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diff --git a/old/1418-h.zip b/old/1418-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f6734be --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1418-h.zip diff --git a/old/1418-h/1418-h.htm b/old/1418-h/1418-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cf54adf --- /dev/null +++ b/old/1418-h/1418-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2743 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Country Sentiment, by Robert Graves + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Country Sentiment, by Robert Graves + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Country Sentiment + +Author: Robert Graves + +Release Date: August 16, 2008 [EBook #1418] +Last Updated: February 4, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNTRY SENTIMENT *** + + + + +Produced by Sue Asscher, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + COUNTRY SENTIMENT + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Robert Graves + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h4> + To Nancy Nicholson + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Note: Some of the poems included in this volume have appeared in "The New + Statesman", "The Owl", "Reveille", "Land and Water", "Poetry", and other + papers, English and American. + </p> + <h4> + Robert Graves. <br /> Harlech, <br /> North Wales. + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> A FROSTY NIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> A SONG FOR TWO CHILDREN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> DICKY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE THREE DRINKERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE BOY OUT OF CHURCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> AFTER THE PLAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> SONG: ONE HARD LOOK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> TRUE JOHNNY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE GOD CALLED POETRY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> ROCKY ACRES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> ADVICE TO LOVERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S FALL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> ALLIE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> LOVING HENRY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> BRITTLE BONES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> APPLES AND WATER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> MANTICOR IN ARABIA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> OUTLAWS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> BALOO LOO FOR JENNY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> HAWK AND BUCKLE. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> THE "ALICE JEAN". </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE CUPBOARD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE BEACON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> POT AND KETTLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> GHOST RADDLED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> NEGLECTFUL EDWARD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THUNDER AT NIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> TO E.M.—A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> JANE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> VAIN AND CARELESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> NINE O'CLOCK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> THE PICTURE BOOK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE PROMISED LULLABY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> RETROSPECT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> RETROSPECT: THE JESTS OF THE CLOCK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> HERE THEY LIE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> TOM TAYLOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> COUNTRY AT WAR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> THE LEVELLER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> HATE NOT, FEAR NOT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> A FIRST REVIEW. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + A FROSTY NIGHT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mother + + Alice, dear, what ails you, + Dazed and white and shaken? + Has the chill night numbed you? + Is it fright you have taken? + + Alice +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mother, I am very well, + I felt never better, + Mother, do not hold me so, + Let me write my letter. + + Mother + + Sweet, my dear, what ails you? + + Alice + + No, but I am well; + The night was cold and frosty, + There's no more to tell. + + Mother + + Ay, the night was frosty, + Coldly gaped the moon, + Yet the birds seemed twittering + Through green boughs of June. + + Soft and thick the snow lay, + Stars danced in the sky. + Not all the lambs of May-day + Skip so bold and high. + + Your feet were dancing, Alice, + Seemed to dance on air, + You looked a ghost or angel + In the starlight there. + + Your eyes were frosted starlight, + Your heart fire and snow. + Who was it said, "I love you"? + + Alice + + Mother, let me go! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SONG FOR TWO CHILDREN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Make a song, father, a new little song, + All for Jenny and Nancy." + Balow lalow or Hey derry down, + Or else what might you fancy? + + Is there any song sweet enough + For Nancy and for Jenny? + Said Simple Simon to the pieman, + "Indeed I know not any." + + "I've counted the miles to Babylon, + I've flown the earth like a bird, + I've ridden cock-horse to Banbury Cross, + But no such song have I heard." + + "Some speak of Alexander, + And some of Hercules, + But where are there any like Nancy and Jenny, + Where are there any like these?" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DICKY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mother + + Oh, what a heavy sigh! + Dicky, are you ailing? + + Dicky + + Even by this fireside, mother, + My heart is failing. + + To-night across the down, + Whistling and jolly, + I sauntered out from town + With my stick of holly. + + Bounteous and cool from sea + The wind was blowing, + Cloud shadows under the moon + Coming and going. + + I sang old roaring songs, + Ran and leaped quick, + And turned home by St. Swithin's + Twirling my stick. + + And there as I was passing + The churchyard gate + An old man stopped me, "Dicky, + You're walking late." + + I did not know the man, + I grew afeared + At his lean lolling jaw, + His spreading beard. + + His garments old and musty, + Of antique cut, + His body very lean and bony, + His eyes tight shut. + + Oh, even to tell it now + My courage ebbs... + His face was clay, mother, + His beard, cobwebs. + + In that long horrid pause + "Good-night," he said, + Entered and clicked the gate, + "Each to his bed." + + Mother + + Do not sigh or fear, Dicky, + How is it right + To grudge the dead their ghostly dark + And wan moonlight? + + We have the glorious sun, + Lamp and fireside. + Grudge not the dead their moonshine + When abroad they ride. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE THREE DRINKERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Blacksmith Green had three strong sons, + With bread and beef did fill 'em, + Now John and Ned are perished and dead, + But plenty remains of William. + + John Green was a whiskey drinker, + The Land of Cakes supplied him, + Till at last his soul flew out by the hole + That the fierce drink burned inside him. + + Ned Green was a water drinker, + And, Lord, how Ned would fuddle! + He rotted away his mortal clay + Like an old boot thrown in a puddle. + + Will Green was a wise young drinker, + Shrank from whiskey or water, + But he made good cheer with headstrong beer, + And married an alderman's daughter. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOY OUT OF CHURCH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As Jesus and his followers + Upon a Sabbath morn + Were walking by a wheat field + They plucked the ears of corn. + + They plucked it, they rubbed it, + They blew the husks away, + Which grieved the pious pharisees + Upon the Sabbath day. + + And Jesus said, "A riddle + Answer if you can, + Was man made for the Sabbath + Or Sabbath made for man?" + + I do not love the Sabbath, + The soapsuds and the starch, + The troops of solemn people + Who to Salvation march. + + I take my book, I take my stick + On the Sabbath day, + In woody nooks and valleys + I hide myself away. + + To ponder there in quiet + God's Universal Plan, + Resolved that church and Sabbath + Were never made for man. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AFTER THE PLAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Father + + Have you spent the money I gave you to-day? + + John + + Ay, father I have. + A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away + To a beggar I gave. + + Father + + The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell, + Such lies that you spin. + Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell, + Say, where have you been? + + John + + I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need? + To the Play I went, + With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed, + The best ever spent. + + Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story— + My splendid night! + It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory, + Fear with delight. + + Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale: + He of that name, + A tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail, + Two eyes like flame. + + All the furies of fate circled round the man, + Maddening his heart, + There was old murder done before play began, + Ay, the ghost took part. + + There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones, + And with rage and grief + All the players shouted in full, kingly tones, + Grand, passing belief. + + Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day, + And changing scenes: + Great sounding words were tossed about like hay + By kings and queens. + + How the plot turned about I watched in vain, + Though for grief I cried, + As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain, + In great agony died. + + Father, you'll drive me forth never to return, + Doubting me your son— + + Father + + So I shall, John + + John + + —but that glory for which I burn + Shall be soon begun. + + I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout, + Keep my locks curled. + The fame of my name shall go ringing about + Over half the world. + + Father + + Horror that your Prince found, John may you find, + Ever and again + Dying before the house in such torture of mind + As you need not feign. + + While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate, + They shall never know + The curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate. + You have heard me. Go! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SONG: ONE HARD LOOK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Small gnats that fly + In hot July + And lodge in sleeping ears, + Can rouse therein + A trumpet's din + With Day-of-Judgement fears. + + Small mice at night + Can wake more fright + Than lions at midday. + An urchin small + Torments us all + Who tread his prickly way. + + A straw will crack + The camel's back, + To die we need but sip, + So little sand + As fills the hand + Can stop a steaming ship. + + One smile relieves + A heart that grieves + Though deadly sad it be, + And one hard look + Can close the book + That lovers love to see— +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TRUE JOHNNY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true + To all those famous vows you've made, + Will you love me as I love you + Until we both in earth are laid? + Or shall the old wives nod and say + His love was only for a day: + The mood goes by, + His fancies fly, + And Mary's left to sigh. + + Mary, alas, you've hit the truth, + And I with grief can but admit + Hot-blooded haste controls my youth, + My idle fancies veer and flit + From flower to flower, from tree to tree, + And when the moment catches me, + Oh, love goes by + Away I fly + And leave my girl to sigh. + + Could you but now foretell the day, + Johnny, when this sad thing must be, + When light and gay you'll turn away + And laugh and break the heart in me? + For like a nut for true love's sake + My empty heart shall crack and break, + When fancies fly + And love goes by + And Mary's left to die. + + When the sun turns against the clock, + When Avon waters upward flow, + When eggs are laid by barn-door cock, + When dusty hens do strut and crow, + When up is down, when left is right, + Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight, + With careless eye + Away I'll fly + And Mary here shall die. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! + The other birds woke all around, + Rising with toot and howl they stirred + Their plumage, broke the trembling sound, + They craned their necks, they fluttered wings, + "While we are silent no one sings, + And while we sing you hush your throat, + Or tune your melody to our note." + + Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! + The screams and hootings rose again: + They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred + Their noisy plumage; small but plain + The lonely hidden singer made + A well of grief within the glade. + "Whist, silly fool, be off," they shout, + "Or we'll come pluck your feathers out." + + Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! + Slight and small the lovely cry + Came trickling down, but no one heard. + Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie + Jarred horrid notes and the jangling jay + Ripped the fine threads of song away, + For why should peeping chick aspire + To challenge their loud woodland choir? + + Cried it so sweet that unseen bird? + Lovelier could no music be, + Clearer than water, soft as curd, + Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree. + How sang the others all around? + Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound, + With Pretty Poll, tuwit-tu-woo, + Peewit, caw caw, cuckoo-cuckoo. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GOD CALLED POETRY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now I begin to know at last, + These nights when I sit down to rhyme, + The form and measure of that vast + God we call Poetry, he who stoops + And leaps me through his paper hoops + A little higher every time. + + Tempts me to think I'll grow a proper + Singing cricket or grass-hopper + Making prodigious jumps in air + While shaken crowds about me stare + Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder + To fly up on my master's shoulder + Rustling the thick strands of his hair. + + He is older than the seas, + Older than the plains and hills, + And older than the light that spills + From the sun's hot wheel on these. + He wakes the gale that tears your trees, + He sings to you from window sills. + + At you he roars, or he will coo, + He shouts and screams when hell is hot, + Riding on the shell and shot. + He smites you down, he succours you, + And where you seek him, he is not. + + To-day I see he has two heads + Like Janus—calm, benignant, this; + That, grim and scowling: his beard spreads + From chin to chin" this god has power + Immeasurable at every hour: + He first taught lovers how to kiss, + He brings down sunshine after shower, + Thunder and hate are his also, + He is YES and he is NO. + + The black beard spoke and said to me, + "Human frailty though you be, + Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh! + They'll obey you in the end: + Hill and field, river and marsh + Shall obey you, hop and skip + At the terrour of your whip, + To your gales of anger bend." + + The pale beard spoke and said in turn + "True: a prize goes to the stern, + But sing and laugh and easily run + Through the wide airs of my plain, + Bathe in my waters, drink my sun, + And draw my creatures with soft song; + They shall follow you along + Graciously with no doubt or pain." + + Then speaking from his double head + The glorious fearful monster said + "I am YES and I am NO, + Black as pitch and white as snow, + Love me, hate me, reconcile + Hate with love, perfect with vile, + So equal justice shall be done + And life shared between moon and sun. + Nature for you shall curse or smile: + A poet you shall be, my son." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROCKY ACRES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This is a wild land, country of my choice, + With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare. + Seldom in these acres is heard any voice + But voice of cold water that runs here and there + Through rocks and lank heather growing without care. + No mice in the heath run nor no birds cry + For fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky. + + He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings, + He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye, + He catches the trembling of small hidden things, + He tears them in pieces, dropping from the sky: + Tenderness and pity the land will deny, + Where life is but nourished from water and rock + A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock. + + Time has never journeyed to this lost land, + Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date, + The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand, + Careless if the season be early or late. + The skies wander overhead, now blue, now slate: + Winter would be known by his cold cutting snow + If June did not borrow his armour also. + + Yet this is my country be loved by me best, + The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood, + Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest, + Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood. + Bold immortal country whose hill tops have stood + Strongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go, + Terror for fat burghers in far plains below. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ADVICE TO LOVERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I knew an old man at a Fair + Who made it his twice-yearly task + To clamber on a cider cask + And cry to all the yokels there:— + + "Lovers to-day and for all time + Preserve the meaning of my rhyme: + Love is not kindly nor yet grim + But does to you as you to him. + + "Whistle, and Love will come to you, + Hiss, and he fades without a word, + Do wrong, and he great wrong will do, + Speak, he retells what he has heard. + + "Then all you lovers have good heed + Vex not young Love in word or deed: + Love never leaves an unpaid debt, + He will not pardon nor forget." + + The old man's voice was sweet yet loud + And this shows what a man was he, + He'd scatter apples to the crowd + And give great draughts of cider, free. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S FALL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Frowning over the riddle that Daniel told, + Down through the mist hung garden, below a feeble sun, + The King of Persia walked: oh, the chilling cold! + His mind was webbed with a grey shroud vapour-spun. + + Here for the pride of his soaring eagle heart, + Here for his great hand searching the skies for food, + Here for his courtship of Heaven's high stars he shall smart, + Nebuchadnezzar shall fall, crawl, be subdued. + + Hot sun struck through the vapour, leaf strewn mould + Breathed sweet decay: old Earth called for her child. + Mist drew off from his mind, Sun scattered gold, + Warmth came and earthy motives fresh and wild. + + Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King, + Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud. + Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing + The fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood. + + He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails + His diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup. + He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails, + He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up. +</pre> + <p> + GIVE US RAIN. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Give us Rain, Rain," said the bean and the pea, + "Not so much Sun, + Not so much Sun." + But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly, + And no rain falls and no waters run. + + "Give us Peace, Peace," said the peoples oppressed, + "Not so many Flags, + Not so many Flags." + But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest, + And the children starve, they shiver in rags. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ALLIE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Allie, call the birds in, + The birds from the sky. + Allie calls, Allie sings, + Down they all fly. + First there came + Two white doves + Then a sparrow from his nest, + Then a clucking bantam hen, + Then a robin red-breast. + + Allie, call the beasts in, + The beasts, every one. + Allie calls, Allie sings, + In they all run. + First there came + Two black lambs, + Then a grunting Berkshire sow, + Then a dog without a tail, + Then a red and white cow. + + Allie, call the fish up, + The fish from the stream. + Allie calls, Allie sings, + Up they all swim. + First there came + Two gold fish, + A minnow and a miller's thumb, + Then a pair of loving trout, + Then the twisted eels come. + + Allie, call the children, + Children from the green. + Allie calls, Allie sings, + Soon they run in. + First there came + Tom and Madge, + Kate and I who'll not forget + How we played by the water's edge + Till the April sun set. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOVING HENRY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Henry, Henry, do you love me? + Do I love you, Mary? + Oh, can you mean to liken me + To the aspen tree. + Whose leaves do shake and vary, + From white to green + And back again, + Shifting and contrary? + + Henry, Henry, do you love me, + Do you love me truly? + Oh, Mary, must I say again + My love's a pain, + A torment most unruly? + It tosses me + Like a ship at sea + When the storm rages fully. + + Henry, Henry, why do you love me? + Mary, dear, have pity! + I swear, of all the girls there are + Both near and far, + In country or in city, + There's none like you, + So kind, so true, + So wise, so brave, so pretty. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BRITTLE BONES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Though I am an old man + With my bones very brittle, + Though I am a poor old man + Worth very little, + Yet I suck at my long pipe + At peace in the sun, + I do not fret nor much regret + That my work is done. + + If I were a young man + With my bones full of marrow, + Oh, if I were a bold young man + Straight as an arrow, + And if I had the same years + To live once again, + I would not change their simple range + Of laughter and pain. + + If I were a young man + And young was my Lily, + A smart girl, a bold young man, + Both of us silly. + And though from time before I knew + She'd stab me with pain, + Though well I knew she'd not be true, + I'd love her again. + + If I were a young man + With a brisk, healthy body, + Oh, if I were a bold young man + With love of rum toddy, + Though I knew that I was spiting + My old age with pain, + My happy lip would touch and sip + Again and again. + + If I were a young man + With my bones full of marrow, + Oh, if I were a bold young man + Straight as an arrow, + I'd store up no virtue + For Heaven's distant plain, + I'd live at ease as I did please + And sin once again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + APPLES AND WATER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dust in a cloud, blinding weather, + Drums that rattle and roar! + A mother and daughter stood together + Beside their cottage door. + + "Mother, the heavens are bright like brass, + The dust is shaken high, + With labouring breath the soldiers pass, + Their lips are cracked and dry." + + "Mother, I'll throw them apples down, + I'll bring them pails of water." + The mother turned with an angry frown + Holding back her daughter. + + "But mother, see, they faint with thirst, + They march away to die," + "Ah, sweet, had I but known at first + Their throats are always dry." + + "There is no water can supply them + In western streams that flow, + There is no fruit can satisfy them + On orchard trees that grow." + + "Once in my youth I gave, poor fool, + A soldier apples and water, + So may I die before you cool + Your father's drouth, my daughter." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MANTICOR IN ARABIA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (The manticors of the montaines + Mighte feed them on thy braines.—Skelton.) + + Thick and scented daisies spread + Where with surface dull like lead + Arabian pools of slime invite + Manticors down from neighbouring height + To dip heads, to cool fiery blood + In oozy depths of sucking mud. + Sing then of ringstraked manticor, + Man-visaged tiger who of yore + Held whole Arabian waste in fee + With raging pride from sea to sea, + That every lesser tribe would fly + Those armed feet, that hooded eye; + Till preying on himself at last + Manticor dwindled, sank, was passed + By gryphon flocks he did disdain. + Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign + In ancient keep of manticor + Agreed old foe can rise no more. + Only here from lakes of slime + Drinks manticor and bides due time: + Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon tree + Must mount his pyre and burn and be + Renewed again, till in such hour + As seventh Phoenix flames to power + And lifts young feathers, overnice + From scented pool of steamy spice + Shall manticor his sway restore + And rule Arabian plains once more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OUTLAWS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Owls: they whinney down the night, + Bats go zigzag by. + Ambushed in shadow out of sight + The outlaws lie. + + Old gods, shrunk to shadows, there + In the wet woods they lurk, + Greedy of human stuff to snare + In webs of murk. + + Look up, else your eye must drown + In a moving sea of black + Between the tree-tops, upside down + Goes the sky-track. + + Look up, else your feet will stray + Towards that dim ambuscade, + Where spider-like they catch their prey + In nets of shade. + + For though creeds whirl away in dust, + Faith fails and men forget, + These aged gods of fright and lust + Cling to life yet. + + Old gods almost dead, malign, + Starved of their ancient dues, + Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine + And an unclean muse. + + Banished to woods and a sickly moon, + Shrunk to mere bogey things, + Who spoke with thunder once at noon + To prostrate kings. + + With thunder from an open sky + To peasant, tyrant, priest, + Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye + Towards the East. + + Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low, + Living with ghosts and ghouls, + And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow + And dead toadstools. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BALOO LOO FOR JENNY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sing baloo loo for Jenny + And where is she gone? + Away to spy her mother's land, + Riding all alone. + + To the rich towns of Scotland, + The woods and the streams, + High upon a Spanish horse + Saddled for her dreams. + + By Oxford and by Chester, + To Berwick-on-the-Tweed, + Then once across the borderland + She shall find no need. + + A loaf for her at Stirling, + A scone at Carlisle, + Honeyed cakes at Edinbro'— + That shall make her smile. + + At Aberdeen clear cider, + Mead for her at Nairn, + A cup of wine at John o' Groats— + That shall please my bairn. + + Sing baloo loo for Jenny, + Mother will be fain + To see her little truant child + Riding home again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HAWK AND BUCKLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather? + He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle, + And ten bold companions all drinking together. + + Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather? + She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle, + Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather. + + Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather? + He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle + As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather. + + Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather? + He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle, + With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather. + + Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather? + She stays not contented with little or with muckle, + Straining for daisies at the end of her tether. + + For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle, + We cling to it close and we sing all together, + "Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle, + And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE "ALICE JEAN". + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One moonlit night a ship drove in, + A ghost ship from the west, + Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller, + Like a mermaid drest + In long green weed and barnacles: + She beached and came to rest. + + All the watchers of the coast + Flocked to view the sight, + Men and women streaming down + Through the summer night, + Found her standing tall and ragged + Beached in the moonlight. + + Then one old woman looked and wept + "The 'Alice Jean'? But no! + The ship that took my Dick from me + Sixty years ago + Drifted back from the utmost west + With the ocean's flow? + + "Caught and caged in the weedy pool + Beyond the western brink, + Where crewless vessels lie and rot + in waters black as ink. + Torn out again by a sudden storm + Is it the 'Jean', you think?" + + A hundred women stared agape, + The menfolk nudged and laughed, + But none could find a likelier story + For the strange craft. + With fear and death and desolation + Rigged fore and aft. + + The blind ship came forgotten home + To all but one of these + Of whom none dared to climb aboard her: + And by and by the breeze + Sprang to a storm and the "Alice Jean" + Foundered in frothy seas. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CUPBOARD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mother + + What's in that cupboard, Mary? + + Mary + + Which cupboard, mother dear? + + Mother + + The cupboard of red mahogany + With handles shining clear. + + Mary + + That cupboard, dearest mother, + With shining crystal handles? + There's nought inside but rags and jags + And yellow tallow candles. + + Mother + + What's in that cupboard, Mary? + + Mary + + Which cupboard, mother mine? + + Mother + + That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber, + The silver corners shine. + + Mary + + There's nothing there inside, mother, + But wool and thread and flax, + And bits of faded silk and velvet, + And candles of white wax. + + Mother + + What's in that cupboard, Mary? + And this time tell me true. + + Mary + + White clothes for an unborn baby, mother, + But what's the truth to you? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BEACON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The silent shepherdess, + She of my vows, + Here with me exchanging love + Under dim boughs. + + Shines on our mysteries + A sudden spark— + "Dout the candle, glow-worm, + Let all be dark. + + "The birds have sung their last notes, + The Sun's to bed, + Glow-worm, dout your candle." + The glow-worm said: + + "I also am a lover; + The lamp I display + Is beacon for my true love + Wandering astray. + + "Through the thick bushes + And the grass comes she + With a heartload of longing + And love for me. + + "Sir, enjoy your fancy, + But spare me harm, + A lover is a lover, + Though but a worm." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POT AND KETTLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot. + A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot. + The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin, + And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within. + + Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth, + I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth. + For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings + My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings. + + Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame, + But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came. + There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true. + For every hour they told their hearts, "Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" + + As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot, + So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot. + As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you. + And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GHOST RADDLED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Come, surly fellow, come! A song!" + What, madmen? Sing to you? + Choose from the clouded tales of wrong + And terror I bring to you. + + Of a night so torn with cries, + Honest men sleeping + Start awake with glaring eyes, + Bone-chilled, flesh creeping. + + Of spirits in the web hung room + Up above the stable, + Groans, knockings in the gloom, + The dancing table. + + Of demons in the dry well + That cheep and mutter, + Clanging of an unseen bell, + Blood choking the gutter. + + Of lust frightful, past belief, + Lurking unforgotten, + Unrestrainable endless grief + From breasts long rotten. + + A song? What laughter or what song + Can this house remember? + Do flowers and butterflies belong + To a blind December? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NEGLECTFUL EDWARD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nancy + + "Edward back from the Indian Sea, + What have you brought for Nancy?" + + Edward + + "A rope of pearls and a gold earring, + And a bird of the East that will not sing. + A carven tooth, a box with a key—" + + Nancy + + "God be praised you are back," says she, + "Have you nothing more for your Nancy?" + + Edward + + "Long as I sailed the Indian Sea + I gathered all for your fancy: + Toys and silk and jewels I bring, + And a bird of the East that will not sing: + What more can you want, dear girl, from me?" + + Nancy + + "God be praised you are back," said she, + "Have you nothing better for Nancy?" + + Edward + + "Safe and home from the Indian Sea, + And nothing to take your fancy?" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nancy + + "You can keep your pearls and your gold earring, + And your bird of the East that will not sing, + But, Ned, have you nothing more for me + Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she, + "Have you nothing better for Nancy?" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown: + Here's black velvet, all the rage, for Dick's birthday coat. + Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the way down, + Lace ruffles, Dick, for you; you'll be a man of note. + + Mary, here I've bought you a green gingham shade + And a silk purse brocaded with roses gold and blue, + You'll learn to hold them proudly like colours on parade. + No banker's wife in all the town half so grand as you. + + I've bought for young Diccon a long walking-stick, + Yellow gloves, well tanned, at Woodstock village made. + I'll teach you to flourish 'em and show your name is DICK, + Strutting by your sister's side with the same parade. + + On Sunday to church you go, each with a book of prayer: + Then up the street and down the aisles, everywhere you'll see + Of all the honours paid around, how small is Virtue's share. + How large the share of Vulgar Pride in peacock finery. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THUNDER AT NIGHT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Restless and hot two children lay + Plagued with uneasy dreams, + Each wandered lonely through false day + A twilight torn with screams. + + True to the bed-time story, Ben + Pursued his wounded bear, + Ann dreamed of chattering monkey men, + Of snakes twined in her hair... + + Now high aloft above the town + The thick clouds gather and break, + A flash, a roar, and rain drives down: + Aghast the young things wake. + + Trembling for what their terror was, + Surprised by instant doom, + With lightning in the looking glass, + Thunder that rocks the room. + + The monkeys' paws patter again, + Snakes hiss and flash their eyes: + The bear roars out in hideous pain: + Ann prays: her brother cries. + + They cannot guess, could not be told + How soon comes careless day, + With birds and dandelion gold, + Wet grass, cool scents of May. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO E.M.—A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Strawberries that in gardens grow + Are plump and juicy fine, + But sweeter far as wise men know + Spring from the woodland vine. + + No need for bowl or silver spoon, + Sugar or spice or cream, + Has the wild berry plucked in June + Beside the trickling stream. + + One such to melt at the tongue's root, + Confounding taste with scent, + Beats a full peck of garden fruit: + Which points my argument. + + May sudden justice overtake + And snap the froward pen, + That old and palsied poets shake + Against the minds of men. + + Blasphemers trusting to hold caught + In far-flung webs of ink, + The utmost ends of human thought + Till nothing's left to think. + + But may the gift of heavenly peace + And glory for all time + Keep the boy Tom who tending geese + First made the nursery rhyme. + + By the brookside one August day, + Using the sun for clock, + Tom whiled the languid hours away + Beside his scattering flock. + + Carving with a sharp pointed stone + On a broad slab of slate + The famous lives of Jumping Joan, + Dan Fox and Greedy Kate. + + Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds, + Spain, Scotland, Babylon, + That sister Kate might learn the words + To tell to toddling John. + + But Kate who could not stay content + To learn her lesson pat + New beauty to the rough lines lent + By changing this or that. + + And she herself set fresh things down + In corners of her slate, + Of lambs and lanes and London town. + God's blessing fall on Kate! + + The baby loved the simple sound, + With jolly glee he shook, + And soon the lines grew smooth and round + Like pebbles in Tom's brook. + + From mouth to mouth told and retold + By children sprawled at ease, + Before the fire in winter's cold, + in June, beneath tall trees. + + Till though long lost are stone and slate, + Though the brook no more runs, + And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate, + Their sons and their sons' sons. + + Yet as when Time with stealthy tread + Lays the rich garden waste + The woodland berry ripe and red + Fails not in scent or taste, + + So these same rhymes shall still be told + To children yet unborn, + While false philosophy growing old + Fades and is killed by scorn. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JANE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As Jane walked out below the hill, + She saw an old man standing still, + His eyes in tranced sorrow bound + On the broad stretch of barren ground. + + His limbs were knarled like aged trees, + His thin beard wrapt about his knees, + His visage broad and parchment white, + Aglint with pale reflected light. + + He seemed a creature fall'n afar + From some dim planet or faint star. + Jane scanned him very close, and soon + Cried, "'Tis the old man from the moon." + + He raised his voice, a grating creak, + But only to himself would speak. + Groaning with tears in piteous pain, + "O! O! would I were home again." + + Then Jane ran off, quick as she could, + To cheer his heart with drink and food. + But ah, too late came ale and bread, + She found the poor soul stretched stone-dead. + And a new moon rode overhead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VAIN AND CARELESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lady, lovely lady, + Careless and gay! + Once when a beggar called + She gave her child away. + + The beggar took the baby, + Wrapped it in a shawl, + "Bring her back," the lady said, + "Next time you call." + + Hard by lived a vain man, + So vain and so proud, + He walked on stilts + To be seen by the crowd. + + Up above the chimney pots, + Tall as a mast, + And all the people ran about + Shouting till he passed. + + "A splendid match surely," + Neighbours saw it plain, + "Although she is so careless, + Although he is so vain." + + But the lady played bobcherry, + Did not see or care, + As the vain man went by her + Aloft in the air. + + This gentle-born couple + Lived and died apart. + Water will not mix with oil, + Nor vain with careless heart. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NINE O'CLOCK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + + Nine of the clock, oh! + Wake my lazy head! + Your shoes of red morocco, + Your silk bed-gown: + Rouse, rouse, speck-eyed Mary + In your high bed! + A yawn, a smile, sleepy-starey, + Mary climbs down. + "Good-morning to my brothers, + Good-day to the Sun, + Halloo, halloo to the lily-white sheep + That up the mountain run." + + II. + + Good-night to the meadow, farewell to the nine o'clock Sun, + "He loves me not, loves me, he loves me not" (O jealous one!) + "He loves me, he loves me not, loves me"—O soft nights of June, + A bird sang for love on the cherry-bough: up swam the Moon. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PICTURE BOOK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When I was not quite five years old + I first saw the blue picture book, + And Fraulein Spitzenburger told + Stories that sent me hot and cold; + I loathed it, yet I had to look: + It was a German book. + + I smiled at first, for she'd begun + With a back-garden broad and green, + And rabbits nibbling there: page one + Turned; and the gardener fired his gun + From the low hedge: he lay unseen + Behind: oh, it was mean! + + They're hurt, they can't escape, and so + He stuffs them head-down in a sack, + Not quite dead, wriggling in a row, + And Fraulein laughed, "Ho, ho! Ho, ho!" + And gave my middle a hard smack, + I wish that I'd hit back. + + Then when I cried she laughed again; + On the next page was a dead boy + Murdered by robbers in a lane; + His clothes were red with a big stain + Of blood, he held a broken toy, + The poor, poor little boy! + + I had to look: there was a town + Burning where every one got caught, + Then a fish pulled a nigger down + Into the lake and made him drown, + And a man killed his friend; they fought + For money, Fraulein thought. + + Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise. + "Ho, ho!" Then she explained it all + How robbers kill the little boys + And torture them and break their toys. + Robbers are always big and tall: + I cried: I was so small. + + How a man often kills his wife, + How every one dies in the end + By fire, or water or a knife. + If you're not careful in this life, + Even if you can trust your friend, + You won't have long to spend. + + I hated it—old Fraulein picked + Her teeth, slowly explaining it. + I had to listen, Fraulein licked + Her fingers several times and flicked + The pages over; in a fit + Of rage I spat at it... + + And lying in my bed that night + Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found + A stretch of barren years in sight, + Where right is wrong, but strength is right, + Where weak things must creep underground, + And I could not sleep sound. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PROMISED LULLABY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Can I find True-Love a gift + In this dark hour to restore her, + When body's vessel breaks adrift, + When hope and beauty fade before her? + But in this plight I cannot think + Of song or music, that would grieve her, + Or toys or meat or snow-cooled drink; + Not this way can her sadness leave her. + She lies and frets in childish fever, + All I can do is but to cry + "Sleep, sleep, True-Love and lullaby!" + + Lullaby, and sleep again. + Two bright eyes through the window stare, + A nose is flattened on the pane + And infant fingers fumble there. + "Not yet, not yet, you lovely thing, + But count and come nine weeks from now, + When winter's tail has lost the sting, + When buds come striking through the bough, + Then here's True-Love will show you how + Her name she won, will hush your cry + With "Sleep, my baby! Lullaby!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RETROSPECT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HAUNTED. + + Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine, + Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing + And lay ghost hands on everything, + But leave the noonday's warm sunshine + To living lads for mirth and wine. + + I met you suddenly down the street, + Strangers assume your phantom faces, + You grin at me from daylight places, + Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet + Dead men down the morning street. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RETROSPECT: THE JESTS OF THE CLOCK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He had met hours of the clock he never guessed before— + Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear, + Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore, + Bequeathing earth and heaven to ghosts, and will not hear, + And will not hear man groan chained to the sodden ground, + Rotting alive; in feather beds they slumbered sound. + + When noisome smells of day were sicklied by cold night, + When sentries froze and muttered; when beyond the wire + Blank shadows crawled and tumbled, shaking, tricking the sight, + When impotent hatred of Life stifled desire, + Then soared the sudden rocket, broke in blanching showers. + O lagging watch! O dawn! O hope-forsaken hours! + + How often with numbed heart, stale lips, venting his rage + He swore he'd be a dolt, a traitor, a damned fool, + If, when the guns stopped, ever again from youth to age + He broke the early-rising, early-sleeping rule. + No, though more bestial enemies roused a fouler war + Never again would he bear this, no never more! + + "Rise with the cheerful sun, go to bed with the same, + Work in your field or kailyard all the shining day, + But," he said, "never more in quest of wealth, honour, fame, + Search the small hours of night before the East goes grey. + A healthy mind, a honest heart, a wise man leaves + Those ugly impious times to ghosts, devils, soldiers, thieves." + + Poor fool, knowing too well deep in his heart + That he'll be ready again if urgent orders come, + To quit his rye and cabbages, kiss his wife and part + At the first sullen rapping of the awakened drum, + Ready once more to sweat with fear and brace for the shock, + To greet beneath a falling flare the jests of the clock. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HERE THEY LIE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here they lie who once learned here + All that is taught of hurt or fear; + Dead, but by free will they died: + They were true men, they had pride. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOM TAYLOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, + Old soldiers stumbling homeward here, + Homeward (still dazzled by the spark + Love kindled in some alley dark) + Young soldiers mooning in slow thought, + Start suddenly, turn about, are caught + By a dancing sound, merry as a grig, + Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig. + Never was blown from human cheeks + Music like this, that calls and speaks + Till sots and lovers from one string + Dangle and dance in the same ring. + Tom, of your piping I've heard said + And seen—that you can rouse the dead, + Dead-drunken men awash who lie + In stinking gutters hear your cry, + I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh, + Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then + You set them dancing, these dead men. + They stamp and prance with sobbing breath, + Victims of wine or love or death, + In ragged time they jump, they shake + Their heads, sweating to overtake + The impetuous tune flying ahead. + They flounder after, with legs of lead. + Now, suddenly as it started, play + Stops, the short echo dies away, + The corpses drop, a senseless heap, + The drunk men gaze about like sheep. + Grinning, the lovers sigh and stare + Up at the broad moon hanging there, + While Tom, five fingers to his nose, + Skips off...And the last bugle blows. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COUNTRY AT WAR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And what of home—how goes it, boys, + While we die here in stench and noise? + "The hill stands up and hedges wind + Over the crest and drop behind; + Here swallows dip and wild things go + On peaceful errands to and fro + Across the sloping meadow floor, + And make no guess at blasting war. + In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder + Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder, + And shoot again. Meadows yet show + Alternate white of drifted snow + And daisies. Children play at shop, + Warm days, on the flat boulder-top, + With wildflower coinage, and the wares + Are bits of glass and unripe pears. + Crows perch upon the backs of sheep, + The wheat goes yellow: women reap, + Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond, + Flutter the hedge and fly beyond. + So the first things of nature run, + And stand not still for any one, + Contemptuous of the distant cry + Wherewith you harrow earth and sky. + And high French clouds, praying to be + Back, back in peace beyond the sea, + Where nature with accustomed round + Sweeps and garnishes the ground + With kindly beauty, warm or cold— + Alternate seasons never old: + Heathen, how furiously you rage, + Cursing this blood and brimstone age, + How furiously against your will + You kill and kill again, and kill: + All thought of peace behind you cast, + Till like small boys with fear aghast, + Each cries for God to understand, + 'I could not help it, it was my hand.'" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +SOSPAN FACH. + (The Little Saucepan) + + Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale + Took shelter from a shower of hail, + And there beneath a spreading tree + Attuned their mouths to harmony. + + With smiling joy on every face + Two warbled tenor, two sang bass, + And while the leaves above them hissed with + Rough hail, they started "Aberystwyth." + + Old Parry's hymn, triumphant, rich, + They changed through with even pitch, + Till at the end of their grand noise + I called: "Give us the 'Sospan' boys!" + + Who knows a tune so soft, so strong, + So pitiful as that "Saucepan" song + For exiled hope, despaired desire + Of lost souls for their cottage fire? + + Then low at first with gathering sound + Rose their four voices, smooth and round, + Till back went Time: once more I stood + With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood. + + Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale, + For ice hail they had leaden hail; + In that fine forest, green and big, + There stayed unbroken not one twig. + + They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste, + Stumbling and shouting through the waste; + The little "Saucepan" flamed on high, + Emblem of hope and ease gone by. + + Rough pit-boys from the coaly South, + They sang, even in the cannon's mouth; + Like Sunday's chapel, Monday's inn, + The death-trap sounded with their din. + + *** + + The storm blows over, Sun comes out, + The choir breaks up with jest and shout, + With what relief I watch them part— + Another note would break my heart! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LEVELLER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Near Martinpuisch that night of hell + Two men were struck by the same shell, + Together tumbling in one heap + Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep. + + One was a pale eighteen-year-old, + Girlish and thin and not too bold, + Pressed for the war ten years too soon, + The shame and pity of his platoon. + + The other came from far-off lands + With bristling chin and whiskered hands, + He had known death and hell before + In Mexico and Ecuador. + + Yet in his death this cut-throat wild + Groaned "Mother! Mother!" like a child, + While that poor innocent in man's clothes + Died cursing God with brutal oaths. + + Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men, + Wrote out two copies there and then + Of his accustomed funeral speech + To cheer the womenfolk of each. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HATE NOT, FEAR NOT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Kill if you must, but never hate: + Man is but grass and hate is blight, + The sun will scorch you soon or late, + Die wholesome then, since you must fight. + + Hate is a fear, and fear is rot + That cankers root and fruit alike, + Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not, + Strike with no madness when you strike. + + Fever and fear distract the world, + But calm be you though madmen shout, + Through blazing fires of battle hurled, + Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +A RHYME OF FRIENDS. + (In a Style Skeltonical) + + Listen now this time + Shortly to my rhyme + That herewith starts + About certain kind hearts + In those stricken parts + That lie behind Calais, + Old crones and aged men + And young children. + About the Picardais, + Who earned my thousand thanks, + Dwellers by the banks + Of mournful Somme + (God keep me therefrom + Until War ends)— + These, then, are my friends: + Madame Averlant Lune, + From the town of Bethune; + Good Professeur la Brune + From that town also. + He played the piccolo, + And left his locks to grow. + Dear Madame Hojdes, + Sempstress of Saint Fe. + With Jules and Susette + And Antoinette. + Her children, my sweethearts, + For whom I made darts + Of paper to throw + In their mimic show, + "La guerre aux tranchees." + That was a pretty play. + + There was old Jacques Caron, + Of the hamlet Mailleton. + He let me look + At his household book, + "Comment vivre cent ans." + What cares I took + To obey this wise book, + I, who feared each hour + Lest Death's cruel power + On the poppied plain + Might make cares vain! + + By Noeus-les-mines + Lived old Adelphine, + Withered and clean, + She nodded and smiled, + And used me like a child. + How that old trot beguiled + My leisure with her chatter, + Gave me a china platter + Painted with Cherubim + And mottoes on the rim. + But when instead of thanks + I gave her francs + How her pride was hurt! + She counted francs as dirt, + (God knows, she was not rich) + She called the Kaiser bitch, + She spat on the floor, + Cursing this Prussian war, + That she had known before + Forty years past and more. + + There was also "Tomi," + With looks sweet and free, + Who called me cher ami. + This orphan's age was nine, + His folk were in their graves, + Else they were slaves + Behind the German line + To terror and rapine— + O, little friends of mine + How kind and brave you were, + You smoothed away care + When life was hard to bear. + And you, old women and men, + Who gave me billets then, + How patient and great-hearted! + Strangers though we started, + Yet friends we ever parted. + God bless you all: now ends + This homage to my friends. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FIRST REVIEW. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys + Are here discreetly blent; + Admire, you ladies, read, you boys, + My Country Sentiment. + + But Kate says, "Cut that anger and fear, + True love's the stuff we need! + With laughing children and the running deer + That makes a book indeed." + + Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap, + Though much beloved by me, + "Robert, have done with nursery pap, + Write like a man," says he. + + Hate and Fear are not wanted here, + Nor Toys nor Country Lovers, + Everything they took from my new poem book + But the flyleaf and the covers. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Country Sentiment, by Robert Graves + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNTRY SENTIMENT *** + +***** This file should be named 1418-h.htm or 1418-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/1/1418/ + +Produced by Sue Asscher, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Country Sentiment + +Author: Robert Graves + +Posting Date: August 16, 2008 [EBook #1418] +Release Date: August, 1998 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNTRY SENTIMENT *** + + + + +Produced by Sue Asscher + + + + + +COUNTRY SENTIMENT + +by Robert Graves + + +To Nancy Nicholson + +Note: +Some of the poems included in this volume have appeared in +"The New Statesman", "The Owl", "Reveille", "Land and Water", +"Poetry", and other papers, English and American. + +Robert Graves. + +Harlech, + +North Wales. + + + + +CONTENTS + + A Frosty Night + Song for Two Children + Dicky + The Three Drinkers + The Boy out of Church + After the Play + One Hard Look + True Johnny + The Voice of Beauty Drowned + The God Called Poetry + Rocky Acres + Advice to Lovers + Nebuchadnezzar's Fall + Give us Rain + Allie + Loving Henry + Brittle Bones + Apples and Water + Manticor in Arabia + Outlaws + Baloo Loo for Jenny + Hawk and Buckle + The "Alice Jean" + The Cupboard + The Beacon + Pot and Kettle + Ghost Raddled + Neglectful Edward + The Well-dressed Children + Thunder at Night + To E.M.