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diff --git a/33855.txt b/33855.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fac2c5f --- /dev/null +++ b/33855.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2315 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Provocations, by Sibyl Bristowe + +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: Provocations + +Author: Sibyl Bristowe + +Release Date: October 12, 2010 [EBook #33855] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROVOCATIONS *** + + + + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Iris Schimandle and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) + + + + + + + + + +PROVOCATIONS + + +TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER +JOHN SYER BRISTOWE, M.D., F.R.S., LL.D. +THIS LITTLE BOOK OF VERSE +IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED + + + + +PROVOCATIONS + +BY + +SIBYL BRISTOWE + + +WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY + +G. K. CHESTERTON + + +LONDON, W.C. 1 + +ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD. + + + + +_All Rights Reserved. +Copyright by Erskine MacDonald, Ltd. +in the United States of America. +First published October, 1918_ + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + +The verses in this volume cover very many and various occasions; and are +therefore the very contrary of what is commonly called occasional verse. +The term is used with a meaning that is very mutable; or with a meaning +that has been greatly distorted and degraded. Occasion should mean +opportunity; and in the case of poetry it should rather mean +provocation. And the trick of writing upon what are called public +occasions, instead of upon what may truly be described as private +provocations, has been responsible for much verse which is not only +insufficient but insincere. It has produced not only many bad poems; but +what is perhaps worse, many bad poems from many good poets. The +sincerity of Miss Sibyl Bristowe's poetry is perhaps most clearly proved +by the number of points at which it touches life; and the spontaneity, +or even suddenness, with which they are touched. It is an occasional +verse which arises out of real occasions, and not out of merely +fictitious or even merely formal ones. Thus while the one or two poems +on the great war are probably the best, they are by no means the +biggest; they are not the most arresting in the sense of being the most +ambitious. They are arresting because the great war really is great, and +moves an imaginative spirit to great issues; it is public but it is very +far from being official. The war, indeed, is necessarily more important +as a private event even than as a public event. And the few but fine +lines, on a brother fallen in a fight amid wild river that sundered man +from man, is a model of the manner in which such mighty events take +their place among the impressions of the more sincere and spontaneous +type of talent. The topic takes its pre-eminence by intensity and not by +space, or even in a sense by design. Indeed it is best expressed in a +metaphor used by the writer herself about the topic itself; the metaphor +of the colour red in its relation to other colours. Red rivets the eye, +not by quantity but by quality; and in any picture or pattern a spot or +streak of it will make itself the feature or the key. Miss Sibyl +Bristowe's poem conceives the Creator confronted as with a broken +spectrum or a gap in coloured glass; feeling the whole range of vision +to be dim and impoverished and adding, by the authority of His own +mysterious art, the dreadful colour of martyrdom. + +Indeed the point of the comparison might very well be conveyed by the +two poems about a London garden; that on the garden in peace being +comparatively long, and that about the garden in war exceedingly short; +short but sharply pathetic with its notion of peering and probing for +the microscope flowers that must be a part of the most utilitarian +vegetables. Indeed the short poems are certainly the most successful; +and there is the same brevity in the last line of the poem about the +tragic passage of time; "If lips of children had not told me so." The +same general impression, as in the comparison already noted, is +conveyed, for instance, in the fact that the poems about South Africa +are private rather than public poems; are in that sense, if the phrase +be properly comprehended, rather colonial than imperial. That is, they +are individual glimpses of great torrid wastes, like similar individual +glimpses of quiet northern woods; visions of crude and golden cities as +personal as the parallel visions of normal northern cottages. Miss Sibyl +Bristowe is perhaps an amateur, in the sense in which this is generally +true of one who happens to be an artist in another art; but it is +unfortunate that the world has so much missed the notion of that natural +ardour that should belong to the word. + + G. K. CHESTERTON. + + + The author has to acknowledge the courtesy of the Editors of + "The Poetry Review" and "The Johannesburg Star" for permission to + include poems that have appeared in their pages. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + The Great War 13 + + My London Garden, 1914 14 + + My Garden, 1918 17 + + Over the Top! 18 + + To His Dear Memory 20 + + Sorrow 21 + + Alas! 23 + + A Sacrament 24 + + The Love-shed Tear 25 + + Madonna Granduca and Child 29 + + A Vision of a Day that is Past 30 + + Bitterness Casteth out Love 33 + + The Hour of Happiness 34 + + Thoughts 35 + + The Things Unsaid are the Things that Count! 36 + + The Song of the Long Ago 37 + + The Sinner's Dreaming 39 + + Woman 40 + + Christmas 41 + + February 42 + + Oh! 'Tis May 43 + + To the Wind 45 + + The Grey Wind 47 + + Poeta Nascitur 49 + + Queen Elizabeth 51 + + The Death of Queen Elizabeth 56 + + The Plea of the Antarctic 58 + + The Stranger in London 59 + + The Transvaal in June 62 + + Johannesburg 63 + + In the Land of the Silences 65 + + + + +The Great War + + + Into His colour store God dipped His hand + And drew it forth + Full of strange hues forgotten, contraband + Of War and Wrath. + + Time wove the pattern of the years, that so + The quick and dead + Might knit their bleeding crosses in. And lo! + A patch of red! + + + + +My London Garden, 1914 + + + My Garden is a tiny square + Of bordered green + And gravel brown + In misty town, + And chimneys smoky and unclean + Sweep to the sky.--_You_ would not care + To visit there. + + The Grass creeps up all in between the stones + And raises undisturbed its luscious green + And laughs for youth in shrill and ringing tones. + I love it that it grows up so serene, + Dauntless and bright + And laughing me to scorn, + So vivid and so slight, + Glad for the night-shed dew and smoke-bred morn. + + My little patch of bordered green and brown + Sleeps in the bosom of a grim old town, + I wish that you could see + Its beauty here with me; + I'd tell you many things you never knew, + For few, so few + Know the romance of such a London strip, + With ferny screen + That slants shy gleams of sunlight in between + And weeds which flourish just inside the dip, + Holding their tenure with a firm deep grip + Where prouder things all die. + Small wonder I + Tend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem, + Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stem + Wax strong and high-- + My weed plot lives in reckless luxury. + + But, in the Spring, before black grime + Has done its worst, + And cruel Time + And dust accursed + Have marred the innocence of each young leaf, + Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief-- + Masses of tulips, pink and white, + Rise from the earth in prim delight, + And iris, king of pomp and state, + In vesture fine + And purple and pale gold + Its buds unfold-- + A mighty potentate, + And marshals nobly, proudly into line, + Whilst lilacs sway in wind and rushing breeze, + Bowing and nodding to some poplar trees. + + But stay!