Chapter 4

Yet if some great new "rebel" in his pride Should pass that way and hear us laughing low Like lovers, in the darkness, side by side, He might catch this:--"The dullards do not know That names are names. New 'rebel' is old 'thrall.'" And we're the lonely dreamers after all.

THE COMPANIONS

How few are they that voyage through the night On that eternal quest, For that strange light beyond our light, That rest beyond our rest.

And they who, seeking beauty, once descry Her face, to most unknown; Thenceforth like changelings from the sky Must walk their road alone.

So once I dreamed. So idle was my mood; But now, before these eyes, From those foul trenches, black with blood, What radiant legions rise!

And loveliness over the wounded earth awakes Like wild-flowers in the Spring. Out of the mortal chrysalis breaks Immortal wing on wing.

They rise like flowers, they wander on wings of light, Through realms beyond our ken. The loneliest soul is companied tonight By hosts of unknown men.

THE LITTLE ROADS

The great roads are all grown over That seemed so firm and white. The deep black forests have covered them. How should I walk aright? How should I thread these tangled mazes, Or grope to that far off light? I stumble round the thickets, and they turn me Back to the thickets and the night.

Yet, sometimes, at a word, an elfin pass-word, (O, thin, deep, sweet with beaded rain!) There shines, through a mist of ragged-robins, The old lost April-coloured lane, That leads me from myself; for, at a whisper, Where the strong limbs thrust in vain, At a breath, if my heart help another heart, The path shines out for me again.

A thin thread, a rambling lane for lovers To the light of the world's one May, Where the white dropping flakes may wet our faces As we lift them to the bloom-bowed spray: O Master, shall we ask Thee, then, for high-roads, Or down upon our knees and pray That Thou wilt ever lose us in Thy little lanes, And lead us by a wandering way.

SUNLIGHT AND SEA

Give me the sunlight and the sea And who shall take my heaven from me?

Light of the Sun, Life of the Sun, O happy, bold companion, Whose golden laughters round me run, Making wine of the blue air With wild-rose kisses everywhere, Browning the limb, flushing the cheek, Apple-fragrant, leopard-sleek, Dancing from thy red-curtained East Like a Nautch-girl to my feast, Proud because her lord, the Spring, Praised the way those anklets ring; Or wandering like a white Greek maid Leaf-dappled through the dancing shade, Where many a green-veined leaf imprints Breast and limb with emerald tints, That softly net her silken shape But let the splendour still escape, While rosy ghosts of roses flow Over the supple rose and snow.

But sweetest, fairest is thy face, When we meet, when we embrace, Where the white sand sleeps at noon Round that lonely blue lagoon, Fringed with one white reef of coral Where the sea-birds faintly quarrel And the breakers on the reef Fade into a dream of grief, And the palm-trees overhead Whisper that all grief is dead.

Sister Sunlight, lead me then Into thy healing seas again.... For when we swim out, side by side, Like a lover with his bride, When thy lips are salt with brine, And thy wild eyes flash in mine, The music of a mightier sea Beats with my blood in harmony. I breast the primal flood of being, Too clear for speech, too near for seeing; And to his heart, new reconciled, The Eternal takes his earth-bound child.

Who the essential secret spells In those gigantic syllables,-- Flowing, ebbing, ebbing, flowing,-- Gathers wisdom past all knowing. Song of the Sea, I hear, I hear, That deeper music of the sphere, Catch the rhythm of sun and star, And know what light and darkness are; Ay, faint beginnings of a rhyme That swells beyond the tides of time; Beat with thy rhythm in blood and breath, And make one song of life and death. I hear, I hear, and rest content, Merged in the primal element, The old element whence life arose, The fount of youth, to which it goes.

Give me the sunlight and the sea And who shall take my heaven from me?

THE ROAD THROUGH CHAOS

I.

There is one road, one only, to the Light: A narrow way, but Freedom walks therein; A straight, firm road through Chaos and old Night, And all these wandering Jack-o-Lents of Sin.

It is the road of Law, where Pilate stays To hear, at last, the answer to his cry; And mighty sages, groping through their maze Of eager questions, hear a child reply.

