Chapter 2

But in the smoke that drifted on the Green Queer freaks of vision weirdly wrought were seen: For on that shifting background each one saw His own reflection and recoiled in awe; Saw himself there, a bright light shining through him, Not as he thought himself, but as men knew him. Before this sudden and revealing sense Each rag of sham, each tatter of pretence Withered and vanished, as dissolved in air, And left the shuddering human creature bare. But when they turned and looked upon a friend They saw a sight that all but made amend: For they beheld him as a radiant spirit Indued with virtue and surpassing merit, Not vain or dull or mean or keen for pelf, But splendid--as he mostly saw himself. Darville and Fall were drawn to one another, And both to Bent as to their heart's own brother; And a strange feeling grew in every breast, A self-defeating altruistic zest Which from that moment's flash composed their strife, Informed their nature and controlled their life. But when they sought the Gipsy, him they found, His dark eyes staring, dead upon the ground.

THE BIRD IN THE ROOM

A robin skimmed into the room, And blithe he looked and jolly, A foe to every sort of gloom, And, most, to melancholy. He cocked his head, he made no sound, But gave me stare for stare back, When, having fluttered round and round, He perched upon a chair-back.

I rose; ah, then, it seemed, he knew Too late his reckless error: Away in eager haste he flew, And at his tail flew terror. Now here, now there, from wall to floor, For mere escape appealing, He fled and struck against the door Or bumped about the ceiling.

I went and flung each window wide, I drew each half-raised blind up; To coax him out in vain I tried; He could not make his mind up. He flew, he fell, he took a rest, And off again he scuffled With parted beak and panting breast And every feather ruffled.

At length I lured him to the sill, All dazed and undivining; Beyond was peace o'er vale and hill, And all the air was shining. I stretched my hand and touched him; then He made no more resistance, But left the cramped abode of men And flew into the distance.

* * * * *

Is life like that? We make it so; We leave the sunny spaces, And beat about, or high or low, In dark and narrow places; Till, worn with failure, vexed with doubt, Our strength at last we rally, And the bruised spirit flutters out To find the happy valley.

KILLED IN ACTION

RUPERT is dead, and RUPERT was my friend; "Only surviving son of"--so it ran-- "Beloved husband" and the rest of it. But six months back I saw him full of life, Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease In some obscure but splendid field of France, His strivings over and his conflicts done. He was a fellow of most joyous moods And quaint contrivings, ever on the point Of shaking fame and fortune by the hand But always baulked of meeting them at last. He could not brook--and always so declared-- The weak pomposities of little men, Scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world, And plunged headlong into imprudences, And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal, Holding his luck and not himself to blame For aught that might betide when reckoning came. But he was true as steel and staunch as oak. And if he pledged his word he bore it out Unswerving to the finish, and he gave Whate'er he had of strength to help a friend.

When the great summons came he rushed to arms, Counting no cost and all intent to serve His country and to prove himself a man. Yet he could laugh at all his ardour too And find some fun in glory, as a child Laughs at a bauble but will guard it well. Now he is fall'n, and on his shining brow Glory has set her everlasting seal.

I like to think how cheerily he talked Amid the ceaseless tumult of the guns, How, when the word was given, he stood erect, Sprang from the trench and, shouting to his men, Led them forthright to where the sullen foe Waited their coming; and his brain took fire, And all was exultation and a high Heroic ardour and a pulse of joy. "Forward!" his cry rang out, and all his men Thundered behind him with their eyes ablaze, "Forward for England! Clear the beggars out! Remember--" and death found him, and he fell Fronting the Germans, and the rush swept on.

Thrice blesséd fate! We linger here and droop Beneath the heavy burden of our years, And may not, though we envy, give our lives For England and for honour and for right; But still must wear our weary hours away, While he, that happy fighter, in one leap, From imperfection to perfection borne, Breaks through the bonds that bound him to the earth. Now of his failures is a triumph made; His very faults are into virtues turned; And, reft for ever from the haunts of men, He wears immortal honour and is joined With those who fought for England and are dead.

