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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/33855-8.txt b/33855-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c075326 --- /dev/null +++ b/33855-8.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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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 pćan, 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 33855-8.txt or 33855-8.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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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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + + +<h1>PROVOCATIONS</h1> + + +<p class="center top4">TO THE MEMORY</p> + +<p class="center">OF</p> + +<p class="center">MY FATHER<br /> +JOHN SYER BRISTOWE, M.D., F.R.S., LL.D.</p> + +<p class="center bot8">THIS LITTLE BOOK<br /> +OF VERSE<br /> +IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED +</p> + + + +<h2>PROVOCATIONS<br /> + +<small>BY</small><br /> + +SIBYL BRISTOWE</h2> + +<p class="center">WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY</p> + +<p class="center">G. K. CHESTERTON</p> + +<p class="center top8">LONDON, W.C. 1</p> + +<p class="center">ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD. +</p> + + + +<p class="center top8 bot8"><i>All Rights Reserved.<br /> +Copyright by Erskine MacDonald, Ltd.<br /> +in the United States of America.<br /> +First published October, 1918</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> + + + + +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> + + +<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p class="rt"> +<span class="smcap">G. K. Chesterton.</span><br /> +</p> + +<blockquote class="top8"><p>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. </p></blockquote> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<pre style="width: 45em; margin: 0 auto;"> + <small>PAGE</small> +<a href="#The_Great_War">The Great War</a> <a href="#Page_13">13</a> + +<a href="#My_London_Garden_1914">My London Garden, 1914</a> <a href="#Page_14">14</a> + +<a href="#My_Garden_1918">My Garden, 1918</a> <a href="#Page_17">17</a> + +<a href="#Over_the_Top">Over the Top!</a> <a href="#Page_18">18</a> + +<a href="#To_His_Dear_Memory">To His Dear Memory</a> <a href="#Page_20">20</a> + +<a href="#Sorrow">Sorrow</a> <a href="#Page_21">21</a> + +<a href="#Alas">Alas!</a> <a href="#Page_23">23</a> + +<a href="#A_Sacrament">A Sacrament</a> <a href="#Page_24">24</a> + +<a href="#The_Love-shed_Tear">The Love-shed Tear</a> <a href="#Page_25">25</a> + +<a href="#Madonna_Granduca_and_Child">Madonna Granduca and Child</a> <a href="#Page_29">29</a> + +<a href="#A_Vision_of_a_Day_that_is_Past">A Vision of a Day that is Past</a> <a href="#Page_30">30</a> + +<a href="#Bitterness_Casteth_Out_Love">Bitterness Casteth out Love</a> <a href="#Page_33">33</a> + +<a href="#The_Hour_of_Happiness">The Hour of Happiness</a> <a href="#Page_34">34</a> + +<a href="#Thoughts">Thoughts</a> <a href="#Page_35">35</a> + +<a href="#The_Things_Unsaid_are_the_Things_that_Count">The Things Unsaid are the Things that Count!</a> <a href="#Page_36">36</a> + +<a href="#The_Song_of_the_Long_Ago">The Song of the Long Ago</a> <a href="#Page_37">37</a> + +<a href="#The_Sinners_Dreaming">The Sinner's Dreaming</a> <a href="#Page_39">39</a> + +<a href="#Woman">Woman</a> <a href="#Page_40">40</a> + +<a href="#Christmas">Christmas</a> <a href="#Page_41">41</a> + +<a href="#February">February</a> <a href="#Page_42">42</a> + +<a href="#Oh_Tis_May">Oh! 'Tis May</a> <a href="#Page_43">43</a> + +<a href="#To_the_Wind">To the Wind</a> <a href="#Page_45">45</a> + +<a href="#The_Grey_Wind">The Grey Wind</a> <a href="#Page_47">47</a> + +<a href="#Poeta_Nascitur">Poeta Nascitur</a> <a href="#Page_49">49</a> + +<a href="#Queen_Elizabeth">Queen Elizabeth</a> <a href="#Page_51">51</a> + +<a href="#The_Death_of_Queen_Elizabeth">The Death of Queen Elizabeth</a> <a href="#Page_56">56</a> + +<a href="#The_Plea_of_the_Antarctic">The Plea of the Antarctic</a> <a href="#Page_58">58</a> + +<a href="#The_Stranger_in_London">The Stranger in London</a> <a href="#Page_59">59</a> + +<a href="#The_Transvaal_in_June">The Transvaal in June</a> <a href="#Page_62">62</a> + +<a href="#Johannesburg">Johannesburg</a> <a href="#Page_63">63</a> + +<a href="#In_the_Land_of_the_Silences">In the Land of the Silences</a> <a href="#Page_65">65</a> +</pre> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p> + + + +<h2><a name="The_Great_War" id="The_Great_War"></a>The Great War</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Into His colour store God dipped His hand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drew it forth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full of strange hues forgotten, contraband<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of War and Wrath.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Time wove the pattern of the years, that so<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The quick and dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Might knit their bleeding crosses in. And lo!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A patch of red!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="My_London_Garden_1914" id="My_London_Garden_1914"></a>My London Garden, 1914</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My Garden is a tiny square<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of bordered green<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gravel brown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In misty town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And chimneys smoky and unclean<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweep to the sky.—<i>You</i> would not care<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To visit there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The Grass creeps up all in between the stones<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And raises undisturbed its luscious green<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And laughs for youth in shrill and ringing tones.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I love it that it grows up so serene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dauntless and bright<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And laughing me to scorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So vivid and so slight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glad for the night-shed dew and smoke-bred morn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">My little patch of bordered green and brown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sleeps in the bosom of a grim old town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wish that you could see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its beauty here with me;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'd tell you many things you never knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For few, so few<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Know the romance of such a London strip,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With ferny screen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That slants shy gleams of sunlight in between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And weeds which flourish just inside the dip,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding their tenure with a firm deep grip<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where prouder things all die.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Small wonder I<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stem<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wax strong and high—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My weed plot lives in reckless luxury.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But, in the Spring, before black grime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has done its worst,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cruel Time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dust accursed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have marred the innocence of each young leaf,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Masses of tulips, pink and white,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rise from the earth in prim delight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And iris, king of pomp and state,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In vesture fine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And purple and pale gold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its buds unfold—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A mighty potentate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And marshals nobly, proudly into line,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst lilacs sway in wind and rushing breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bowing and nodding to some poplar trees.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But stay!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>You</i> would not care<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To visit there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Midst such surroundings grey.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Garden's but an oasis of hope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Set in the frown<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dismal grandeur of a grim old town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A semblance merely of the lawns <i>you</i> see;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A hint, an echo of the things that be!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he or she would be a misanthrope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who would not share my garden hope with me.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="My_Garden_1918" id="My_Garden_1918"></a>My Garden, 1918</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Such was my garden once, a Springtide hope of flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All rosy pink or violet or blue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or yellow gold, with sunflecks on the dew.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now in their place a Summer garden towers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of green-leaved artichokes and turnip tops,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of peas and parsnips, sundry useful crops.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—But even vegetables must have <i>little</i> flowers.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Over_the_Top" id="Over_the_Top"></a>Over the Top!</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Ten</i> more minutes! Say yer prayers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Read yer Bibles,—pass the rum!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Ten</i> more minutes! Strike me dumb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Ow they creeps on unawares<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those blooming minutes. <i>Nine</i>. It's queer,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'm sorter stunned. It ain't with fear!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Eight</i>. It's like as if a frog<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waddled round in your inside<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cold as ice-blocks, straddled wide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tired o' waiting.—Where's the grog?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Seven</i>. I'll play you pitch and toss.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Six</i>. I wins, and tails your loss.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Nother minute sprinted by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Fore I knowed it; only <i>four</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">(Break 'em into seconds) more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twixt us and Eternity!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Every word I've ever said<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seems a-shouting in my head!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Three</i>. Larst night a little star<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fairly shook up in the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Frightened by the lullaby<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rattled by the dogs of war.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Funny thing—that star all white<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saw old Blighty too, larst night!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Two</i>. I ain't ashamed o' prayers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They're only wishes sent ter God,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bits o' plants from bloody sod<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trailing up His golden stairs.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Ninety seconds</i>. Well, who cares!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>One</i>. <span class="stretch">. . . . . .</span><br /></span> +<span class="i3"><span class="stretch">. . . . . .</span><br /></span> +<span class="i3">No pipe, no blare, no drum—<br /></span><span class="i0">Over the Top!—to Kingdom Come<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="To_His_Dear_Memory" id="To_His_Dear_Memory"></a>To His Dear Memory<br /> + +<small>(April 14th, 1917)</small></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beneath the humid skies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where green birds wing, and heavy burgeoned trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sway in the fevered breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Brother lies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And rivers passionate<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tore through the mountain passes, swept the plains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">O'erbrimmed with tears, o'erbrimmed with summer rains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All wild, all desolate.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst the deep Mother-breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of drowsy-lidded Nature, drunk with dreams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Below Pangani, by Rufigi streams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Took him to rest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beneath the sunlit skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where bright birds wing, and rich luxuriant trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sway in the fevered breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My Brother lies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The bending grasses woo<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His hurried grave; a cross of oak to show<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The drifting winds, a Soldier sleeps below.