-- + _You_ would not care + To visit there + Midst such surroundings grey. + My Garden's but an oasis of hope + Set in the frown + And dismal grandeur of a grim old town, + A semblance merely of the lawns _you_ see; + A hint, an echo of the things that be! + But he or she would be a misanthrope + Who would not share my garden hope with me. + + + + +My Garden, 1918 + + + Such was my garden once, a Springtide hope of flowers, + All rosy pink or violet or blue + Or yellow gold, with sunflecks on the dew. + Now in their place a Summer garden towers + Of green-leaved artichokes and turnip tops, + Of peas and parsnips, sundry useful crops. + --But even vegetables must have _little_ flowers. + + + + +Over the Top! + + + _Ten_ more minutes! Say yer prayers, + Read yer Bibles,--pass the rum! + _Ten_ more minutes! Strike me dumb, + 'Ow they creeps on unawares + Those blooming minutes. _Nine_. It's queer, + I'm sorter stunned. It ain't with fear! + + _Eight._ It's like as if a frog + Waddled round in your inside + Cold as ice-blocks, straddled wide, + Tired o' waiting.--Where's the grog? + _Seven._ I'll play you pitch and toss. + _Six._ I wins, and tails your loss. + + 'Nother minute sprinted by + 'Fore I knowed it; only _four_ + (Break 'em into seconds) more + 'Twixt us and Eternity! + Every word I've ever said + Seems a-shouting in my head! + + _Three_. Larst night a little star + Fairly shook up in the sky, + Frightened by the lullaby + Rattled by the dogs of war. + Funny thing--that star all white + Saw old Blighty too, larst night! + + _Two._ I ain't ashamed o' prayers, + They're only wishes sent ter God, + Bits o' plants from bloody sod + Trailing up His golden stairs. + _Ninety seconds._ Well, who cares!-- + _One._ . . . . . . + . . . . . . + No pipe, no blare, no drum-- + Over the Top!--to Kingdom Come + + + + +To His Dear Memory + +(April 14th, 1917) + + + Beneath the humid skies + Where green birds wing, and heavy burgeoned trees + Sway in the fevered breeze, + My Brother lies. + + And rivers passionate[A] + Tore through the mountain passes, swept the plains, + O'erbrimmed with tears, o'erbrimmed with summer rains, + All wild, all desolate. + Whilst the deep Mother-breast + Of drowsy-lidded Nature, drunk with dreams, + Below Pangani, by Rufigi streams, + Took him to rest. + + Beneath the sunlit skies, + Where bright birds wing, and rich luxuriant trees + Sway in the fevered breeze, + My Brother lies. + + The bending grasses woo + His hurried grave; a cross of oak to show + The drifting winds, a Soldier sleeps below. + --Our Saviour's cross, I know, + Was wooden, too. + +[A] The river Rufigi rose so high the night he died, none of his own +Battalion could cross it to attend his last honours. + + + + +Sorrow + + + Send Sorrow away, + For Sorrow is dressed in grey, + And her eyes are dim + With a weary rim. + Send Sorrow away. + + Send Sorrow away. + Maid of the sombre sway, + Breathing woe + In a murmur low, + And her lips are pale + And her body frail. + Send Sorrow away. + + Send Sorrow away, + Foe of the dancing day. + Oh! her cheeks fall in, + And her hands are thin, + But her grip is fast + On the changeless past; + And they sere and clutch + The soul they touch. + Send Sorrow away. + + Send Sorrow away, + For she haunts me night and day. + And Sorrow is dressed in grey, + Yes, Sorrow is dressed in grey. + And she looks so old, + So drawn, so cold-- + Send Sorrow away. + + + + +Alas! + + + So softly Time trod with me, that I lost + His footsteps pacing mine. I stayed the while + To wrest the luscious fruits from love and life; + He strode on pauselessly, with thin cold smile. + + So surely Time trod with me; marred my bloom, + Stole all my roses, spread his cobwebs grey, + Wrung all my tresses in his silvering hand; + So stealthily he lured my youth away + I only learned that I was old--to-day. + + I could have borne it bravely, this I know, + Had not the lips of children told me so. + + + + +A Sacrament + + + Tears!--And I brought them to the Lord, and said: + "What are these crystal globes by nations shed? + + What is the crimson flood that stains the land? + Where is Thy peace, and where Thy guiding hand? + + Why are those thousands daily sacrificed? + Where is Thy might, and where the love of Christ?" + + And from the heavens methought I heard a voice-- + "Oh son of earth, I bid thee still rejoice! + + Those crystal tears by men and nations shed + Water My harvest, sanctify My dead. + + That crimson flood which stains the hapless earth + Is but the prelude to a nobler birth. + + Those thousands, who for home have gladly died, + Sleep in the hope of Jesus crucified. + + Flesh, Blood, and Water, Little Child of Mine, + Veil in their depths a Mystery divine." + + I bowed my head, and prayed for faith to see + The inner visions of Calamity! + + + + +The Love-shed Tear + + + Knocked a man at the shining Gate, + Hard and bad and proud and old! + Deep in years--for his call was late. + The Gate was shut, and he had to wait, + And he leaned awhile on his bag of gold. + + Roll'd the Heavenly portals back, + Guarded close by a flaming sword! + The old man opened out his sack, + Saint Peter searched the sordid pack, + "Is this thy passport to the Lord?" + + Saint Peter sighed, ill-gotten greed + Was all therein to offer God, + He vainly sought one kindly deed, + One gentle word to those in need, + One little step in mercy trod. + + "And is this all?" Saint Peter said, + "This fruitless hoard of worthless sin, + This earthly gold, which weighs like lead? + Oh, wretched man! thy soul is _dead_! + Thou mayst--thou canst not enter in! + + "Could I have found one single sign + Of life within thy sordid soul, + One kindling spark of Life Divine, + The flames of hell had not been thine. + Hence"--and he seal'd the Judgment scroll. + + Down to the fires whose lurid light + Lick'd and blazoned the depths of hell, + Mocking red in the pitchy night, + Down, ever down, from out God's sight, + Down to the damned the Miser fell. + + There in the haunts of deepest sin + Satan watched with his sombre eye. + The trembling Miser peered within, + He thought to find his kith and kin + Whose guilt condemned them too--to die. + + He wandered round from place to place, + Then beat his breast with wondering moan, + For lo! of all the human race + The Miser stood in hell--Alone! + For all had found some saving grace + That set them free to seek God's face + And could their vilest sins atone. + + He cowered low in abject fear, + No single virtue could he plead, + Satan's own--by self decreed! + When sudden! 