--A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme + Jane + Vain and Careless + Nine o'Clock + The Picture Book + The Promised Lullaby + + RETROSPECT + + Haunted + Retrospect: The Jests of the Clock + Here They Lie + Tom Taylor + Country at War + Sospan Fach + The Leveller + Hate not, Fear not + A Rhyme of Friends + A First Review + + + + +A FROSTY NIGHT. + + Mother + + Alice, dear, what ails you, + Dazed and white and shaken? + Has the chill night numbed you? + Is it fright you have taken? + + Alice + + + Mother, I am very well, + I felt never better, + Mother, do not hold me so, + Let me write my letter. + + Mother + + Sweet, my dear, what ails you? + + Alice + + No, but I am well; + The night was cold and frosty, + There's no more to tell. + + Mother + + Ay, the night was frosty, + Coldly gaped the moon, + Yet the birds seemed twittering + Through green boughs of June. + + Soft and thick the snow lay, + Stars danced in the sky. + Not all the lambs of May-day + Skip so bold and high. + + Your feet were dancing, Alice, + Seemed to dance on air, + You looked a ghost or angel + In the starlight there. + + Your eyes were frosted starlight, + Your heart fire and snow. + Who was it said, "I love you"? + + Alice + + Mother, let me go! + + + + +A SONG FOR TWO CHILDREN. + + "Make a song, father, a new little song, + All for Jenny and Nancy." + Balow lalow or Hey derry down, + Or else what might you fancy? + + Is there any song sweet enough + For Nancy and for Jenny? + Said Simple Simon to the pieman, + "Indeed I know not any." + + "I've counted the miles to Babylon, + I've flown the earth like a bird, + I've ridden cock-horse to Banbury Cross, + But no such song have I heard." + + "Some speak of Alexander, + And some of Hercules, + But where are there any like Nancy and Jenny, + Where are there any like these?" + + + + +DICKY. + + Mother + + Oh, what a heavy sigh! + Dicky, are you ailing? + + Dicky + + Even by this fireside, mother, + My heart is failing. + + To-night across the down, + Whistling and jolly, + I sauntered out from town + With my stick of holly. + + Bounteous and cool from sea + The wind was blowing, + Cloud shadows under the moon + Coming and going. + + I sang old roaring songs, + Ran and leaped quick, + And turned home by St. Swithin's + Twirling my stick. + + And there as I was passing + The churchyard gate + An old man stopped me, "Dicky, + You're walking late." + + I did not know the man, + I grew afeared + At his lean lolling jaw, + His spreading beard. + + His garments old and musty, + Of antique cut, + His body very lean and bony, + His eyes tight shut. + + Oh, even to tell it now + My courage ebbs... + His face was clay, mother, + His beard, cobwebs. + + In that long horrid pause + "Good-night," he said, + Entered and clicked the gate, + "Each to his bed." + + Mother + + Do not sigh or fear, Dicky, + How is it right + To grudge the dead their ghostly dark + And wan moonlight? + + We have the glorious sun, + Lamp and fireside. + Grudge not the dead their moonshine + When abroad they ride. + + + + +THE THREE DRINKERS. + + Blacksmith Green had three strong sons, + With bread and beef did fill 'em, + Now John and Ned are perished and dead, + But plenty remains of William. + + John Green was a whiskey drinker, + The Land of Cakes supplied him, + Till at last his soul flew out by the hole + That the fierce drink burned inside him. + + Ned Green was a water drinker, + And, Lord, how Ned would fuddle! + He rotted away his mortal clay + Like an old boot thrown in a puddle. + + Will Green was a wise young drinker, + Shrank from whiskey or water, + But he made good cheer with headstrong beer, + And married an alderman's daughter. + + + + +THE BOY OUT OF CHURCH. + + As Jesus and his followers + Upon a Sabbath morn + Were walking by a wheat field + They plucked the ears of corn. + + They plucked it, they rubbed it, + They blew the husks away, + Which grieved the pious pharisees + Upon the Sabbath day. + + And Jesus said, "A riddle + Answer if you can, + Was man made for the Sabbath + Or Sabbath made for man?" + + I do not love the Sabbath, + The soapsuds and the starch, + The troops of solemn people + Who to Salvation march. + + I take my book, I take my stick + On the Sabbath day, + In woody nooks and valleys + I hide myself away. + + To ponder there in quiet + God's Universal Plan, + Resolved that church and Sabbath + Were never made for man. + + + + +AFTER THE PLAY. + + Father + + Have you spent the money I gave you to-day? + + John + + Ay, father I have. + A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away + To a beggar I gave. + + Father + + The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell, + Such lies that you spin. + Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell, + Say, where have you been? + + John + + I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need? + To the Play I went, + With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed, + The best ever spent. + + Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story-- + My splendid night! + It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory, + Fear with delight. + + Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale: + He of that name, + A tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail, + Two eyes like flame. + + All the furies of fate circled round the man, + Maddening his heart, + There was old murder done before play began, + Ay, the ghost took part. + + There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones, + And with rage and grief + All the players shouted in full, kingly tones, + Grand, passing belief. + + Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day, + And changing scenes: + Great sounding words were tossed about like hay + By kings and queens. + + How the plot turned about I watched in vain, + Though for grief I cried, + As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain, + In great agony died. + + Father, you'll drive me forth never to return, + Doubting me your son-- + + Father + + So I shall, John + + John + + --but that glory for which I burn + Shall be soon begun. + + I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout, + Keep my locks curled. + The fame of my name shall go ringing about + Over half the world. + + Father + + Horror that your Prince found, John may you find, + Ever and again + Dying before the house in such torture of mind + As you need not feign. + + While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate, + They shall never know + The curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate. + You have heard me. Go! + + + + +SONG: ONE HARD LOOK. + + Small gnats that fly + In hot July + And lodge in sleeping ears, + Can rouse therein + A trumpet's din + With Day-of-Judgement fears. + + Small mice at night + Can wake more fright + Than lions at midday. + An urchin small + Torments us all + Who tread his prickly way. + + A straw will crack + The camel's back, + To die we need but sip, + So little sand + As fills the hand + Can stop a steaming ship. + + One smile relieves + A heart that grieves + Though deadly sad it be, + And one hard look + Can close the book + That lovers love to see-- + + + + +TRUE JOHNNY. + + Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true + To all those famous vows you've made, + Will you love me as I love you + Until we both in earth are laid? + Or shall the old wives nod and say + His love was only for a day: + The mood goes by, + His fancies fly, + And Mary's left to sigh. + + Mary, alas, you've hit the truth, + And I with grief can but admit + Hot-blooded haste controls my youth, + My idle fancies veer and flit + From flower to flower, from tree to tree, + And when the moment catches me, + Oh, love goes by + Away I fly + And leave my girl to sigh. + + Could you but now foretell the day, + Johnny, when this sad thing must be, + When light and gay you'll turn away + And laugh and break the heart in me? + For like a nut for true love's sake + My empty heart shall crack and break, + When fancies fly + And love goes by + And Mary's left to die. + + When the sun turns against the clock, + When Avon waters upward flow, + When eggs are laid by barn-door cock, + When dusty hens do strut and crow, + When up is down, when left is right, + Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight, + With careless eye + Away I'll fly + And Mary here shall die. + + + + +THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED. + + Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! + The other birds woke all around, + Rising with toot and howl they stirred + Their plumage, broke the trembling sound, + They craned their necks, they fluttered wings, + "While we are silent no one sings, + And while we sing you hush your throat, + Or tune your melody to our note." + + Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! + The screams and hootings rose again: + They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred + Their noisy plumage; small but plain + The lonely hidden singer made + A well of grief within the glade. + "Whist, silly fool, be off," they shout, + "Or we'll come pluck your feathers out." + + Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! + Slight and small the lovely cry + Came trickling down, but no one heard. + Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie + Jarred horrid notes and the jangling jay + Ripped the fine threads of song away, + For why should peeping chick aspire + To challenge their loud woodland choir? + + Cried it so sweet that unseen bird? + Lovelier could no music be, + Clearer than water, soft as curd, + Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree. + How sang the others all around? + Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound, + With Pretty Poll, tuwit-tu-woo, + Peewit, caw caw, cuckoo-cuckoo. + + + + +THE GOD CALLED POETRY. + + Now I begin to know at last, + These nights when I sit down to rhyme, + The form and measure of that vast + God we call Poetry, he who stoops + And leaps me through his paper hoops + A little higher every time. + + Tempts me to think I'll grow a proper + Singing cricket or grass-hopper + Making prodigious jumps in air + While shaken crowds about me stare + Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder + To fly up on my master's shoulder + Rustling the thick strands of his hair. + + He is older than the seas, + Older than the plains and hills, + And older than the light that spills + From the sun's hot wheel on these. + He wakes the gale that tears your trees, + He sings to you from window sills. + + At you he roars, or he will coo, + He shouts and screams when hell is hot, + Riding on the shell and shot. + He smites you down, he succours you, + And where you seek him, he is not. + + To-day I see he has two heads + Like Janus--calm, benignant, this; + That, grim and scowling: his beard spreads + From chin to chin" this god has power + Immeasurable at every hour: + He first taught lovers how to kiss, + He brings down sunshine after shower, + Thunder and hate are his also, + He is YES and he is NO. + + The black beard spoke and said to me, + "Human frailty though you be, + Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh! + They'll obey you in the end: + Hill and field, river and marsh + Shall obey you, hop and skip + At the terrour of your whip, + To your gales of anger bend." + + The pale beard spoke and said in turn + "True: a prize goes to the stern, + But sing and laugh and easily run + Through the wide airs of my plain, + Bathe in my waters, drink my sun, + And draw my creatures with soft song; + They shall follow you along + Graciously with no doubt or pain." + + Then speaking from his double head + The glorious fearful monster said + "I am YES and I am NO, + Black as pitch and white as snow, + Love me, hate me, reconcile + Hate with love, perfect with vile, + So equal justice shall be done + And life shared between moon and sun. + Nature for you shall curse or smile: + A poet you shall be, my son." + + + + +ROCKY ACRES. + + This is a wild land, country of my choice, + With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare. + Seldom in these acres is heard any voice + But voice of cold water that runs here and there + Through rocks and lank heather growing without care. + No mice in the heath run nor no birds cry + For fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky. + + He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings, + He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye, + He catches the trembling of small hidden things, + He tears them in pieces, dropping from the sky: + Tenderness and pity the land will deny, + Where life is but nourished from water and rock + A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock. + + Time has never journeyed to this lost land, + Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date, + The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand, + Careless if the season be early or late. + The skies wander overhead, now blue, now slate: + Winter would be known by his cold cutting snow + If June did not borrow his armour also. + + Yet this is my country be loved by me best, + The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood, + Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest, + Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood. + Bold immortal country whose hill tops have stood + Strongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go, + Terror for fat burghers in far plains below. + + + + +ADVICE TO LOVERS. + + I knew an old man at a Fair + Who made it his twice-yearly task + To clamber on a cider cask + And cry to all the yokels there:-- + + "Lovers to-day and for all time + Preserve the meaning of my rhyme: + Love is not kindly nor yet grim + But does to you as you to him. + + "Whistle, and Love will come to you, + Hiss, and he fades without a word, + Do wrong, and he great wrong will do, + Speak, he retells what he has heard. + + "Then all you lovers have good heed + Vex not young Love in word or deed: + Love never leaves an unpaid debt, + He will not pardon nor forget." + + The old man's voice was sweet yet loud + And this shows what a man was he, + He'd scatter apples to the crowd + And give great draughts of cider, free. + + + + +NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S FALL. + + Frowning over the riddle that Daniel told, + Down through the mist hung garden, below a feeble sun, + The King of Persia walked: oh, the chilling cold! + His mind was webbed with a grey shroud vapour-spun. + + Here for the pride of his soaring eagle heart, + Here for his great hand searching the skies for food, + Here for his courtship of Heaven's high stars he shall smart, + Nebuchadnezzar shall fall, crawl, be subdued. + + Hot sun struck through the vapour, leaf strewn mould + Breathed sweet decay: old Earth called for her child. + Mist drew off from his mind, Sun scattered gold, + Warmth came and earthy motives fresh and wild. + + Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King, + Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud. + Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing + The fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood. + + He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails + His diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup. + He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails, + He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up. + + + +GIVE US RAIN. + + "Give us Rain, Rain," said the bean and the pea, + "Not so much Sun, + Not so much Sun." + But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly, + And no rain falls and no waters run. + + "Give us Peace, Peace," said the peoples oppressed, + "Not so many Flags, + Not so many Flags." + But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest, + And the children starve, they shiver in rags. + + + + +ALLIE. + + Allie, call the birds in, + The birds from the sky. + Allie calls, Allie sings, + Down they all fly. + First there came + Two white doves + Then a sparrow from his nest, + Then a clucking bantam hen, + Then a robin red-breast. + + Allie, call the beasts in, + The beasts, every one. + Allie calls, Allie sings, + In they all run. + First there came + Two black lambs, + Then a grunting Berkshire sow, + Then a dog without a tail, + Then a red and white cow. + + Allie, call the fish up, + The fish from the stream. + Allie calls, Allie sings, + Up they all swim. + First there came + Two gold fish, + A minnow and a miller's thumb, + Then a pair of loving trout, + Then the twisted eels come. + + Allie, call the children, + Children from the green. + Allie calls, Allie sings, + Soon they run in. + First there came + Tom and Madge, + Kate and I who'll not forget + How we played by the water's edge + Till the April sun set. + + + + +LOVING HENRY. + + Henry, Henry, do you love me? + Do I love you, Mary? + Oh, can you mean to liken me + To the aspen tree. + Whose leaves do shake and vary, + From white to green + And back again, + Shifting and contrary? + + Henry, Henry, do you love me, + Do you love me truly? + Oh, Mary, must I say again + My love's a pain, + A torment most unruly? + It tosses me + Like a ship at sea + When the storm rages fully. + + Henry, Henry, why do you love me? + Mary, dear, have pity! + I swear, of all the girls there are + Both near and far, + In country or in city, + There's none like you, + So kind, so true, + So wise, so brave, so pretty. + + + + +BRITTLE BONES. + + Though I am an old man + With my bones very brittle, + Though I am a poor old man + Worth very little, + Yet I suck at my long pipe + At peace in the sun, + I do not fret nor much regret + That my work is done. + + If I were a young man + With my bones full of marrow, + Oh, if I were a bold young man + Straight as an arrow, + And if I had the same years + To live once again, + I would not change their simple range + Of laughter and pain. + + If I were a young man + And young was my Lily, + A smart girl, a bold young man, + Both of us silly. + And though from time before I knew + She'd stab me with pain, + Though well I knew she'd not be true, + I'd love her again. + + If I were a young man + With a brisk, healthy body, + Oh, if I were a bold young man + With love of rum toddy, + Though I knew that I was spiting + My old age with pain, + My happy lip would touch and sip + Again and again. + + If I were a young man + With my bones full of marrow, + Oh, if I were a bold young man + Straight as an arrow, + I'd store up no virtue + For Heaven's distant plain, + I'd live at ease as I did please + And sin once again. + + + + +APPLES AND WATER. + + Dust in a cloud, blinding weather, + Drums that rattle and roar! + A mother and daughter stood together + Beside their cottage door. + + "Mother, the heavens are bright like brass, + The dust is shaken high, + With labouring breath the soldiers pass, + Their lips are cracked and dry." + + "Mother, I'll throw them apples down, + I'll bring them pails of water." + The mother turned with an angry frown + Holding back her daughter. + + "But mother, see, they faint with thirst, + They march away to die," + "Ah, sweet, had I but known at first + Their throats are always dry." + + "There is no water can supply them + In western streams that flow, + There is no fruit can satisfy them + On orchard trees that grow." + + "Once in my youth I gave, poor fool, + A soldier apples and water, + So may I die before you cool + Your father's drouth, my daughter." + + + + +MANTICOR IN ARABIA. + + (The manticors of the montaines + Mighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.) + + Thick and scented daisies spread + Where with surface dull like lead + Arabian pools of slime invite + Manticors down from neighbouring height + To dip heads, to cool fiery blood + In oozy depths of sucking mud. + Sing then of ringstraked manticor, + Man-visaged tiger who of yore + Held whole Arabian waste in fee + With raging pride from sea to sea, + That every lesser tribe would fly + Those armed feet, that hooded eye; + Till preying on himself at last + Manticor dwindled, sank, was passed + By gryphon flocks he did disdain. + Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign + In ancient keep of manticor + Agreed old foe can rise no more. + Only here from lakes of slime + Drinks manticor and bides due time: + Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon tree + Must mount his pyre and burn and be + Renewed