The Project Gutenberg eBook of Coal and Candlelight, and Other Verses This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Coal and Candlelight, and Other Verses Author: Helen Parry Eden Release date: December 28, 2014 [eBook #47803] Language: English Credits: Produced by Charlene Taylor, Brian Wilsden, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COAL AND CANDLELIGHT, AND OTHER VERSES *** Produced by Charlene Taylor, Brian Wilsden, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. I have taken the liberty of adding an additional reference to the CONTENTS page in order to provide a direct link to the "By the Same Author" information at the end of the book. The indentation of the lines of the poem "Coal and Candlelight" reverse at lines 12/13. This is an obvious typographical error and has been corrected. COAL AND CANDLELIGHT _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ BREAD AND CIRCUSES THE BODLEY HEAD COAL AND CANDLELIGHT AND OTHER VERSES BY HELEN PARRY EDEN LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMXVIII _Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner, _Frome and London_. _TO E. A. P._ _Beyond all boundaries and pales You led me hillward. With the clouds We two were driven and the gales That filled your soul's delightful sails Shook my faint spirit's shrouds. There where the aeons still emboss Cromlech and cairn and tufa crown With lichen cold and stag-horn moss And callous suns cross and recross, You paused, and I looked down And saw the straight strait Roman road, The entangling lanes, our wayward track And vestiges of all who strode On the old quest with the old load Beckoned me back and back. Sweet wood-smoke climbing up the fell Met me half-way as down I won, And met me too the climbing bell That bids the world kneel to a knell, A knell ascending to the sun. The holy bell shall tune my note, The stars shall touch my thatch at night, Within my spirit's dark stream shall float A planet, meek as a child's boat, That mocked your utmost height. Yet I am yours--your pace is stamped On mine, o'er mine your spirit broods-- Who tread the sanctuary hushed and lamped With strides that took the heath and tramped Your hopeless altitudes._ NOTE These verses have been, for the most part, already printed in England or America. Five numbers are included by special permission of the proprietors of _Punch_. All published in England concerning the war are reprinted in their original order. H. P. E. BEGBROKE, 1918. CONTENTS PAGE THE DISTRACTION 13 SIR BAT-EARS 15 COAL AND CANDLELIGHT 19 TREES 25 SIMKIN 27 A BALLAD OF LORDS AND LADIES 32 A PRAYER FOR ST. INNOCENT'S DAY 36 THE PRIZE 38 TO WILFRID MEYNELL 42 "SIDERA SUNT TESTES ET MATUTINA PRUINA" 44 TO A. W.: A MOTHER 46 THE ASCENT 47 APRIL IN ABINGDON 51 AN IDOL OF THE MARKET PLACE 52 PETER PIGEON 55 "I AM GLAD THE MARTINS ARE BUILDING AGAIN...." 58 A PARLEY WITH GRIEF 61 LEVÉE DE RIDEAU 63 AN AFTERTHOUGHT ON APPLES 65 RECRUITS ON THE ROAD TO OXFORD 67 A VOLUNTEER 69 ARS IMMORTALIS 71 THE ADMONITION: TO BETSEY 75 THE GREAT REBUKE 77 A CHAIRMAN OF TRIBUNAL 80 AFTER THE STORM 82 THE PHOENIX LIBERTY 83 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 85 COAL AND CANDLELIGHT THE DISTRACTION Betsey, 'tis very like that I shall be-- When death shall wreak my life's economy-- Repaid with pains for contemplating thee Unwisely out of season. With the rest We knelt at Mass, not yet disperst and blest, Waiting the imminent "_Ite missa est._" And I, who turned a little from the pure Pursuit of mine intention to make sure My child knelt undistracted and demure, Did fall into that sin. And ere the close Of the grave Canon's "_Benedicat vos ..._" Had scanned her hair and said, "How thick it grows Over the little golden neck of her!" So doth the mother sway the worshipper And snatch the holiest intervals to err. Nor piety constrained me, nor the place; But I commended, 'gainst the light's full grace, The little furry outline of her face. SIR BAT-EARS Sir Bat-ears was a dog of birth And bred in Aberdeen, But he favoured not his noble kin And so his lot is mean, And Sir Bat-ears sits by the alms-houses On the stones with grass between. Under the