'neath a dastard deed, + The devil cried, "What lieth here?" + It was a single love-shed tear + Shed in an hour of direst need. + + Once he had wept in grief and pain, + Once--when his child lay coldly dead, + Once he had prayed. No prayer is vain. + This prayer had lived to save again + And bring remission on his head. + + Only a tear! The Heavenly Choir + Praised the Lord for the thing call'd love; + But Satan shrieked in frenzied ire, + "This foolish tear will quench my fire, + This man must go above--above!" + + Back again where the flaming sword + Closely guarded the jewelled door. + "I seek," he humbly sobbed, "our Lord. + I brought Thee gold--a worthless hoard-- + Thou wouldst not let me in before. + + "But now I come to Thee with this-- + A little thing, 'tis very small-- + I pray Thee take it not amiss, + My gold is in the dark abyss, + This little tear, oh Lord, is all!" + + "Oh wondrous drop," Saint Peter cried, + "That shows the sap of life within + A _living_ Soul, with chance to win + A place with God, immune from sin! + Methought the fount of Life had dried" + (He flung the Gates of Heaven wide), + "Go, _living_ Soul, and enter in!" + + There in the lowest halls of grace, + Through deep remorse and pains austere + He washed his soul from sin's dark trace, + Then in his heart-felt awe and fear + He lowly sought his Saviour's face, + Saved to life through a love-shed tear! + + + + +Madonna Granduca and Child + + + Little Christ, little Christ, + Sheltered there on Mary's breast, + All Thy child-like purity + Lightens life's obscurity, + So I thank Thee + For that ray of light confessed. + + Sweet Thy mother, Baby Christ, + Sweet in woman's modesty; + But to such an one as me + I would choose to kneel to Thee, + To Thy young simplicity, + To Thy full divinity, + Little Christ. + + Give me tears to keep me clean, + Give me joyfulness serene, + Steep me for futurity + In Thy white-souled purity. + For Thine innocence sufficed, + Little Christ, little Christ, + Vagrants like myself to bless, + So I thank Thee + For Thy perfect holiness, + Little Christ. + + + + +A Vision of a Day that is Past + + + The sky hung smooth o'er the line of hill + That shadowed the valley that seemed so still, + And the blackbird whistled his love notes shrill. + + The church lay dreaming of God, and when + The bodies should rise from her graveyard pen + Where the high grass covered her poor dead men. + + The water meadows shone rich with gold, + Gold that the buttercups had sold + To the nibbling sheep of the red ring-fold. + + And even the river murmured rest + As the sun sank low in the tender west, + And the earth flowers slept on their mother's breast. + + Over the valley that seemed so still, + Where the blackbird whistled his love-notes shrill + I gazed, and all against my will + I saw a vision beneath the hill. + + Centuries passed like a mist away + And I stood in the glare of a burning day + Whilst the church-bells clamoured a call to pray. + + War and its brother raced hand in hand, + That brother called Death; and they seared the land + With their fiery breath and the murder brand. + + And copses and dales were bleeding red, + Naught was sacred, the living or dead, + The old, old man, or the girl just wed. + + Men stormed the homestead, blazed the corn, + Pillaged and sacked from night till morn, + And spitted the babe that was newly born. + + Savage and brutal, like hell-hounds freed, + They swarmed the hill, debauched with greed-- + Some slunk behind, their lust to feed. + + At last, when the streams ran human blood, + Soaking the fields in a scarlet flood, + A woman prayed with her child for food. + + All on their way those soldiers passed + With a foetid jest at her hapless fast, + And some men cut her down at last. + + They cut her down! Oh, woe is me, + And they left her to rot in her misery, + Naked and scorned for the world to see. + + They left her bare in the cold night air, + Save only the comb in her coal-black hair, + And they strangled the baby, helpless there. + + They did not trouble to wind them round + In a sheet of earth in the dewy ground, + They looted them both for the spoil they found. + + But the wind was kind. It wailed aloud + And churned the dust, till it rose a cloud + like a pearly mist, to form a shroud. + + And the leaves swooned down to the wind's sweet call + And covered the mother and babe and all, + Till they lay at peace in a soft green pall. + + The church still ponders, and wonders when + Those bodies will rise from her graveyard pen, + But she knows they are blessed, those poor dead men, + + For they sleep within her Christian fold + Under her consecrated mould, + Where a verse was read, and a prayer was told. + + But under the hill, in the leaves somewhere, + Lie a mother and child all stark and bare, + Save only a comb in the coal-black hair-- + Yet God will remember they lie out there. + + +Whilst digging up a hitherto uncultivated bit of garden near the +Mendips, a gardener came across the mutilated skeletons of a woman and +baby. A comb still decorated the woman's coal-black hair. At the +inquest afterwards held upon the skeletons, it was suggested that the +woman and her baby were probably refugees from the battle of Sedgemoor. + + + + +Bitterness Casteth Out Love + + + Over the hill where the white road sweeps, + And the dead fern holds the snow, + Love flew by, and the black night sky + Shadowed the vales below. + + Down in the creek, where the ice-pools gleam + And the trees stand gaunt and bare, + I crouched me down, and the sullen frown + Of earth entombed me there. + + "Ah," mocked the ice-pool, hard and clear, + "Man with the frozen soul; + Love sailed by, on a cloud-bound sky, + With the tears that sorrow stole." + + "Gone," said the fern, "from your frost-bound touch; + Gone from your winter's heart. + Love flew by, like the tattered sigh + Bitterness tore apart." + + And the aching trees bowed branch and twig + And a shrivelled leaf made cry, + "If you are cold, and your heart be old, + For certain, Love must die." + + Over the hill, where the white road sweeps, + And the dead fern holds the snow, + Sweet Love fled; and a spirit dead + Spectres the slopes below. + + + + +The Hour of Happiness + + + The world is fair! The circling swell + Of fresh tumultuous sea + Holds life within its rhythmic rise + And bursts of harmony; + And storm-clouds chasing down the sky + Empty their hearts as they sweep by. + + The world is gay!--Such lilt and song, + Such mellowness of tune, + Such drifting airs from wave and shore, + From rock and sand and dune. + I did not know that clouds of spray + Splashed as they fell, a roundelay. + + A magic day! A magic hand + Has raised a magic mood. + Oh! years ago God made the world + And saw that it was good. + And from His ecstasy divine + I borrowed this sweet hour of mine. + + + + +Thoughts + + + So fair, so delicate the thoughts, + He marvelled they could be his own; + He did not dream that they were birds + From heaven flown. + + Birds with a message in their throats, + Limpid and golden from the sky. + Most wonderful his song. 