again, till in such hour + As seventh Phoenix flames to power + And lifts young feathers, overnice + From scented pool of steamy spice + Shall manticor his sway restore + And rule Arabian plains once more. + + + + +OUTLAWS. + + Owls: they whinney down the night, + Bats go zigzag by. + Ambushed in shadow out of sight + The outlaws lie. + + Old gods, shrunk to shadows, there + In the wet woods they lurk, + Greedy of human stuff to snare + In webs of murk. + + Look up, else your eye must drown + In a moving sea of black + Between the tree-tops, upside down + Goes the sky-track. + + Look up, else your feet will stray + Towards that dim ambuscade, + Where spider-like they catch their prey + In nets of shade. + + For though creeds whirl away in dust, + Faith fails and men forget, + These aged gods of fright and lust + Cling to life yet. + + Old gods almost dead, malign, + Starved of their ancient dues, + Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine + And an unclean muse. + + Banished to woods and a sickly moon, + Shrunk to mere bogey things, + Who spoke with thunder once at noon + To prostrate kings. + + With thunder from an open sky + To peasant, tyrant, priest, + Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye + Towards the East. + + Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low, + Living with ghosts and ghouls, + And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow + And dead toadstools. + + + + +BALOO LOO FOR JENNY. + + Sing baloo loo for Jenny + And where is she gone? + Away to spy her mother's land, + Riding all alone. + + To the rich towns of Scotland, + The woods and the streams, + High upon a Spanish horse + Saddled for her dreams. + + By Oxford and by Chester, + To Berwick-on-the-Tweed, + Then once across the borderland + She shall find no need. + + A loaf for her at Stirling, + A scone at Carlisle, + Honeyed cakes at Edinbro'-- + That shall make her smile. + + At Aberdeen clear cider, + Mead for her at Nairn, + A cup of wine at John o' Groats-- + That shall please my bairn. + + Sing baloo loo for Jenny, + Mother will be fain + To see her little truant child + Riding home again. + + + + +HAWK AND BUCKLE. + + Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather? + He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle, + And ten bold companions all drinking together. + + Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather? + She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle, + Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather. + + Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather? + He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle + As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather. + + Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather? + He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle, + With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather. + + Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle, + And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather? + She stays not contented with little or with muckle, + Straining for daisies at the end of her tether. + + For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle, + We cling to it close and we sing all together, + "Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle, + And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather." + + + + +THE "ALICE JEAN". + + One moonlit night a ship drove in, + A ghost ship from the west, + Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller, + Like a mermaid drest + In long green weed and barnacles: + She beached and came to rest. + + All the watchers of the coast + Flocked to view the sight, + Men and women streaming down + Through the summer night, + Found her standing tall and ragged + Beached in the moonlight. + + Then one old woman looked and wept + "The 'Alice Jean'? But no! + The ship that took my Dick from me + Sixty years ago + Drifted back from the utmost west + With the ocean's flow? + + "Caught and caged in the weedy pool + Beyond the western brink, + Where crewless vessels lie and rot + in waters black as ink. + Torn out again by a sudden storm + Is it the 'Jean', you think?" + + A hundred women stared agape, + The menfolk nudged and laughed, + But none could find a likelier story + For the strange craft. + With fear and death and desolation + Rigged fore and aft. + + The blind ship came forgotten home + To all but one of these + Of whom none dared to climb aboard her: + And by and by the breeze + Sprang to a storm and the "Alice Jean" + Foundered in frothy seas. + + + + +THE CUPBOARD. + + Mother + + What's in that cupboard, Mary? + + Mary + + Which cupboard, mother dear? + + Mother + + The cupboard of red mahogany + With handles shining clear. + + Mary + + That cupboard, dearest mother, + With shining crystal handles? + There's nought inside but rags and jags + And yellow tallow candles. + + Mother + + What's in that cupboard, Mary? + + Mary + + Which cupboard, mother mine? + + Mother + + That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber, + The silver corners shine. + + Mary + + There's nothing there inside, mother, + But wool and thread and flax, + And bits of faded silk and velvet, + And candles of white wax. + + Mother + + What's in that cupboard, Mary? + And this time tell me true. + + Mary + + White clothes for an unborn baby, mother, + But what's the truth to you? + + + + +THE BEACON. + + The silent shepherdess, + She of my vows, + Here with me exchanging love + Under dim boughs. + + Shines on our mysteries + A sudden spark-- + "Dout the candle, glow-worm, + Let all be dark. + + "The birds have sung their last notes, + The Sun's to bed, + Glow-worm, dout your candle." + The glow-worm said: + + "I also am a lover; + The lamp I display + Is beacon for my true love + Wandering astray. + + "Through the thick bushes + And the grass comes she + With a heartload of longing + And love for me. + + "Sir, enjoy your fancy, + But spare me harm, + A lover is a lover, + Though but a worm." + + + + +POT AND KETTLE. + + Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot. + A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot. + The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin, + And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within. + + Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth, + I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth. + For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings + My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings. + + Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame, + But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came. + There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true. + For every hour they told their hearts, "Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" + + As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot, + So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot. + As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you. + And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" + + + + +GHOST RADDLED. + + "Come, surly fellow, come! A song!" + What, madmen? Sing to you? + Choose from the clouded tales of wrong + And terror I bring to you. + + Of a night so torn with cries, + Honest men sleeping + Start awake with glaring eyes, + Bone-chilled, flesh creeping. + + Of spirits in the web hung room + Up above the stable, + Groans, knockings in the gloom, + The dancing table. + + Of demons in the dry well + That cheep and mutter, + Clanging of an unseen bell, + Blood choking the gutter. + + Of lust frightful, past belief, + Lurking unforgotten, + Unrestrainable endless grief + From breasts long rotten. + + A song? What laughter or what song + Can this house remember? + Do flowers and butterflies belong + To a blind December? + + + + +NEGLECTFUL EDWARD. + + Nancy + + "Edward back from the Indian Sea, + What have you brought for Nancy?" + + Edward + + "A rope of pearls and a gold earring, + And a bird of the East that will not sing. + A carven tooth, a box with a key--" + + Nancy + + "God be praised you are back," says she, + "Have you nothing more for your Nancy?" + + Edward + + "Long as I sailed the Indian Sea + I gathered all for your fancy: + Toys and silk and jewels I bring, + And a bird of the East that will not sing: + What more can you want, dear girl, from me?" + + Nancy + + "God be praised you are back," said she, + "Have you nothing better for Nancy?" + + Edward + + "Safe and home from the Indian Sea, + And nothing to take your fancy?" + + + Nancy + + "You can keep your pearls and your gold earring, + And your bird of the East that will not sing, + But, Ned, have you nothing more for me + Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she, + "Have you nothing better for Nancy?" + + + + +THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN. + + Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown: + Here's black velvet, all the rage, for Dick's birthday coat. + Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the way down, + Lace ruffles, Dick, for you; you'll be a man of note. + + Mary, here I've bought you a green gingham shade + And a silk purse brocaded with roses gold and blue, + You'll learn to hold them proudly like colours on parade. + No banker's wife in all the town half so grand as you. + + I've bought for young Diccon a long walking-stick, + Yellow gloves, well tanned, at Woodstock village made. + I'll teach you to flourish 'em and show your name is DICK, + Strutting by your sister's side with the same parade. + + On Sunday to church you go, each with a book of prayer: + Then up the street and down the aisles, everywhere you'll see + Of all the honours paid around, how small is Virtue's share. + How large the share of Vulgar Pride in peacock finery. + + + + +THUNDER AT NIGHT. + + Restless and hot two children lay + Plagued with uneasy dreams, + Each wandered lonely through false day + A twilight torn with screams. + + True to the bed-time story, Ben + Pursued his wounded bear, + Ann dreamed of chattering monkey men, + Of snakes twined in her hair... + + Now high aloft above the town + The thick clouds gather and break, + A flash, a roar, and rain drives down: + Aghast the young things wake. + + Trembling for what their terror was, + Surprised by instant doom, + With lightning in the looking glass, + Thunder that rocks the room. + + The monkeys' paws patter again, + Snakes hiss and flash their eyes: + The bear roars out in hideous pain: + Ann prays: her brother cries. + + They cannot guess, could not be told + How soon comes careless day, + With birds and dandelion gold, + Wet grass, cool scents of May. + + + + +TO E.M.--A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME. + + Strawberries that in gardens grow + Are plump and juicy fine, + But sweeter far as wise men know + Spring from the woodland vine. + + No need for bowl or silver spoon, + Sugar or spice or cream, + Has the wild berry plucked in June + Beside the trickling stream. + + One such to melt at the tongue's root, + Confounding taste with scent, + Beats a full peck of garden fruit: + Which points my argument. + + May sudden justice overtake + And snap the froward pen, + That old and palsied poets shake + Against the minds of men. + + Blasphemers trusting to hold caught + In far-flung webs of ink, + The utmost ends of human thought + Till nothing's left to think. + + But may the gift of heavenly peace + And glory for all time + Keep the boy Tom who tending geese + First made the nursery rhyme. + + By the brookside one August day, + Using the sun for clock, + Tom whiled the languid hours away + Beside his scattering flock. + + Carving with a sharp pointed stone + On a broad slab of slate + The famous lives of Jumping Joan, + Dan Fox and Greedy Kate. + + Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds, + Spain, Scotland, Babylon, + That sister Kate might learn the words + To tell to toddling John. + + But Kate who could not stay content + To learn her lesson pat + New beauty to the rough lines lent + By changing this or that. + + And she herself set fresh things down + In corners of her slate, + Of lambs and lanes and London town. + God's blessing fall on Kate! + + The baby loved the simple sound, + With jolly glee he shook, + And soon the lines grew smooth and round + Like pebbles in Tom's brook. + + From mouth to mouth told and retold + By children sprawled at ease, + Before the fire in winter's cold, + in June, beneath tall trees. + + Till though long lost are stone and slate, + Though the brook no more runs, + And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate, + Their sons and their sons' sons. + + Yet as when Time with stealthy tread + Lays the rich garden waste + The woodland berry ripe and red + Fails not in scent or taste, + + So these same rhymes shall still be told + To children yet unborn, + While false philosophy growing old + Fades and is killed by scorn. + + + + +JANE. + + As Jane walked out below the hill, + She saw an old man standing still, + His eyes in tranced sorrow bound + On the broad stretch of barren ground. + + His limbs were knarled like aged trees, + His thin beard wrapt about his knees, + His visage broad and parchment white, + Aglint with pale reflected light. + + He seemed a creature fall'n afar + From some dim planet or faint star. + Jane scanned him very close, and soon + Cried, "'Tis the old man from the moon." + + He raised his voice, a grating creak, + But only to himself would speak. + Groaning with tears in piteous pain, + "O! O! would I were home again." + + Then Jane ran off, quick as she could, + To cheer his heart with drink and food. + But ah, too late came ale and bread, + She found the poor soul stretched stone-dead. + And a new moon rode overhead. + + + + +VAIN AND CARELESS. + + Lady, lovely lady, + Careless and gay! + Once when a beggar called + She gave her child away. + + The beggar took the baby, + Wrapped it in a shawl, + "Bring her back," the lady said, + "Next time you call." + + Hard by lived a vain man, + So vain and so proud, + He walked on stilts + To be seen by the crowd. + + Up above the chimney pots, + Tall as a mast, + And all the people ran about + Shouting till he passed. + + "A splendid match surely," + Neighbours saw it plain, + "Although she is so careless, + Although he is so vain." + + But the lady played bobcherry, + Did not see or care, + As the vain man went by her + Aloft in the air. + + This gentle-born couple + Lived and died apart. + Water will not mix with oil, + Nor vain with careless heart. + + + + +NINE O'CLOCK. + + I. + + Nine of the clock, oh! + Wake my lazy head! + Your shoes of red morocco, + Your silk bed-gown: + Rouse, rouse, speck-eyed Mary + In your high bed! + A yawn, a smile, sleepy-starey, + Mary climbs down. + "Good-morning to my brothers, + Good-day to the Sun, + Halloo, halloo to the lily-white sheep + That up the mountain run." + + II. + + Good-night to the meadow, farewell to the nine o'clock Sun, + "He loves me not, loves me, he loves me not" (O jealous one!) + "He loves me, he loves me not, loves me"--O soft nights of June, + A bird sang for love on the cherry-bough: up swam the Moon. + + + + +THE PICTURE BOOK. + + When I was not quite five years old + I first saw the blue picture book, + And Fraulein Spitzenburger told + Stories that sent me hot and cold; + I loathed it, yet I had to look: + It was a German book. + + I smiled at first, for she'd begun + With a back-garden broad and green, + And rabbits nibbling there: page one + Turned; and the gardener fired his gun + From the low hedge: he lay unseen + Behind: oh, it was mean! + + They're hurt, they can't escape, and so + He stuffs them head-down in a sack, + Not quite dead, wriggling in a row, + And Fraulein laughed, "Ho, ho! Ho, ho!" + And gave my middle a hard smack, + I wish that I'd hit back. + + Then when I cried she laughed again; + On the next page was a dead boy + Murdered by robbers in a lane; + His clothes were red with a big stain + Of blood, he held a broken toy, + The poor, poor little boy! + + I had to look: there was a town + Burning where every one got caught, + Then a fish pulled a nigger down + Into the lake and made him drown, + And a man killed his friend; they fought + For money, Fraulein thought. + + Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise. + "Ho, ho!" Then she explained it all + How robbers kill the little boys + And torture them and break their toys. + Robbers are always big and tall: + I cried: I was so small. + + How a man often kills his wife, + How every one dies in the end + By fire, or water or a knife. + If you're not careful in this life, + Even if you can trust your friend, + You won't have long to spend. + + I hated it--old Fraulein picked + Her teeth, slowly explaining it. + I had to listen, Fraulein licked + Her fingers several times and flicked + The pages over; in a fit + Of rage I spat at it... + + And lying in my bed that night + Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found + A stretch of barren years in sight, + Where right is wrong, but strength is right, + Where weak things must creep underground, + And I could not sleep sound. + + + + +THE PROMISED LULLABY. + + Can I find True-Love a gift + In this dark hour to restore her, + When body's vessel breaks adrift, + When hope and beauty fade before her? + But in this plight I cannot think + Of song or music, that would grieve her, + Or toys or meat or snow-cooled drink; + Not this way can her sadness leave her. + She lies and frets in childish fever, + All I can do is but to cry + "Sleep, sleep, True-Love and lullaby!" + + Lullaby, and sleep again. + Two bright eyes through the window stare, + A nose is flattened on the pane + And infant fingers fumble there. + "Not yet, not yet, you lovely thing, + But count and come nine weeks from now, + When winter's tail has lost the sting, + When buds come striking through the bough, + Then here's True-Love will show you how + Her name she won, will hush your cry + With "Sleep, my baby! Lullaby!" + + + + +RETROSPECT + + + HAUNTED. + + Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine, + Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing + And lay ghost hands on everything, + But leave the noonday's warm sunshine + To living lads for mirth and wine. + + I met you suddenly down the street, + Strangers assume your phantom faces, + You grin at me from daylight places, + Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet + Dead men down the morning street. + + + + +RETROSPECT: THE JESTS OF THE CLOCK. + + He had met hours of the clock he never guessed before-- + Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear, + Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore, + Bequeathing earth and heaven to ghosts, and will not hear, + And will not hear man groan chained to the sodden ground, + Rotting alive; in feather beds they slumbered sound. + + When noisome smells of day were sicklied by cold night, + When sentries froze and muttered; when beyond the wire + Blank shadows crawled and tumbled, shaking, tricking the sight, + When impotent hatred of Life stifled desire, + Then soared the sudden rocket, broke in blanching showers. + O lagging watch! O dawn! O hope-forsaken hours! + + How often with numbed heart, stale lips, venting his rage + He swore he'd be a dolt, a traitor, a damned fool, + If, when the guns stopped, ever again from youth to age + He broke the early-rising, early-sleeping rule. + No, though more bestial enemies roused a fouler war + Never again would he bear this, no never more! + + "Rise