Part 5
John Calvin whose peculiar fad It was to call God murderous, Which further led that feverish cad To burn alive the Servetus. The horrible Bohemian Huss, The tedious Wycliffe, where are they? But where is old Nestorius? The wind has blown them all away.
II
The Kohen out of Novdograd Who argued from the Roman Jus “_Privata fasta nihil ad Rem nisi sint de sacribus_.” And Hume, who made a dreadful fuss About the Resurrection Day And said it was ridiculous-- The wind has blown them all away.
III
Of Smith the gallant Mormon lad That took of wives an over-plus: Johanna Southcott who was mad And nasty Nietzsche, who was worse. Of Tolstoy, the Eccentric Russ, Our strong Posterity shall say: “Lord Jesus! What are these to us? The wind has blown them all away!”
_Envoi_
Prince, should you meet upon a bus A man who makes a great display Of Dr Haeckel, argue thus:-- The wind has blown them all away.
V
EPIGRAMS
I
_On His Books_
When I am dead, I hope it may be said: “His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”
II
_On Noman, a Guest_
Dear Mr Noman, does it ever strike you, The more we see of you, the less we like you?
III
_A Trinity_
Of three in One and One in three My narrow mind would doubting be Till Beauty, Grace and Kindness met And all at once were Juliet
IV
_On Torture, a Public Singer_
Torture will give a dozen pence or more To keep a drab from bawling at his door. The public taste is quite a different thing-- Torture is positively paid to sing.
V
_On Paunch, a Parasite_
Paunch talks against good liquor to excess, And then about his raving Patroness; And then he talks about himself. And then We turn the conversation on to men.
VI
_On Hygiene_
Of old when folk lay sick and sorely tried The doctors gave them physic, and they died. But here’s a happier age: for now we know Both how to make men sick and keep them so.
VII
_On Lady Poltagrue, a Public Peril_
The Devil, having nothing else to do, Went off to tempt My Lady Poltagrue. My Lady, tempted by a private whim, To his extreme annoyance, tempted him.
VIII
_The Mirror_
The mirror held your fair, my Fair, A fickle moment’s space. You looked into mine eyes, and there For ever fixed your face.
Keep rather to your looking-glass Than my more faithful eyes: It told the truth--Alas! my lass, My constant memory lies.
IX
_The Elm_
This is the place where Dorothea smiled. I did not know the reason, nor did she. But there she stood, and turned, and smiled at me: A sudden glory had bewitched the child. The corn at harvest, and a single tree. This is the place where Dorothea smiled.
X
_The Telephone_
To-night in million-voicèd London I Was lonely as the million-pointed sky Until your single voice. Ah! So the Sun Peoples all heaven, although he be but one.
XI
_The Statue_
When we are dead, some Hunting-boy will pass And find a stone half-hidden in tall grass And grey with age: but having seen that stone (Which was your image), ride more slowly on.
XII
_Epitaph on the Favourite Dog of a Politician_
Here lies a Dog: may every Dog that dies Lie in security--as this Dog lies.
XIII
_Epitaph on the Politician Himself_
Here richly, with ridiculous display, The Politician’s corpse was laid away. While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.
XIV
_Another on the Same_
This, the last ornament among the peers, Bribed, bullied, swindled and blackmailed for years: But Death’s what even Politicians fail To bribe or swindle, bully or blackmail.
XV
_On Mundane Acquaintances_
Good morning, Algernon: Good morning, Percy. Good morning, Mrs Roebeck. Christ have mercy!
XVI
_On a Rose for Her Bosom_
Go, lovely rose, and tell the lovelier fair That he which loved her most was never there.
XVII
_On the Little God_
Of all the gods that gave me all their glories To-day there deigns to walk with me but one. I lead him by the hand and tell him stories. It is the Queen of Cyprus’ little son.
XVIII
_On a Prophet_
Of old ’twas Samuel sought the Lord: to-day The Lord runs after Samuel--so they say.
XIX
_On a Dead Hostess_
Of this bad world the loveliest and the best Has smiled and said “Good Night,” and gone to rest.
XX
_On a Great Election_
The accursèd power which stands on Privilege (And goes with Women, and Champagne and Bridge) Broke--and Democracy resumed her reign: (Which goes with Bridge, and Women and Champagne).
XXI
_On a Mistaken Mariner_
He whistled thrice to pass the Morning Star, Thinking that near which was so very far. So I, whenas I meet my Dearest Dear, Still think that far which is so very near.
