labour!" A tinsel seat within a House that shakes, To herd with priests meal-mouthed, with lords and liars That still would bind a nation's chain that breaks! _Why did he leave us_?

Farewell, then! Are there any to reproach you In all this facile crowd that weeps and cheers? Not one! But, ah you yet shall listen sadly To an echo falling faint through the dead years:-- _Why did he leave us_?

IN THE SEA-GARDENS. (_Sydney_.) "THE MAN OF THE NATION."

Yonder the band is playing And the fine young people walk. They are envying each other and talking Their pretty empty talk.

There, in the shade on the outskirts, Stretched on the grass, I see A man with a slouch hat, smoking. That is the man for me!

That is the Man of the Nation; He works and much endures. When all the rest is rotten, He rises and cuts and cures.

He's the soldier of the Crimea, Fighting to honour fools; He's the grappler and strangler of Lee Lord of the terrible tools.

He's in all the conquered nations That have won their own at last, And in all that yet shall win it. And the world by him goes past!

O strong sly world, this nameless Still, much-enduring Man, Is the hand of God that shall clutch you For all you have done, or can!

"UPSTARTS."

What? do you say that we, the toilers--the slaves-- (Why strain at the gnat name Who swallow the camel thing your pocket craves?)-- That we are "just the same,"

(Nay, worse) when power is ours and wealth--that we Are harder masters still, More keen to ring her last from misery, More greedy of our will?

'Tis true! And when you see men so--see _us_ Sneer at us, call us swine!-- "_How we must love you who have made us thus_, _You may perhaps divine_!"

LABOUR--CAPITAL--LAND.

In that rich archipelago of sea With fiery hills, thick woods wherein the mias {79a} Browses along the trees, and god-like men Leave monuments of speech too large for us, {79b} There are strange forest-trees. Far up, their roots Spread from the central trunk, and settle down Deep in the life-fed earth, seventy feet below. In the past days here grew another tree, On whose high fork the parasitic seed Fell and sprang up, and, finding life and strength In the disease, decrepitude and death Of that it fed on, utterly consumed it, And stands the monument of Nature's crime! So Labour with his parasites, the two Great swollen robbers, Land and Capital, Stands to the gaze of men but as a heap Of rotted dust whose only use must be To rich the roots of the proud stem that killed it! {80}

AUSTRALIA.

I see a land of desperate droughts and floods: I see a land where need keeps spreading round, And all but giants perish in the stress: I see a land where more, and more, and more The demons, Earth and Wealth, grow bloat and strong.

I see a land that lies a helpless prey To wealthy cliques and gamblers and their slaves, The huckster politicians: a poor land That less and less can make her heart-wish law.

Yea, but I see a land where some few brave Raise clear eyes to the Struggle that must come, Reaching firm hands to draw the doubters in, Preaching the gospel: "Drill and drill and drill!" Yea, but I see a land where best of all The hope of victory burns strong and bright!

ART.

"Yes, let Art go, if it must be That with it men must starve-- If Music, Painting, Poetry Spring from the wasted hearth!"

Yes, let Art go, till once again Through fearless heads and hands The toil of millions and the pain Be passed from out the lands:

Till from the few their plunder falls To those who've toiled and earned But misery's hopeless intervals From those who've robbed and spurned.

Yes, let Art go, without a fear, Like autumn flowers we burn, For, with her reawakening year, Be sure she will return!--

Return, but greater, nobler yet Because her laurel crown With dew and not with blood is wet, And as our queen sit down!

"HENRY GEORGE." (_Melbourne_.)

I came to buy a book. It was a shop Down in a narrow quiet street, and here They kept, I knew, these socialistic books. I entered. All was bare, but clean and neat. The shelves were ranged with unsold wares; the counter Held a few sheets and papers. Here and there Hung prints and calendars. I rapped, and straight A young girl came out through the inner door. She had a clear and simple face; I saw She had no beauty, loveliness, nor charm, But, as your eyes met those grey light-lit eyes Like to a mountain spring so pure, you thought: "He'd be a clever man who looked, and lied!" I asked her for the book. . . . We spoke a little. . . . Her words were as her face was, as her eyes. Yes, she'd read many books like this of mine: Also some poets, Shelley, Byron too, And Tennyson, but 'poets only dreamed!' Thus, then, we talked, until by chance I spoke A phrase and then a name. 'Twas "Henry George." Her face lit up. O it was beautiful, Or never woman's face was! "Henry George?" She said. And then a look, a flush, a smile, Such as sprung up in Magdalene's cheek When some voice uttered Jesus, made her angel. She turned and pointed up the counter. I, Loosing mine eyes from that ensainted face, Looked also. 'Twas a print, a common print, The head and shoulders of some man. She said, Quite in a whisper: "_That's him_, _Henry George_!"