ancient archway His pleasure is to wait Between the two stone pine-apples That flank the weathered gate; And old, old alms-persons go by, All rusty, bent and black "Good day, good day, Sir Bat-ears!" They say and stroke his back. And old, old alms-persons go by, Shaking and wellnigh dead, "Good night, good night, Sir Bat-ears!" They say and pat his head. So courted and considered He sits out hour by hour, Benignant in the sunshine And prudent in the shower. (Nay, stoutly can he stand a storm And stiffly breast the rain, That rising when the cloud is gone He leaves a circle of dry stone Whereon to sit again.) A dozen little door-steps Under the arch are seen, A dozen agèd alms-persons To keep them bright and clean; Two wrinkled hands to scour each step With a square of yellow stone-- But print-marks of Sir Bat-ears' paws Bespeckle every one. And little eats an alms-person, But, though his board be bare, There never lacks a bone of the best To be Sir Bats-ears' share. Mendicant muzzle and shrewd nose, He quests from door to door; Their grace they say, his shadow grey Is instant on the floor-- Humblest of all the dogs there be, A pensioner of the poor. COAL AND CANDLELIGHT [Greek: ... ἔχω δέ τοι ὄσσ' ἑν ὀνείρῳ φαίνονται.--THEOCRITUS, ix. _Idyll_. Before they left their mirth's warm scene And slept, I heard my children say That moonlight, like a duck's egg, green, Outside the enfolding curtains lay. But hearth-bound by maternal choice, The fire-side's eremite, I know The nightfall less by sight than voice-- How wake the huffing winds, and how More full the flooded stream descends, In unarrested race of sound, The lasher where the river bends To circle in our garden ground. Within I harbour, hap what hap Without, and o'er my baby brood: Who, newly slumbering on my lap, Stirs in resentful quietude. Her little shawl-swathed fists enfold One cherished forefinger of mine; Her callow hair with Tuscan gold Is pencilled in the candle-shine; Her cheeks' sweet heraldry, exprest Each evening since her happy birth, Is argent to her mother's breast And gules to the emblazoning hearth; Only the lashes of her eyes Some ancient discontent impairs, Which, for their abdicated skies, Are pointed with forgotten tears. And so, as simple as a bird, She nestles--there is no child else To rouse her with a reckless word Or clink her rattle's fallen bells: All, long dismissed with wonted prayers, Such apostolic vigils keep, No sound descends the darkened stairs To question the allure of sleep. Only their fringèd towels veil The fender's interwoven wire, And, parted in the midst, exhale Domestic incense towards the fire. Betwixt the hobs (their lease of light, But not of heat, devolved to dark) The elm-logs simmer, hoary white Or ruddy-scaled with saurian bark. 'Twas the third George whose lieges planned That grate, and all its iron caprice Of classic garlands, nobly spanned By that triumphant mantelpiece-- A very altar for the bright Tame element its pomp installs 'Twixt flat pilasters, fluted, white, And lion-bedizened capitals. Here portly topers met of old To serve their comfortable god And praise the heroes wigged and jowled, Of that pugnacious period. Now in their outworn husk of state Our frugal comfort oddly dwells-- (As recluse crabs accommodate Their contours to discarded shells) A dozen childish perquisites Await my liberated hands And lovelier usurpation sits Enthroned above the fading brands, Two lonely tapers criss-cross rays Cancel the dusky wall and shine To halo with effulgent haze The Genius of this Georgian shrine. Mary, who through the centuries holds Her crown'd Son in her hand, amid Her mantle's black Byzantine folds More tenderly displayed than hid, O'er this tramontane hearth presides Oracular of Heaven and Rome-- Where Peter is the Church abides, Where Mary and Her Son, the home. All day she blesses my employ Where surge and eddy round my knee, Swayed by a comfit or a toy, The battles of eternity. And that regard of Hers and His, Hallowing the truce of night, endows The weariest vigilant head with bliss; And sanctifies such sleeping brows As hers I carry from the haunt Of waning warmth, the empty bars, Up the great staircase, 