'Twas strange + He knew not why. + + They fluttered their white wings awhile + Then soared again to paradise, + Leaving a trail of limpid notes + For sacrifice. + + + + +The Things Unsaid are the Things that Count! + + + You told me you had done with love, + You showed me why; + You said it often, just to prove + Inconstancy! + I never heard-- + I only marked--the _unsaid_ word. + + You told me you had thoughts beyond + My own poor love, + A wider sphere, ambitions fond! + 'Fore God above + In rosy bliss + I only felt th' ungiven kiss! + + I knew one day that unsaid word would dress + In shining letters, spelling happiness! + I knew that love would one day be mine own, + A tender suppliant for forgiveness won. + I had no fear, + Tho' cold and clear + You gave your answer,--sweet, my dear, + I never heard--your spoken word! + + + + +The Song of the Long Ago + + + Wraith of the out-lived years, + Wandering too and fro, + Floating to earth on the hallowed tones + Of a song of long ago. + + Shadows of those asleep + Steal through the simple lay, + Lifting the silvery veil aside + Of a long lost yesterday. + + Beautiful silent days, + Raised from the silent past, + In the pregnant chords of a once loved song + Memory speaks at last. + + Of the golden summer eves, + Shrined in the mists of years + And a world of hopes! Dear God, what hopes, + Born to the soul in tears. + + But the youthful hopes creep by, + Stealing with solemn chime + To a finite grave. They will rise in faith + When Eternity conquers Time. + + Dream-laden, tender song, + Sacred and sweet and old, + With the lingering touch of a bygone age, + I have scanned again in thy down-turned page, + A tale that was long since told. + + + + +The Sinner's Dreaming + + + When the great sun flung bands of gold + (Bands to the number of seven) + On the limpid sea, we followed the gold + And climbed on our way to Heaven. + + There to the portals of cloud and storm, + Piled high in the regions of thunder, + Till we reached the sky, in its columns of storm, + And God's gates rolled asunder. + + Below, the world like a ball of mist + With us, pearl and jacinth and beryl, + And it faded away, that pearl-grey mist, + And we clung to the gates in peril. + + Myrrh and incense, and jacinth and pearl, + How we cringed on the floor of Heaven! + And the great sun drew its bands from the pearl. + Bands to the number of seven. + + And now, as we gaze from our star-crowned sphere + To the shadows, where earth is seeming, + We know that that hazy circling sphere + Was only a sinner's dreaming! + + + + +Woman + + + When God made woman + Fair He made her, as the rose; + Her face upturned to catch His radiant smile; + His sunbeams lurked the while + About her lips; with care He chose + Her hair and glory, and her round white throat, + The pillared keeper of her woman's note. + God filled her eyes with innocence and love, + And glimpsing lights from out His skies above. + The Father knew that she was beautiful. + And yet, to make her nobly dutiful + To Him, within her breast + He set a shrine, all holy and possessed + In shining mystery. And few who know + To enter in. The evading flame aglow + That fills the shrine, is white as unshed snow. + And deep within that casket of her breast + Are secret joys, to God alone confessed. + + + + +Christmas + + + White the weather, white the weather! + Stars and ice at one together, + Shining frost on cracking branches, + Snow in pale smooth avalanches. + White the weather, wintry weather. + + Wan the way, where once the heather + Bloomed in radiant summer weather, + Sparkling icicles moon-lustred + Droop, where once the green leaves clustered. + Life is sleeping, held in tether. + + Once a Babe was born this weather, + Three Wise Men set forth together; + Once a Star of wondrous glory + Told the Christ's triumphant story. + Wintry weather!--God's own weather! + All the world washed white together! + + + + +February + + + I do not sing for youth and love, + For passion and desire, + I only sing because the sun + Is gold like shining fire; + I only sing because the day + Is blue, the grass is green, + The birds are singing out their hearts, + The waking twigs between! + + Because the chestnut branch is tipped + With buds of folded brown, + Because the snowdrops look so white, + The catkins feather down, + Because the naked elms have bent + To whisper me this thing-- + The sap is stirring in their limbs-- + How can I choose, but sing! + + + + +Oh! 'Tis May + + + Come and idle in the sun, + Come and idle, everyone, + Flowering May + Is wholly gay, + Come and idle in the sun. + + Come and smell the new-mown lawn, + Fragrant grass, and dew-wet dawn. + Buds unfold, + And leaves grown bold + Spread great shadows on the lawn. + + Come and hear the chaffinch trill, + Hear the lark and thrushes thrill! + Come along, + _Such_ a song, + Such a chorus bright and shrill. + + _Won't_ you come? + Hear the hum, + Hear the hum of tireless bee. + Come with me, + Wilt not idle for a day? + Wilt not shirk + Thy waste of work? + _This_ is life, this radiant play + Nature keeps for flowering May. + Buds and bees and grass and flower + Make a sweeter, holier hour + Than all drab years of labour dour. + Come away, + Come and play, + Come and glory in the sun, + Come and laugh! Come, everyone. + + Flowering May + Is fresh and gay, + Come and greet the golden sun. + Come away, + Come and play, + Come, oh! come out, everyone! + + + + +To the Wind + + + Wind, wind, + Do you whisper eerie sonnets to the moon + As it rises white and sickled? Do you croon + Silver-coloured ditties pale and low + As you rock the cedar branches too and fro? + Do you sing to woo the bat, + Is it that, is it that? + Have you tunes for such a sullen little wraith, + Half dream, swooping high, scarcely seen, chiefly faith? + Would you hold a phantom to your breast + As you murmur gently love-notes from the west? + + Wind, wind, + Every tree is but a harp for your desire, + Every leaf a mellow string to swell your choir, + Every grass a cooing reed + At your need, for your need, + Drums and clashing cymbals of the sea + Boom a paean, hurl a flood of melody. + + Wind, wind, + Men have snatched an air or two + Of a fantasy from you + And have prisoned them in books to make them stay, + Scattered fragments that your lips have blown this way. + Small and shy and thin and cramped and grave, + They are caged and tied to paper in a stave. + Do you mind, + Oh Wind? + + But you laugh and troll out gaily on your way, + "Keep the fragments, little earth-men, dance and play, + 'Tis a dainty roundelay, + Hold it, pray; hold it, pray. + For myself, my breath is fierce, myself am great, + For my tiny fallen airs I dare not wait; + Storms beneath my rushing wings unfurled + Roll the symphonies which dominate the world." + + + + +The Grey Wind + + + I have been, where never man went, + With the grey wind: + Far from the gorse and the wet earth scent + I have been. + + I have seen, what no man hath seen + With the grey wind: + I have cowered down his knees between: + I have seen. + + I have heard, what no man hath heard + With the grey wind: + The dry leaves crackle and snap at his word + I have heard. + + I have heard, and I watched them fly + All the wild leaves + In a hustled crowd, to the stormy sky, + At his word. + + And they swept in a whirlwind wan, + Churned by his breath, + Out to the windways, where never sun shone, + Forth they swept. + + Whiles they leapt in a maddened dance, + Swung scatterwise; + Eddied and swirled to a swift advance + Till they crept + + Spent and