Chapter 3

No--not that he is dead. The pang's not there, Nor in the City's many-coloured bloom Of swift black-lettered posters, which the throng Passes with bovine stare, To say _He is dead_ and _Is it going to rain?_ Or hum stray snatches of a rag-time song. Nor is it in that falsest shibboleth (Which orators toss to the dumb scorn of death) That all the world stands weeping at his tomb. London is dining, dancing, through it all. And, in the unchecked smiles along the street Where men, that slightly knew him, lightly meet, With all the old indifferent grimaces, There is no jot of grief, no tittle of pain. No. No. For nearer things do most tears fall. Grief is for near and little things. But pride, O, pride was to be found by two or three, And glory in his great battling memory, Prouder and purer than the loud world knows, In one more dreadful sign, the day he died-- The dreadful light upon a thousand faces, The peace upon the faces of his foes.

THE ROMAN WAY

He that has loyally served the State Whereof he found himself a part, Or spent his life-blood to create A kingdom's treasure in his art;

Who sees the enemies of his land Applauded, by her sects and schools; And the high thought they scarce had scanned Derided and befogged by fools;

--Better to know it soon than late!-- Struggling, he wins a meed of praise; Achieving, he is dogged by hate And furtive malice all his days.

O, Emperor of the Stoic clan, Enfold him, then, with nobler pride. Teach him that nought can hurt a man Who will not turn or stoop to chide.

Can falsehood kindle or bedim One bay-leaf in his quiet crown? Ten thousand Lies may pluck at him, But only Truth can tear him down.

Why should he heed the thing they say? They never asked if it were true. Why brush one scribbler's tale away For others to invent a new?

No, let him search his heart, secure --If Truth be there--from tongue or pen; And teach us, Emperor, to endure, To think like Romans and like men.

THE INNER PASSION

There is a Master in my heart To whom, though oft against my will, I bring the songs I sing apart And strive to think that they fulfil His silent law, within my heart.

But He is blind to my desires, And deaf to all that I would plead: He tests my truth at purer fires And shames my purple with His need. He claims my deeds, not my desires.

And often when my comrades praise, I sadden, for He turns from me! But, sometimes, when they blame, I raise Mine eyes to His, and in them see A tenderness too deep for praise.

He is not to be bought with gold, Or lured by thornless crowns of fame; But when some rebel thought hath sold Him to dishonour and to shame, And my heart's Pilate cries, "Behold,"

"Behold the Man," I know Him then; And all those wild thronged clamours die In my heart's judgment hall again, Or if it ring with "Crucify!" Some few are faithful even then.

Some few sad thoughts,--one bears His cross; To that dark Calvary of my pride; One stands far off and mourns His loss, And one poor thief on either side Hangs on his own unworthy cross.

And one--O, truth in ancient guise!-- Rails, and one bids him cease alway, And the God turns His hungering eyes On that poor thought with, "Thou, this day, Shalt sing, shalt sing, in Paradise."

A COUNTRY LANE IN HEAVEN

The exceeding weight of glory bowed My head, in that pure clime: I found a road that ran through cloud Along the coasts of Time....

Out of that mist of years there came A cross-barred gate of wood. I clutched, I kissed the unheavenly frame So hard, it trickled blood.

My head upon the iron lay. I slobbered blood and foam. Yea, like a dog, I knew the way, A hundred yards from home.

_Iron and blood and wood! They knew The secret of that cry When the Eternal Passion drew Their Maker through--to die._

I knew each little hawthorn-cloud Along my misty lane, Then my heart burst. She sobbed aloud, Between my arms again.

TO THE DESTROYERS

Yes. You have shattered many an ancient wrong, And we were with you, heart and mind and soul, But there are fools who cast away control In life and thought and art; because the Strong-- We dare to say it--have now destroyed so long, That careless minds forget the unchanging goal-- The nobler Order which shall make us whole, The Service which is freedom, beauty, song.

We shall be stoned as traitors to your cause While the real traitors that you did not know, Chaos and Vice, trumpet themselves as free. Pray God that, loyal to the Eternal laws, A little remnant, mauled by friend and foe, Save you through Truth, and bring you Liberty.