XXII
_On a Sleeping Friend_
Lady, when your lovely head Droops to sink among the Dead, And the quiet places keep You that so divinely sleep; Then the dead shall blessèd be With a new solemnity, For such Beauty, so descending, Pledges them that Death is ending. Sleep your fill--but when you wake Dawn shall over Lethe break.
XXIII
_Fatigued_
I’m tired of Love: I’m still more tired of Rhyme. But Money gives me pleasure all the time.
XXIV
_On Benicia, who Wished Him Well_
Benicia wished me well; I wished her well. And what I wished her more I may not tell.
XXV
_The False Heart_
I said to Heart, “How goes it?” Heart replied: “Right as a Ribstone Pippin!” But it lied.
XXVI
_Partly from the Greek_
She would be as the stars in your sight That turn in the endless hollow; That tremble, and always follow The quiet wheels of the Night.
VI
THE BALLAD OF VAL-ÈS-DUNES
THE VICTORY OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR IN HIS YOUTH OVER THE REBELS AT VAL-ÈS-DUNES IN THE YEAR 1047
[This piece of verse is grossly unhistorical. Val-ès-Dunes is not on the sea but inland. No Norman blazoned a shield or a church window in the middle eleventh century, still less would he frame one in silver, and I doubt gilt spurs. It was not the young Bastard of Falaise, but the men of the King in Paris that really won the battle. There was nothing Scandinavian left in Normandy, and whatever there had been five generations before was slight. The Colentin had no more Scandinavian blood than the rest. There is no such place as Longuevaile. There is a Hauteville, but it has no bay and had nothing to do with the Harcourts, and the Harcourts were not of Bloodroyal--and so forth.]
I
The men that lived in Longuevaile Came out to fight by bands. They jangled all in welded mail, Their shields were rimmed of silver pale And blazoned like a church-vitrail: Their swords were in their hands. But the harsh raven of the Old Gods Was on the rank sea-sands.
_There rose a wind on heath and den:_ _The sky went racing grey._ _The Bastard and his wall of men_ _Were a charger’s course away._
II
The Old Gods of the Northern Hall Are in their narrow room. Their thrones are flanked of spearmen tall, The three that have them in their thrall, Sit silently before them all, They weave upon their loom; And round about them as they weave The Scalds sing doom.
III
The Bastard out of Normandy Was angry for his wrong. His eyes were virginal to see, For nothing in his heart had he But a hunger for his great degree; And his back was broad and strong As are the oxen of the field, That pull the ploughs along.
IV
He saw that column of cavalry wheel, Split outward, and deploy. He heard, he heard the Oliphant peal. He crooked an angry knee to feel The scabbard against his gilded heel. He had great joy: And he stood upright in the stirrup steel. Because he was a boy.
* * * * *
_We faced their ordering, all the force,_ _And there was little sound;_ _But Haribert-Le-Marshall’s horse_ _Pawed heavily the ground._
V
As the broad ships out of Barbary Come driving from the large, With yards a-bend and courses free, And tumbling down their decks a-lee, The hurrahing of the exultant sea, So drave they to the charge. But the harsh raven of the Old Gods Was on the rank sea-marge.
VI
The Old Gods of the Northern Hall Are crownéd for the tomb. Their biers are flanked of torches tall, And through the flames that leap and fall There comes a droning and a call To the night’s womb, As the tide beneath a castle wall Goes drumming through the gloom.
VII
They tonsured me but Easter year, I swore to Christ and Rome. My name is not mine older name.... But ah! to see them as they came, With thundering and with points aflame, I smelt foam. And my heart was like a wandering man’s, Who piles his boat on Moorna sands And serves a slave in alien lands, And then beneath a harper’s hands Hears suddenly of home.
* * * * *
_For their cavalry came in a curling leaf,_ _They shouted as they drave,_ _And the Bastard’s line was like a reef_ _But theirs was like a wave._
VIII
As the broad ships out of Barbary Strike rock. And the stem shatters, and the sail flaps; Streaming seaward; and the taut shroud snaps, And the block Clatters to the deck of the wreck. So did the men of Longuevaile Take the shock.
IX
Our long line quivered but it did not break, It countered and was strong. The first bolt went through the wind with a wail, And another and a-many with a thudding on the mail; Pattered all the arrows in an April hail; Whistled the ball and thong: And I, the priest, with that began The singing of my song.