_Truth? What is Truth?_ Come, look upon my tables. Begin at your beginnings once again. _Twice one is two!_ Though all the rest be fables, Here's one poor glimpse of Truth to keep you sane.

For Truth, at first, is clean accord with fact, Whether in line or thought, or word, or act.

II.

Then, by those first, those clean, precise, accords, Build to the Lord your temples and your song; The curves of beauty, music's wedded chords Resolving into heaven all hate and wrong.

Let harmonies of colour marry and follow And breaking waves in a rhythmic dance ensue; And all your thought fly free as the wings of the swallow, Whose arrowy curves obey their measure, too.

Then shall the marching stars and tides befriend you, And your own heart, and the world's heart, pulse in rhyme; Then shall the mob of the passions that would rend you Crown you their Captain and march on in time.

So shall you repossess your struggling soul, Conquer your world, and find the eternal goal.

THE NIGHT OF THE LION

"_And that a reply be received before midnight._" _British Ultimatum_.

Their Day was at twelve of the night, When the graves give up their dead. And still, from the City, no light Yellows the clouds overhead. Where the Admiral stands there's a star, But his column is lost in the gloom; For the brazen doors are ajar, And the Lion awakes, and the doom.

_He is not of a chosen race. His strength is the strength of the skies, In whose glory all nations have place, In whose downfall Liberty dies. He is mighty, but he is just. He shall live to the end of years. He shall bring the proud to the dust. He shall raise the weak to the spheres._

It is night on the world's great mart, But the brooding hush is awake With the march of a steady heart That calls like the drum of Drake, _Come!_ And a muttering deep As the pulse of the distant guns, Or the thunder before the leap Thro' the rolling thoroughfare runs.

And the wounded men go by Like thoughts in the Lion's brain. And the clouds lift on high Like the slow waves of his mane And the narrowing lids conceal The furnaces of his eyes. Their gold is gone out. They reveal Only two search-lights of steel Steadily sweeping the skies.

And we hoped he had peace in his lair Where the bones of old tyrannies lay, And the skulls that his cubs have stripped bare, The old skulls they still toss in their play. But the tyrants are risen again, And the last light dies from their path; For the midnight of his mane Lifts to the stars with his wrath.

From the East to the West he is crouching. He snuffs at the North-East wind. His breast upon Britain is couching. His haunches quiver on Ind. It is night, black night, where he lies; But a kingdom and a fleet Shall burn in his terrible eyes When he leaps, and the darkness dies With the War-gods under his feet.

_Till the day when a little child, Shall lay but a hand on his mane, And his eyes grow golden and mild And he stands in the heavens again; Till the day of the seventh seal, Which the Lion alone shall rend, When the stars from their courses reel, His Freedom shall not end._

THE WAR WIDOW

I.

Black-veiled, black-gowned, she rides in bus and train, With eyes that fill too listlessly for tears. Her waxen hands clasp and unclasp again. _Good News_, they cry. She neither sees nor hears.

Good News, perhaps, may crown some far-off king. Good News may peal the glory of the state-- Good News may cause the courts of heaven to ring. She sees a hand waved at a garden gate.

For her dull ears are tuned to other themes; And her dim eyes can never see aright. She glides--a ghost--through all her April dreams, To meet his eyes at dawn, his lips at night.

Wraiths of a truth that others never knew; And yet--for her--the only truth that's true.

II.

_Good News! Good News!_ There is no way but this. Out of the night a star begins to rise. I know not where my soul's deep Master is; Nor can I hear those angels in the skies;

Nor follow him, as childhood used of old, By radiant seas, in those time-hallowed tales. Only, at times, implacable and cold, From this blind gloom, stand out the iron nails.

Yet, at this world's heart stands the Eternal Cross, The ultimate frame of moon and star and sun, Where Love with out-stretched arms, in utter loss, Points East and West and makes the whole world one.

_Good News! Good News!_ There is no hope, no way, No truth, no life, but leads through Christmas Day.

THE BELL

The Temple Bell was out of tune, That once out-melodied sun and moon.

Instead of calling folk to prayer It spread an evil in the air.

Instead of a song, from north to south, It put a lie in the wind's mouth.

The very palms beneath it died, So harsh it jarred, so loud it lied.