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Our Saviour's cross, I know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was wooden, too.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> The river Rufigi rose so high the night he died, none of +his own Battalion could cross it to attend his last honours.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Sorrow" id="Sorrow"></a>Sorrow</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Send Sorrow away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Sorrow is dressed in grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her eyes are dim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a weary rim.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Send Sorrow away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Send Sorrow away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Maid of the sombre sway,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Breathing woe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a murmur low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her lips are pale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her body frail.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Send Sorrow away.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Send Sorrow away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Foe of the dancing day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! her cheeks fall in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And her hands are thin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But her grip is fast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the changeless past;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they sere and clutch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The soul they touch.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Send Sorrow away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Send Sorrow away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For she haunts me night and day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Sorrow is dressed in grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yes, Sorrow is dressed in grey.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she looks so old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So drawn, so cold—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Send Sorrow away.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Alas" id="Alas"></a>Alas!</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So softly Time trod with me, that I lost<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His footsteps pacing mine. I stayed the while<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To wrest the luscious fruits from love and life;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He strode on pauselessly, with thin cold smile.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So surely Time trod with me; marred my bloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stole all my roses, spread his cobwebs grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrung all my tresses in his silvering hand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So stealthily he lured my youth away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I only learned that I was old—to-day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I could have borne it bravely, this I know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had not the lips of children told me so.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_Sacrament" id="A_Sacrament"></a>A Sacrament</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Tears!—And I brought them to the Lord, and said:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"What are these crystal globes by nations shed?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What is the crimson flood that stains the land?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where is Thy peace, and where Thy guiding hand?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Why are those thousands daily sacrificed?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where is Thy might, and where the love of Christ?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And from the heavens methought I heard a voice—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh son of earth, I bid thee still rejoice!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Those crystal tears by men and nations shed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Water My harvest, sanctify My dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That crimson flood which stains the hapless earth<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is but the prelude to a nobler birth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Those thousands, who for home have gladly died,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sleep in the hope of Jesus crucified.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flesh, Blood, and Water, Little Child of Mine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Veil in their depths a Mystery divine."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I bowed my head, and prayed for faith to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The inner visions of Calamity!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Love-shed_Tear" id="The_Love-shed_Tear"></a>The Love-shed Tear</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Knocked a man at the shining Gate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hard and bad and proud and old!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep in years—for his call was late.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Gate was shut, and he had to wait,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he leaned awhile on his bag of gold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Roll'd the Heavenly portals back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Guarded close by a flaming sword!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old man opened out his sack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saint Peter searched the sordid pack,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Is this thy passport to the Lord?"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Saint Peter sighed, ill-gotten greed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was all therein to offer God,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He vainly sought one kindly deed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One gentle word to those in need,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One little step in mercy trod.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"And is this all?" Saint Peter said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"This fruitless hoard of worthless sin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This earthly gold, which weighs like lead?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh, wretched man! thy soul is <i>dead</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou mayst—thou canst not enter in!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Could I have found one single sign<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of life within thy sordid soul,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One kindling spark of Life Divine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The flames of hell had not been thine.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hence"—and he seal'd the Judgment scroll.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down to the fires whose lurid light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lick'd and blazoned the depths of hell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mocking red in the pitchy night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down, ever down, from out God's sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down to the damned the Miser fell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There in the haunts of deepest sin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Satan watched with his sombre eye.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The trembling Miser peered within,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He thought to find his kith and kin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose guilt condemned them too—to die.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He wandered round from place to place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then beat his breast with wondering moan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For lo! of all the human race<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Miser stood in hell—Alone!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For all had found some saving grace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That set them free to seek God's face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And could their vilest sins atone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He cowered low in abject fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No single virtue could he plead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Satan's own—by self decreed!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When sudden! 'neath a dastard deed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The devil cried, "What lieth here?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was a single love-shed tear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shed in an hour of direst need.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once he had wept in grief and pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once—when his child lay coldly dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once he had prayed. No prayer is vain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This prayer had lived to save again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bring remission on his head.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only a tear! The Heavenly Choir<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Praised the Lord for the thing call'd love;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But Satan shrieked in frenzied ire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"This foolish tear will quench my fire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This man must go above—above!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Back again where the flaming sword<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Closely guarded the jewelled door.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I seek," he humbly sobbed, "our Lord.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I brought Thee gold—a worthless hoard—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thou wouldst not let me in before.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But now I come to Thee with this—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little thing, 'tis very small—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I pray Thee take it not amiss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My gold is in the dark abyss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This little tear, oh Lord, is all!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Oh wondrous drop," Saint Peter cried,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"That shows the sap of life within<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A <i>living</i> Soul, with chance to win<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A place with God, immune from sin!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Methought the fount of Life had dried"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">(He flung the Gates of Heaven wide),<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Go, <i>living</i> Soul, and enter in!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There in the lowest halls of grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through deep remorse and pains austere<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He washed his soul from sin's dark trace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then in his heart-felt awe and fear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He lowly sought his Saviour's face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saved to life through a love-shed tear!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Madonna_Granduca_and_Child" id="Madonna_Granduca_and_Child"></a>Madonna Granduca and Child</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Little Christ, little Christ,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sheltered there on Mary's breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All Thy child-like purity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lightens life's obscurity,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">So I thank Thee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For that ray of light confessed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sweet Thy mother, Baby Christ,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet in woman's modesty;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But to such an one as me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I would choose to kneel to Thee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Thy young simplicity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Thy full divinity,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Little Christ.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Give me tears to keep me clean,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Give me joyfulness serene,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Steep me for futurity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In Thy white-souled purity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Thine innocence sufficed,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Little Christ, little Christ,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vagrants like myself to bless,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">So I thank Thee<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For Thy perfect holiness,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Little Christ.