Darling, that in this life of wrong and woe, The lovely woman-soul within you brooded And wept and loved and hated and pitied, And knew not what its helplessness could do, Its helplessness, its sheer bewilderment-- That then those eyes should fall, those angel eyes, On one who'd brooded, wept, loved, hated, pitied, Even as you had, but therefrom had sprung A hope, a plan, a scheme to right this wrong, And make this woe less hateful to the sun-- And that pure soul had found its Master thus To listen to, remember, watch and love, And trust the dawn that rose up through the dark: O this was good For me to see, as for some weary hopeless Longer and toiler for "the Kingdom of Heaven" To stand some lifeless twilight hour, and hear, There in the dim-lit house of Lazarus, Mary who said: "Thus, thus, he looked, he spake, The Master!"--So to hear her rapturous words, And gaze upon her up-raised heavenly face!

WILLIAM WALLACE. (_For the Ballarat statue of him_.)

This is Scotch William Wallace. It was he Who in dark hours first raised his face to see: Who watched the English tyrant nobles spurn, Steel-clad, with iron hoofs the Scottish free:

Who armed and drilled the simple footman Kern, Yea, bade in blood and rout the proud Knight learn His Feudalism was dead, and Scotland stand Dauntless to wait the day of Bannockburn!

O Wallace, peerless lover of thy land, We need thee still, thy moulding brain and hand! For us, thy poor, again proud tyrants spurn, The robber rich, a yet more hateful band!

THE AUSTRALIAN FLAG.

Pure blue flag of heaven With your silver stars, Not beside those crosses' Blood-stained torture-bars:

Not beside the token The foul sea-harlot gave, Pure blue flag of heaven, Must you ever wave!

No, but young exultant, Free from care and crime, The soulless selfish England Of this later time:

No, but, faithful, noble, Rising from her grave, Flag of light and liberty, For ever must you wave!

TO AN OLD FRIEND IN ENGLAND. "ESAU."

Was it for nothing in the years gone by, O my love, O my friend, You thrilled me with your noble words of faith?-- Hope beyond life, and love, love beyond death! Yet now I shudder, and yet you did not die, O my friend, O my love!

Was it for nothing in the dear dead years, O my love, O my friend, I kissed you when you wrung my heart from me, And gave my stubborn hand where trust might be? Yet then I smiled, and see, these bitter tears, O my friend, O my love!

No bitter words to say to you have I, O my love, O my friend! That faith, that hope, that love was mine, not yours! And yet that kiss, that clasp endures, endures. I have no bitter words to say. Good-bye, O my friend, O my love!

AT THE SEAMEN'S UNION. {84} "THE SEAMEN AND THE MINERS."

. . . One rises now and speaks: "The Cause is one-- _Labour o'er all the earth_! Shan't we, then, share With these, whose very flesh and blood's our own, All that we can of what we have and are?

"What is it that their work is in the earth, Down in its depths, and ours is on the sea? The fight they fight is ours; their worth our worth; Their loss our loss. We help them! They are we!

"We help them!--Ay, and when our hour too breaks, And on to every ship that ploughs the wave We put our hand at last, our hand that takes Its own, will they forget the help we gave?

"And, if our robber lords would rob us still With the foul hoard of beasts without a soul, They may find leprous hands to work their will, But, for their ships, where will they find the coal?"

"Help them!" the voices cry. They help them. Here, Resolute, stern, menacing, hark the sound! Look, 'tis the simple fearlessness of fear-- Dark faces and deep voices all around.

TO HIS LOVE.

"Teach me, love, to be true; Teach me, love, to love; Teach me to be pure like you. It will be more than enough!

"Ah, and in days to come, Give me, my seraph, too, A son nobler than I, A daughter true like you:

"A son to battle the wrong, To seek and strive for the right; A beautiful daughter of song, To point us on to the light!"

HER POEM: "MY BABY GIRL, THAT WAS BORN AND DIED ON THE SAME DAY."

"Ah, with torn heart I see them still, Wee unused clothes and empty cot. Though glad my love has missed the ill That falls to woman's lot.

"No tangled paths for her to tread Throughout the coming changeful years; No desperate weird to dree and dread; No bitter lonely tears!

"No woman's piercing crown of thorns Will press my aching baby's brow; No starless nights, no sunless morns, Will ever greet her now.

"The clothes that I had wrought with care Through weary hours for love's sweet sake Are laid aside, and with them there A heart that seemed to break."

TO HENRY GEORGE IN AMERICA.

Not for the thought that burns on keen and clear, Heat that the heat has turned from red to white, The passion of the lone remembering night One with the patience day must see and hear-- Not for the shafts the lying foemen fear, Shot from the soul's intense self-centring light-- But for the heart of love divine and bright, We praise you, worker, thinker, poet, seer! Man of the People,--faithful in all parts, The veins' last drop, the brain's last flickering dole, You on whose forehead beams the aureole That hope and "certain hope" alone imparts-- Us have you given your perfect heart and soul; Wherefore receive as yours our souls and hearts!

"ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE."

Shrieks out of smoke, a flame of dung-straw fire That is not quenched but hath for only fruit What writhes and dies not in its rotten root: Two things made flesh, the visible desire To match in filth the skunk, the ape in ire, {87a} Mouthing before the mirrors with wild foot Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit, The perfect twanger of the Chinese lyre! A heart with generous virtues run to seed In vices making all a jumbled creed: A soul that knows not love nor trust nor shame, But cuts itself with knives to bawl and bleed-- If thou we've known of late, art still the same, What need, O soul, to sign thee with thy name?