Chapter 2
In the Gates of Death rejoice! We see and hold the good-- Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choice With Freedom's brotherhood!
Then praise the Lord Most High Whose Strength hath saved us whole, Who bade us choose that the Flesh should die And not the living Soul!
_To the God in Man displayed-- Where e'er we see that Birth, Be love and understanding paid As never yet on earth!_
_To the Spirit that moves in Man, On Whom all worlds depend, Be Glory since our world began And service to the end!_
THE HOLY WAR
1917
('For here lay the excellent wisdom of him that built Mansoul that the walls could never be broken down nor hurt by the most mighty adverse potentate unless the townsmen gave consent thereto'--BUNYAN'S _Holy War_)
_A tinker out of Bedford, A vagrant oft in quod, A private under Fairfax, A minister of God-- Two hundred years and thirty Ere Armageddon came His single hand portrayed it, And Bunyan was his name!_
He mapped, for those who follow, The world in which we are-- 'This famous town of Mansoul' That takes the Holy War Her true and traitor people, The gates along her wall, From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate, John Bunyan showed them all.
All enemy divisions, Recruits of every class, And highly-screened positions For flame or poison-gas, The craft that we call modern, The crimes that we call new, John Bunyan had 'em typed and filed In Sixteen Eighty-two
Likewise the Lords of Looseness That hamper faith and works, The Perseverance-Doubters, And Present-Comfort shirks, With brittle intellectuals Who crack beneath a strain-- John Bunyan met that helpful set In Charles the Second's reign.
Emmanuel's vanguard dying For right and not for rights, My Lord Apollyon lying To the State-kept Stockholmites, The Pope, the swithering Neutrals, The Kaiser and his Gott-- Their rôles, their goals, their naked souls-- He knew and drew the lot.
Now he hath left his quarters, In Bunhill Fields to lie. The wisdom that he taught us Is proven prophecy-- One watchword through our armies, One answer from our lands-- 'No dealings with Diabolus As long as Mansoul stands.
_A pedlar from a hovel, The lowest of the low, The father of the Novel, Salvation's first Defoe, Eight blinded generations Ere Armageddon came, He showed us how to meet it, And Bunyan was his name!_
THE HOUSES
(A SONG OF THE DOMINIONS)
1898
'Twixt my house and thy house the pathway is broad, In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard; By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate, On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.
For my house and thy house no help shall we find Save thy house and my house--kin cleaving to kind: If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon, If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.
'Twixt my house and thy house what talk can there be Of headship or lordship, or service or fee? Since my house to thy house no greater can send Than thy house to my house--friend comforting friend; And thy house to my house no meaner can bring Than my house to thy house--King counselling King.
RUSSIA TO THE PACIFISTS
God rest you, peaceful gentlemen, let nothing you dismay, But--leave your sports a little while--the dead are borne this way! Armies dead and Cities dead, past all count or care. God rest you, merry gentlemen, what portent see you there? Singing.--Break ground for a wearied host That have no ground to keep. Give them the rest that they covet most, And who shall next to sleep, good sirs, In such a trench to sleep?
God rest you, peaceful gentlemen, but give us leave to pass. We go to dig a nation's grave as great as England was. For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this Pride Three hundred years it flourished--in three hundred days it died. Singing--Pour oil for a frozen throng, That lie about the ways. Give them the warmth they have lacked so long And what shall be next to blaze, good sirs, On such a pyre to blaze?
God rest you, thoughtful gentlemen, and send your sleep is light! Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight, Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire, And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire. Singing.--Break bread for a starving folk That perish in the field. Give them their food as they take the yoke ... And who shall be next to yield, good sirs, For such a bribe to yield?
God rest you, merry gentlemen, and keep you in your mirth! Was ever kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood, and earth? 'Twixt the summer and the snow--seeding-time and frost-- Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost! Singing:--_Let down by the foot and the head-- Shovel and smooth it all! So do we bury a Nation dead ..._ And who shall be next to fall, good sirs, With your good help to fall?
THE IRISH GUARDS
1918
We're not so old in the Army List, But we're not so young at our trade, For we had the honour at Fontenoy Of meeting the Guards' Brigade. 'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare, And Lee that led us then, And after a hundred and seventy years We're fighting for France again! _Old Days! The wild geese are flighting, Head to the storm as they faced it before! For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting, And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more! Ireland no more!_
The fashion's all for khaki now, But once through France we went Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth, The English--left at Ghent They're fighting on our side to-day. But, before they changed their clothes, The half of Europe knew our fame, As all of Ireland knows! _Old Days! The wild geese are flying, Head to the storm as they faced it before! For where there are Irish there's memory undying, And when we forget, it is Ireland no more! Ireland no more!_
From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt, From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge, The ancient days come back no more Than water under the bridge But the bridge it stands and the water runs As red as yesterday, And the Irish move to the sound of the guns Like salmon to the sea. _Old Days! The wild geese are ranging, Head to the storm as they faced it before! For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging, And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more! Ireland no more!_
We're not so old in the Army List, But we're not so new in the ring, For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe When Louis was our King. But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now And we're King George's men, And after one hundred and seventy years We're fighting for France again! _Ah, France! And did we stand by you, When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards? Ah, France! And will we deny you In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords? Old Days! The wild geese are flighting, Head to the storm as they faced it before! For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting, And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more! Ireland no more!_
A NATIVITY
1916
_The Babe was laid in the Manger Between the gentle kine-- All safe from cold and danger--_ 'But it was not so with mine. (With mine! With mine!) 'Is it well with the child, is it well?' The waiting mother prayed. 'For I know not how he fell, And I know not where he is laid.'