EPITAPH

FOR AN ENGLISH SOLDIER AND AN INDIAN SOLDIER BURIED TOGETHER IN FRANCE

When the fierce bugle thrilled alarm, From lands apart these fighters came. An equal courage nerved each arm, And stirred each generous heart to flame.

Now, greatly dead, they lie below; Their creed or language no man heeds, Since for their colour they can show The blood-red blazon of their deeds!

TO FLIGHT-LIEUTENANT ROBINSON, V.C.

You with the hawk's eyes and the nerves of steel, How was it with you when the hurried word Roused you and sent you swiftly forth to deal A blow for justice? Sure your pulses stirred, And all your being leapt to meet the call Which bade you strike nor spare Where poised in air Murder and ravening flame were hid intent to fall.

Alone upon your fearful task you flew, Where in the vault of heaven the high stars swing, Alone and upward, lost to mortal view, Winding about the assassin craft a ring Of fateful motion, till at last you sped Through the far tracts of gloom The bolt of doom, Shattering the dastard foe to earth with all his dead.

For this we thank you, and we bid you know That henceforth in the air, by day or night, A myriad hopes of ours, where'er you go, Rise as companions of your soaring flight; And well we know that when there comes the need A host of men like you, As staunch, as true, Will rush to prove the daring of the island breed.

PAGAN FANCIES

Blow, Father Triton, blow your wreathéd horn Cheerly, as is your wont, and let the blast Circle our island on the breezes borne; Blow, while the shining hours go swiftly past. Rise, Proteus, from the cool depths rise, and be A friend to them that breast your ancient sea.

I shall be there to greet you, for I tire Of the dull meadows and the crawling stream. Now with a heart uplifted and a-fire I come to greet you and to catch the gleam Of jocund Nereids tossing in the air The sportive tresses of their amber hair.

High on a swelling upland I shall stand Stung by the buffets of the wind-borne spray; Or join the troops that sport upon the sand, With shouts and laughter wearing out the day; Or pace apart and listen to the roar Of the great waves that beat the crumbling shore.

Then, when the children all are lapped in sleep The pretty Nymphlets of the sea shall rise, And we shall know them as they flit and creep And peep and glance and murmur lullabies; While the pale moon comes up beyond the hill, And Proteus rests and Triton's horn is still.

ROBIN, THE SEA-BOY

Ho, ruddy-cheeked boys and curly maids, Who deftly ply your pails and spades, All you who sturdily take your stand On your pebble-buttressed forts of sand, And thence defy With a fearless eye And a burst of rollicking high-pitched laughter The stealthy trickling waves that lap you And the crested breakers that tumble after To souse and batter you, sting and sap you-- All you roll-about rackety little folk, Down-again, up-again, not-a-bit brittle folk, Attend, attend, And let each girl and boy Join in a loud "Ahoy!" For, lo, he comes, your tricksy little friend, From the clear caverns of his crystal home Beyond the tossing ridges of the foam: Planner of sandy romps and wet delights, Robin the Sea-boy, prince of ocean-sprites, Is come, is come to lead you in your play And fill your hearts with mirth and jocund sport to-day!

What! Can't you see him? There he stands On a sheer rock and lifts his hands, A little lad not three feet high, With dancing mischief in his eye. His body gleams against the light, A clear-cut shape of dazzling white Set off and topped by golden hair That streams and tosses in the air. A moment poised, he dares the leap And cuts the wind and cleaves the deep. Down through the emerald vaults self-hurled That roof the sea-god's awful world. Another moment sees him rise And beat the salt spray from his eyes. He breasts the waves, he spurns their blows; Then, like a rocket, up he goes, Up, up to where the gusty wind With all its wrath is left behind; Still up he soars and high and high A speck of light that dots the sky. Then watch him as he slowly droops Where the great sea-birds wheel their troops. Three broad-winged gulls, himself their lord, He hitches to a silken cord, Bits them and bridles them with skill And bids them draw him where he will. Above the tumult of the shores He floats, he stoops, he darts, he soars; From near and far he calls the rest And waves them forward for a quest; Then straight, without a check, he speeds Across the azure tracts and leads With apt reproof and cheering words As on a chase his cry of birds.