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="A_Vision_of_a_Day_that_is_Past" id="A_Vision_of_a_Day_that_is_Past"></a>A Vision of a Day that is Past</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The sky hung smooth o'er the line of hill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shadowed the valley that seemed so still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the blackbird whistled his love notes shrill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The church lay dreaming of God, and when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bodies should rise from her graveyard pen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the high grass covered her poor dead men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The water meadows shone rich with gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gold that the buttercups had sold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the nibbling sheep of the red ring-fold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And even the river murmured rest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the sun sank low in the tender west,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the earth flowers slept on their mother's breast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the valley that seemed so still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the blackbird whistled his love-notes shrill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I gazed, and all against my will<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw a vision beneath the hill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Centuries passed like a mist away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I stood in the glare of a burning day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst the church-bells clamoured a call to pray.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">War and its brother raced hand in hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That brother called Death; and they seared the land<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With their fiery breath and the murder brand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And copses and dales were bleeding red,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naught was sacred, the living or dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old, old man, or the girl just wed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Men stormed the homestead, blazed the corn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pillaged and sacked from night till morn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And spitted the babe that was newly born.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Savage and brutal, like hell-hounds freed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They swarmed the hill, debauched with greed—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some slunk behind, their lust to feed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At last, when the streams ran human blood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soaking the fields in a scarlet flood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A woman prayed with her child for food.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All on their way those soldiers passed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a fœtid jest at her hapless fast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And some men cut her down at last.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They cut her down! Oh, woe is me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they left her to rot in her misery,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Naked and scorned for the world to see.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They left her bare in the cold night air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save only the comb in her coal-black hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they strangled the baby, helpless there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">They did not trouble to wind them round<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a sheet of earth in the dewy ground,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They looted them both for the spoil they found.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the wind was kind. It wailed aloud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And churned the dust, till it rose a cloud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">like a pearly mist, to form a shroud.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the leaves swooned down to the wind's sweet call<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And covered the mother and babe and all,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till they lay at peace in a soft green pall.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The church still ponders, and wonders when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those bodies will rise from her graveyard pen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But she knows they are blessed, those poor dead men,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For they sleep within her Christian fold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under her consecrated mould,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where a verse was read, and a prayer was told.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But under the hill, in the leaves somewhere,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lie a mother and child all stark and bare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Save only a comb in the coal-black hair—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet God will remember they lie out there.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<blockquote><p>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.</p></blockquote> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Bitterness_Casteth_Out_Love" id="Bitterness_Casteth_Out_Love"></a>Bitterness Casteth Out Love</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the hill where the white road sweeps,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the dead fern holds the snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love flew by, and the black night sky<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shadowed the vales below.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down in the creek, where the ice-pools gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the trees stand gaunt and bare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I crouched me down, and the sullen frown<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of earth entombed me there.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Ah," mocked the ice-pool, hard and clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Man with the frozen soul;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love sailed by, on a cloud-bound sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the tears that sorrow stole."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Gone," said the fern, "from your frost-bound touch;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Gone from your winter's heart.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Love flew by, like the tattered sigh<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bitterness tore apart."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And the aching trees bowed branch and twig<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And a shrivelled leaf made cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"If you are cold, and your heart be old,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For certain, Love must die."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the hill, where the white road sweeps,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And the dead fern holds the snow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet Love fled; and a spirit dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Spectres the slopes below.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Hour_of_Happiness" id="The_Hour_of_Happiness"></a>The Hour of Happiness</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The world is fair! The circling swell<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of fresh tumultuous sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holds life within its rhythmic rise<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And bursts of harmony;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And storm-clouds chasing down the sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Empty their hearts as they sweep by.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The world is gay!—Such lilt and song,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such mellowness of tune,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such drifting airs from wave and shore,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From rock and sand and dune.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I did not know that clouds of spray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Splashed as they fell, a roundelay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A magic day! A magic hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Has raised a magic mood.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! years ago God made the world<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And saw that it was good.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from His ecstasy divine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I borrowed this sweet hour of mine.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Thoughts" id="Thoughts"></a>Thoughts</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So fair, so delicate the thoughts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He marvelled they could be his own;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He did not dream that they were birds<br /></span> +<span class="i2">From heaven flown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Birds with a message in their throats,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Limpid and golden from the sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Most wonderful his song. 'Twas strange<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He knew not why.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They fluttered their white wings awhile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then soared again to paradise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving a trail of limpid notes<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For sacrifice.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Things_Unsaid_are_the_Things_that_Count" id="The_Things_Unsaid_are_the_Things_that_Count"></a>The Things Unsaid are the Things that Count!</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You told me you had done with love,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You showed me why;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You said it often, just to prove<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Inconstancy!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I never heard—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I only marked—the <i>unsaid</i> word.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You told me you had thoughts beyond<br /></span> +<span class="i2">My own poor love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A wider sphere, ambitions fond!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">'Fore God above<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In rosy bliss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I only felt th' ungiven kiss!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I knew one day that unsaid word would dress<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In shining letters, spelling happiness!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I knew that love would one day be mine own,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A tender suppliant for forgiveness won.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I had no fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Tho' cold and clear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You gave your answer,—sweet, my dear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I never heard—your spoken word!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Song_of_the_Long_Ago" id="The_Song_of_the_Long_Ago"></a>The Song of the Long Ago</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wraith of the out-lived years,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wandering too and fro,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Floating to earth on the hallowed tones<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a song of long ago.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Shadows of those asleep<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Steal through the simple lay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifting the silvery veil aside<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of a long lost yesterday.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beautiful silent days,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Raised from the silent past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the pregnant chords of a once loved song<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Memory speaks at last.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Of the golden summer eves,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Shrined in the mists of years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a world of hopes! Dear God, what hopes,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Born to the soul in tears.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But the youthful hopes creep by,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stealing with solemn chime<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To a finite grave. They will rise in faith<br /></span> +<span class="i2">When Eternity conquers Time.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dream-laden, tender song,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sacred and sweet and old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the lingering touch of a bygone age,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have scanned again in thy down-turned page,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A tale that was long since told.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Sinners_Dreaming" id="The_Sinners_Dreaming"></a>The Sinner's Dreaming</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the great sun flung bands of gold<br /></span> +<span class="i2">(Bands to the number of seven)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the limpid sea, we followed the gold<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And climbed on our way to Heaven.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There to the portals of cloud and storm,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Piled high in the regions of thunder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till we reached the sky, in its columns of storm,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And God's gates rolled asunder.