THE TRUMPET-CALL

I

Trumpeter, sound the great recall! Swift, O swift, for the squadrons break, The long lines waver, mazed in the gloom! Hither and thither the blind host blunders. Stand thou firm for a dead Man's sake, Firm where the ranks reel down to their doom, Stand thou firm in the midst of the thunders, Stand where the steeds and the riders fall, Set the bronze to thy lips and sound A rally to ring the whole world round. Trumpeter, rally us, rally us, rally us! Sound the great recall.

II

Trumpeter, sound for the ancient heights! Clouds of the earth-born battle cloak The heaven that our fathers held from of old; And we--shall we prate to their sons of the gain In gold or bread? Through yonder smoke The heights that never were won with gold Wait, still bright with their old red stain, For the thousand chariots of God again, And the steel that swept thro' a hundred fights With the Ironsides, equal to life and death, The steel, the steel of their ancient faith. Trumpeter, rally us, rally us, rally us! Sound for the sun-lit heights.

III

Trumpeter, sound for the faith again! Blind and deaf with the dust and the blood, Clashing together we know not whither The tides of the battle would have us advance. Stand thou firm in the crimson flood, Send the lightning of thy great cry Through the thunders, athwart the storm, Sound till the trumpets of God reply From the heights we have lost in the steadfast sky, From the Strength we despised and rejected. Then, Locking the ranks as they form and form, Lift us forward, banner and lance, Mailed in the faith of Cromwell's men, When from their burning hearts they hurled The gage of heaven against the world! Trumpeter, rally us, rally us, rally us, Up to the heights again.

IV

Trumpeter, sound for the last Crusade! Sound for the fire of the red-cross kings, Sound for the passion, the splendour, the pity That swept the world for a dead Man's sake, Sound, till the answering trumpet rings Clear from the heights of the holy City, Sound till the lions of England awake, Sound for the tomb that our lives have betrayed; O'er broken shrine and abandoned wall, Trumpeter, sound the great recall, Trumpeter, rally us, rally us, rally us; Sound for the last Crusade!

V

Trumpeter, sound for the splendour of God! Sound the music whose name is law, Whose service is perfect freedom still, The order august that rules the stars. Bid the anarchs of night withdraw, Too long the destroyers have worked their will, Sound for the last, the last of the wars. Sound for the heights that our fathers trod, When truth was truth and love was love, With a hell beneath, but a heaven above, Trumpeter, rally us, up to the heights of it! Sound for the City of God.

THE HEART OF CANADA

_July 1912_

Because her heart is all too proud --_Canada! Canada! fair young Canada_-- To breathe the might of her love aloud, Be quick, O Motherland! Because her soul is wholly free --_Canada kneels, thy daughter, Canada_-- England, look in her eyes and see, Honour and understand.

Because her pride at thy masthead shines, --_Canada! Canada!_--queenly Canada Bows with all her breathing pines, All her fragrant firs. Because our isle is little and old --_Canada! Canada!_--young-eyed Canada Gives thee, Mother, her hands to hold, And makes thy glory hers.

Because thy Fleet is hers for aye, --_Canada! Canada!_--clear-souled Canada, Ere the war-cloud roll this way, Bids the world beware. Her heart, her soul, her sword are thine --_Thine the guns, the guns of Canada!_-- The ships are foaming into line, And Canada will be there.

THE RETURN OF THE HOME-BORN

All along the white chalk coast The mist lifts clear. Wight is glimmering like a ghost. The ship draws near. Little inch-wide meadows Lost so many a day, The first time I knew you Was when I turned away.

Island--little island-- Lost so many a year, Mother of all I leave behind --_Draw me near!_-- Mother of half the rolling world, And O, so little and gray, The first time I found you Was when I turned away.

_Over yon green water Sussex lies. But the slow mists gather In our eyes. England, little island --God, how dear!-- Fold me in your mighty arms, Draw me near._

Little tawny roofs of home, Nestling in the gray, Where the smell of Sussex loam Blows across the bay ... Fold me, teach me, draw me close, Lest in death I say The first time I loved you Was when I turned away.