And when he has finished his airy fun And all his flights and his swoops are done He will drop to the shore and lend a hand In building a castle of weed and sand. He will cover with flints its frowning face To keep the tide in its proper place, And the waves shall employ their utmost damp art In vain to abolish your moated rampart. And nobody's nurse shall make a fuss, As is far too often the case with us; Instead of the usual how-de-do She will give us praise when we get wet through; In fact she will smile and think it better When we get as wet as we like and wetter. As for eating too much, you can safely risk it With chocolate, lollipop, cake, and biscuit, And your mother will revel with high delight In the state of her own one's appetite. Great shells there shall be of a rainbow hue To be found and gathered by me and you; Wonderful nets for the joy of making 'em. And scores of shrimps for the trouble of taking 'em; In fact it isn't half bad--now is it?-- When Robin the Sea-boy pays his visit. And perhaps he will tire of his shape and habit And change and turn to a frisky rabbit, A plump young gadabout cheerful fellow With a twitching nose and a coat of yellow, And never the smallest trace of fear From his flashing scut to his flattened ear.

But, lo, there's a hint of coming rain, So, presto, Robin is back again. He lifts his head and he cocks his eye And waves his hand and prepares to fly-- "Good-bye, Robin, good-bye, good-bye!"

THE BIRTHDAY

Sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete Take now your choice; the world is at your feet, All turned into a gay and shining pleasance, And every face has smiles to greet your presence. Treading on air, Yourself you look more fair; And the dear Birthday-elves unseen conspire To flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire.

Mayhap they whisper what a birthday means That sets you spinning through your pretty teens. A slim-grown shape adorned with golden shimmers Of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers, Lo, how you run In mere excess of fun, Or change to silence as you stand and hear Some kind old tale that moves you to a tear.

And, since this is your own bright day, my dear, Of all the days that gem the sparkling year, See, we have picked as well as we were able And set your gifts upon your own small table: A knife from John, Who straightway thereupon, Lest you should cut your friendship for the boy, Receives a halfpenny and departs with joy.

The burnished inkstand was your mother's choice; For six new handkerchiefs I gave my voice, Having in view your tender little nose's Soft comfort; and the agate pen is Rosie's; The torch is Peg's, Guide for your errant legs When ways are dark, and, last, behold with these A pencil from your faithful Pekinese!

And now the mysteries are all revealed That were so long, so ardently concealed-- All save the cake which still is in the making, Not yet smooth-iced and unprepared for taking The thirteen flames That start the noisy games Of tea-time, when my happy little maid Thrones it triumphant, teened and unafraid.

So through the changing years may all delight Live in your face and make your being bright. May the good sprites and busy fays befriend you, And cheerful thoughts and innocent defend you; And, far away From this most joyous day, When in the chambers of your mind you see Those who have loved you, then remember me.

THE DANCE

When good-nights have been prattled, and prayers have been said, And the last little sunbeam is tucked up in bed, Then, skirting the trees on a carpet of snow, The elves and the fairies come out in a row. With a preening of wings They are forming in rings; Pirouetting and setting they cross and advance In a ripple of laughter, and pair for a dance.

And it's oh for the boom of the fairy bassoon, And the oboes and horns as they strike up a tune, And the twang of the harps and the sigh of the lutes, And the clash of the cymbals, the purl of the flutes; And the fiddles sail in To the musical din, While the chief all on fire, with a flame for a hand, Rattles on the gay measure and stirs up his band.

With a pointing of toes and a lifting of wrists They are off through the whirls and the twirls and the twists; Thread the mazes of marvellous figures, and chime With a bow to a curtsey, and always keep time: All the gallant and girls In their diamonds and pearls, And their gauze and their sparkles, designed for a dance By the leaders of fairy-land fashion in France.

But the old lady fairies sit out by the trees, And the old beaux attend them as pert as you please. They quiz the young dancers and scorn their display, And deny any grace to the dance of to-day; "In Oberon's reign," So they're heard to complain, "When we went out at night we could temper our fun With some manners in dancing, but now there are none."