with the cheerful sun, go to bed with the same, + Work in your field or kailyard all the shining day, + But," he said, "never more in quest of wealth, honour, fame, + Search the small hours of night before the East goes grey. + A healthy mind, a honest heart, a wise man leaves + Those ugly impious times to ghosts, devils, soldiers, thieves." + + Poor fool, knowing too well deep in his heart + That he'll be ready again if urgent orders come, + To quit his rye and cabbages, kiss his wife and part + At the first sullen rapping of the awakened drum, + Ready once more to sweat with fear and brace for the shock, + To greet beneath a falling flare the jests of the clock. + + + + +HERE THEY LIE. + + Here they lie who once learned here + All that is taught of hurt or fear; + Dead, but by free will they died: + They were true men, they had pride. + + + + +TOM TAYLOR. + + On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, + Old soldiers stumbling homeward here, + Homeward (still dazzled by the spark + Love kindled in some alley dark) + Young soldiers mooning in slow thought, + Start suddenly, turn about, are caught + By a dancing sound, merry as a grig, + Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig. + Never was blown from human cheeks + Music like this, that calls and speaks + Till sots and lovers from one string + Dangle and dance in the same ring. + Tom, of your piping I've heard said + And seen--that you can rouse the dead, + Dead-drunken men awash who lie + In stinking gutters hear your cry, + I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh, + Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then + You set them dancing, these dead men. + They stamp and prance with sobbing breath, + Victims of wine or love or death, + In ragged time they jump, they shake + Their heads, sweating to overtake + The impetuous tune flying ahead. + They flounder after, with legs of lead. + Now, suddenly as it started, play + Stops, the short echo dies away, + The corpses drop, a senseless heap, + The drunk men gaze about like sheep. + Grinning, the lovers sigh and stare + Up at the broad moon hanging there, + While Tom, five fingers to his nose, + Skips off...And the last bugle blows. + + + + +COUNTRY AT WAR. + + And what of home--how goes it, boys, + While we die here in stench and noise? + "The hill stands up and hedges wind + Over the crest and drop behind; + Here swallows dip and wild things go + On peaceful errands to and fro + Across the sloping meadow floor, + And make no guess at blasting war. + In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder + Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder, + And shoot again. Meadows yet show + Alternate white of drifted snow + And daisies. Children play at shop, + Warm days, on the flat boulder-top, + With wildflower coinage, and the wares + Are bits of glass and unripe pears. + Crows perch upon the backs of sheep, + The wheat goes yellow: women reap, + Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond, + Flutter the hedge and fly beyond. + So the first things of nature run, + And stand not still for any one, + Contemptuous of the distant cry + Wherewith you harrow earth and sky. + And high French clouds, praying to be + Back, back in peace beyond the sea, + Where nature with accustomed round + Sweeps and garnishes the ground + With kindly beauty, warm or cold-- + Alternate seasons never old: + Heathen, how furiously you rage, + Cursing this blood and brimstone age, + How furiously against your will + You kill and kill again, and kill: + All thought of peace behind you cast, + Till like small boys with fear aghast, + Each cries for God to understand, + 'I could not help it, it was my hand.'" + + + + +SOSPAN FACH. + (The Little Saucepan) + + Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale + Took shelter from a shower of hail, + And there beneath a spreading tree + Attuned their mouths to harmony. + + With smiling joy on every face + Two warbled tenor, two sang bass, + And while the leaves above them hissed with + Rough hail, they started "Aberystwyth." + + Old Parry's hymn, triumphant, rich, + They changed through with even pitch, + Till at the end of their grand noise + I called: "Give us the 'Sospan' boys!" + + Who knows a tune so soft, so strong, + So pitiful as that "Saucepan" song + For exiled hope, despaired desire + Of lost souls for their cottage fire? + + Then low at first with gathering sound + Rose their four voices, smooth and round, + Till back went Time: once more I stood + With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood. + + Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale, + For ice hail they had leaden hail; + In that fine forest, green and big, + There stayed unbroken not one twig. + + They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste, + Stumbling and shouting through the waste; + The little "Saucepan" flamed on high, + Emblem of hope and ease gone by. + + Rough pit-boys from the coaly South, + They sang, even in the cannon's mouth; + Like Sunday's chapel, Monday's inn, + The death-trap sounded with their din. + + *** + + The storm blows over, Sun comes out, + The choir breaks up with jest and shout, + With what relief I watch them part-- + Another note would break my heart! + + + + +THE LEVELLER. + + Near Martinpuisch that night of hell + Two men were struck by the same shell, + Together tumbling in one heap + Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep. + + One was a pale eighteen-year-old, + Girlish and thin and not too bold, + Pressed for the war ten years too soon, + The shame and pity of his platoon. + + The other came from far-off lands + With bristling chin and whiskered hands, + He had known death and hell before + In Mexico and Ecuador. + + Yet in his death this cut-throat wild + Groaned "Mother! Mother!" like a child, + While that poor innocent in man's clothes + Died cursing God with brutal oaths. + + Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men, + Wrote out two copies there and then + Of his accustomed funeral speech + To cheer the womenfolk of each. + + + + +HATE NOT, FEAR NOT. + + Kill if you must, but never hate: + Man is but grass and hate is blight, + The sun will scorch you soon or late, + Die wholesome then, since you must fight. + + Hate is a fear, and fear is rot + That cankers root and fruit alike, + Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not, + Strike with no madness when you strike. + + Fever and fear distract the world, + But calm be you though madmen shout, + Through blazing fires of battle hurled, + Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out! + + + + +A RHYME OF FRIENDS. + (In a Style Skeltonical) + + Listen now this time + Shortly to my rhyme + That herewith starts + About certain kind hearts + In those stricken parts + That lie behind Calais, + Old crones and aged men + And young children. + About the Picardais, + Who earned my thousand thanks, + Dwellers by the banks + Of mournful Somme + (God keep me therefrom + Until War ends)-- + These, then, are my friends: + Madame Averlant Lune, + From the town of Bethune; + Good Professeur la Brune + From that town also. + He played the piccolo, + And left his locks to grow. + Dear Madame Hojdes, + Sempstress of Saint Fe. + With Jules and Susette + And Antoinette. + Her children, my sweethearts, + For whom I made darts + Of paper to throw + In their mimic show, + "La guerre aux tranchees." + That was a pretty play. + + There was old Jacques Caron, + Of the hamlet Mailleton. + He let me look + At his household book, + "Comment vivre cent ans." + What cares I took + To obey this wise book, + I, who feared each hour + Lest Death's cruel power + On the poppied plain + Might make cares vain! + + By Noeus-les-mines + Lived old Adelphine, + Withered and clean, + She nodded and smiled, + And used me like a child. + How that old trot beguiled + My leisure with her chatter, + Gave me a china platter + Painted with Cherubim + And mottoes on the rim. + But when instead of thanks + I gave her francs + How her pride was hurt! + She counted francs as dirt, + (God knows, she was not rich) + She called the Kaiser bitch, + She spat on the floor, + Cursing this Prussian war, + That she had known before + Forty years past and more. + + There was also "Tomi," + With looks sweet and free, + Who called me cher ami. + This orphan's age was nine, + His folk were in their graves, + Else they were slaves + Behind the German line + To terror and rapine-- + O, little friends of mine + How kind and brave you were, + You smoothed away care + When life was hard to bear. + And you, old women and men, + Who gave me billets then, + How patient and great-hearted! + Strangers though we started, + Yet friends we ever parted. + God bless you all: now ends + This homage to my friends. + + + + +A FIRST REVIEW. + + Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys + Are here discreetly blent; + Admire, you ladies, read, you boys, + My Country Sentiment. + + But Kate says, "Cut that anger and fear, + True love's the stuff we need! + With laughing children and the running deer + That makes a book indeed." + + Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap, + Though much beloved by me, + "Robert, have done with nursery pap, + Write like a man," says he. + + Hate and Fear are not wanted here, + Nor Toys nor Country Lovers, + Everything they took from my new poem book + But the flyleaf and the covers. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Country Sentiment, by Robert Graves + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COUNTRY SENTIMENT *** + +***** This file should be named 1418.txt or 1418.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/4/1/1418/ + +Produced by Sue Asscher + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +COUNTRY SENTIMENT + +by + +Robert Graves + + + + +To Nancy Nicholson + +Note + +Some of the poems included in this volume have appeared in +"The New Statesman", "The Owl", "Reveille", "Land and Water", +"Poetry", and other papers, English and American. + +Robert Graves. + +Harlech, +North Wales. + + + + +CONTENTS + +A Frosty Night +Song for Two Children +Dicky +The Three Drinkers +The Boy out of Church +After the Play +One Hard Look +True Johnny +The Voice of Beauty Drowned +The God Called Poetry +Rocky Acres +Advice to Lovers +Nebuchadnezzar's Fall +Give us Rain +Allie +Loving Henry +Brittle Bones +Apples and Water +Manticor in Arabia +Outlaws +Baloo Loo for Jenny +Hawk and Buckle +The "Alice Jean" +The Cupboard +The Beacon +Pot and Kettle +Ghost Raddled +Neglectful Edward +The Well-dressed Children +Thunder at Night +To E.M.--A Ballad of Nursery Rhyme +Jane +Vain and Careless +Nine o'Clock +The Picture Book +The Promised Lullaby + +RETROSPECT + +Haunted +Retrospect: The Jests of the Clock +Here They Lie +Tom Taylor +Country at War +Sospan Fach +The Leveller +Hate not, Fear not +A Rhyme of Friends +A First Review + + + + +A FROSTY NIGHT. + + Mother + +Alice, dear, what ails you, + Dazed and white and shaken? +Has the chill night numbed you? + Is it fright you have taken? + + Alice + + +Mother, I am very well, + I felt never better, +Mother, do not hold me so, + Let me write my letter. + + Mother + +Sweet, my dear, what ails you? + + Alice + +No, but I am well; +The night was cold and frosty, +There's no more to tell. + + Mother + +Ay, the night was frosty, + Coldly gaped the moon, +Yet the birds seemed twittering + Through green boughs of June. + +Soft and thick the snow lay, + Stars danced in the sky. +Not all the lambs of May-day + Skip so bold and high. + +Your feet were dancing, Alice, + Seemed to dance on air, +You looked a ghost or angel + In the starlight there. + +Your eyes were frosted starlight, +Your heart fire and snow. +Who was it said, "I love you"? + + Alice + + Mother, let me go! + + + +A SONG FOR TWO CHILDREN. + +"Make a song, father, a new little song, + All for Jenny and Nancy." + Balow lalow or Hey derry down, + Or else what might you fancy? + + Is there any song sweet enough + For Nancy and for Jenny? + Said Simple Simon to the pieman, + "Indeed I know not any." + +"I've counted the miles to Babylon, + I've flown the earth like a bird, + I've ridden cock-horse to Banbury Cross, + But no such song have I heard." + +"Some speak of Alexander, + And some of Hercules, + But where are there any like Nancy and Jenny, + Where are there any like these?" + + + +DICKY. + + Mother + +Oh, what a heavy sigh! + Dicky, are you ailing? + + Dicky + +Even by this fireside, mother, + My heart is failing. + +To-night across the down, + Whistling and jolly, +I sauntered out from town + With my stick of holly. + +Bounteous and cool from sea + The wind was blowing, +Cloud shadows under the moon + Coming and going. + +I sang old roaring songs, + Ran and leaped quick, +And turned home by St. Swithin's + Twirling my stick. + +And there as I was passing + The churchyard gate +An old man stopped me, "Dicky, + You're walking late." + +I did not know the man, + I grew afeared +At his lean lolling jaw, + His spreading beard. + +His garments old and musty, + Of antique cut, +His body very lean and bony, + His eyes tight shut. + +Oh, even to tell it now + My courage ebbs... +His face was clay, mother, + His beard, cobwebs. + +In that long horrid pause + "Good-night," he said, +Entered and clicked the gate, + "Each to his bed." + + Mother + +Do not sigh or fear, Dicky, + How is it right +To grudge the dead their ghostly dark + And wan moonlight? + +We have the glorious sun, + Lamp and fireside. +Grudge not the dead their moonshine + When abroad they ride. + + + +THE THREE DRINKERS. + +Blacksmith Green had three strong sons, + With bread and beef did fill 'em, +Now John and Ned are perished and dead, + But plenty remains of William. + +John Green was a whiskey drinker, + The Land of Cakes supplied him, +Till at last his soul flew out by the hole + That the fierce drink burned inside him. + +Ned Green was a water drinker, + And, Lord, how Ned would fuddle! +He rotted away his mortal clay + Like an old boot thrown in a puddle. + +Will Green was a wise young drinker, + Shrank from whiskey or water, +But he made good cheer with headstrong beer, + And married an alderman's daughter. + + + +THE BOY OUT OF CHURCH. + +As Jesus and his followers + Upon a Sabbath morn +Were walking by a wheat field + They plucked the ears of corn. + +They plucked it, they rubbed it, + They blew the husks away, +Which grieved the pious pharisees + Upon the Sabbath day. + +And Jesus said, "A riddle + Answer if you can, +Was man made for the Sabbath + Or Sabbath made for man?" + +I do not love the Sabbath, + The soapsuds and the starch, +The troops of solemn people + Who to Salvation march. + +I take my book, I take my stick + On the Sabbath day, +In woody nooks and valleys + I hide myself away. + +To ponder there in quiet + God's Universal Plan, +Resolved that church and Sabbath + Were never made for man. + + + +AFTER THE PLAY. + + Father + +Have you spent the money I gave you to-day? + + John + + Ay, father I have. +A fourpence on cakes, two pennies that away + To a beggar I gave. + + Father + +The lake of yellow brimstone boil for you in Hell, + Such lies that you spin. +Tell the truth now, John, ere the falsehood swell, + Say, where have you been? + + John + +I'll lie no more to you, father, what is the need? + To the Play I went, +With sixpence for a near seat, money's worth indeed, + The best ever spent. + +Grief to you, shame or grief, here is the story-- + My splendid night! +It was colour, scents, music, a tragic glory, + Fear with delight. + +Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, title of the tale: + He of that name, +A tall, glum fellow, velvet cloaked, with a shirt of mail, + Two eyes like flame. + +All the furies of fate circled round the man, + Maddening his heart, +There was old murder done before play began, + Ay, the ghost took part. + +There were grave-diggers delving, they brought up bones, + And with rage and grief +All the players shouted in full, kingly tones, + Grand, passing belief. + +Oh, there were ladies there radiant like day, + And changing scenes: +Great sounding words were tossed about like hay + By kings and queens. + +How the plot turned about I watched in vain, + Though for grief I cried, +As one and all they faded, poisoned or slain, + In great agony died. + +Father, you'll drive me forth never to return, + Doubting me your son-- + + Father + +So I shall, John + + John + +--but that glory for which I burn + Shall be soon begun. + +I shall wear great boots, shall strut and shout, + Keep my locks curled. +The fame of my name shall go ringing about + Over half the world. + + Father + +Horror that your Prince found, John may you find, + Ever and again +Dying before the house in such torture of mind + As you need not feign. + +While they clap and stamp at your nightly fate, + They shall never know +The curse that drags at you, until Hell's gate. + You have heard me. Go! + + + +SONG: ONE HARD LOOK. + +Small gnats that fly +In hot July +And lodge in sleeping ears, +Can rouse therein +A trumpet's din +With Day-of-Judgement fears. + +Small mice at night +Can wake more fright +Than lions at midday. +An urchin small +Torments us all +Who tread his prickly way. + +A straw will crack +The camel's back, +To die we need but sip, +So little sand +As fills the hand +Can stop a steaming ship. + +One smile relieves +A heart that grieves +Though deadly sad it be, +And one hard look +Can close the book +That lovers love to see-- + + + +TRUE JOHNNY. + +Johnny, sweetheart, can you be true +To all those famous vows you've made, +Will you love me as I love you +Until we both in earth are laid? +Or shall the old wives nod and say +His love was only for a day: + The mood goes by, + His fancies fly, +And Mary's left to sigh. + +Mary, alas, you've hit the truth, +And I with grief can but admit +Hot-blooded haste controls my youth, +My idle fancies veer and flit +From flower to flower, from tree to tree, +And when the moment catches me, + Oh, love goes by + Away I fly +And leave my girl to sigh. + +Could you but now foretell the day, +Johnny, when this sad thing must be, +When light and gay you'll turn away +And laugh and break the heart in me? +For like a nut for true love's sake +My empty heart shall crack and break, + When fancies fly + And love goes by +And Mary's left to die. + +When the sun turns against the clock, +When Avon waters upward flow, +When eggs are laid by barn-door cock, +When dusty hens do strut and crow, +When up is down, when left is right, +Oh, then I'll break the troth I plight, + With careless eye + Away I'll fly +And Mary here shall die. + + + +THE VOICE OF BEAUTY DROWNED. + +Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! +The other birds woke all around, +Rising with toot and howl they stirred +Their plumage, broke the trembling sound, +They craned their necks, they fluttered wings, +"While we are silent no one sings, +And while we sing you hush your throat, +Or tune your melody to our note." + +Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! +The screams and hootings rose again: +They gaped with raucous beaks, they whirred +Their noisy plumage; small but plain +The lonely hidden singer made +A well of grief within the glade. +"Whist, silly fool, be off," they shout, +"Or we'll come pluck your feathers out." + +Cry from the thicket my heart's bird! +Slight and small the lovely cry +Came trickling down, but no one heard. +Parrot and cuckoo, crow, magpie +Jarred horrid notes and the jangling jay +Ripped the fine threads of song away, +For why