'neath the gaunt North window with its quarrelled stars, To the quiet cradle. Slumber on, Small heiress of celestial peace, The glitter of the world is gone, _Et lucet lux in tenebris_. TREES I wander in the open fields Amazed, for there is no one by, To see the bowery-hanging trees So sympathetic with the sky; Where sheets of daisies on the grass Lie like Our Lord's discarded shrouds, Whence He is risen grow the elms And etch their verges on the clouds. But when I walk the causey'd town Whose citizens with tedious breath Make certain day by day that tomb Which shuts the Godhead underneath, I sorrowing tread the cobbled way Their strait-rankt chestnut-rows between, Where myriad blossoms hardly light One sombre pyramid of green. SIMKIN To the sheer summit of the town, Up from the marshes where the mill is, The High Street clambers, looking down On willows, weirs and water-lilies; What goblin homes those gradients bear, Doors that for all their new defacements Date darkly, windows that outwear The centuries shining on their casements! When Simkin shows you up the street To pay a bill or post a letter, Your urgency infects his feet, He speeds as well as you, or better; Moulding his Lilliputian stride To your swift footfall's emulation He walks unwavering by your side Until you reach your destination. Simkin, the urchin with the shock Of curls rush-hatted, plainly preaches The Age of Reason in a smock And Liberty in holland breeches, Yet all obediently he'll ramp Against the counter, pressing closer To watch you lick a ha'penny stamp Or see you settle with the grocer. But once your steps retrace the town And "Home's" the goal your folly mentions A thousand projects of his own Engage the sum of his attentions-- As when, precariously superb, He mounts with two-year-old activity The great stone horse-block by the kerb Time-worn to glacial declivity. Then debonair and undebarred By the old hound, its casual sentry, He dallies in "The Old George" yard And greets the jackdaw in the entry; Retracted to the street, he gains A sombre door no sunshine mellows, The smithy, where there glows and wanes Fire, at the bidding of the bellows. A-tip-toe at the infrequent shops Toys or tin kettles he appraises, Seeds in bright packets, lollipops, Through the dim oriels' greenish glazes: Then with two sturdy hands he shakes The stripling sycamore that dapples With shade the side-walk and awakes Some ancient memory of apples. Next he rejoins, beneath a sky With willow-leaves and gnats a-quiver, The dapper martins where they ply A clayey traffic by the river; Watches the minnows in the warm Near shallows with a smile persuading-- He could not come to any harm On such a heaven-sent day for wading! Home's gained at last. At last they cease, Coaxes, entreaties, threats, coercions; An old gate's iron fleurs-de-lis Shut upon Simkin's last diversions. The garden crossed, the door stands wide, And, pouting like a wronged immortal, But passive as a Roman bride, Simkin is lifted through the portal. A BALLAD OF LORDS AND LADIES "At Wycombe County Court ... as Lords and Lady of the Manor of Turville ..." A second spring came round when fell To save our land (men said) from Hell Of Teuton tyranny her sons-- On what strange soil, to what strange guns. And here on English sward where some Unsacrificed remained at home The mild commenting sage saw pass The insensate strife of class with class Men lived in England side by side As sweetly as their brethren died In Flanders, said the Optimist. One instance to augment his list ... In England, when the tranquil spring Bought and endowed with suffering Began, and the heroic year's New wheat shot up through blood and tears Of sacrifice its slender shoots; When every elm-tree, its great roots Confirmed in English agony, Shook its red buds against the sky; In April, when the country lifted Its winter-smitten face and shifted From sombre tenderness to smiles The sun-swept champaign's miles on miles And melody made the morning rich-- Then Lords and Ladies lined the ditch With the same spear-shaped leaves that stood, Noble and meek, beneath the Rood, Dappled with Jesus Christ His Blood. As emulous of those unfurled