worn, in their frenzied fear, + Leaves of brown-gold + Chittering feebly in masses sere, + Crazed and slow: + + And I know, what never man knew, + Those poor dead leaves + Are the souls of men the grey wind slew-- + This I know. + + + + +Poeta Nascitur + + Tho' all mayn't know it, + Rules only, never made a poet. + + + He thought to shape his writings into verse, + He pruned them down to language fixed and terse, + But finding that would give his tricks no play, + Spurned his reserve, and tried another way. + + This time he dressed the naked words with care, + Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair, + And studying every law of form and rhyme, + Pieced up his metre into studious time. + + But still, whatever medium he chose, + His work remained poor, tortured, unsexed prose. + + One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the vale + He felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale-- + Stooping, he caught a whisper from the sky + That slipped from out the twilight whimsically. + + Its tender sorrow touched him as it fell, + Quickened his fancies, stirred his heart as well, + In reverent awe he heard its mystic call, + A heaven-born glory permeating all. + + He did not dare to pin that whisper down + To words so peacocked in a flaunting gown, + The forms of metre he had conned so well + Were all inadequate that sigh to tell. + + No further use that artificial code, + Those simpered rhymes, his petty bandbox mode + Of tight-packed trumpery. No need to pace + The solemn pavements of the commonplace. + + Each little trick, each fantasy of art + Were stones that blocked th' outpourings of his heart. + He looked beyond the great inrushing sea, + Seeing at last the hidden things that be! + + And of the wave he learnt a cadence sweet, + Strong as its life, a lilt of rippling feet, + Whilst from the wind that swept the answering trees + He culled the moaning rhythm of the breeze. + + He weaved that whisper of the twilight sky + Into a poem, soft with melody, + It thrilled the soul in motion strong and free, + Wild as the wave, a break of ecstasy. + + It kissed the borderland 'twixt heaven and earth, + Sweet in its passion, holy in its mirth-- + And lo! a light gleamed through each noble line, + The wind crooned softly, starways seemed to shine-- + That poem--was divine. + + + + +Queen Elizabeth + +She would dance a Coranto, that the French Ambassador, hidden behind +a curtain, might report her sprightliness to his master.--GREENE. + + + So Elizabeth danced + And the guest was entranced + As she tripped the Coranto, and curtseyed and swayed + In a robe of rich stuff, + Jewelled slashings and ruff, + And a stomacher stiff, thick with pearlings and braid. + Ho! he peeped round the curtain, + 'Tis perfectly certain + Enraptured of mien + At the tiptoeing Queen, + In a courtly way, in a Frenchy way, + In a naughty way, in that Tudor day. + + Yes, he peeped round the screen, + And he sniggered ("I ween, + This is only a woman to flatter and kiss, + A creature of vanity")--"Madam, what bliss + To have witnessed such grace, such elegant----" here + He could find no more words, and emotion 'twas clear + Choked all further utterance, + For never had such a dance + Entered his thought. + Such slippers! and ought + He to mention the hose? + All of silk to suppose? + Had the muse from Olympus stepped down for a while + Terpsichore style? + Then quite without guile + He bowed very low in his Frenchified way, + In that courtly way, of a far-off day, + And the laugh of the lady was merry and gay. + + And all throughout Europe the fame of her spread, + Her frivolous tricks, and the foreigners said + It was only a princess, a slave to her pride, + True child of a mother a king had decried!-- + So she thwarted and twisted the world to her whim + As he misunderstood her--she outwitted him! + + Now one day it arose that King Philip of Spain, + Incensed at her folly, essayed yet again + To bring her to reason + Just at his own season. + So he sent his Ambassador, Spanish Mendoza, + To this slippery Queen, with a message sub rosa. + + "Nay, by mine honour," she simpered. "How now, + Is it truce to my jest? 'Tis a pity I trow. + It were best to be merry!" She yawned very wide, + And the Spaniard furtively smiled at her side. + 'Twas only a woman to flatter and kiss, + 'Twould be easy to manage a creature like this! + + Hard-headed and wise, sat the gaunt English Queen, + Her words were unyielding, her purse it was mean-- + The Spanish Ambassador + Writhed like a matador! + Beaten and wounded, he played to her vanity. + --It was tucked out of sight--and with Spanish profanity + He cursed all the Protestants under his breath, + And committed them gently to burnings and death; + But never an inch did Elizabeth yield, + And the messenger saw that his mission was sealed, + In that far-off day. + And Elizabeth laughed + In a curious way + That was subtle with craft: + "Under favour, you may + Tell your master in Spain, that my country comes first. + I am England, and English, its best and its worst. + Tell him my subjects I love as my children, + Tell him they thirst but their mouths will be filled when + They meet him at sea. + Give that greeting from me." + + Back to Madrid went that Spanish Ambassador, + Broken and bruised like a bull-beaten matador, + And he bowed very low + (It was etiquette so) + And he cried, "Oh, that Queen is the devil in sooth. + A fool, Sire, 'twas thought, for she danced so uncouth! + But her bargains are hard as her heart and her hand, + As her dreary dominions, her men and her land! + And never be gulled by her feminine vanity, + 'Tis only a pose, all her vacant inanity! + Let us man an armada to crush her and raid her, + To send her to hell to the demons who made her!" + + And they came, as you know: + Heavy ships big and slow + In a lumbering way, in a blundering way + In that Tudor day. + Proudly up channel their galleons swept, + Swiftly our pinnaces hustled and leapt + At their rear. Dogs tracking their prey + And biting and snapping + And snarling and yapping, + Delighted and fierce at the chance of a fray. + + God! How the Spaniards fled in a panic + When our fire-ships had neared them, + And blazed them, and seared them, + Wrapping their hulks in red flamings Satanic! + God, how they scattered, + Slipped anchor, and shattered, + Sails tattered, + Masts battered, + Up to the north whilst a mighty sou'-wester + Rose wildly and strong, to hinder and pester + Their perilous flight; how they foundered and sank + On that treacherous bank, + Lost, lost evermore + On our alien shore. + + With their grim freight of death + And the poisonous breath + Of scurvy and pestilence, hunger, despair, + The struggling remainder of galleons bear + Them back to the port of Corunna again, + All, all that is left to the pride of proud Spain. + + Courageous and calm, with the valour of men + Elizabeth waited the chances; and then + "My children are fed + And their enemies dead," + Cried the frivolous Queen. + Majestic of mien + She towered, her wisdom and high inspiration, + The might of a people, the soul of a nation. + + + L'Envoie + + (And even to-day I will wager that no man + Can fathom the mind or the depths of a woman!) + + + + +The Death of Queen Elizabeth + + + Only + So lonely, + Was ever woman quite so lonely? + Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchanged + For nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged, + Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor, + Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before-- + Elizabeth. + + Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrown + That gorgeous England, which was once her own. + Those solemn courtiers pacing to and fro + Outside the palace, neither care nor know + The dying Queen is lonely! + + Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate? + And she, contemptuous victim once of hate + And score of plots, plunges her naked sword + Thrice through the arras, which had never stirred-- + Afraid!