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Below, the world like a ball of mist<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With us, pearl and jacinth and beryl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And it faded away, that pearl-grey mist,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And we clung to the gates in peril.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Myrrh and incense, and jacinth and pearl,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How we cringed on the floor of Heaven!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the great sun drew its bands from the pearl.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bands to the number of seven.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And now, as we gaze from our star-crowned sphere<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To the shadows, where earth is seeming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We know that that hazy circling sphere<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was only a sinner's dreaming!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Woman" id="Woman"></a>Woman</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When God made woman<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fair He made her, as the rose;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her face upturned to catch His radiant smile;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His sunbeams lurked the while<br /></span> +<span class="i0">About her lips; with care He chose<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her hair and glory, and her round white throat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pillared keeper of her woman's note.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God filled her eyes with innocence and love,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And glimpsing lights from out His skies above.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Father knew that she was beautiful.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And yet, to make her nobly dutiful<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Him, within her breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He set a shrine, all holy and possessed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In shining mystery. And few who know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To enter in. The evading flame aglow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That fills the shrine, is white as unshed snow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And deep within that casket of her breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are secret joys, to God alone confessed.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Christmas" id="Christmas"></a>Christmas</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">White the weather, white the weather!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stars and ice at one together,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shining frost on cracking branches,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Snow in pale smooth avalanches.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">White the weather, wintry weather.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wan the way, where once the heather<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bloomed in radiant summer weather,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sparkling icicles moon-lustred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Droop, where once the green leaves clustered.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life is sleeping, held in tether.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once a Babe was born this weather,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Three Wise Men set forth together;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once a Star of wondrous glory<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Told the Christ's triumphant story.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wintry weather!—God's own weather!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All the world washed white together!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="February" id="February"></a>February</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I do not sing for youth and love,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">For passion and desire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I only sing because the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is gold like shining fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I only sing because the day<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Is blue, the grass is green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The birds are singing out their hearts,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The waking twigs between!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Because the chestnut branch is tipped<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With buds of folded brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because the snowdrops look so white,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The catkins feather down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because the naked elms have bent<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To whisper me this thing—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sap is stirring in their limbs—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">How can I choose, but sing!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Oh_Tis_May" id="Oh_Tis_May"></a>Oh! 'Tis May</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come and idle in the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come and idle, everyone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flowering May<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is wholly gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come and idle in the sun.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come and smell the new-mown lawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fragrant grass, and dew-wet dawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Buds unfold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And leaves grown bold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spread great shadows on the lawn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Come and hear the chaffinch trill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear the lark and thrushes thrill!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come along,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Such</i> a song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such a chorus bright and shrill.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Won't</i> you come?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear the hum,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hear the hum of tireless bee.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come with me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wilt not idle for a day?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wilt not shirk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thy waste of work?<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>This</i> is life, this radiant play<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nature keeps for flowering May.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Buds and bees and grass and flower<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Make a sweeter, holier hour<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Than all drab years of labour dour.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come and play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come and glory in the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come and laugh! Come, everyone.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flowering May<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is fresh and gay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come and greet the golden sun.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come and play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come, oh! come out, everyone!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="To_the_Wind" id="To_the_Wind"></a>To the Wind</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wind, wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Do you whisper eerie sonnets to the moon<br /></span> +<span class="i3">As it rises white and sickled? Do you croon<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Silver-coloured ditties pale and low<br /></span> +<span class="i3">As you rock the cedar branches too and fro?<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Do you sing to woo the bat,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Is it that, is it that?<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Have you tunes for such a sullen little wraith,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Half dream, swooping high, scarcely seen, chiefly faith?<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Would you hold a phantom to your breast<br /></span> +<span class="i3">As you murmur gently love-notes from the west?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wind, wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Every tree is but a harp for your desire,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Every leaf a mellow string to swell your choir,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Every grass a cooing reed<br /></span> +<span class="i3">At your need, for your need,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Drums and clashing cymbals of the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Boom a pćan, hurl a flood of melody.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wind, wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Men have snatched an air or two<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Of a fantasy from you<br /></span> +<span class="i3">And have prisoned them in books to make them stay,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Scattered fragments that your lips have blown this way.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i3">Small and shy and thin and cramped and grave,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">They are caged and tied to paper in a stave.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Do you mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Oh Wind?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i3">But you laugh and troll out gaily on your way,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">"Keep the fragments, little earth-men, dance and play,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">'Tis a dainty roundelay,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Hold it, pray; hold it, pray.<br /></span> +<span class="i3">For myself, my breath is fierce, myself am great,<br /></span> +<span class="i3">For my tiny fallen airs I dare not wait;<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Storms beneath my rushing wings unfurled<br /></span> +<span class="i3">Roll the symphonies which dominate the world."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Grey_Wind" id="The_Grey_Wind"></a>The Grey Wind</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have been, where never man went,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the grey wind:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far from the gorse and the wet earth scent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have been.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have seen, what no man hath seen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the grey wind:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have cowered down his knees between:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have seen.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have heard, what no man hath heard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the grey wind:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dry leaves crackle and snap at his word<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have heard.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I have heard, and I watched them fly<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All the wild leaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a hustled crowd, to the stormy sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At his word.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And they swept in a whirlwind wan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Churned by his breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out to the windways, where never sun shone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forth they swept.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Whiles they leapt in a maddened dance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swung scatterwise;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Eddied and swirled to a swift advance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till they crept<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Spent and worn, in their frenzied fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaves of brown-gold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chittering feebly in masses sere,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crazed and slow:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I know, what never man knew,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those poor dead leaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are the souls of men the grey wind slew—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This I know.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Poeta_Nascitur" id="Poeta_Nascitur"></a>Poeta Nascitur</h2> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Tho' all mayn't know it,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;">Rules only, never made a poet.</span><br /> +</p> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He thought to shape his writings into verse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He pruned them down to language fixed and terse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But finding that would give his tricks no play,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spurned his reserve, and tried another way.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This time he dressed the naked words with care,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And studying every law of form and rhyme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pieced up his metre into studious time.