Part 3

In spite of all his mother's prayers, And all her ten long years of cares, And all her broken spirit's cry That drunkard's finger puts them by, And Jimmy turns. And now I see That just as Dick was, Jim will be, And all my life will have been vain. I might have spared myself the pain, And done the world a blessed riddance If I'd a drowned 'em all like kittens. And he the sot, so strong and proud, Who'd make white shirts of's mother's shroud, He laughs now, it's a joke to him, Though it's the gates of hell to Jim.

'I've had my heart burnt out like coal, And drops of blood wrung from soul Day in, day out, in pain and tears, For five and twenty wretched years; And he, he's ate the fat and sweet, And loafed and spat at top of street, And drunk and leched from day till morrow, And never known a moment's sorrow.

He come out drunk from th'inn to look The day my little Ann was took; He sat there drinking, glad and gay, The night my girl was led astray; He praised my Dick for singing well, The night Dick took the road to hell; And when my corpse goes stiff and blind, Leaving four helpless souls behind, He will be there still, drunk and strong. It do seem hard. It do seem wrong. But "Woe to him by whom the offence," Says our Lord Jesus' Testaments. Whatever seems, God doth not slumber Though He lets pass times without number. He'll come with trump to call His own, And this world's way'll be overthrown. He'll come with glory and with fire To cast great darkness on the liar, To burn the drunkard and the treacher, And do His judgment on the lecher, To glorify the spirits' faces Of those whose ways were stony places, Who chose with Ruth the better part; O Lord, I see Thee as Thou art, O God, the fiery four-edged sword, The thunder of the wrath outpoured, The fiery four-faced creatures burning, And all the four-faced wheels all turning, Coming with trump and fiery saint. Jim, take me home, I'm turning faint.' They went, and some cried, 'Good old sod. 'She put it to him straight, by God.'

Summat she was, or looked, or said, Went home and made me hang my head. I slunk away into the night Knowing deep down that she was right. I'd often heard religious ranters, And put them down as windy canters, But this old mother made me see The harm I done by being me, Being both strong and given to sin I 'tracted weaker vessels in.

So back to bar to get more drink, I didn't dare begin to think, And there were drinks and drunken singing, As though this life were dice for flinging; Dice to be flung, and nothing furder, And Christ's blood just another murder. 'Come on, drinks round, salue, drink hearty. Now, Jane, the punch-bowl for the party. If any here won't drink with me I'll knock his bloody eyes out. See? Come on, cigars round, rum for mine, Sing us a smutty song, some swine.' But though the drinks and songs went round That thought remained, it was not drowned. And when I'd rise to get a light I'd think, 'What's come to me to-night?'

There's always crowds when drinks are standing. The house doors slammed along the landing, The rising wind was gusty yet, And those who came in late were wet; And all my body's nerves were snappin' With sense of summat 'bout to happen, And music seemed to come and go And seven lights danced in a row.

There used to be a custom then, Miss Bourne, the Friend, went round at ten To all the pubs in all the place To bring the drunkard's soul to grace; Some sulked, of course, and some were stirred, But none gave her a dirty word. A tall pale woman, grey and bent, Folk said of her that she was sent. She wore Friend's clothes, and women smiled, But she'd a heart just like a child. She come to us near closing time When we were at some smutty rhyme, And I was mad and ripe for fun; I wouldn't a minded what I done, So when she come so prim and grey I pound the bar and sing, 'Hooray, Here's Quaker come to bless and kiss us, Come, have a gin and bitters, missus. Or may be Quaker girls so prim Would rather start a bloody hymn. Now, Dick, oblige. A hymn, you swine, Pipe up the "Officer of the Line," A song to make one's belly ache, Or "Nell and Roger at the Wake," Or that sweet song, the talk in town, "The lady fair and Abel Brown." "O, who's that knocking at the door." Miss Bourne'll play the music score.' The men stood dumb as cattle are, They grinned, but thought I'd gone too far, There come a hush and no one break it, They wondered how Miss Bourne would take it. She up to me with black eyes wide, She looked as though her spirit cried; She took my tumbler from the bar Beside where all the matches are And poured it out upon the floor dust, Among the fag-ends, spit and sawdust.

'Saul Kane,' she said, 'when next you drink, Do me the gentleness to think That every drop of drink accursed Makes Christ within you die of thirst, That every dirty word you say Is one more flint upon His way, Another thorn about His head, Another mock by where He tread, Another nail, another cross. All that you are is that Christ's loss.' The clock run down and struck a chime And Mrs Si said, 'Closing time.'