swords One noble Lady and two Lords-- Whose names the chronicler rejoice, One Mrs. Nairne and Lord Camoys And Mr. Hewitt--did consort To sue in Wycombe County Court "A cottager," one Walter West: And did from that tribunal wrest A strong injunction to affray The man from "cutting thorn or may Or trespassing" where the Manor's hand Lay on "the waste or common land Of Turville." With the noble Three's Victory went the lawyers' fees-- "Costs, and one shilling damages." Now, even in war-time, when one-half Our ink wells forth in epitaph And every quill their fate commends Who lay down lives to save their friends, There should be gall enough for those Who lay down laws to snare their foes; A little monument or cairn For my Lord Camoys, Mrs. Nairne And Mr. Hewitt, who, while hosts Of English cottagers on coasts Unknown went down to death, effaced One cottager from Turville Waste; Conserving in this world of scorns Their brambles for the Crown of Thorns. A PRAYER FOR ST. INNOCENT'S DAY Wisdom, be Thou The only garland of my burdened brow, The nearest stage And vowed conclusion of my pilgrimage, Shade whence I shun The untempered supervision of the sun, Planet whose beams Dispel the desperate ambuscade of dreams; Through the Red Sea Of mine own passion, Wisdom, usher me. * * * * * For this I pray The four austere custodians of to-day, Urge mine intent-- Nazarius, Celsus, Victor, Innocent. THE PRIZE With ivy wreathed, a hundred lights Shone out; the Convent play was finished; The waning term this night of nights To a few golden hours diminished. Again the curtain rose. Outshone The childish frocks and childish tresses Of the late cast that had put on Demureness and its party dresses. Rustled a-row upon the stage Big girls and little, ranged in sizes, All waiting for the Personage To make the speech and give the prizes. And there, all rosy from her _rôle_, Betsey with sturdy valiance bore her, Nor did she recognize a soul But braved the buzzing room before her With such resolve that guest on guest, And many a smiling nun behind them, Met her eyes obviously addressed To proving that she did not mind them. (So might a kitchen kitten see-- Whose thoughts round housemaids' heels are centred-- The awful drawing-room's company He inadvertently has entered.) Swift from her side the girlish crowd, With lovely smiles and limber graces, Went singly, took their prizes, bowed, Returning quietly to their places. Then "Betsey Jane!" and all the rout, Sweet postulant and nun pedantic, Beheld that little craft put out Upon the polished floor's Atlantic. The Personage bestowed her prize, And Betsey, lowly as the others, Bowed o'er her sandals, raised her eyes Alight with pride--and met her mother's! She thrust between the honoured row Before her in her glad elation; Her school-mates gasped to see her go; The nuns divined her destination; The guests made way. Clap following clap Acclaimed Convention's overleaping, As Betsey gained her mother's lap And gave the prize into her keeping. TO WILFRID MEYNELL His Friend complains of Prose that would never serve her. Thrice foolish I that, to portray For you apart my heart and mind, Bid foolish Prose the gift convey-- No thrall of mine and proved unkind-- Who flung both heart and mind away. He never did my hests with joy On deftest feet with fleetness shod, But lagged in byways o'er some toy More meet for babyhood. A rod Reward my graceless errand boy! On many a fair suit swiftly sent He still hath stayed nor weighed the cost, Reluctant to your door he bent, The string of my thoughts' parcel lost And gone the gist of mine intent. Wherefore that ruffian lad I curse, For 'tis his guilt hath spilt my sense, For you, lest you should take for worse His lack of wit, this evidence Of my regard I send by Verse. "SIDERA SUNT TESTES ET MATUTINA PRUINA" The stars are witness and the morning frost, The shuttered inn, the icy lane, the hoar Alley transmuted at the keen moon's cost To silver birch from leaden sycamore, The shivering steps, the door that barely stands Ajar, the altar's weekday thrift of gold, The hasty breath that dews my helpless hands, At what white heat I come through this white cold: How before day