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But still, whatever medium he chose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His work remained poor, tortured, unsexed prose.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the vale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stooping, he caught a whisper from the sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That slipped from out the twilight whimsically.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Its tender sorrow touched him as it fell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quickened his fancies, stirred his heart as well,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In reverent awe he heard its mystic call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A heaven-born glory permeating all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He did not dare to pin that whisper down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To words so peacocked in a flaunting gown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The forms of metre he had conned so well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were all inadequate that sigh to tell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No further use that artificial code,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those simpered rhymes, his petty bandbox mode<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of tight-packed trumpery. No need to pace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The solemn pavements of the commonplace.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Each little trick, each fantasy of art<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were stones that blocked th' outpourings of his heart.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He looked beyond the great inrushing sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeing at last the hidden things that be!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And of the wave he learnt a cadence sweet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strong as its life, a lilt of rippling feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whilst from the wind that swept the answering trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He culled the moaning rhythm of the breeze.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He weaved that whisper of the twilight sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into a poem, soft with melody,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It thrilled the soul in motion strong and free,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wild as the wave, a break of ecstasy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It kissed the borderland 'twixt heaven and earth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet in its passion, holy in its mirth—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And lo! a light gleamed through each noble line,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind crooned softly, starways seemed to shine—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That poem—was divine.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Queen_Elizabeth" id="Queen_Elizabeth"></a>Queen Elizabeth</h2> + +<blockquote><p>She would dance a Coranto, that the French Ambassador, hidden +behind a curtain, might report her sprightliness to his +master.—<span class="smcap">Greene.</span> </p></blockquote> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">So Elizabeth danced<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And the guest was entranced<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As she tripped the Coranto, and curtseyed and swayed<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In a robe of rich stuff,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Jewelled slashings and ruff,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a stomacher stiff, thick with pearlings and braid.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Ho! he peeped round the curtain,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">'Tis perfectly certain<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Enraptured of mien<br /></span> +<span class="i4">At the tiptoeing Queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a courtly way, in a Frenchy way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a naughty way, in that Tudor day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Yes, he peeped round the screen,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And he sniggered ("I ween,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This is only a woman to flatter and kiss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A creature of vanity")—"Madam, what bliss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To have witnessed such grace, such elegant——" here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He could find no more words, and emotion 'twas clear<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Choked all further utterance,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For never had such a dance<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Entered his thought.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Such slippers! and ought<br /></span> +<span class="i4">He to mention the hose?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">All of silk to suppose?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had the muse from Olympus stepped down for a while<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Terpsichore style?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Then quite without guile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He bowed very low in his Frenchified way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In that courtly way, of a far-off day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the laugh of the lady was merry and gay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And all throughout Europe the fame of her spread,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her frivolous tricks, and the foreigners said<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was only a princess, a slave to her pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">True child of a mother a king had decried!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So she thwarted and twisted the world to her whim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As he misunderstood her—she outwitted him!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Now one day it arose that King Philip of Spain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Incensed at her folly, essayed yet again<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To bring her to reason<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Just at his own season.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So he sent his Ambassador, Spanish Mendoza,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To this slippery Queen, with a message sub rosa.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Nay, by mine honour," she simpered. "How now,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is it truce to my jest? 'Tis a pity I trow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It were best to be merry!" She yawned very wide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the Spaniard furtively smiled at her side.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twas only a woman to flatter and kiss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Twould be easy to manage a creature like this!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hard-headed and wise, sat the gaunt English Queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her words were unyielding, her purse it was mean—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The Spanish Ambassador<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Writhed like a matador!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beaten and wounded, he played to her vanity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—It was tucked out of sight—and with Spanish profanity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He cursed all the Protestants under his breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And committed them gently to burnings and death;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But never an inch did Elizabeth yield,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the messenger saw that his mission was sealed,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In that far-off day.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And Elizabeth laughed<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In a curious way<br /></span> +<span class="i4">That was subtle with craft:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">"Under favour, you may<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tell your master in Spain, that my country comes first.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am England, and English, its best and its worst.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tell him my subjects I love as my children,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tell him they thirst but their mouths will be filled when<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They meet him at sea.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Give that greeting from me."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Back to Madrid went that Spanish Ambassador,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Broken and bruised like a bull-beaten matador,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And he bowed very low<br /></span> +<span class="i4">(It was etiquette so)<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he cried, "Oh, that Queen is the devil in sooth.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fool, Sire, 'twas thought, for she danced so uncouth!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But her bargains are hard as her heart and her hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As her dreary dominions, her men and her land!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And never be gulled by her feminine vanity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis only a pose, all her vacant inanity!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let us man an armada to crush her and raid her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To send her to hell to the demons who made her!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> +<span class="i4">And they came, as you know:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Heavy ships big and slow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a lumbering way, in a blundering way<br /></span> +<span class="i4">In that Tudor day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proudly up channel their galleons swept,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swiftly our pinnaces hustled and leapt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At their rear. Dogs tracking their prey<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And biting and snapping<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And snarling and yapping,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Delighted and fierce at the chance of a fray.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">God! How the Spaniards fled in a panic<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When our fire-ships had neared them,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And blazed them, and seared them,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrapping their hulks in red flamings Satanic!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">God, how they scattered,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Slipped anchor, and shattered,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Sails tattered,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Masts battered,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up to the north whilst a mighty sou'-wester<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rose wildly and strong, to hinder and pester<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their perilous flight; how they foundered and sank<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On that treacherous bank,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Lost, lost evermore<br /></span> +<span class="i4">On our alien shore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With their grim freight of death<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the poisonous breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of scurvy and pestilence, hunger, despair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The struggling remainder of galleons bear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Them back to the port of Corunna again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All, all that is left to the pride of proud Spain.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Courageous and calm, with the valour of men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Elizabeth waited the chances; and then<br /></span> +<span class="i4">"My children are fed<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And their enemies dead,"<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Cried the frivolous Queen.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Majestic of mien<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She towered, her wisdom and high inspiration,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The might of a people, the soul of a nation.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> + +<h4>L'Envoie<br /></h4> +<span class="i0">(And even to-day I will wager that no man<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Can fathom the mind or the depths of a woman!)<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Death_of_Queen_Elizabeth" id="The_Death_of_Queen_Elizabeth"></a>The Death of Queen Elizabeth</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Only<br /></span> +<span class="i4">So lonely,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was ever woman quite so lonely?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchanged<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Elizabeth.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That gorgeous England, which was once her own.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those solemn courtiers pacing to and fro<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Outside the palace, neither care nor know<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The dying Queen is lonely!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And she, contemptuous victim once of hate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And score of plots, plunges her naked sword<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrice through the arras, which had never stirred—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Afraid!