Then the gods told the blue-robed bonze: "_Your Bell is only wrought of bronze._

_Lower it down, cast it again, Or you shall shake the heavens in vain._"

Then, as the mighty cauldron hissed, Men brought the wealth that no man missed.

Yea, they brought silver, they brought gold, And melted them into the seething mould.

The miser brought his greening hoard, And the king cast in his sword.

Yet, when the Bell in the Temple swung, It jarred the stars with its harsh tongue.

"_Is this your best?_" the oracle said, "_Then were you better drunk or dead._"

Once again they melted it down, And the king cast in his crown.

Then they poured wine, and bullock's blood, Into the hot, grey, seething flood.

They gave it mellowing fruits to eat, And honey-combs to make it sweet.

Yet, when they hauled it to the sky, The Bell was one star-shattering lie.

So, for the third time and the last, They lowered it down to be re-cast.

The white-hot metal seethed anew, And the crowd shrank as the heat grew;

But a white-robed woman, queenly and tall, Pressed to the brink before them all,

One breast, like a golden fruit lay bare; She held her small son feeding there.

She plucked him off, she lifted him high, Like rose-red fruit on the blue sky.

She pressed her lips to the budded feet, And murmured softly, "_Oh, sweet, my sweet._"

She whispered, "_Gods, that my land may live, I give the best that I have to give!_"

Then, then, before the throng awoke, Before one cry from their white lips broke,

She tossed him into the fiery flood, Her child, her baby, her flesh and blood.

And the crisp hissing waves closed round And melted him through without a sound.

"_Too quick for pain_," they heard her say, And she sobbed, once, and she turned away.

* * * * *

The Temple Bell, in peace and war, Keeps the measure of sun and star.

But sometimes, in the night it cries Faintly, and a voice replies:

_Mother, Oh, mother, the Bell rings true!-- You were all that I had!--Oh, mother, my mother!-- With the land and the Bell it is well. Is it well, Is it well with the heart that had you and none other?_

SLAVE AND EMPEROR

"Our cavalry have rescued Nazareth from the enemy whose supermen described Christianity as a creed for slaves."

The Emperor mocked at Nazareth In his almighty hour. The Slave that bowed himself to death And walked with slaves in Nazareth, What were his words but wasted breath Before that "will to power"?

Yet, in the darkest hour of all, When black defeat began, The Emperor heard the mountains quake, He felt the graves beneath him shake, He watched his legions rally and break, And he whimpered as they ran.

"I hear a shout that moves the earth, A cry that wakes the dead! Will no one tell me whence they come, For all my messengers are dumb? What power is this that comes to birth And breaks my power?" he said.

Then, all around his foundering guns, Though dawn was now not far, The darkness filled with a living fear That whispered at the Emperor's ear, "_The armies of the dead draw near Beneath an eastern star._"

_The trumpet blows in Nazareth. The Slave is risen again. Across the bitter wastes of death The horsemen ride from Nazareth, And the Power we mocked as wasted breath Returns, in power, to reign; Rides on, in white, through Nazareth, To save His world again._

ON A MOUNTAIN TOP

On this high altar, fringed with ferns That darken against the sky, The dawn in lonely beauty burns And all our evils die.

The struggling sea that roared below Is quieter than the dew, Quieter than the clouds that flow Across the stainless blue.

On this bare crest, the angels kneel And breathe the sweets that rise From flowers too little to reveal Their beauty to our eyes.

I have seen Edens on the earth With queenly blooms arrayed; But here the fairest come to birth, The smallest flowers He made.

O, high above the sounding pine, And richer, sweeter far, The wild thyme wakes. The celandine Looks at the morning star.

They may not see the heavens unfold. They breathe no out-worn prayer; But, on a mountain, as of old, His glory fills the air.

EARLY POEMS

(_Not Published Hitherto in America_)

THE PHANTOM FLEET (1904)

The sunset lingered in the pale green West: In rosy wastes the low soft evening star Woke; while the last white sea-mew sought for rest; And tawny sails came stealing o'er the bar.

But, in the hillside cottage, through the panes The light streamed like a thin far trumpet-call, And quickened, as with quivering battle-stains, The printed ships that decked the parlour wall.