_A Star stood forth in Heaven, The watchers ran to see The Sign of the Promise given--_ 'But there comes no sign to me. (To me! To me!) '_My_ child died in the dark. Is it well with the child, is it well? There was none to tend him or mark, And I know not how he fell.'
_The Cross was raised on high; The Mother grieved beside--_ 'But the Mother saw Him die And took Him when He died. (He died! He died!) 'Seemly and undefiled His burial-place was made-- Is it well, is it well with the child? For I know not where he is laid.'
_On the dawning of Easter Day Comes Mary Magdalene; But the Stone was rolled away, And the Body was not within--_ (Within! Within!) 'Ah, who will answer my word?' The broken mother prayed. 'They have taken away my Lord, And I know not where He is laid.'
* * * * *
_The Star stands forth in Heaven. The watchers watch in vain For a Sign of the Promise given Of peace on Earth again--_ (Again! Again!) 'But I know for Whom he fell'-- The steadfast mother smiled 'Is it well with the child--is it well? It is well--it is well with the child!'
EN-DOR
'Behold there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at En-dor'
1 _Samuel_ XXVIII 7
The road to En-dor is easy to tread For Mother or yearning Wife. There, it is sure, we shall meet our Dead As they were even in life. Earth has not dreamed of the blessing in store For desolate hearts on the road to En-dor.
Whispers shall comfort us out of the dark-- Hands--ah God!--that we knew! Visions and voices--look and heark!-- Shall prove that our tale is true, And that those who have passed to the further shore May be hailed--at a price--on the road to En-dor.
But they are so deep in their new eclipse Nothing they say can reach, Unless it be uttered by alien lips And framed in a stranger's speech. The son must send word to the mother that bore, Through an hireling's mouth. 'Tis the rule of En-dor.
And not for nothing these gifts are shown By such as delight our dead. They must twitch and stiffen and slaver a groan Ere the eyes are set in the head, And the voice from the belly begins. Therefore We pay them a wage where they ply at En-dor.
Even so, we have need of faith And patience to follow the clue. Often, at first, what the dear one saith Is babble, or jest, or untrue. (Lying spirits perplex us sore Till our loves--and our lives--are well known at En-dor)....
_Oh the road to En-dor is the oldest road And the craziest road of all! Straight it runs to the Witch's abode, As it did in the days of Saul, And nothing has changed of the sorrow in store For such as go down on the road to En-dor!_
A RECANTATION
(TO LYDE OF THE MUSIC HALLS)
What boots it on the Gods to call? Since, answered or unheard, We perish with the Gods and all Things made--except the Word.
Ere certain Fate had touched a heart By fifty years made cold, I judged thee, Lyde, and thy art O'erblown and over-bold.
But he--but he, of whom bereft I suffer vacant days-- He on his shield not meanly left-- He cherished all thy lays.
Witness the magic coffer stocked With convoluted runes Wherein thy very voice was locked And linked to circling tunes.
Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled, That decked his shelter-place. Life seemed more present, wrote the child, Beneath thy well-known face.
And when the grudging days restored Him for a breath to home, He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored Thee making mirth in Rome.
Therefore, I, humble, join the hosts, Loyal and loud, who bow To thee as Queen of Songs--and ghosts-- For I remember how Never more rampant rose the Hall At thy audacious line Than when the news came in from Gaul Thy son had--followed mine.
But thou didst hide it in thy breast And, capering, took the brunt Of blaze and blare, and launched the jest That swept next week the front.
Singer to children! Ours possessed Sleep before noon--but thee, Wakeful each midnight for the rest, No holocaust shall free.
Yet they who use the Word assigned, To hearten and make whole, Not less than Gods have served mankind, Though vultures rend their soul.
MY BOY JACK
'Have you news of my boy Jack?' _Not this tide._ 'When d'you think that he'll come back?' _Not with this wind blowing, and this tide._
'Has any one else had word of him?' _Not this tide. For what is sunk will hardly swim, Not with this wind blowing, and this tide._
'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?' _None this tide, Nor any tide, Except he did not shame his kind-- Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide._
_Then hold your head up all the more, This tide, And every tide; Because he was the son you bore, And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!_
THE VERDICTS
(JUTLAND)
Not in the thick of the fight, Not in the press of the odds, Do the heroes come to their height, Or we know the demi-gods.
That stands over till peace. We can only perceive Men returned from the seas, Very grateful for leave.
They grant us sudden days Snatched from their business of war; But we are too close to appraise What manner of men they are.