A SALUTE FROM THE FLEET

I

_The Guns of H.M.S. Royal Sovereign_

Ocean-mother of England, thine is the crowning acclaim. Here, in the morning of battle, from over the world and beyond, Here, by our fleets of steel, silently foam into line Fleets of our glorious dead, thy shadowy oak-walled ships. Mother, for O, thy soul must speak thro' our iron lips! How should we speak to the ages, unless with a word of thine? Utter it, Victory! Let thy great signal flash thro' the flame! Answer, _Bellerophon_, _Marlborough_, _Thunderer_, _Condor_, respond!

II

_The Guns of H.M.S. Majestic_

Out of the ages we speak unto you, O ye ages to be. Rocks of Sevastopol, echo our thunder-word, bruit it afar. Roll it, O Mediterranean, round by Gibraltar again. Buffet it, Porto Bello, back to the Nile once more. Answer it, great St. Vincent! Answer it, Elsinore, Buffet it back from your crags and roll it over the main! Heights of Quebec, O hear and re-echo it back to the Baltic Sea! Answer it, _Camperdown_! Answer it, answer it, _Trafalgar_!

III

_The Guns of H.M.S. Rainbow_

How should we speak to the ages, if not with a word of thine, Maker of cloud and harvest, foam and the sea-bird's wing, Ocean-Mother of England and all things living and free? Deep that wast moved by the Spirit to bloom with the first white morn, Mother of Light and Freedom, mother of hopes unborn, Speak, O world-wide welder of nations, O Soul of the sea! Thine was the watchword that called us of old o'er the gray sky-line: Lift thy stormy salute. It is freedom and peace that we bring.

IV

_The Guns of H.M.S. Victory_

Therefore on thee we call, O Mother, for we are thy sons. Speak, with thy world-wide voice, O wake us anew from our sleep! Speak, for the Light of the world still lives and grows on thy face. Give us the ancient Word once more, the unchangeable Word,-- This that Nelson knew, this that Effingham heard, This that resounds for ever in all the hearts of our race, This that lives for a moment on the iron lips of our guns, This--that echoes for ever and ever--the Word of the Deep.

V

_The Guns of H.M.S. Dreadnought_

How shall a king be saved by the multitude of an host? Was not the answer thine, when fleet upon fleet swept, hurled Blind thro' the dark North Sea, with all their invincible ships? Thine was the answer, O mother of all men born to be free! Witness again, Cape Wrath!--O thine, everlastingly, Thine as Freedom arose and rolled thy song from her lips, Thine when she 'stablished her throne in thy sight, on our rough rock-coast, Thine with thy lustral glory and thunder, washing the world.

VI

_The Guns of H.M.S. Temeraire_

O for that ancient cry of the watch at the midnight bell, Under the unknown stars, from the decks that Frobisher trod. Hark, _Before the world?_--he questions a fleet in the dark! Answer it, friend or foe! And, ringing from mast to mast, Mother, hast thou forgotten what cry in the dark went past, Answering still as he questioned? _Before the world?_ O, hark, Ringing anear, _Before the world?_ ... _was God_ ... All's well! Dying afar ... _Before the world?_ ... All's well ... _was God!_

VII

_The Guns of H.M.S. Revenge_

Raleigh and Grenville heard it, Knights of the Ocean-sea. Have we forgotten it only, we with our leagues of steel? Give us our watchword again, O mother, in this great hour! Here, in the morning of battle, here as we gather our might, Here, as the nations of earth in the light of thy freedom unite, Shake our hearts with thy Word, O 'stablish our peace on thy power! 'Stablish our power on thy peace, thy glory, thy liberty, 'Stablish on thy deep Word the throne of our Commonweal.