From oaken frames old admirals looked down: They saw the lonely slumberer at their feet: They saw the paper, headed _Talk from Town; Our rusting trident, and our phantom fleet_:

And from a neighbouring tavern surged a song Of England laughing in the face of war, With eyes unconquerably proud and strong, And lips triumphant from her Trafalgar.

But he, the slumberer in that glimmering room, Saw distant waters glide and heave and gleam; Around him in the softly coloured gloom The pictures clustered slowly to a dream.

He saw how England, resting on her past, Among the faded garlands of her dead, Woke; for a whisper reached her heart at last, And once again she raised her steel-clad head.

Her eyes were filled with sudden strange alarms; She heard the westering waters change and chime; She heard the distant tumult of her arms Defeated, not by courage, but by Time.

Knowledge had made a deadlier pact with death, Nor strength nor steel availed against that bond: Slowly approached--and Britain held her breath-- The battle booming from the deeps beyond.

O, then what darkness rolled upon the wind, Threatening the torch that Britain held on high? Where all her navies, baffled, broken, blind, Slunk backward, snarling in their agony! _Who guards the gates of Freedom now?_ The cry Stabbed heaven! _England, the shattered ramparts fall!_ Then, like a trumpet shivering through the sky O, like white lightning rending the black pall Of heaven, an answer pealed: _Her dead shall hear that call._

Then came a distant light of great waves breaking That brought the sunset on each crumbling crest, A rumour as of buried ages waking, And mighty spirits rising from their rest; Then ghostly clouds arose, with billowing breast, White clouds that turned to sails upon their way, Red clouds that burned like flags against the West, Till even the conquering fleet in silence lay Dazed with that strange old light, and night grew bright as day.

_We come to fight for Freedom!_ The great East Heard, and was rent asunder like a veil. Host upon host out of the night increased Its towering clouds and crowded zones of sail: _England, our England, canst thou faint or fail? We come to fight for Freedom yet once more!_ This, this is ours at least! Count the great tale Of all these dead that rise to guard thy shore By right of the red life they never feared to pour.

_We come to fight for Freedom!_ On they came, One cloud of beauty sweeping the wild sea; And there, through all their thousands, flashed like flame That star-born signal of the Victory: _Duty_, that deathless lantern of the free; _Duty_, that makes a god of every man. And there was Nelson, watching silently As through the phantom fleet the message ran; And his tall frigate rushed before the stormy van.

Nelson, our Nelson, frail and maimed and blind, Stretched out his dead cold face against the foe: And England's Raleigh followed hard behind, With all his eager fighting heart aglow; Glad, glad for England's sake once more to know The old joy of battle and contempt of pain; Glad, glad to die, if England willed it so, The traitor's and the coward's death again; But hurl the world back now as once he hurled back Spain.

And there were all those others, Drake and Blake, Rodney and Howard, Byron, Collingwood; With deathless eyes aflame for England's sake, As on their ancient decks they proudly stood,-- Decks washed of old with England's purplest blood; And there, once more, each rushing oaken side Bared its dark-throated, thirsty, gleaming brood Of cannon, watched by laughing lads who died Long, long ago for England and her ancient pride.

_We come to fight for England!_ The great sea In a wild light of song began to break Round that tall phantom of the Victory And all the foam was music in her wake: Ship after phantom ship, with guns a-rake And shot-rent flags a-stream from every mast Moved in a deepening splendour, not to make A shield for England of her own dead past; But, with a living dream to arm her soul at last.

_We come to die for England_: through the hush Of gathered nations rose that regal cry, From naked oaken walls one word could crush If those vast armoured throats dared to reply: But there the most implacable enemy Felt his eyes fill with gladder, prouder tears, As Nelson's calm eternal face went by, Gazing beyond all perishable fears To some diviner goal above the waste of years.

Through the hushed fleets the vision streamed away, Then slowly turned once more to that deep West, While voices cried, O, England, the new day Is dawning, but thy soul can take no rest.

Thy freedom and thy peace are only thine By right of toil on every land and sea And by that crimson sacrificial wine Of thine own heart and thine own agony.