--_Elizabeth?_ + + Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old, + She shivers, this gay daughter of a gold + Entrancing age. The debonair gallant + Who sang her, now the mocking sycophant. + The ministers she trusted, gone. The throne + She loved with all her passion, left for one + Of stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, she + Shrinks from the new and cold sobriety + Of chill advancing fashion. Only Death + To woo this poor--this great Elizabeth! + Was ever woman quite so lonely? + + + + +The Plea of the Antarctic + +The best people to judge are those who served under Captain Scott. Had +we been in the same place as the victims we should have wished our +bodies to remain at rest where we had given our best efforts in the +cause we earnestly believed in.--COMMANDER EVANS. + + + Out of the ice-bound realms a clear voice said, + "Give me the right to bury my great dead. + No green-girt lands can honour them as I, + Nor wrap them round in such pale purity. + + "Leave them with me, alone in my white world, + Place England's flag above their cairns unfurled. + I need great souls! Great Hero souls to bless + And consecrate my snowy wilderness." + + + + +The Stranger in London + + + 'Tis a big, big place!-- + And the clouds that gather the grey skies in + Are frayed by chimneys black and old, + Serried stacks of grime and sin. + And every road and every street + Has a secret tale to guard and hold, + Mid the echoing tones of passing feet. + Oh weary place! + Brimmed up with life, confused in sound, + I have little part in your daily round, + For I wander lonely--stranger bound. + + There are houses surely which open their door + To those they know, + For me they stand in a formal row + Story on story, floor upon floor, + Shielding themselves from the crimson sun, + From the on-rolling mutter + Of traffic and wagon, of footstep and cry, + With curtain and shutter. + Mute houses which shun + All light, sound and me + Inexorably. + + Sometimes when I toss on my pillow at night, + When the spluttering rain + Spreads the smuts on the pane, + I dream that those mansions relax their grim pride + And opening wide + Their intimate hearts to me, + Chill taciturnity + Melts in the warmth of rich colour and fire. + Vast halls are alight + With radiant desire + To show hospitality. + Lavish regality + Squanders the staircase in flowers and green. + And I wander unseen + Through the great pillared corridors, kiss the soft red + Of the shimmering hangings; the sensuous glow + Ablaze in the hearth thrills me throughly, I know + There is place for me there, in those homes I thought dead. + + But sleep's "Open, Sesame" + Fails with the light, + Forcing the hopes of me + Back into night. + Never to open, never to see + Stern cold houses + Closed to me! + + Gathering storms which smirch the sky, + Burst your bonds, for up on high + May I come in? + I have no part in this world, no home, + No love to hold me. Bid me come, + I would warm myself at your great round sun, + I would open your windows one by one. + Your little stars and your crescent moon. + I am tired and thin, + I think I shall come and see you soon. + May I come in, may I come in? + + + + +The Transvaal in June + + + Under the deep blue vault + Of a hot relentless sky, + Burns the hot red deep, and the hot red road, + And the choking dust like a rust corrode + Soars up in spirals high. + + Under the sun-gilt span + Of a hot and brazen sky, + Cries the thirsty drift for a summer rain, + Baring its naked stones in vain + And its mud in misery. + + Under the cloudless curve + Of a wide remorseless sky + Sleeps the patchy scrub of the sweeping veld + And the slim blue gums, and the wattle belt + Where the shrike broods watchfully. + + Under the sullen glare + Of the grim unblinking sky + The hot dorp pants, the red roofs daze, + The mule tracks scorch, the iron-stones blaze + In their sun-struck agony. + + + + +Johannesburg + + + Miraculous city! + Thoughts stupendous to crush the wise, + Buildings monstrous which brush the skies! + Raise your eyes + In awe. Yet pity + This marvellous, golden, mushroom city. + + Hear the roar! + Like the moan of the sea, when the wave curls back + From the granite rock which whirls it back, + A great unceasingly grinding drone + In a heavy unyielding monotone. + 'Tis the frenzied wail of the lost in pain, + The shriek of the damned raised in vain, + Again! again! + And the stamping machine with a brutal joy + Wrenches the gold from its quartz alloy, + Crushing the tortured stone to dust + As it yields the ore + To the vast unquenchable thirst for lust. + + _Feel_ the south wind! + As it sweeps the veld with its icy breath, + Biting the scrub with its teeth of death, + lifting the dust like a phantom shroud + From the tailing heaps, in a veil of cloud. + Scattering the belching smoke, which flies + From the chimney line that marks the rise + Of the Main Reef ridge. + Some devil's bridge + To bind the town to the broad full plain + Which rolls beyond, like the boundless main. + + Precocious town! + The forward child of a youthful state + So young in years. So rich, so great + In gilt renown, + And glittering fate! + Oh! ponder deep, all ye! Yet pity + This marvellous, golden, old-young city! + + + + +In the Land of the Silences + + + She stood before the tent, a winging tent + In thicknesses of canvas, taut and strong, + Burning beneath a sun unreticent, + Raised upon planks, and lashed with rope and thong. + And she was fair, a sprig of English May, + Born for the kiss of merriment and day. + + Wide from the tent, like swell on swell of sea + The great veld swept and rolled in curves away, + A shabby patch of God's eternity + Neglected by the angels, bare and grey, + Wind-swept and solitary. Dick and she + Had made this veld their home for seasons three. + + _Well_ she remembered that first reckless ride, + Their wedding journey over spruit and land, + The barbed-wire straggling snares, the kopje side, + The crumbling blockhouse dreaming of command, + Holding a loot of empty pot and tin, + Which once had held a soldier guard within. + + The mud-dogged drift, the dust all baked and red + Twisting in spiral devils, raw as rust, + Those lonely crosses leaning on their dead, + Murmuring Africa was never just. + "She knows no pity," shrieked the fierce South wind, + "She steals your youth and stultifies your mind." + + On, on they flew, past Kaffir boom and kraal, + Thorn wacht-een-beetje, fleshy aloe clump, + Through the charred stretches of the high Transvaal, + By meerkat hole, and rounded white-ant hump + Of