But at last, though the music goes gallantly on, And the dancers are none of them weary or gone, When the gauze is in rags and the hair is awry, Comes a light in the East and a sudden cock-cry. With a scurry of fear Then they all disappear, Leaving never a trace of their gay little selves Or the winter-night dance of the fairies and elves.

PANSIES

Tufted and bunched and ranged with careless art Here, where the paving-stones are set apart, Alert and gay and innocent of guile, The little pansies nod their heads and smile.

With what a whispering and a lulling sound They watch the children sport about the ground, Longing, it seems, to join the pretty play That laughs and runs the light-winged hours away.

And other children long ago there were Who shone and played and made the garden fair, To whom the pansies in their robes of white And gold and purple gave a welcome bright.

Gone are those voices, but the others came. Joyous and free, whose spirit was the same; And other pansies, robed as those of old, Peeped up and smiled in purple, white and gold.

For pansies are, I think, the little gleams Of children's visions from a world of dreams, Jewels of innocence and joy and mirth, Alight with laughter as they fall to earth.

Below, the ancient guardian, it may hap, The kindly mother, takes them in her lap, Decks them with glowing petals and replaces In the glad air the friendly pansy-faces.

So tread not rashly, children, lest you crush A part of childhood in a thoughtless rush. Would you not treat them gently if you knew Pansies are little bits of children too?

THE DRAGON OF WINTER HILL

I

This is the tale the old men tell, the tale that was told to me, Of the blue-green dragon, The dreadful dragon, The dragon who flew so free, The last of his horrible scaly race Who settled and made his nesting place Some hundreds of thousands of years ago. One day, as the light was falling low And the turbulent wind was still, In a stony hollow, Where none dared follow, Beyond the ridge on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill!

The news went round in the camp that night; it was Dickon who brought it first How the wonderful dragon, The fiery dragon, On his terrified eyes had burst.

"I was out," he said, "for a fat young buck, But never a touch I had of luck; And still I wandered and wandered on Till all the best of the day was gone; When, suddenly, lo, in a flash of flame Full over the ridge a green head came, A green head flapped with a snarling lip, And a long tongue set with an arrow's tip. I own I didn't stand long at bay, But I cast my arrows and bow away, And I cast my coat, and I changed my plan, And forgot the buck, and away I ran-- And, oh, but my heart was chill: For still as I ran I heard the bellow Of the terrible slaughtering fierce-eyed fellow Who has made his lair on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill."

Then the women talked, as the women will, and the men-folk they talked too Of the raging dragon, The hungry dragon, The dragon of green and blue. And the Bards with their long beards flowing down, They sat apart and were seen to frown.

But at last the Chief Bard up and spoke, "Now I swear by beech and I swear by oak, By the grass and the streams I swear," said he, "This dragon of Dickon's puzzles me. For the record stands, as well ye know, How a hundred years and a year ago We dealt the dragons a smashing blow By issuing from our magic tree A carefully-framed complete decree, Which ordered dragons to cease to be. Still, since our Dickon is passing sure That he saw a regular Simon pure. Some dragon's egg, as it seems, contrived To elude our curses, and so survived On an inaccessible rocky shelf, Where at last it managed to hatch itself. Whatever the cause, the result is plain: We're in for a dragon-fuss again. We haven't the time, and, what is worse, We haven't the means to frame a curse. So what is there left for us to say Save this, that our men at break of day Must gather and go to kill The monstrous savage Whose fire-blasts ravage The flocks and herds on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill?"

II

So the men, when they heard the Chief Bard utter the order that bade them try For the awful dragon, The dauntless dragon, They all of them shouted "Aye!" For everyone felt assured that he, Whatever the fate of the rest might be, However few of them might survive, Was certainly safe to stay alive, And was probably bound to deal the blow That would shatter the beast and lay him low, And end the days of their dragon-foe. And all the women-folk egged them on: It was "Up with your heart, and at him, John!" Or "Gurth, you'll bring me his ugly head," Or "Lance, my man, when you've struck him dead, When he hasn't a wag in his fearful tail, Carve off and bring me a blue-green scale."