Peace is not slumber. Peace, in every hour, Throbs like the heart of music. This alone Can save thy heritage and confirm that power Whereof the past is but the cushioned throne.

Look to the fleet! Again and yet again, Hear us who storm thy heart with this one cry. Hear us, who cannot help, though fair and fain, To hold thy seas before thee, and to die.

Look to the fleet! Thy fleet, the first, last line: The sword of Liberty, her strength, her shield, Her food, her life-blood! Britain, it is thine, Here, now, to hold that birth-right, or to yield.

So, through the dark, those phantom ships of old Faded, it seemed, through mists of blood and tears. Sails turned to clouds, and slowly westward rolled The sad returning pageant of the years. On tides of light, where all our tumults cease, Through that rich West, the Victory returned; And all the waves around her whispered "peace," And from her mast no battle-message burned.

Like clouds, like fragments of those fading skies, The pageant passed, with all its misty spars, While the hushed nations raised their dreaming eyes To that great light which brings the end of wars.

Ship after ship, in some strange glory drowned, Cloud after cloud, was lost in that deep light Each with a sovran stillness haloed round. Then--that high fleet of stars led on the night.

MICHAEL OAKTREE

Under an arch of glorious leaves I passed Out of the wood and saw the sickle moon Floating in daylight o'er the pale green sea.

It was the quiet hour before the sun Gathers the clouds to prayer and silently Utters his benediction on the waves That whisper round the death-bed of the day. The labourers were returning from the farms And children danced to meet them. From the doors Of cottages there came a pleasant clink Where busy hands laid out the evening meal. From smouldering elms around the village spire There soared and sank the caw of gathering rooks. The faint-flushed clouds were listening to the tale The sea tells to the sunset with one sigh. The last white wistful sea-bird sought for peace, And the last fishing-boat stole o'er the bar, And fragrant grasses, murmuring a prayer, Bowed all together to the holy west, Bowed all together thro' the golden hush, The breathing hush, the solemn scented hush, The holy, holy hush of eventide.

And, in among the ferns that crowned the hill With waving green and whispers of the wind, A boy and girl, carelessly linking hands, Into their golden dream drifted away. On that rich afternoon of scent and song Old Michael Oaktree died. It was not much He wished for; but indeed I think he longed To see the light of summer once again Blossoming o'er the far blue hills. I know He used to like his rough-hewn wooden bench Placed in the sun outside the cottage door Where in the listening stillness he could hear, Across the waving gilly-flowers that crowned His crumbling garden wall, the long low sigh Of supreme peace that whispers to the hills The sacred consolation of the sea. He did not hope for much: he longed to live Until the winter came again, he said; But on the last sweet eve of May he died.

I wandered sadly through the dreaming lanes Down to the cottage on that afternoon; For I had known old Michael Oaktree now So many years, so many happy years. When I was little he had carried me High on his back to see the harvest home, And given me many a ride upon his wagon Among the dusty scents of sun and hay. He showed me how to snare the bulky trout That lurked under the bank of yonder brook. Indeed, he taught me many a country craft, For I was apt to learn, and, as I learnt, I loved the teacher of that homely lore. Deep in my boyish heart he shared the glad Influence of the suns and winds and waves, Giving my childhood what it hungered for-- The rude earth-wisdom of the primal man.

He had retained his childhood: Death for him Had no more terror than his bed. He walked With wind and sunlight like a brother, glad Of their companionship and mutual aid. We, toilers after truth, are weaned too soon From earth's dark arms and naked barbarous breast. Too soon, too soon, we leave the golden feast, Fetter the dancing limbs and pluck the crown Of roses from the dreaming brow. We pass Our lives in most laborious idleness. For we have lost the meaning of the world; We have gone out into the night too soon; We have mistaken all the means of grace And over-rated our small power to learn. And the years move so swiftly over us: We have so little time to live in worlds Unrealised and unknown realms of joy, We are so old before we learn how vain Our effort was, how fruitlessly we cast Our Bread upon the waters, and how weak Our hearts were, but our chance desires how strong! Then, in the dark, our sense of light decays; We cannot cry to God as once we cried! Lost in the gloom, our faith, perhaps our love, Lies dead with years that never can return.