tunnelled earth. She laughed; the air was wild, + Strong with exhilaration, undefiled. + + At last they reined. Across the scrub and veld + Dick pointed with his sjambok to the white + Outspreading tent, then to the wattle belt + That marshalled thinly in the shimmering light. + "There lies our home, dear love, for you and me." + She looked up gladly, smiled him tenderly. + + Summer had followed winter, radiant, rich, + Reckless with life, extravagant in bloom, + Mad for the first wild draught of water, which + Burst from the thunder-clouds, whose massive gloom + Blackened the skies, then splitting, ripped and tore + Deep gorges through the tracks, with deafening roar. + + The storms swept by. A fairyland of green + Mantled the waking plains; wide star-like flowers + Sprang to their feet; the streams ran strong and clean, + The soft mimosa sprinkled into showers + Of golden balls. The oleander hedge + Swayed to the line of gums with leaves on edge. + + And it was summer now. Beth crossed the sloot, + Grown arrogant with rains, which lapped her square + Of gorgeous garden, swirling to the spruit + Beyond, in childish hurry. Was he there? + She scanned the far horizon. No, no sign-- + Of man or beast to break the distance line. + + Stay, was that he beyond the drift? Ah no, + Only her wishes trembling in the air + And mirage heat. A train sedate and slow + Wheeled round the kopje far away. The glare + Of brazen sun beat in her eyes. Too late!-- + He would not come to-night! In lonely state + + She must endure these o'ercharged dragging hours, + This th' unspoken horror of her life, + The dread that sapped her strength, and drained her powers, + The guarded secret of a brave man's wife! + Dick would come back to-morrow with the light + Of morn. But fear would be her Lord to-night. + + Beth turned her to the stoep. With sensuous breath + The moonflower drenched the garden in its scent, + Ardent, voluptuous, and white as death + It hung long blossoms, heavy with intent. + The morning glories folded into sleep. + Lay purple in undress, and slumber deep. + + Behind the wattles rose the circled moon, + Splashing her silver over poort and track. + The boys went chattering to their kraals, and soon + Long shadows ribbed the tent in white and black. + Beth closed the entrance fast, then slowly sped, + A lonely woman, to a lonely bed. + + * * * * * + + Come away, + Come away, + Come, come, come away, + For the moon, + For the moon + Wove a shroud in the day, + All of white, + All of white, + Which she flings over all + In the night, + In the night + Like a pall, + In the night, in the night. + + Come away, + Come away, + Come, come, come away, + For the moon, + For the moon + Threw my blossoms a ray, + They are white, + Deadly white, + And their petals are pale, + Wan and light. + Do not fail, + Come away--in the night. + + Come away, + Come away, + Come, come, come away, + For the moon, + For the moon + Wove a shroud in the day, + And my scent, + Oh my scent + Which I waft over all, + Is of death! + Feel its breath! + And the moon made a pall + Which she lent to us all, + To us all! + Come away.... Come away, + Come, + Come, + Come.... + + "Come, come!"--The sleeper moved. An argent shroud + Woven with silver cross-stitch into stars. + Was that the moonflower singing from the cloud? + Why were its petals bruised and veined with scars? + "Come!"--It was not the moonflower. Wide awake + Beth started up. That voice!--For pity's sake! + + That dear loved voice. The midnight echoed clear, + Rang with that urgent summons from the veld, + That startling premonition. Far and near + Cries shivered through her brain. Dick's voice. She felt + It vibrant in her ears. A call, for her. + She sprang up quickly, every sense astir. + + Down past the shadowed garden, through the kloof, + She knew the way, she followed to the cry. + No stealthy footpad, sound of howl or hoof + Could scare her in the awful mystery + Of God-begotten knowledge. Dick had called, + Terrestrial things nor checked her, nor appalled. + + "This is the shroud," she murmured. Over all + The moon had spread her splendour, cold and white. + "This is the shining drapery, the pall, + This hoary sheet of clean pellucid light." + Grasping a small revolver in her hand + She hurried on, across the broken land. + + A mighty Silence wrapped the veld in dreams. + The breath of night hung in the soundless air. + A wilderness unknown, unconquered streams + Lay with the Universe, at one, to dare + In majesty of nature, undisturbed + The flux of centuries, untrod, uncurbed. + + The white world grew before her. Silhouettes + Of shadowed kopjes struck against the sky. + The vlei gleamed fitfully. With sharp-edged frets + The coarse grass cut the horizon lustily. + The dancing moonway on the swollen drift + Broke into patterns on the current swift. + + Thwarted. Beth stared in piteous dismay. + A frantic river, wild with recent rains, + Largened beyond all daring, barred her way. + Flooding the plains, drunk with illicit gains + It dashed with savage fury, tossing high + Its waters over bank and boundary. + + The girl looked anxiously around. Below + The river widened, shallowing its bed, + Seeming to flow on leisurely and slow. + Above, it narrowed to a ravine, fed + By the Fountains. Three bald-headed rocks + Stood solemnly midstream on thick-set hocks. + + Straightly she turned towards the upper reach. + The portly rocks as old and grey as time + Offered a bridge. On past the sunken beach + Of unclean ooze, the sea of gathered slime, + Across the hunching boulders, where the course + Of huddled waters broke their angry force. + + Climbing from rock to rock, from crest to crest, + She threw her weight upon the further bank + Into a clod of mud, whose squelching breast + Received her greedily. She seized the rank + Wild clumps of herbage with her hands, then strove + Until she reached the trusty ridge above. + + Over the drift! The whisperings of her soul + Soothed every hindrance to a thing of naught. + The billowing veld, its tawny ceaseless roll + Was but the highway to the end she sought. + Love was her pilot, and by love controlled + Its radiance led her, like the Star of old. + + Far to the east a straggling knot of trees + Hinted a farm was nestling in their rear, + The scent of flowers floated on the breeze, + The cattle in their kraals, in safety near + Drowsed in the heavy slumber hours of night. + But to the west she hurried, in her flight. + + On, on past trackless scrub, where all around + Like shapeless monsters bulging heap on heap, + Crouched the vast ant heaps on the virgin ground. + And winding in and out them, pressed and deep, + Two wheel spoors scarred the earth. She traced the curve + The cart had chiselled in a sudden swerve. + + With feverish haste she followed line on line + Each deep-hewn rut that carved itself in sand. + Here by the grace of heaven was a sign, + A way to realise her dream's command, + Her instinct's prophecy. God! what was that? + Rending the Silences with tear and scrat. + + Again! That shot! Then all the world lay still, + Calm in the deep placidity of strength + That recks for nothing human. Passive till + Man desecrates its hallowed peace at length. + But to that sound she fled. For Dick lay west, + His wide eyes staring, blood upon his