should peeping chick aspire +To challenge their loud woodland choir? + +Cried it so sweet that unseen bird? +Lovelier could no music be, +Clearer than water, soft as curd, +Fresh as the blossomed cherry tree. +How sang the others all around? +Piercing and harsh, a maddening sound, +With Pretty Poll, tuwit-tu-woo, +Peewit, caw caw, cuckoo-cuckoo. + + + +THE GOD CALLED POETRY. + +Now I begin to know at last, +These nights when I sit down to rhyme, +The form and measure of that vast +God we call Poetry, he who stoops +And leaps me through his paper hoops +A little higher every time. + +Tempts me to think I'll grow a proper +Singing cricket or grass-hopper +Making prodigious jumps in air +While shaken crowds about me stare +Aghast, and I sing, growing bolder +To fly up on my master's shoulder +Rustling the thick strands of his hair. + +He is older than the seas, +Older than the plains and hills, +And older than the light that spills +From the sun's hot wheel on these. +He wakes the gale that tears your trees, +He sings to you from window sills. + +At you he roars, or he will coo, +He shouts and screams when hell is hot, +Riding on the shell and shot. +He smites you down, he succours you, +And where you seek him, he is not. + +To-day I see he has two heads +Like Janus--calm, benignant, this; +That, grim and scowling: his beard spreads +From chin to chin" this god has power +Immeasurable at every hour: +He first taught lovers how to kiss, +He brings down sunshine after shower, +Thunder and hate are his also, +He is YES and he is NO. + +The black beard spoke and said to me, +"Human frailty though you be, +Yet shout and crack your whip, be harsh! +They'll obey you in the end: +Hill and field, river and marsh +Shall obey you, hop and skip +At the terrour of your whip, +To your gales of anger bend." + +The pale beard spoke and said in turn +"True: a prize goes to the stern, +But sing and laugh and easily run +Through the wide airs of my plain, +Bathe in my waters, drink my sun, +And draw my creatures with soft song; +They shall follow you along +Graciously with no doubt or pain." + +Then speaking from his double head +The glorious fearful monster said +"I am YES and I am NO, +Black as pitch and white as snow, +Love me, hate me, reconcile +Hate with love, perfect with vile, +So equal justice shall be done +And life shared between moon and sun. +Nature for you shall curse or smile: +A poet you shall be, my son." + + + +ROCKY ACRES. + +This is a wild land, country of my choice, + With harsh craggy mountain, moor ample and bare. +Seldom in these acres is heard any voice + But voice of cold water that runs here and there + Through rocks and lank heather growing without care. +No mice in the heath run nor no birds cry +For fear of the dark speck that floats in the sky. + +He soars and he hovers rocking on his wings, + He scans his wide parish with a sharp eye, +He catches the trembling of small hidden things, + He tears them in pieces, dropping from the sky: + Tenderness and pity the land will deny, +Where life is but nourished from water and rock +A hardy adventure, full of fear and shock. + +Time has never journeyed to this lost land, + Crakeberries and heather bloom out of date, +The rocks jut, the streams flow singing on either hand, + Careless if the season be early or late. + The skies wander overhead, now blue, now slate: +Winter would be known by his cold cutting snow +If June did not borrow his armour also. + +Yet this is my country be loved by me best, + The first land that rose from Chaos and the Flood, +Nursing no fat valleys for comfort and rest, + Trampled by no hard hooves, stained with no blood. + Bold immortal country whose hill tops have stood +Strongholds for the proud gods when on earth they go, +Terror for fat burghers in far plains below. + + + +ADVICE TO LOVERS. + +I knew an old man at a Fair +Who made it his twice-yearly task +To clamber on a cider cask +And cry to all the yokels there:-- + +"Lovers to-day and for all time + Preserve the meaning of my rhyme: + Love is not kindly nor yet grim + But does to you as you to him. + +"Whistle, and Love will come to you, + Hiss, and he fades without a word, + Do wrong, and he great wrong will do, + Speak, he retells what he has heard. + +"Then all you lovers have good heed + Vex not young Love in word or deed: + Love never leaves an unpaid debt, + He will not pardon nor forget." + +The old man's voice was sweet yet loud +And this shows what a man was he, +He'd scatter apples to the crowd +And give great draughts of cider, free. + + + +NEBUCHADNEZZAR'S FALL. + +Frowning over the riddle that Daniel told, +Down through the mist hung garden, below a feeble sun, +The King of Persia walked: oh, the chilling cold! +His mind was webbed with a grey shroud vapour-spun. + +Here for the pride of his soaring eagle heart, +Here for his great hand searching the skies for food, +Here for his courtship of Heaven's high stars he shall smart, +Nebuchadnezzar shall fall, crawl, be subdued. + +Hot sun struck through the vapour, leaf strewn mould +Breathed sweet decay: old Earth called for her child. +Mist drew off from his mind, Sun scattered gold, +Warmth came and earthy motives fresh and wild. + +Down on his knees he sinks, the stiff-necked King, +Stoops and kneels and grovels, chin to the mud. +Out from his changed heart flutter on startled wing +The fancy birds of his Pride, Honour, Kinglihood. + +He crawls, he grunts, he is beast-like, frogs and snails +His diet, and grass, and water with hand for cup. +He herds with brutes that have hooves and horns and tails, +He roars in his anger, he scratches, he looks not up. + + +GIVE US RAIN. + +"Give us Rain, Rain," said the bean and the pea, + "Not so much Sun, + Not so much Sun." +But the Sun smiles bravely and encouragingly, +And no rain falls and no waters run. + +"Give us Peace, Peace," said the peoples oppressed, + "Not so many Flags, + Not so many Flags." +But the Flags fly and the Drums beat, denying rest, +And the children starve, they shiver in rags. + + + +ALLIE. + +Allie, call the birds in, + The birds from the sky. +Allie calls, Allie sings, + Down they all fly. +First there came +Two white doves + Then a sparrow from his nest, +Then a clucking bantam hen, + Then a robin red-breast. + +Allie, call the beasts in, + The beasts, every one. +Allie calls, Allie sings, + In they all run. +First there came +Two black lambs, + Then a grunting Berkshire sow, +Then a dog without a tail, + Then a red and white cow. + +Allie, call the fish up, + The fish from the stream. +Allie calls, Allie sings, + Up they all swim. +First there came +Two gold fish, + A minnow and a miller's thumb, +Then a pair of loving trout, + Then the twisted eels come. + +Allie, call the children, + Children from the green. +Allie calls, Allie sings, + Soon they run in. +First there came +Tom and Madge, + Kate and I who'll not forget +How we played by the water's edge + Till the April sun set. + + + +LOVING HENRY. + +Henry, Henry, do you love me? +Do I love you, Mary? +Oh, can you mean to liken me +To the aspen tree. +Whose leaves do shake and vary, +From white to green +And back again, +Shifting and contrary? + +Henry, Henry, do you love me, +Do you love me truly? +Oh, Mary, must I say again +My love's a pain, +A torment most unruly? +It tosses me +Like a ship at sea +When the storm rages fully. + +Henry, Henry, why do you love me? +Mary, dear, have pity! +I swear, of all the girls there are +Both near and far, +In country or in city, +There's none like you, +So kind, so true, +So wise, so brave, so pretty. + + + +BRITTLE BONES. + +Though I am an old man + With my bones very brittle, +Though I am a poor old man + Worth very little, +Yet I suck at my long pipe + At peace in the sun, +I do not fret nor much regret + That my work is done. + +If I were a young man + With my bones full of marrow, +Oh, if I were a bold young man + Straight as an arrow, +And if I had the same years + To live once again, +I would not change their simple range + Of laughter and pain. + +If I were a young man + And young was my Lily, +A smart girl, a bold young man, + Both of us silly. +And though from time before I knew + She'd stab me with pain, +Though well I knew she'd not be true, + I'd love her again. + +If I were a young man + With a brisk, healthy body, +Oh, if I were a bold young man + With love of rum toddy, +Though I knew that I was spiting + My old age with pain, +My happy lip would touch and sip + Again and again. + +If I were a young man + With my bones full of marrow, +Oh, if I were a bold young man + Straight as an arrow, +I'd store up no virtue + For Heaven's distant plain, +I'd live at ease as I did please + And sin once again. + + + +APPLES AND WATER. + +Dust in a cloud, blinding weather, + Drums that rattle and roar! +A mother and daughter stood together + Beside their cottage door. + +"Mother, the heavens are bright like brass, + The dust is shaken high, +With labouring breath the soldiers pass, + Their lips are cracked and dry." + +"Mother, I'll throw them apples down, + I'll bring them pails of water." +The mother turned with an angry frown + Holding back her daughter. + +"But mother, see, they faint with thirst, + They march away to die," +"Ah, sweet, had I but known at first + Their throats are always dry." + +"There is no water can supply them + In western streams that flow, +There is no fruit can satisfy them + On orchard trees that grow." + +"Once in my youth I gave, poor fool, + A soldier apples and water, +So may I die before you cool + Your father's drouth, my daughter." + + + +MANTICOR IN ARABIA. + +(The manticors of the montaines +Mighte feed them on thy braines.--Skelton.) + +Thick and scented daisies spread +Where with surface dull like lead +Arabian pools of slime invite +Manticors down from neighbouring height +To dip heads, to cool fiery blood +In oozy depths of sucking mud. +Sing then of ringstraked manticor, +Man-visaged tiger who of yore +Held whole Arabian waste in fee +With raging pride from sea to sea, +That every lesser tribe would fly +Those armed feet, that hooded eye; +Till preying on himself at last +Manticor dwindled, sank, was passed +By gryphon flocks he did disdain. +Ay, wyverns and rude dragons reign +In ancient keep of manticor +Agreed old foe can rise no more. +Only here from lakes of slime +Drinks manticor and bides due time: +Six times Fowl Phoenix in yon tree +Must mount his pyre and burn and be +Renewed again, till in such hour +As seventh Phoenix flames to power +And lifts young feathers, overnice +From scented pool of steamy spice +Shall manticor his sway restore +And rule Arabian plains once more. + + + +OUTLAWS. + +Owls: they whinney down the night, + Bats go zigzag by. +Ambushed in shadow out of sight + The outlaws lie. + +Old gods, shrunk to shadows, there + In the wet woods they lurk, +Greedy of human stuff to snare + In webs of murk. + +Look up, else your eye must drown + In a moving sea of black +Between the tree-tops, upside down + Goes the sky-track. + +Look up, else your feet will stray + Towards that dim ambuscade, +Where spider-like they catch their prey + In nets of shade. + +For though creeds whirl away in dust, + Faith fails and men forget, +These aged gods of fright and lust + Cling to life yet. + +Old gods almost dead, malign, + Starved of their ancient dues, +Incense and fruit, fire, blood and wine + And an unclean muse. + +Banished to woods and a sickly moon, + Shrunk to mere bogey things, +Who spoke with thunder once at noon + To prostrate kings. + +With thunder from an open sky + To peasant, tyrant, priest, +Bowing in fear with a dazzled eye + Towards the East. + +Proud gods, humbled, sunk so low, + Living with ghosts and ghouls, +And ghosts of ghosts and last year's snow + And dead toadstools. + + + +BALOO LOO FOR JENNY. + +Sing baloo loo for Jenny + And where is she gone? +Away to spy her mother's land, + Riding all alone. + +To the rich towns of Scotland, + The woods and the streams, +High upon a Spanish horse + Saddled for her dreams. + +By Oxford and by Chester, + To Berwick-on-the-Tweed, +Then once across the borderland + She shall find no need. + +A loaf for her at Stirling, + A scone at Carlisle, +Honeyed cakes at Edinbro'-- + That shall make her smile. + +At Aberdeen clear cider, + Mead for her at Nairn, +A cup of wine at John o' Groats-- + That shall please my bairn. + +Sing baloo loo for Jenny, + Mother will be fain +To see her little truant child + Riding home again. + + + +HAWK AND BUCKLE. + +Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle, +And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather? +He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle, +And ten bold companions all drinking together. + +Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle, +And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather? +She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle, +Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather. + +Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle, +And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather? +He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle +As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather. + +Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle, +And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather? +He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle, +With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather. + +Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle, +And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather? +She stays not contented with little or with muckle, +Straining for daisies at the end of her tether. + +For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle, +We cling to it close and we sing all together, +"Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle, +And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather." + + + +THE "ALICE JEAN". + +One moonlit night a ship drove in, + A ghost ship from the west, +Drifting with bare mast and lone tiller, + Like a mermaid drest +In long green weed and barnacles: + She beached and came to rest. + +All the watchers of the coast + Flocked to view the sight, +Men and women streaming down + Through the summer night, +Found her standing tall and ragged + Beached in the moonlight. + +Then one old woman looked and wept + "The 'Alice Jean'? But no! +The ship that took my Dick from me + Sixty years ago +Drifted back from the utmost west + With the ocean's flow? + +"Caught and caged in the weedy pool + Beyond the western brink, +Where crewless vessels lie and rot + in waters black as ink. +Torn out again by a sudden storm + Is it the 'Jean', you think?" + +A hundred women stared agape, + The menfolk nudged and laughed, +But none could find a likelier story + For the strange craft. +With fear and death and desolation + Rigged fore and aft. + +The blind ship came forgotten home + To all but one of these +Of whom none dared to climb aboard her: + And by and by the breeze +Sprang to a storm and the "Alice Jean" + Foundered in frothy seas. + + + +THE CUPBOARD. + + Mother + +What's in that cupboard, Mary? + + Mary + +Which cupboard, mother dear? + + Mother + +The cupboard of red mahogany + With handles shining clear. + + Mary + +That cupboard, dearest mother, + With shining crystal handles? +There's nought inside but rags and jags + And yellow tallow candles. + + Mother + +What's in that cupboard, Mary? + + Mary + +Which cupboard, mother mine? + + Mother + +That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber, + The silver corners shine. + + Mary + +There's nothing there inside, mother, + But wool and thread and flax, +And bits of faded silk and velvet, + And candles of white wax. + + Mother + +What's in that cupboard, Mary? + And this time tell me true. + + Mary + +White clothes for an unborn baby, mother, + But what's the truth to you? + + + +THE BEACON. + +The silent shepherdess, + She of my vows, +Here with me exchanging love + Under dim boughs. + +Shines on our mysteries + A sudden spark-- +"Dout the candle, glow-worm, + Let all be dark. + +"The birds have sung their last notes, + The Sun's to bed, +Glow-worm, dout your candle." + The glow-worm said: + +"I also am a lover; + The lamp I display +Is beacon for my true love + Wandering astray. + +"Through the thick bushes + And the grass comes she +With a heartload of longing + And love for me. + +"Sir, enjoy your fancy, + But spare me harm, +A lover is a lover, + Though but a worm." + + + +POT AND KETTLE. + +Come close to me, dear Annie, while I bind a lover's knot. +A tale of burning love between a kettle and a pot. +The pot was stalwart iron and the kettle trusty tin, +And though their sides were black with smoke they bubbled love within. + +Forget that kettle, Jamie, and that pot of boiling broth, +I know a dismal story of a candle and a moth. +For while your pot is boiling and while your kettle sings +My moth makes love to candle flame and burns away his wings. + +Your moth, I envy, Annie, that died by candle flame, +But here are two more lovers, unto no damage came. +There was a cuckoo loved a clock and found her always true. +For every hour they told their hearts, "Ring! ting! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" + +As the pot boiled for the kettle, as the kettle for the pot, +So boils my love within me till my breast is glowing hot. +As the moth died for the candle, so could I die for you. +And my fond heart beats time with yours and cries, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" + + + +GHOST RADDLED. + +"Come, surly fellow, come! A song!" + What, madmen? Sing to you? +Choose from the clouded tales of wrong + And terror I bring to you. + +Of a night so torn with cries, + Honest men sleeping +Start awake with glaring eyes, + Bone-chilled, flesh creeping. + +Of spirits in the web hung room + Up above the stable, +Groans, knockings in the gloom, + The dancing table. + +Of demons in the dry well + That cheep and mutter, +Clanging of an unseen bell, + Blood choking the gutter. + +Of lust frightful, past belief, + Lurking unforgotten, +Unrestrainable endless grief + From breasts long rotten. + +A song? What laughter or what song + Can this house remember? +Do flowers and butterflies belong + To a blind December? + + + +NEGLECTFUL EDWARD. + + Nancy + +"Edward back from the Indian Sea, +What have you brought for Nancy?" + + Edward + +"A rope of pearls and a gold earring, +And a bird of the East that will not sing. +A carven tooth, a box with a key--" + + Nancy + +"God be praised you are back," says she, +"Have you nothing more for your Nancy?" + + Edward + +"Long as I sailed the Indian Sea +I gathered all for your fancy: +Toys and silk and jewels I bring, +And a bird of the East that will not sing: +What more can you want, dear girl, from me?" + + Nancy + +"God be praised you are back," said she, +"Have you nothing better for Nancy?" + + Edward + +"Safe and home from the Indian Sea, +And nothing to take your fancy?" + + + Nancy + +"You can keep your pearls and your gold earring, +And your bird of the East that will not sing, +But, Ned, have you nothing more for me +Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she, +"Have you nothing better for Nancy?" + + + +THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN. + +Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown: + Here's black velvet, all the rage, for Dick's birthday coat. +Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the way down, + Lace ruffles, Dick, for you; you'll be a man of note. + +Mary, here I've bought you a green gingham shade + And a silk purse brocaded with roses gold and blue, +You'll learn to hold them proudly like colours on parade. + No banker's wife in all the town half so grand as you. + +I've bought for young Diccon a long walking-stick, + Yellow gloves, well tanned, at Woodstock village made. +I'll teach you to flourish 'em and show your name is DICK, + Strutting by your sister's side with the same parade. + +On Sunday to church you go, each with a book of prayer: + Then up the street and down the aisles, everywhere you'll see +Of all the honours paid around, how small is Virtue's share. + How large the share of Vulgar Pride in peacock finery. + + + +THUNDER AT NIGHT. + +Restless and hot two children lay + Plagued with uneasy dreams, +Each wandered lonely through false day + A twilight torn with screams. + +True to the bed-time story, Ben + Pursued his wounded bear, +Ann dreamed of chattering monkey men, + Of snakes twined in her hair... + +Now high aloft above the town + The thick clouds gather and break, +A flash, a roar, and rain drives down: + Aghast the young things wake. + +Trembling for what their terror was, + Surprised by instant doom, +With lightning in the looking glass, + Thunder that rocks the room. + +The monkeys' paws patter again, + Snakes hiss and flash their eyes: +The bear roars out in hideous pain: + Ann prays: her brother cries. + +They cannot guess, could not be told + How soon comes careless day, +With birds and dandelion gold, + Wet grass, cool scents of May. + + + +TO E.M.