VIII

_The Guns of H.M.S. Leviathan_

They that go down to the sea in ships--they heard it of old-- They shall behold His wonders, alone on the Deep, the Deep! Have _we_ forgotten, we only? O, rend the heavens again, Voice of the Everlasting, shake the great hills with thy breath! Roll the Voice of our God thro' the valleys of doubt and death! Waken the fog-bound cities with the shout of the wind-swept main, Inland over the smouldering plains, till the mists unfold, Darkness die, and England, England arise from sleep.

IX

_The Guns of H.M.S. Triumph_

Queen of the North and the South, Queen of our ocean-renown, England, England, England, O lift thine eyes to the sun! Wake, for the hope of the whole world yearns to thee, watches and waits! Now on the full flood-tide of the ages, the supreme hour Beacons thee onward in might to the purpose and crown of thy power. Hark, for the whole Atlantic thunders against thy gates, Take the Crown of all Time, all might, earth's crowning Crown, Throne thy children in peace and in freedom together, O weld them in one.

X

_The Guns of the Fleet_

_Throne them in triumph together. Thine is the crowning cry! Thine the glory for ever in the nation born of thy womb! Thine the Sword and the Shield, and the shout that Salamis heard, Surging in Aeschylean splendour, earth-shaking acclaim! Ocean-mother of England, thine is the throne of her fame. Breaker of many fleets, O thine the victorious word, Thine the Sun and the Freedom, the God and the wind-swept sky, Thine the thunder and thine the lightning, thine the doom._

IN MEMORY OF A BRITISH AVIATOR

On those young brows that knew no fear We lay the Roman athlete's crown, The laurel of the charioteer, The imperial garland of renown, While those young eyes, beyond the sun, See Drake, see Raleigh, smile "Well done."

Their desert seas that knew no shore To-night with fleets like cities flare; But, frailer even than theirs of yore, His keel a new-found deep would dare: They watch, with thrice-experienced eyes What fleets shall follow through the skies.

They would not scoff, though man should set To feebler wings a mightier task. They know what wonders wait us yet. Not all things in an hour they ask; But in each noble failure see The inevitable victory.

A thousand years have borne us far From that dark isle the Saxon swayed, And star whispers to trembling star While Space and Time shrink back afraid,-- "Ten thousand thousand years remain For man to dare our deep again."

Thou, too, shalt hear across that deep Our thundering fleets of thought draw nigh, Round which the suns and systems sweep Like cloven foam from sky to sky, Till Death himself at last restore His captives to our eyes once more.

* * * * *

Feeble the wings, dauntless the soul! Take thou the conqueror's laurel crown; Take--for thy chariot grazed the goal-- The imperial garland of renown; While those young eyes, beyond the sun, See Drake, see Raleigh, smile "Well done."

THE WAGGON

Crimson and black on the sky, a waggon of clover Slowly goes rumbling, over the white chalk road; And I lie in the golden grass there, wondering why So little a thing As the jingle and ring of the harness, The hot creak of leather, The peace of the plodding, Should suddenly, stabbingly, make it Strange that men die.

Only, perhaps, in the same blue summer weather, Hundreds of years ago, in this field where I lie, Caedmon, the Saxon, was caught by the self-same thing: The serf lying, black with the sun, on his beautiful wain-load, The jingle and clink of the harness, The hot creak of leather, The peace of the plodding; And wondered, O terribly wondered, That men must die.

THE SACRED OAK

(_A Song of Britain_)

I

Voice of the summer stars that, long ago, Sang thro' the old oak-forests of our isle, Enchanted voice, pure as her falling snow, Dark as her storms, bright as her sunniest smile, Taliessin, voice of Britain, the fierce flow Of fourteen hundred years has whelmed not thee! Still art thou singing, lavrock of her morn, Singing to heaven in that first golden glow, Singing above her mountains and her sea! Not older yet are grown Thy four winds in their moan For Urien. Still thy charlock blooms in the billowing corn.

II

Thy dew is bright upon this beechen spray! Spring wakes thy harp! I hear--I see--again, Thy wild steeds foaming thro' the crimson fray, The raven on the white breast of thy slain, The tumult of thy chariots, far away, The weeping in the glens, the lustrous hair Dishevelled over the stricken eagle's fall, And in thy Druid groves, at fall of day One gift that Britain gave her valorous there, One gift of lordlier pride Than aught--save to have died-- One spray of the sacred oak, they coveted most of all.