—<i>Elizabeth?</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She shivers, this gay daughter of a gold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Entrancing age. The debonair gallant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who sang her, now the mocking sycophant.<br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span></span> +<span class="i0">The ministers she trusted, gone. The throne<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She loved with all her passion, left for one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, she<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shrinks from the new and cold sobriety<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of chill advancing fashion. Only Death<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To woo this poor—this great Elizabeth!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Was ever woman quite so lonely?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Plea_of_the_Antarctic" id="The_Plea_of_the_Antarctic"></a>The Plea of the Antarctic</h2> + +<blockquote><p>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.—<span class="smcap">Commander Evans.</span> </p></blockquote> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out of the ice-bound realms a clear voice said,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Give me the right to bury my great dead.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No green-girt lands can honour them as I,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor wrap them round in such pale purity.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Leave them with me, alone in my white world,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Place England's flag above their cairns unfurled.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I need great souls! Great Hero souls to bless<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And consecrate my snowy wilderness."<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Stranger_in_London" id="The_Stranger_in_London"></a>The Stranger in London</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">'Tis a big, big place!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the clouds that gather the grey skies in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are frayed by chimneys black and old,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Serried stacks of grime and sin.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And every road and every street<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has a secret tale to guard and hold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mid the echoing tones of passing feet.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh weary place!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brimmed up with life, confused in sound,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have little part in your daily round,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I wander lonely—stranger bound.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are houses surely which open their door<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To those they know,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For me they stand in a formal row<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Story on story, floor upon floor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shielding themselves from the crimson sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the on-rolling mutter<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of traffic and wagon, of footstep and cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With curtain and shutter.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mute houses which shun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All light, sound and me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Inexorably.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sometimes when I toss on my pillow at night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the spluttering rain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spreads the smuts on the pane,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I dream that those mansions relax their grim pride<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And opening wide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their intimate hearts to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chill taciturnity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Melts in the warmth of rich colour and fire.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vast halls are alight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With radiant desire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To show hospitality.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lavish regality<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Squanders the staircase in flowers and green.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I wander unseen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the great pillared corridors, kiss the soft red<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the shimmering hangings; the sensuous glow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ablaze in the hearth thrills me throughly, I know<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is place for me there, in those homes I thought dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But sleep's "Open, Sesame"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fails with the light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forcing the hopes of me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Back into night.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never to open, never to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stern cold houses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Closed to me!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gathering storms which smirch the sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burst your bonds, for up on high<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May I come in?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have no part in this world, no home,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No love to hold me. Bid me come,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I would warm myself at your great round sun,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I would open your windows one by one.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Your little stars and your crescent moon.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am tired and thin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I think I shall come and see you soon.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May I come in, may I come in?<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="The_Transvaal_in_June" id="The_Transvaal_in_June"></a>The Transvaal in June</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Under the deep blue vault<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a hot relentless sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burns the hot red deep, and the hot red road,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the choking dust like a rust corrode<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soars up in spirals high.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Under the sun-gilt span<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a hot and brazen sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cries the thirsty drift for a summer rain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Baring its naked stones in vain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And its mud in misery.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Under the cloudless curve<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of a wide remorseless sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sleeps the patchy scrub of the sweeping veld<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the slim blue gums, and the wattle belt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the shrike broods watchfully.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Under the sullen glare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the grim unblinking sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The hot dorp pants, the red roofs daze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mule tracks scorch, the iron-stones blaze<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In their sun-struck agony.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="Johannesburg" id="Johannesburg"></a>Johannesburg</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Miraculous city!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thoughts stupendous to crush the wise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Buildings monstrous which brush the skies!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Raise your eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In awe. Yet pity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This marvellous, golden, mushroom city.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hear the roar!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the moan of the sea, when the wave curls back<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the granite rock which whirls it back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A great unceasingly grinding drone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a heavy unyielding monotone.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Tis the frenzied wail of the lost in pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The shriek of the damned raised in vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Again! again!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the stamping machine with a brutal joy<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wrenches the gold from its quartz alloy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crushing the tortured stone to dust<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As it yields the ore<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the vast unquenchable thirst for lust.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Feel</i> the south wind!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As it sweeps the veld with its icy breath,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Biting the scrub with its teeth of death,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">lifting the dust like a phantom shroud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the tailing heaps, in a veil of cloud.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scattering the belching smoke, which flies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the chimney line that marks the rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the Main Reef ridge.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some devil's bridge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bind the town to the broad full plain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which rolls beyond, like the boundless main.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Precocious town!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The forward child of a youthful state<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So young in years. So rich, so great<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In gilt renown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And glittering fate!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh! ponder deep, all ye! Yet pity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This marvellous, golden, old-young city!<br /></span> +</div></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="In_the_Land_of_the_Silences" id="In_the_Land_of_the_Silences"></a>In the Land of the Silences</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She stood before the tent, a winging tent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In thicknesses of canvas, taut and strong,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burning beneath a sun unreticent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Raised upon planks, and lashed with rope and thong.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And she was fair, a sprig of English May,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Born for the kiss of merriment and day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Wide from the tent, like swell on swell of sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The great veld swept and rolled in curves away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A shabby patch of God's eternity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Neglected by the angels, bare and grey,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wind-swept and solitary. Dick and she<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Had made this veld their home for seasons three.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Well</i> she remembered that first reckless ride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their wedding journey over spruit and land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The barbed-wire straggling snares, the kopje side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The crumbling blockhouse dreaming of command,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Holding a loot of empty pot and tin,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Which once had held a soldier guard within.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The mud-dogged drift, the dust all baked and red<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twisting in spiral devils, raw as rust,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those lonely crosses leaning on their dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Murmuring Africa was never just.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"She knows no pity," shrieked the fierce South wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"She steals your youth and stultifies your mind."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On, on they flew, past Kaffir boom and kraal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thorn wacht-een-beetje, fleshy aloe clump,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the charred stretches of the high Transvaal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By meerkat hole, and rounded white-ant hump<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of tunnelled earth. She laughed; the air was wild,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Strong with exhilaration, undefiled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At last they reined. Across the scrub and veld<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dick pointed with his sjambok to the white<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Outspreading tent, then to the wattle belt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That marshalled thinly in the shimmering light.