The wet was pelting on the pane And something broke inside my brain, I heard the rain drip from the gutters And Silas putting up the shutters, While one by one the drinkers went; I got a glimpse of what it meant, How she and I had stood before In some old town by some old door Waiting intent while someone knocked Before the door for ever locked; She was so white that I was scared, A gas-jet, turned the wrong way, flared, And Silas snapped the bars in place. Miss Bourne stood white and searched my face. When Silas done, with ends of tunes He 'gan a-gathering the spittoons, His wife primmed lips and took the till. Miss Bourne stood still and I stood still, And 'Tick. Slow. Tick. Slow' went the clock. She said, 'He waits until you knock.' She turned at that and went out swift, Si grinned and winked, his missus sniffed.

I heard her clang the Lion door, I marked a drink-drop roll to floor; It took up scraps of sawdust, furry, And crinkled on, a half inch, blurry; A drop from my last glass of gin; And someone waiting to come in, A hand upon the door latch gropin' Knocking the man inside to open. I know the very words I said, They bayed like bloodhounds in my head. 'The water's going out to sea And there's a great moon calling me; But there's a great sun calls the moon, And all God's bells will carol soon For joy and glory and delight Of someone coming home to-night.'

Out into darkness, out to night, My flaring heart gave plenty light, So wild it was there was no knowing Whether the clouds or stars were blowing; Blown chimney pots and folk blown blind And puddles glimmering like my mind, And chinking glass from windows banging, And inn signs swung like people hanging, And in my heart the drink unpriced, The burning cataracts of Christ.

I did not think, I did not strive, The deep peace burnt my me alive; The bolted door had broken in, I knew that I had done with sin. I knew that Christ had given me birth To brother all the souls on earth, And every bird and every beast Should share the crumbs broke at the feast.

O glory of the lighted mind. How dead I'd been, how dumb, how blind. The station brook, to my new eyes, Was babbling out of Paradise; The waters rushing from the rain Were singing Christ has risen again. I thought all earthly creatures knelt From rapture of the joy I felt. The narrow station-wall's brick ledge, The wild hop withering in the hedge, The lights in huntsman's upper storey Were parts of an eternal glory, Were God's eternal garden flowers. I stood in bliss at this for hours.

O glory of the lighted soul. The dawn came up on Bradlow Knoll, The dawn with glittering on the grasses, The dawn which pass and never passes.

'It's dawn,' I said, 'and chimney's smoking, And all the blessed fields are soaking. It's dawn, and there's an engine shunting; And hounds, for huntsman's going hunting. It's dawn, and I must wander north Along the road Christ led me forth.'

So up the road I wander slow Past where the snowdrops used to grow With celandines in early springs, When rainbows were triumphant things And dew so bright and flowers so glad, Eternal joy to lass and lad. And past the lovely brook I paced, The brook whose source I never traced, The brook, the one of two which rise In my green dream in Paradise, In wells where heavenly buckets clink To give God's wandering thirsty drink By those clean cots of carven stone Where the clear water sings alone. Then down, past that white-blossomed pond, And past the chestnut trees beyond, And past the bridge the fishers knew, Where yellow flag flowers once grew, Where we'd go gathering cops of clover, In sunny June times long since over.

O clover-cops half white, half red, O beauty from beyond the dead. O blossom, key to earth and heaven, O souls that Christ has new forgiven.

Then down the hill to gipsies' pitch By where the brook clucks in the ditch. A gipsy's camp was in the copse, Three felted tents, with beehive tops, And round black marks where fires had been, And one old waggon painted green, And three ribbed horses wrenching grass, And three wild boys to watch me pass, And one old woman by the fire Hulking a rabbit warm from wire. I loved to see the horses bait. I felt I walked at Heaven's gate, That Heaven's gate was opened wide Yet still the gipsies camped outside. The waste souls will prefer the wild, Long after life is meek and mild. Perhaps when man has entered in His perfect city free from sin, The campers will come past the walls With old lame horses full of galls, And waggons hung about with withies, And burning coke in tinkers' stithies, And see the golden town, and choose, And think the wild too good to lose. And camp outside, as these camped then With wonder at the entering men. So past, and past the stone-heap white That dewberry trailers hid from sight, And down the field so full of springs, Where mewing peewits clap their wings, And past the trap made for the mill Into the field below the hill. There was a mist along the stream, A wet mist, dim, like in a dream; I heard the heavy breath of cows, And waterdrops from th'alder boughs; And eels, or snakes, in dripping grass Whipping aside to let me pass. The gate was backed against the ryme To pass the cows at milking time. And by the gate as I went out A moldwarp rooted earth wi 's snout. A few steps up the Callows' Lane Brought me above the mist again; The two great fields arose like death Above the mists of human breath.