--A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME. + +Strawberries that in gardens grow + Are plump and juicy fine, +But sweeter far as wise men know + Spring from the woodland vine. + +No need for bowl or silver spoon, + Sugar or spice or cream, +Has the wild berry plucked in June + Beside the trickling stream. + +One such to melt at the tongue's root, + Confounding taste with scent, +Beats a full peck of garden fruit: + Which points my argument. + +May sudden justice overtake + And snap the froward pen, +That old and palsied poets shake + Against the minds of men. + +Blasphemers trusting to hold caught + In far-flung webs of ink, +The utmost ends of human thought + Till nothing's left to think. + +But may the gift of heavenly peace + And glory for all time +Keep the boy Tom who tending geese + First made the nursery rhyme. + +By the brookside one August day, + Using the sun for clock, +Tom whiled the languid hours away + Beside his scattering flock. + +Carving with a sharp pointed stone + On a broad slab of slate +The famous lives of Jumping Joan, + Dan Fox and Greedy Kate. + +Rhyming of wolves and bears and birds, + Spain, Scotland, Babylon, +That sister Kate might learn the words + To tell to toddling John. + +But Kate who could not stay content + To learn her lesson pat +New beauty to the rough lines lent + By changing this or that. + +And she herself set fresh things down + In corners of her slate, +Of lambs and lanes and London town. + God's blessing fall on Kate! + +The baby loved the simple sound, + With jolly glee he shook, +And soon the lines grew smooth and round + Like pebbles in Tom's brook. + +From mouth to mouth told and retold + By children sprawled at ease, +Before the fire in winter's cold, + in June, beneath tall trees. + +Till though long lost are stone and slate, + Though the brook no more runs, +And dead long time are Tom, John, Kate, + Their sons and their sons' sons. + +Yet as when Time with stealthy tread + Lays the rich garden waste +The woodland berry ripe and red + Fails not in scent or taste, + +So these same rhymes shall still be told + To children yet unborn, +While false philosophy growing old + Fades and is killed by scorn. + + + +JANE. + +As Jane walked out below the hill, +She saw an old man standing still, +His eyes in tranced sorrow bound +On the broad stretch of barren ground. + +His limbs were knarled like aged trees, +His thin beard wrapt about his knees, +His visage broad and parchment white, +Aglint with pale reflected light. + +He seemed a creature fall'n afar +From some dim planet or faint star. +Jane scanned him very close, and soon +Cried, "'Tis the old man from the moon." + +He raised his voice, a grating creak, +But only to himself would speak. +Groaning with tears in piteous pain, +"O! O! would I were home again." + +Then Jane ran off, quick as she could, +To cheer his heart with drink and food. +But ah, too late came ale and bread, +She found the poor soul stretched stone-dead. +And a new moon rode overhead. + + + +VAIN AND CARELESS. + +Lady, lovely lady, + Careless and gay! +Once when a beggar called + She gave her child away. + +The beggar took the baby, + Wrapped it in a shawl, +"Bring her back," the lady said, + "Next time you call." + +Hard by lived a vain man, + So vain and so proud, +He walked on stilts + To be seen by the crowd. + +Up above the chimney pots, + Tall as a mast, +And all the people ran about + Shouting till he passed. + +"A splendid match surely," + Neighbours saw it plain, +"Although she is so careless, + Although he is so vain." + +But the lady played bobcherry, + Did not see or care, +As the vain man went by her + Aloft in the air. + +This gentle-born couple + Lived and died apart. +Water will not mix with oil, + Nor vain with careless heart. + + + +NINE O'CLOCK. + + I. + +Nine of the clock, oh! + Wake my lazy head! +Your shoes of red morocco, + Your silk bed-gown: +Rouse, rouse, speck-eyed Mary + In your high bed! +A yawn, a smile, sleepy-starey, + Mary climbs down. +"Good-morning to my brothers, + Good-day to the Sun, +Halloo, halloo to the lily-white sheep + That up the mountain run." + + II. + +Good-night to the meadow, farewell to the nine o'clock Sun, +"He loves me not, loves me, he loves me not" (O jealous one!) +"He loves me, he loves me not, loves me"--O soft nights of June, +A bird sang for love on the cherry-bough: up swam the Moon. + + + +THE PICTURE BOOK. + +When I was not quite five years old + I first saw the blue picture book, +And Fraulein Spitzenburger told +Stories that sent me hot and cold; + I loathed it, yet I had to look: + It was a German book. + +I smiled at first, for she'd begun + With a back-garden broad and green, +And rabbits nibbling there: page one +Turned; and the gardener fired his gun + From the low hedge: he lay unseen + Behind: oh, it was mean! + +They're hurt, they can't escape, and so + He stuffs them head-down in a sack, +Not quite dead, wriggling in a row, +And Fraulein laughed, "Ho, ho! Ho, ho!" + And gave my middle a hard smack, + I wish that I'd hit back. + +Then when I cried she laughed again; + On the next page was a dead boy +Murdered by robbers in a lane; +His clothes were red with a big stain + Of blood, he held a broken toy, + The poor, poor little boy! + +I had to look: there was a town + Burning where every one got caught, +Then a fish pulled a nigger down +Into the lake and made him drown, + And a man killed his friend; they fought + For money, Fraulein thought. + +Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise. + "Ho, ho!" Then she explained it all +How robbers kill the little boys +And torture them and break their toys. + Robbers are always big and tall: + I cried: I was so small. + +How a man often kills his wife, + How every one dies in the end +By fire, or water or a knife. +If you're not careful in this life, + Even if you can trust your friend, + You won't have long to spend. + +I hated it--old Fraulein picked + Her teeth, slowly explaining it. +I had to listen, Fraulein licked +Her fingers several times and flicked + The pages over; in a fit + Of rage I spat at it... + +And lying in my bed that night + Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found +A stretch of barren years in sight, +Where right is wrong, but strength is right, + Where weak things must creep underground, + And I could not sleep sound. + + + +THE PROMISED LULLABY. + +Can I find True-Love a gift + In this dark hour to restore her, +When body's vessel breaks adrift, + When hope and beauty fade before her? +But in this plight I cannot think + Of song or music, that would grieve her, +Or toys or meat or snow-cooled drink; + Not this way can her sadness leave her. + She lies and frets in childish fever, +All I can do is but to cry +"Sleep, sleep, True-Love and lullaby!" + +Lullaby, and sleep again. + Two bright eyes through the window stare, +A nose is flattened on the pane + And infant fingers fumble there. +"Not yet, not yet, you lovely thing, + But count and come nine weeks from now, +When winter's tail has lost the sting, + When buds come striking through the bough, + Then here's True-Love will show you how +Her name she won, will hush your cry +With "Sleep, my baby! Lullaby!" + + + +RETROSPECT + + +HAUNTED. + +Gulp down your wine, old friends of mine, +Roar through the darkness, stamp and sing +And lay ghost hands on everything, +But leave the noonday's warm sunshine +To living lads for mirth and wine. + +I met you suddenly down the street, +Strangers assume your phantom faces, +You grin at me from daylight places, +Dead, long dead, I'm ashamed to greet +Dead men down the morning street. + + + +RETROSPECT: THE JESTS OF THE CLOCK. + +He had met hours of the clock he never guessed before-- +Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear, +Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore, +Bequeathing earth and heaven to ghosts, and will not hear, +And will not hear man groan chained to the sodden ground, +Rotting alive; in feather beds they slumbered sound. + +When noisome smells of day were sicklied by cold night, +When sentries froze and muttered; when beyond the wire +Blank shadows crawled and tumbled, shaking, tricking the sight, +When impotent hatred of Life stifled desire, +Then soared the sudden rocket, broke in blanching showers. +O lagging watch! O dawn! O hope-forsaken hours! + +How often with numbed heart, stale lips, venting his rage +He swore he'd be a dolt, a traitor, a damned fool, +If, when the guns stopped, ever again from youth to age +He broke the early-rising, early-sleeping rule. +No, though more bestial enemies roused a fouler war +Never again would he bear this, no never more! + +"Rise with the cheerful sun, go to bed with the same, +Work in your field or kailyard all the shining day, +But," he said, "never more in quest of wealth, honour, fame, +Search the small hours of night before the East goes grey. +A healthy mind, a honest heart, a wise man leaves +Those ugly impious times to ghosts, devils, soldiers, thieves." + +Poor fool, knowing too well deep in his heart +That he'll be ready again if urgent orders come, +To quit his rye and cabbages, kiss his wife and part +At the first sullen rapping of the awakened drum, +Ready once more to sweat with fear and brace for the shock, +To greet beneath a falling flare the jests of the clock. + + + +HERE THEY LIE. + +Here they lie who once learned here + All that is taught of hurt or fear; +Dead, but by free will they died: + They were true men, they had pride. + + + +TOM TAYLOR. + +On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, +Old soldiers stumbling homeward here, +Homeward (still dazzled by the spark +Love kindled in some alley dark) +Young soldiers mooning in slow thought, +Start suddenly, turn about, are caught +By a dancing sound, merry as a grig, +Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig. +Never was blown from human cheeks +Music like this, that calls and speaks +Till sots and lovers from one string +Dangle and dance in the same ring. +Tom, of your piping I've heard said +And seen--that you can rouse the dead, +Dead-drunken men awash who lie +In stinking gutters hear your cry, +I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh, +Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then +You set them dancing, these dead men. +They stamp and prance with sobbing breath, +Victims of wine or love or death, +In ragged time they jump, they shake +Their heads, sweating to overtake +The impetuous tune flying ahead. +They flounder after, with legs of lead. +Now, suddenly as it started, play +Stops, the short echo dies away, +The corpses drop, a senseless heap, +The drunk men gaze about like sheep. +Grinning, the lovers sigh and stare +Up at the broad moon hanging there, +While Tom, five fingers to his nose, +Skips off...And the last bugle blows. + + + +COUNTRY AT WAR. + +And what of home--how goes it, boys, +While we die here in stench and noise? +"The hill stands up and hedges wind +Over the crest and drop behind; +Here swallows dip and wild things go +On peaceful errands to and fro +Across the sloping meadow floor, +And make no guess at blasting war. +In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder +Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder, +And shoot again. Meadows yet show +Alternate white of drifted snow +And daisies. Children play at shop, +Warm days, on the flat boulder-top, +With wildflower coinage, and the wares +Are bits of glass and unripe pears. +Crows perch upon the backs of sheep, +The wheat goes yellow: women reap, +Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond, +Flutter the hedge and fly beyond. +So the first things of nature run, +And stand not still for any one, +Contemptuous of the distant cry +Wherewith you harrow earth and sky. +And high French clouds, praying to be +Back, back in peace beyond the sea, +Where nature with accustomed round +Sweeps and garnishes the ground +With kindly beauty, warm or cold-- +Alternate seasons never old: +Heathen, how furiously you rage, +Cursing this blood and brimstone age, +How furiously against your will +You kill and kill again, and kill: +All thought of peace behind you cast, +Till like small boys with fear aghast, +Each cries for God to understand, +'I could not help it, it was my hand.'" + + + +SOSPAN FACH. +(The Little Saucepan) + +Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale +Took shelter from a shower of hail, +And there beneath a spreading tree +Attuned their mouths to harmony. + +With smiling joy on every face +Two warbled tenor, two sang bass, +And while the leaves above them hissed with +Rough hail, they started "Aberystwyth." + +Old Parry's hymn, triumphant, rich, +They changed through with even pitch, +Till at the end of their grand noise +I called: "Give us the 'Sospan' boys!" + +Who knows a tune so soft, so strong, +So pitiful as that "Saucepan" song +For exiled hope, despaired desire +Of lost souls for their cottage fire? + +Then low at first with gathering sound +Rose their four voices, smooth and round, +Till back went Time: once more I stood +With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood. + +Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale, +For ice hail they had leaden hail; +In that fine forest, green and big, +There stayed unbroken not one twig. + +They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste, +Stumbling and shouting through the waste; +The little "Saucepan" flamed on high, +Emblem of hope and ease gone by. + +Rough pit-boys from the coaly South, +They sang, even in the cannon's mouth; +Like Sunday's chapel, Monday's inn, +The death-trap sounded with their din. + +*** + +The storm blows over, Sun comes out, +The choir breaks up with jest and shout, +With what relief I watch them part-- +Another note would break my heart! + + + +THE LEVELLER. + +Near Martinpuisch that night of hell +Two men were struck by the same shell, +Together tumbling in one heap +Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep. + +One was a pale eighteen-year-old, +Girlish and thin and not too bold, +Pressed for the war ten years too soon, +The shame and pity of his platoon. + +The other came from far-off lands +With bristling chin and whiskered hands, +He had known death and hell before +In Mexico and Ecuador. + +Yet in his death this cut-throat wild +Groaned "Mother! Mother!" like a child, +While that poor innocent in man's clothes +Died cursing God with brutal oaths. + +Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men, +Wrote out two copies there and then +Of his accustomed funeral speech +To cheer the womenfolk of each. + + + +HATE NOT, FEAR NOT. + +Kill if you must, but never hate: + Man is but grass and hate is blight, +The sun will scorch you soon or late, + Die wholesome then, since you must fight. + +Hate is a fear, and fear is rot + That cankers root and fruit alike, +Fight cleanly then, hate not, fear not, + Strike with no madness when you strike. + +Fever and fear distract the world, + But calm be you though madmen shout, +Through blazing fires of battle hurled, + Hate not, strike, fear not, stare Death out! + + + +A RHYME OF FRIENDS. +(In a Style Skeltonical) + +Listen now this time +Shortly to my rhyme +That herewith starts +About certain kind hearts +In those stricken parts +That lie behind Calais, +Old crones and aged men +And young children. +About the Picardais, +Who earned my thousand thanks, +Dwellers by the banks +Of mournful Somme +(God keep me therefrom +Until War ends)-- +These, then, are my friends: +Madame Averlant Lune, +From the town of Bethune; +Good Professeur la Brune +From that town also. +He played the piccolo, +And left his locks to grow. +Dear Madame Hojdes, +Sempstress of Saint Fe. +With Jules and Susette +And Antoinette. +Her children, my sweethearts, +For whom I made darts +Of paper to throw +In their mimic show, +"La guerre aux tranchees." +That was a pretty play. + + There was old Jacques Caron, +Of the hamlet Mailleton. +He let me look +At his household book, +"Comment vivre cent ans." +What cares I took +To obey this wise book, +I, who feared each hour +Lest Death's cruel power +On the poppied plain +Might make cares vain! + + By Noeus-les-mines +Lived old Adelphine, +Withered and clean, +She nodded and smiled, +And used me like a child. +How that old trot beguiled +My leisure with her chatter, +Gave me a china platter +Painted with Cherubim +And mottoes on the rim. +But when instead of thanks +I gave her francs +How her pride was hurt! +She counted francs as dirt, +(God knows, she was not rich) +She called the Kaiser bitch, +She spat on the floor, +Cursing this Prussian war, +That she had known before +Forty years past and more. + + There was also "Tomi," +With looks sweet and free, +Who called me cher ami. +This orphan's age was nine, +His folk were in their graves, +Else they were slaves +Behind the German line +To terror and rapine-- +O, little friends of mine +How kind and brave you were, +You smoothed away care +When life was hard to bear. +And you, old women and men, +Who gave me billets then, +How patient and great-hearted! +Strangers though we started, +Yet friends we ever parted. +God bless you all: now ends +This homage to my friends. + + + +A FIRST REVIEW. + +Love, Fear and Hate and Childish Toys + Are here discreetly blent; +Admire, you ladies, read, you boys, + My Country Sentiment. + +But Kate says, "Cut that anger and fear, + True love's the stuff we need! +With laughing children and the running deer + That makes a book indeed." + +Then Tom, a hard and bloody chap, + Though much beloved by me, +"Robert, have done with nursery pap, + Write like a man," says he. + +Hate and Fear are not wanted here, + Nor Toys nor Country Lovers, +Everything they took from my new poem book + But the flyleaf and the covers. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenber'sg Etext of Country Sentiment, by Robert Graves + diff --git a/old/old/csent10.zip b/old/old/csent10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..9c1204d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/old/csent10.zip |