And, whether their names go down With age-kept victories, Or whether they battle and drown Unreckoned, is hid from our eyes.
They are too near to be great, But our children shall understand When and how our fate Was changed, and by whose hand.
Our children shall measure their worth. We are content to be blind But we know that we walk on a new-born earth With the saviours of mankind.
MESOPOTAMIA
1917
They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young, The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave: But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung, Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?
They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slain In sight of help denied from day to day: But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain, Are they too strong and wise to put away?
Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide-- Never while the bars of sunset hold: But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died, Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?
Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour? When the storm is ended shall we find How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power By the favour and contrivance of their kind?
Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends, Even while they make a show of fear, Do they call upon their debtors, and take council with their friends, To confirm and re-establish each career?
Their lives cannot repay us--their death could not undo-- The shame that they have laid upon our race: But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew, Shall we leave it unabated in its place?
THE HYÆNAS
After the burial-parties leave And the baffled kites have fled, The wise hyænas come out at eve To take account of our dead.
How he died and why he died Troubles them not a whit. They snout the bushes and stones aside And dig till they come to it.
They are only resolute they shall eat That they and their mates may thrive, And they know that the dead are safer meat Than the weakest thing alive.
(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting, And a child will sometimes stand; But a poor dead soldier of the King Can never lift a hand.)
They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt Until their tushes white Take good hold in the army shirt, And tug the corpse to light,
And the pitiful face is shewn again For an instant ere they close; But it is not discovered to living men-- Only to God and to those
Who, being soulless, are free from shame, Whatever meat they may find. Nor do they defile the dead man's name-- That is reserved for his kind.
THE SPIES' MARCH
(BEFORE THE WAR)
('The outbreak is in full swing and our death-rate would sicken Napoleon.... Dr M---- died last week, and C---- on Monday, but some more medicines are coming.... We don't seem to be able to check it at all.... Villages panicking badly.... In some places not a living soul.... But at any rate the experience gained may come in useful, so I am keeping my notes written up to date in case of accidents.... Death is a queer chap to live with for steady company.' _Extracted from a private letter from Manchuria._)
There are no leaders to lead us to honour, and yet without leaders we sally, Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow. There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugles we rally, From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow! _Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!_
Not where the squadrons mass, Not where the bayonets shine, Not where the big shell shout as they pass Over the firing-line; Not where the wounded are, Not where the nations die, Killed in the cleanly game of war-- That is no place for a spy! O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours-- Here is no place for a spy!
Trained to another use, We march with colours furled, Only concerned when Death breaks loose On a front of half a world. Only for General Death The Yellow Flag may fly, While we take post beneath-- That is the place for a spy. Where Plague has spread his pinions over Nations and Dominions-- Then will be work for a spy!
The dropping shots begin, The single funerals pass, Our skirmishers run in, The corpses dot the grass! The howling towns stampede, The tainted hamlets die. Now it is war indeed-- Now there is room for a spy! O Peoples, Kings and Lands, we are waiting your commands-- What is the work for a spy? (DRUMS)--_'Fear is upon us, spy!_
'Go where his pickets hide-- Unmask the shapes they take, Whether a gnat from the waterside, Or stinging fly in the brake, Or filth of the crowded street, Or a sick rat limping by, Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat-- That is the work of a spy! (DRUMS)--_Death is upon us, spy!_
'What does he next prepare? Whence will he move to attack?-- By water, earth or air?-- How can we head him back? Shall we starve him out if we burn Or bury his food-supply? Slip through his lines and learn-- That is work for a spy! (DRUMS)--_Get to your business, spy!_
'Does he feint or strike in force? Will he charge or ambuscade? What is it checks his course? Is he beaten or only delayed? How long will the lull endure? Is he retreating? Why? Crawl to his camp and make sure-- That is the work for a spy! (DRUMS)--_Fetch us our answer, spy!_
'Ride with him girth to girth Wherever the Pale Horse wheels, Wait on his councils, ear to earth, And say what the dust reveals. For the smoke of our torment rolls Where the burning thousands lie; What do we care for men's bodies or souls? Bring us deliverance, spy!'
THE SONS OF MARTHA
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part, But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart. And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest, Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock. It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock. It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain, Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
They say to mountains 'Be ye removèd.' They say to the lesser floods 'Be dry.' Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd--they are not afraid of that which is high. Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit--then is the bed of the deep laid bare, That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires. He rears against the gates they rend: they feed him hungry behind their fires. Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall, And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar. They are concerned with matters hidden--under the earth-line their altars are. The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth, And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose. They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their work when they damn-well choose. As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand, Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat, Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that! Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed, But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd--they know the angels are on their side. They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied. They sit at the Feet--they hear the Word--they see how truly the Promise runs: They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and--the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!
MARY'S SON
If you stop to find out what your wages will be And how they will clothe and feed you, Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea, For the Sea will never need you.
If you ask for the reason of every command, And argue with people about you, Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land, For the Land will do better without you.
If you stop to consider the work you have done And to boast what your labour is worth, dear, Angels may come for you, Willie, my son, But you'll never be wanted on Earth, dear!
THE SONG OF THE LATHES
1918