All earthly things that blessed morning Were everlasting joy and warning. The gate was Jesus' way made plain, The mole was Satan foiled again, Black blinded Satan snouting way Along the red of Adam's clay; The mist was error and damnation, The lane the road unto salvation, Out of the mist into the light; O blessed gift of inner sight. The past was faded like a dream; There come the jingling of a team, A ploughman's voice, a clink of chain, Slow hoofs, and harness under strain. Up the slow slope a team came bowing, Old Callow at his autumn ploughing, Old Callow, stooped above the hales. Ploughing the stubble into wales; His grave eyes looking straight ahead, Shearing a long straight furrow red; His plough-foot high to give it earth To bring new food for men to birth.

O wet red swathe of earth laid bare, O truth, O strength, O gleaming share, O patient eyes that watch the goal, O ploughman of the sinner's soul. O Jesus, drive the coulter deep To plough my living man from sleep.

Slow up the hill the plough team plod, Old Callow at the task of God, Helped by man's wit, helped by the brute Turning a stubborn clay to fruit, His eyes for ever on some sign To help him plough a perfect line. At top of rise the plough team stopped, The fore-horse bent his head and cropped Then the chains chack, the brasses jingle, The lean reins gather through the cringle, The figures move against the sky, The clay wave breaks as they go by. I kneeled there in the muddy fallow, I knew that Christ was there with Callow, That Christ was standing there with me, That Christ had taught me what to be, That I should plough, and as I ploughed My Saviour Christ would sing aloud, And as I drove the clods apart Christ would be ploughing in my heart, Through rest-harrow and bitter roots, Through all my bad life's rotten fruits.

O Christ who holds the open gate, O Christ who drives the furrow straight, O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter Of holy white birds flying after, Lo, all my heart's field red and torn, And Thou wilt bring the young green corn, The young green corn divinely springing, The young green corn for ever singing; And when the field is fresh and fair Thy blessed feet shall glitter there. And we will walk the weeded field, And tell the golden harvest's yield, The corn that makes the holy bread By which the soul of man is fed, The holy bread, the food unpriced, Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.

The share will jar on many a stone, Thou wilt not let me stand alone; And I shall feel (Thou wilt not fail), Thy hand on mine upon the hale.

Near Bullen Bank, on Gloucester Road, Thy everlasting mercy showed The ploughman patient on the hill For ever there, for ever still, Ploughing the hill with steady yoke Of pine-trees lightning-struck and broke. I've marked the May Hill ploughman stay There on his hill, day after day Driving his team against the sky, While men and women live and die.

And now and then he seems to stoop To clear the coulter with the scoop, Or touch an ox to haw or gee While Severn stream goes out to sea. The sea with all her ships and sails, And that great smoky port in Wales, And Gloucester tower bright i' the sun, All know that patient wandering one. And sometimes when they burn the leaves The bonfires' smoking trails and heaves, And girt red flames twink and twire As though he ploughed the hill afire. And in men's hearts in many lands A spiritual ploughman stands For ever waiting, waiting now, The heart's 'Put in, man, zook the plough.'

By this the sun was all one glitter, The little birds were all in twitter; Out of a tuft a little lark Went higher up than I could mark, His little throat was all one thirst To sing until his heart should burst, To sing aloft in golden light His song from blue air out of sight. The mist drove by, and now the cows Came plodding up to milking house, Followed by Frank, the Callows' cowman, Who whistled 'Adam was a ploughman.' There come such cawing from the rooks, Such running chuck from little brooks, One thought it March, just budding green With hedgerows full of celandine. An otter out of stream and played, Two hares come loping up and stayed; Wide-eyed and tender-eared but bold. Sheep bleated up by Penny's fold. I heard a partridge covey call; The morning sun was bright on all.

Down the long slope the plough team drove The tossing rooks arose and hove. A stone struck on the share. A word Came to the team. The red earth stirred. I crossed the hedge by shooter's gap, I hitched my boxer's belt a strap, I jumped the ditch and crossed the fallow I took the hales from farmer Callow.

How swift the summer goes, Forget-me-not, pink, rose. The young grass when I started And now the hay is carted, And now my song is ended, And all the summer spended; The blackbird's second brood Routs beech-leaves in the wood The pink and rose have speeded, Forget-me-not has seeded. Only the winds that blew, The rain that makes things new, The earth that hides things old, And blessings manifold.

O lovely lily clean, O lily springing green, O lily bursting white, Dear lily of delight, Spring in my heart agen That I may flower to men.

GREAT HAMPDEN. June 1911.

NOTE

'The Everlasting Mercy' first appeared in _The English Review_ for October 1911. I thank the Editor and Proprietors of that paper for permitting me to reprint it here. The persons and events described in the poem are entirely imaginary, and no reference is made or intended to any living person.

JOHN MASEFIELD.

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