breast. + + Dead, with his face against the cart-wheel. Dead. + A scarlet river flowing, flowing--oh! + His lips were red, his hands--the plains were red! + She knelt beside him, spoke him loudly so + He needs must hear. She bound his wounds in vain, + That nerveless heap would never speak again. + + Dawn came at last. No need to wail or cry, + Dick was beyond all help, and none would hear. + She clasped him in her full-souled agony, + Feeling the young gold morning, fresh and clear, + Yet seeing nothing. Stunned to outward things, + She only knew the dullness sorrow brings. + + And in her numbness heeded not the red + Tall grasses swaying as they bowed and bent + Beneath a crawling Kaffir, or his head + Rear up, a cringing caterpillar sent + To rob the great white Baas; for plenty slow + Some white men take to die, as black men know. + + But if the Baas were dead, beyond all doubt + Slink could be brave. His belly clave the ground. + Had anybody heard the white man's shout, + Caught by the kopjes, echoed in rebound? + Ach! how he wriggled! Now the cart was Slink's, + The scoff, the silver watch, the fiery drinks. + + And look, the mules outspanned were plenty good, + So was the stolen gun. He reached the pool + Of crimson where the two-wheeled Cape-cart stood. + He slithered nearer, wet in dewdrops cool, + His rough patched trousers soaked, then sneaking round + Peeped from his vantage to the bleeding ground. + + Spooks!--His eyes bulged, down dropped his brutal jaw. + Rooted to where he clung, a-sweat with fright, + The cramps of terror gripping at his maw. + Spooks!--Pallid spooks! He shrieked away the sight + Till the wide veld was reeling. Blurred and pale + A spook arose, to follow on his trail. + + It glided nearer, nearer--nearer yet, + Tall as the English mysi far away! + His tongue stuck in his throat, and bleeding wet + He saw the master sitting up at bay! + He heard his name, he heard the still air crack, + Then dropped astonished, wondering, on his back, + + Till every spook had vanished. Slink had gone + To make a longer trek, where plains were dim. + And haggard-eyed and worn, stern vengeance done, + Beth huddled by the poor stiff clay of him + She loved, the smoking weapon in her hand + To scare the scavenger of carrion brand. + + The hours crawled by. Soaked through with thunder rains + She kept her vigil, loosening her hair + In shining masses o'er him. Wild refrains + Of piteous croonings and of vague despair + Crept to her lips, then died away, unsung, + Hiding their tunes, her shattered dreams among. + + * * * * * + + Jan Rissik trekked him homeward. Half a day + To Cellier's farmstead more. The patient team + Of oxen, plodding slowly on their way, + Bent to the nekstrop. Huick! a thin sharp gleam + Of curling whip flicked at the leader, clean, + Sure as a rapier thrust, and long and lean. + + The voorlooper strode on ahead. The boys + Marched to the rhythm of a sing-song chaunt + To ease their work. The wagon's lumbering noise, + The cheering of the oxen, stormed the haunt + Of nature. 'Neath the awning, broad and square + Sat Rissik's vrouw, worn with maternal care. + + Her children nestled round her. Two hours yet! + The Dutchman whistled as he jogged along + In leisured haste. He licked his thick lips wet + To loose his tune. A heavy winging throng + Of gorging vultures, black as devil's brood, + Rose swearing on the air, with protests crude. + + Some rotting beast! Jan Rissik raised his eyes + To watch the swart aasvogel[B] in their flight, + Cracking his whip to dissipate the flies + That swarmed in thousands. Pestilential! Right + Where his oxen wended, straight in front! + He clambered from his seat with angry grunt, + + And pious prayer politely blended, sure + The Powers above would note the quoted text, + Nor heed the fact that while he prayed, he swore! + His keen eyes swept the veld, grave and perplexed. + Two mules strayed fettered by the reim, outspanned, + A cart unhitched, stuck in the khaki sand. + + Jan pulled his slouch hat down, and stroked his beard. + The harsh birds croaked, the dingy clotted brown + That stained the earth confirmed the tale he feared. + A woman in the burning dust stooped down + Over a crumpled figure; and a sheen + Of golden tresses veiled it, like a screen. + + She rocked her too and fro, a little breath + That might be song, or might be strangled word + Broke from her now and then; but only death + Lay in her arms and answered not, nor heard. + + "Come away, come away, + Come, come, come away, + For the moon, for the moon + Made a shroud in the day. + Come away, come away, come, _come_, the moon, + The flowers are calling, Dick--my love, come soon." + + Some hundred yards--Pah! Jan felt strangely sick-- + _She_ must have dragged that fearful thing away, + The devil's brood had claimed. The Rooinek + Was safe. Heaven knew how desperate the fray! + The fierce shot spent, the havoc, showed too well + Her awful battle with those fiends from hell. + + He spoke her in the Taal; he touched her hand; + She scarcely moved, but with a tear-stained smile + Babbled in words he could not understand, + Nodding her head towards the plains the while. + "The other one is dead. He was so black. + He killed my husband, so I killed him back. + + "I want to lay the moonflowers on Dick's breast, + They told me he was calling, so I came; + They kept on nodding, nodding to the west, + I want to have those moonflowers, the same + That told me. Dick is dead. So cold and dead + I don't remember all the flowers said. + + "But if we are not very quick, the shroud + Of silver cross-stitch, woven star on star, + Will be quite stolen by the thunder-cloud, + It's creeping, creeping, growling from afar." + "Ja, Ja," the old Boer nodded. "Both are dead." + "One must be buried!" so the good vrouw said. + + They laboured hard to dig the white man's bed, + Jan Rissik and his trusty man and boys, + Then laid him gently down. With prayer unsaid + But beating at her throat, no word that cloys + Or mars itself in speech--Beth flung the sod + Over her love--and left him there--with God. + + Only a dusty mound to mark his grave, + A dream out-dreamed, a tiny buried cross + From off her neck. The Lord had called, who gave + His rich Acceptance that the world deems loss! + Father, forgive us! For our eyes that see + Only our sorrows--when we should see Thee! + + * * * * * + + To Cellier's farm Jan Rissik trekked at morn. + The English girl lay sleeping in his cart + Clasped to the Dutch vrouw's breast. No longer torn + By grief and passion, human fears, her heart + Was now at rest; her Christ-soul lulled to peace, + Her hands outstretched, to meet the Great Release. + +[B] Aasvogel--vultures. + + + + +PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN +BY WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. +PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Provocations, by Sibyl Bristowe + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROVOCATIONS *** + +***** This file should be named 33855.txt or 33855.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/8/5/33855/ + +Produced by Bryan Ness, Iris Schimandle and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) + + +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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