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"There lies our home, dear love, for you and me."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She looked up gladly, smiled him tenderly.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Summer had followed winter, radiant, rich,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reckless with life, extravagant in bloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mad for the first wild draught of water, which<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burst from the thunder-clouds, whose massive gloom<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Blackened the skies, then splitting, ripped and tore<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Deep gorges through the tracks, with deafening roar.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The storms swept by. A fairyland of green<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mantled the waking plains; wide star-like flowers<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sprang to their feet; the streams ran strong and clean,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The soft mimosa sprinkled into showers<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of golden balls. The oleander hedge<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Swayed to the line of gums with leaves on edge.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And it was summer now. Beth crossed the sloot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grown arrogant with rains, which lapped her square<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of gorgeous garden, swirling to the spruit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond, in childish hurry. Was he there?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">She scanned the far horizon. No, no sign—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of man or beast to break the distance line.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Stay, was that he beyond the drift? Ah no,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only her wishes trembling in the air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mirage heat. A train sedate and slow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wheeled round the kopje far away. The glare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of brazen sun beat in her eyes. Too late!—<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He would not come to-night! In lonely state<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She must endure these o'ercharged dragging hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This th' unspoken horror of her life,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dread that sapped her strength, and drained her powers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The guarded secret of a brave man's wife!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Dick would come back to-morrow with the light<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of morn. But fear would be her Lord to-night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Beth turned her to the stoep. With sensuous breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moonflower drenched the garden in its scent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ardent, voluptuous, and white as death<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It hung long blossoms, heavy with intent.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The morning glories folded into sleep.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Lay purple in undress, and slumber deep.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Behind the wattles rose the circled moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Splashing her silver over poort and track.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The boys went chattering to their kraals, and soon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Long shadows ribbed the tent in white and black.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beth closed the entrance fast, then slowly sped,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A lonely woman, to a lonely bed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="fivestar"> * * * * * +<br /><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i14">Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Come, come, come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">For the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">For the moon<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Wove a shroud in the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">All of white,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">All of white,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Which she flings over all<br /></span> +<span class="i14">In the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">In the night<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Like a pall,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">In the night, in the night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i14">Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Come, come, come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">For the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">For the moon<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Threw my blossoms a ray,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">They are white,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Deadly white,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">And their petals are pale,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Wan and light.<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Do not fail,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Come away—in the night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i14">Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Come, come, come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">For the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">For the moon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i10">Wove a shroud in the day,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">And my scent,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Oh my scent<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Which I waft over all,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Is of death!<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Feel its breath!<br /></span> +<span class="i10">And the moon made a pall<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Which she lent to us all,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">To us all!<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Come away.... Come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i14">Come,<br /></span> +<span class="i18">Come,<br /></span> +<span class="i22">Come....<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Come, come!"—The sleeper moved. An argent shroud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Woven with silver cross-stitch into stars.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was that the moonflower singing from the cloud?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why were its petals bruised and veined with scars?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Come!"—It was not the moonflower. Wide awake<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Beth started up. That voice!—For pity's sake!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That dear loved voice. The midnight echoed clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rang with that urgent summons from the veld,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That startling premonition. Far and near<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cries shivered through her brain. Dick's voice. She felt<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It vibrant in her ears. A call, for her.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She sprang up quickly, every sense astir.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down past the shadowed garden, through the kloof,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She knew the way, she followed to the cry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No stealthy footpad, sound of howl or hoof<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Could scare her in the awful mystery<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of God-begotten knowledge. Dick had called,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Terrestrial things nor checked her, nor appalled.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"This is the shroud," she murmured. Over all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moon had spread her splendour, cold and white.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"This is the shining drapery, the pall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This hoary sheet of clean pellucid light."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Grasping a small revolver in her hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She hurried on, across the broken land.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A mighty Silence wrapped the veld in dreams.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The breath of night hung in the soundless air.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A wilderness unknown, unconquered streams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay with the Universe, at one, to dare<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In majesty of nature, undisturbed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The flux of centuries, untrod, uncurbed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The white world grew before her. Silhouettes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of shadowed kopjes struck against the sky.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The vlei gleamed fitfully. With sharp-edged frets<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The coarse grass cut the horizon lustily.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The dancing moonway on the swollen drift<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Broke into patterns on the current swift.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thwarted. Beth stared in piteous dismay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A frantic river, wild with recent rains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Largened beyond all daring, barred her way.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flooding the plains, drunk with illicit gains<br /></span> +<span class="i2">It dashed with savage fury, tossing high<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its waters over bank and boundary.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The girl looked anxiously around. Below<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The river widened, shallowing its bed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeming to flow on leisurely and slow.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above, it narrowed to a ravine, fed<br /></span> +<span class="i2">By the Fountains. Three bald-headed rocks<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Stood solemnly midstream on thick-set hocks.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Straightly she turned towards the upper reach.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The portly rocks as old and grey as time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Offered a bridge. On past the sunken beach<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of unclean ooze, the sea of gathered slime,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Across the hunching boulders, where the course<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of huddled waters broke their angry force.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Climbing from rock to rock, from crest to crest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She threw her weight upon the further bank<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into a clod of mud, whose squelching breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Received her greedily. She seized the rank<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wild clumps of herbage with her hands, then strove<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Until she reached the trusty ridge above.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the drift! The whisperings of her soul<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soothed every hindrance to a thing of naught.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The billowing veld, its tawny ceaseless roll<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was but the highway to the end she sought.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Love was her pilot, and by love controlled<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Its radiance led her, like the Star of old.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Far to the east a straggling knot of trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hinted a farm was nestling in their rear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The scent of flowers floated on the breeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cattle in their kraals, in safety near<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Drowsed in the heavy slumber hours of night.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But to the west she hurried, in her flight.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On, on past trackless scrub, where all around<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like shapeless monsters bulging heap on heap,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Crouched the vast ant heaps on the virgin ground.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And winding in and out them, pressed and deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Two wheel spoors scarred the earth. She traced the curve<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The cart had chiselled in a sudden swerve.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With feverish haste she followed line on line<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each deep-hewn rut that carved itself in sand.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here by the grace of heaven was a sign,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A way to realise her dream's command,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her instinct's prophecy. God! what was that?