X
Press inward, inward, Normandy; Press inward, Cleres and Vaux; Press inward, Mons and Valery; Press inward, Yvetot. Stand hard the men of the Beechen Ford (Oh! William of Falaise, my lord!) Battle is a net and a struggle in a cord. Battle is a wrestler’s throw. The middle holding as the wings made good, The far wings closing as the centre stood. Battle is a mist and battle is a wood, And battle is won so.
XI
The fishermen fish in the River of Seine, They haul the long nets in. They haul them in and they haul again, (The fishermen fish in the River of Seine) They haul them in and they haul again, A million glittering fin: With the hauling in of our straining ends That Victory did begin.
XII
The tall son of the Seven Winds Galloped hot-foot from the Hither Hithe. So strongly went he down the press, Almost he did that day redress With his holping and his hardiness, For his sword was like a scythe In Arques when the grass is high, And all the swaithes in order lie, And there’s the bailiff standing by-- A gathering of the tithe.
XIII
And now, go forward, Normandy, Go forward all in one. The press was caught and trampled and it broke From the sword and its swinger and the axe’s stroke, Pouring through the gap in a whirl of smoke As a blinded herd will run. And so fled many and a very few With mounts all spent would staggering pursue, But the race fell scattered as the evening grew: The battle was over and done.
* * * * *
_Like birds against the reddening day_ _They dwindled one by one,_ _And I heard a trumpet far away_ _At the setting of the sun._
* * * * *
XIV
The stars were in the Eternal Sky, It was calm in Massared; Richard, Abbot of Leclair, and I And a Picard Priest that held on high A Torch above his head; We stumbled through the darkening land Assoiling with anointed hand The dying and the dead.
XV
How many in the tufted grass, How many dead there lay. For there was found the Fortenbras And young Garain of Hault, alas! And the Wardens of the Breton pass Who were lords of his array, And Hugh that trusted in his glass But came not home the day.
XVI
I saw the miller of Martindall, I saw that archer die. The blunt quarrel caught him at the low white wall, And he tossed up his arrow to the Lord God of all, But long before the first could fall His soul was in the sky.
XVII
The last of all the lords that sprang From Harcourt of the Crown, He parried with the shield and the silver rang, But the axe fell heavy on the helm with a clang And the girths parted and the saddle swang, And he went down: He never more sang winter songs In his high town.
XVIII
In his high town that Faëry is, And stands on Harcourt bay, The fisher surging through the night Takes bearing by that castle height, And moors him harboured in the bight, And watches for the day. But with the broadening of the light, It vanishes away.
XIX
In his high town that Faëry is, And stands on Harcourt Lea. To summon him up his arrier-ban, His writ beyond the mountains ran; My father was his serving man, Although the farm was free. Before the angry wars began He was a friend to me.
XX
The night before the boy was born There came a Priest who said That he had seen red Aldeborn, The star of hate in Taurus’ horn, Which glared above a field of corn, And covered him with dread. I wish to God I had not held The cloth in which he bled.
* * * * *
XXI
The Horse from Cleres and Valery, The foot from Yvetot, And all the men of the Harbour Towns That live by fall and flow. And all the men of the Beechen Ford --Oh! William of Falaise, my lord!-- And all the sails in Michael’s ward, And all the shields of Caux, Shall follow you out across the world, With sword and lance and bow, To Beachy and to Pevensey Bar, To Chester through the snow, With sack and pack and camping tent, A-grumbling as they go: My lord is William of Falaise. Haro!
FOOTNOTES:
[A]
But do not think I shall explain To any great extent. Believe me, I partly write to give you pain, And if you do not like me, leave me.
[B]
And least of all can you complain, Reviewers, whose unholy trade is, To puff with all your might and main Biographers of single ladies.
[C] Never mind.
[D]
The plan forgot (I know not how, Perhaps the Refectory filled it), To put a chapel in; and now We’re mortgaging the rest to build it.
[E] To be pronounced as a monosyllable in the Imperial fashion.
[F] Mr Punt, Mr Howl, and Mr Grewcock (now, alas, deceased).
[G] A neat rendering of “Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.”
[H] To the Examiners: These facts (of which I guarantee the accuracy) were given me by a Director.
[I] A reminiscence of Milton: “Fas est et ab hoste docere.”
[J] Lambkin told me he regretted this line, which was for the sake of Rhyme. He would willingly have replaced it, but to his last day could construct no substitute.