Then they set to work at their swords and spears-- Such a polishing hadn't been seen for years. They made the tips of their arrows sharp, Re-strung and burnished the Chief Bard's harp, Dragged out the traditional dragon-bag, Sewed up the rents in the tribal flag; And all in the midst of the talk and racket Each wife was making her man a packet-- A hunch of bread and a wedge of cheese And a nubble of beef, and, to moisten these, A flask of her home-brewed, not too thin, As a driving force for his javelin When the moment arrived to spill The blood of the terror Hatched out in error Who had perched his length on the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill.

The night had taken her feast of stars, and the sun shot up in flame, When "Now for the dragon! Who hunts the dragon?" The call from the watchers came; And, shaking the mists of sleep away, The men stepped into the light of day, Twice two hundred in loose array; With a good round dozen of bards to lead them And their wives all waving their hands to speed them, While the Chief Bard, fixed in his chair of state, With his harp and his wreath looked most sedate. It wasn't his place to fight or tramp; When the warriors went he stayed in camp; But still from his chair he harped them on Till the very last of the host had gone, Then he yawned and solemnly shook his head And, leaving his seat, returned to bed, To sleep, as a good man will Who, braving malice and tittle-tattle, Has checked his natural lust for battle, And sent the rest to the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill.

III

Marching at ease in the cheerful air, on duty and daring bent, In quest of the dragon, The fateful dragon, The fierce four hundred went: Over the hills and through the plain, And up the slopes of the hills again. The sleek rooks, washed in the morning's dew, Rose at their coming and flapped and flew In a black procession athwart the blue; And the plovers circled about on high With many a querulous piping cry. And the cropping ewes and the old bell-wether Looked up in terror and pushed together; And still with a grim unbroken pace The men moved on to their battle-place. Softly, silently, all tip-toeing, With their lips drawn tight and their eyes all glowing, With gleaming teeth and straining ears And the sunshine laughing on swords and spears, Softly, silently on they go To the hidden lair of the fearful foe. They have neared the stream, they have crossed the bridge, And they stop in sight of the rugged ridge, And it's "Flankers back!" and "Skirmishers in!" And the summit is theirs to lose or win-- To win with honour or lose with shame; And so to the place itself they came, And gazed with an awful thrill At the ridge of omen, Beset by foemen, At the arduous summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill.

But where was the dragon, the scale-clad dragon, the dragon that Dickon saw, The genuine dragon, The pitiless dragon, The dragon that knew no law? Lo, just as the word to charge rang out, And before they could give their battle shout, On a stony ledge Of the ridge's edge, With its lips curled back and its teeth laid bare, And a hiss that ripped the morning air, With its backbone arched And its tail well starched, With bristling hair and flattened ears, What shape of courage and wrath appears? A cat, a tortoiseshell mother-cat! And a very diminutive cat at that! And below her, nesting upon the ground, A litter of tiny kits they found: Tortoiseshell kittens, one, two, three, Lying as snug as snug could be. And they took the kittens with shouts of laughter And turned for home, and the cat came after. And when in the camp they told their tale, The women--but stop! I draw a veil. The cat had tent-life forced upon her And was kept in comfort and fed with honour; But Dickon has heard his fill Of the furious dragon They tried to bag on The dragonless summit, the gorse-clad summit, the summit of Winter Hill!

FLUFFY, A CAT

So now your tale of years is done, Old Fluff, my friend, and you have won, Beyond our land of mist and rain, Your way to the Elysian plain, Where through the shining hours of heat A cat may bask and lap and eat; Where goldfish glitter in the streams, And mice refresh your waking dreams, And all, in fact, is planned--and that's Its great delight--to please the cats.

Yet sometimes, too, your placid mind Will turn to those you've left behind, And most to one who sheds her tears, The mistress of your later years, Who sheds her tears to summon back Her faithful cat, the white-and-black.