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rending the Silences with tear and scrat.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Again! That shot! Then all the world lay still,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Calm in the deep placidity of strength<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That recks for nothing human. Passive till<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Man desecrates its hallowed peace at length.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">But to that sound she fled. For Dick lay west,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His wide eyes staring, blood upon his breast.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dead, with his face against the cart-wheel. Dead.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A scarlet river flowing, flowing—oh!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His lips were red, his hands—the plains were red!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She knelt beside him, spoke him loudly so<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He needs must hear. She bound his wounds in vain,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That nerveless heap would never speak again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dawn came at last. No need to wail or cry,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dick was beyond all help, and none would hear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She clasped him in her full-souled agony,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Feeling the young gold morning, fresh and clear,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">Yet seeing nothing. Stunned to outward things,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She only knew the dullness sorrow brings.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And in her numbness heeded not the red<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tall grasses swaying as they bowed and bent<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath a crawling Kaffir, or his head<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rear up, a cringing caterpillar sent<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To rob the great white Baas; for plenty slow<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Some white men take to die, as black men know.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But if the Baas were dead, beyond all doubt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slink could be brave. His belly clave the ground.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had anybody heard the white man's shout,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Caught by the kopjes, echoed in rebound?<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Ach! how he wriggled! Now the cart was Slink's,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The scoff, the silver watch, the fiery drinks.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And look, the mules outspanned were plenty good,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So was the stolen gun. He reached the pool<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of crimson where the two-wheeled Cape-cart stood.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He slithered nearer, wet in dewdrops cool,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">His rough patched trousers soaked, then sneaking round<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Peeped from his vantage to the bleeding ground.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Spooks!—His eyes bulged, down dropped his brutal jaw.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rooted to where he clung, a-sweat with fright,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cramps of terror gripping at his maw.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spooks!—Pallid spooks! He shrieked away the sight<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Till the wide veld was reeling. Blurred and pale<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A spook arose, to follow on his trail.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It glided nearer, nearer—nearer yet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tall as the English mysi far away!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">His tongue stuck in his throat, and bleeding wet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He saw the master sitting up at bay!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He heard his name, he heard the still air crack,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Then dropped astonished, wondering, on his back,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till every spook had vanished. Slink had gone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To make a longer trek, where plains were dim.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And haggard-eyed and worn, stern vengeance done,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beth huddled by the poor stiff clay of him<br /></span> +<span class="i2">She loved, the smoking weapon in her hand<br /></span> +<span class="i2">To scare the scavenger of carrion brand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The hours crawled by. Soaked through with thunder rains<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She kept her vigil, loosening her hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In shining masses o'er him. Wild refrains<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of piteous croonings and of vague despair<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Crept to her lips, then died away, unsung,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Hiding their tunes, her shattered dreams among.<br /></span> +</div><div class="fivestar"> + * * * * * +<br /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Jan Rissik trekked him homeward. Half a day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To Cellier's farmstead more. The patient team<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of oxen, plodding slowly on their way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bent to the nekstrop. Huick! a thin sharp gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of curling whip flicked at the leader, clean,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sure as a rapier thrust, and long and lean.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The voorlooper strode on ahead. The boys<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marched to the rhythm of a sing-song chaunt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To ease their work. The wagon's lumbering noise,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cheering of the oxen, stormed the haunt<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of nature. 'Neath the awning, broad and square<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Sat Rissik's vrouw, worn with maternal care.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her children nestled round her. Two hours yet!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Dutchman whistled as he jogged along<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In leisured haste. He licked his thick lips wet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To loose his tune. A heavy winging throng<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of gorging vultures, black as devil's brood,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Rose swearing on the air, with protests crude.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Some rotting beast! Jan Rissik raised his eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To watch the swart aasvogel<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> in their flight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cracking his whip to dissipate the flies<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That swarmed in thousands. Pestilential! Right<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where his oxen wended, straight in front!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He clambered from his seat with angry grunt,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And pious prayer politely blended, sure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Powers above would note the quoted text,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor heed the fact that while he prayed, he swore!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His keen eyes swept the veld, grave and perplexed.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Two mules strayed fettered by the reim, outspanned,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">A cart unhitched, stuck in the khaki sand.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Jan pulled his slouch hat down, and stroked his beard.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The harsh birds croaked, the dingy clotted brown<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That stained the earth confirmed the tale he feared.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A woman in the burning dust stooped down<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Over a crumpled figure; and a sheen<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Of golden tresses veiled it, like a screen.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She rocked her too and fro, a little breath<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That might be song, or might be strangled word<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Broke from her now and then; but only death<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay in her arms and answered not, nor heard.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">"Come away, come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Come, come, come away,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">For the moon, for the moon<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Made a shroud in the day.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Come away, come away, come, <i>come</i>, the moon,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The flowers are calling, Dick—my love, come soon."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Some hundred yards—Pah! Jan felt strangely sick—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>She</i> must have dragged that fearful thing away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The devil's brood had claimed. The Rooinek<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was safe. Heaven knew how desperate the fray!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The fierce shot spent, the havoc, showed too well<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her awful battle with those fiends from hell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He spoke her in the Taal; he touched her hand;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She scarcely moved, but with a tear-stained smile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Babbled in words he could not understand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nodding her head towards the plains the while.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"The other one is dead. He was so black.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">He killed my husband, so I killed him back.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"I want to lay the moonflowers on Dick's breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They told me he was calling, so I came;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They kept on nodding, nodding to the west,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I want to have those moonflowers, the same<br /></span> +<span class="i2">That told me. Dick is dead. So cold and dead<br /></span> +<span class="i2">I don't remember all the flowers said.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"But if we are not very quick, the shroud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of silver cross-stitch, woven star on star,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will be quite stolen by the thunder-cloud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It's creeping, creeping, growling from afar."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i2">"Ja, Ja," the old Boer nodded. "Both are dead."<br /></span> +<span class="i2">"One must be buried!" so the good vrouw said.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They laboured hard to dig the white man's bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jan Rissik and his trusty man and boys,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then laid him gently down. With prayer unsaid<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But beating at her throat, no word that cloys<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Or mars itself in speech—Beth flung the sod<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Over her love—and left him there—with God.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only a dusty mound to mark his grave,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A dream out-dreamed, a tiny buried cross<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From off her neck. The Lord had called, who gave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His rich Acceptance that the world deems loss!<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Father, forgive us! For our eyes that see<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Only our sorrows—when we should see Thee!<br /></span> +</div><div class="fivestar"> + * * * * * +<br /> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">To Cellier's farm Jan Rissik trekked at morn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The English girl lay sleeping in his cart<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clasped to the Dutch vrouw's breast. No longer torn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By grief and passion, human fears, her heart<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Was now at rest; her Christ-soul lulled to peace,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Her hands outstretched, to meet the Great Release.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> Aasvogel—vultures.</p></div> + + + + +<p class="center top8"><small>PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN<br /> +BY WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.<br /> +PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND</small> +</p> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Provocations, by Sibyl Bristowe + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROVOCATIONS *** + +***** This file should be named 33855-h.htm or 33855-h.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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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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