III

I watch thy nested brambles growing green: O strange, across that misty waste of years, To glimpse the shadowy thrush that thou hast seen, To touch, across the ages, touch with tears The ferns that hide thee with their fairy screen, Or only hear them rustling in the dawn; And--as a dreamer waking--in thy words, For all the golden clouds that drowse between, To feel the veil of centuries withdrawn, To feel thy sun re-risen Unbuild our shadowy prison And hear on thy fresh boughs the carol of waking birds.

IV

O, happy voice, born in that far, clear time, Over thy single harp thy simple strain Attuned all life for Britain to the chime Of viking oars and the sea's dark refrain, And thine own beating heart, and the sublime Measure to which the moons and stars revolve Untroubled by the storms that, year by year, In ever-swelling symphonies still climb To embrace our growing world and to resolve Discords unknown to thee, In the infinite harmony Which still transcends our strife and leaves us darkling here.

* * * * *

V

For, now, one sings of heaven and one of hell, One soars with hope, one plunges to despair! This, trembling, doubts if aught be ill or well; And that cries, "Fair is foul and foul is fair;" And this cries, "Forward, though I cannot tell Whither, and all too surely all things die;" And that sighs, "Rest, then, sleep and take thine ease." One sings his country and one rings its knell, One hymns mankind, one dwarfs them with the sky. O, Britain, let thy soul Once more command the whole, Once more command the strings of the world-wide harmony.

VI

For hark! One sings, _The gods, the gods are dead!_ _Man triumphs!_ And hark--_Blind Space his funeral urn._ And hark, one whispers with reverted head To the old dead gods--_Bring back our heaven, return!_ And hark, one moans--_The ancient order is fled, We are children of blind chance and vacant dreams. Heed not mine utterance--that was chance-born, too._ And hark, the answer of Science--_All they said, Your fathers, in that old time, lit by gleams Of what their hearts could feel, The rolling years reveal As fragments of one law, one covenant, simply true._

VII

_I find_, she cries, _in all this march of time And space, no gulf, no break, nothing that mars Its unity. I watch the primal slime Lift Athens like a flower to greet the stars! I flash my messages from clime to clime, I link the increasing world from depth to height! Not yet ye see the wonder that draws nigh, When at some sudden contact, some sublime Touch, as of memory, all this boundless night Wherein ye grope entombed Shall, by that touch illumed, Like one electric City shine from sky to sky._

VIII

_No longer then the memories that ye hold Dark in your brain shall slumber. Ye shall see That City whose gates are more than pearl or gold And all its towers firm as Eternity. The stones of the earth have cried to it from of old! Why will ye turn from Him who reigns above Because your highest words fall short? Kneel--call On Him whose Name--I AM--doth still enfold Past, present, future, memory, hope and love. No seed falls fruitless there._ Beyond your Father's care-- _The old covenant still holds fast_--no bird, no leaf can fall.

IX

O Time, thou mask of the ever-living Soul, Thou veil to shield us from that blinding Face, Thou art wearing thin! We are nearer to the goal When man no more shall need thy saving grace, But all the folded years like one great scroll Shall be unrolled in the omnipresent Now, And He that saith _I am_ unseal the tomb: Nearer His thunders and His trumpets roll, I catch the gleam that lit thy lifted brow, O singer whose wild eyes Possess these April skies, I touch--I clasp thy hands thro' all the clouds of doom.

X

Teach thou our living choirs amid the sound Of their tempestuous chords once more to hear That harmony wherewith the whole is crowned, The singing heavens that sphere by choral sphere Break open, height o'er height, to the utmost bound Of passionate thought! O, as this glorious land, This sacred country shining on the sea, Grows mightier, let not her clear voice be drowned In the fierce waves of faction. Let her stand A beacon to the blind, A signal to mankind, A witness to the heavens' profoundest unity.

XI