blows up the smouldering sun I feed my ashen hope with kindling phrase, Cast fuel on my faith, watch the flame run From brand to brand of love and by that blaze Pillow my head upon His Heart whereon Lay but last night the lovelocks of St. John. TO A. W.: A MOTHER When beside you to your bed Comes the little Catkin-head (For she surely boasts some fair Down or beech-leaf coloured hair Your endowing aspects taught her, His and yours, this first-born daughter) Think how many, blessed two, Babe and mother, prayed for you. And when you hold appeased and warm The Dear and Greedy on your arm, Or laugh among the pillows piled, All-sufficient to your child, Pray sometimes for all exiled (And maybe wistful) from these good Earliest days of Motherhood. THE ASCENT Here, where of old they sowed the mustard-seed, A-branch like candelabra lit with flowers, Above the slim young wheat-spears towers the weed Burning the sunshine through these ardent hours; And I, late pent in a small chintz-hung room With all the bicker of a little town About my window, I have burst my tomb And stand assumed to the imperial down. From the warm-breathing vale as from a prison, From last year's plashy oak-leaves to the austere Summits of chalky plough-land, I have risen And sloughed my skin of sloth and heavened me here. Past gardens laden with lilac and slow streams Where the black-flowering rush renews its ranks Where willow-drills lave in a mist of dreams Their whispering leaflets, past the roadside banks All white with daisies as green tide with surf, (No star-bedizened belt of white Orion's Holds lovelier constellations than this turf) Past little closes set with dandelions (And set so full that yellow ousts the green And brags of victory shouting to the sun) I urged me till beneath the sky's hot sheen These heights of stony solitude were won. Here on the crack'd white clods I stand elated Whose iron verge scarce crumbles at my heels So hath the effulgent ether indurated The slot of horse-hoofs and the track of wheels; And now, and now, the spirit no longer spent In ease that overtops itself, takes grace, Cleansed by the sweat of that divine ascent, Exulting in the harsh unshaded place. For here where God hath been so hard to shackle The martyred earth He hath His first acclaim, Still the parched flowers burn round His tabernacle, The unwatered hills are vocal with His Name. APRIL IN ABINGDON When milder days are well begun, And window-sills are warm in the sun, And grannies in white mufflers meet Friends at the turn of every street, When at the doctor's door you dread Upon his spaniel's ears to tread Who by the scraper lays to doze His ginger lovelocks and his nose, When the oldest alms-folk rise and peer Out of their painted doors, to hear The bellman's speech ere he be gone-- Then April comes to Abingdon. AN IDOL OF THE MARKET PLACE Decorum and the butcher's cat Are seldom far apart-- From dawn when clouds surmount the air, Piled like a beauty's powdered hair, Till dusk, when down the misty square Rumbles the latest cart He sits in coat of white and grey Where the rude cleaver's shock Horrid from time to time descends, And his imposing presence lends Grace to a platform that extends Beneath the chopping-block. How tranquil are his close-piled cheeks, His paws, sequestered warm! An oak-grained panel backs his head And all the stock-in-trade is spread, A symphony in white and red, Round his harmonious form. The butcher's brave cerulean garb Flutters before his face, The cleaver dints his little roof Of furrowed wood; remote, aloof, He sits superb and panic proof In his accustomed place. Threading the columned County Hall, Midmost before his eyes, Alerter dog and loitering maid Cross from the sunlight to the shade, And small amenities of trade Under the gables rise; Cats of the town, a shameless crew, Over the way he sees Propitiate with lavish purr An unresponsive customer, Or, meek with sycophantic fur, Caress the children's knees. But he, betrothed to etiquette, Betrays nor head nor heart; Lone as the Ark on Ararat, A monument of fur and fat, Decorum and the butcher's cat Are seldom far apart. PETER PIGEON The pigeons dwell in Pimlico; they mingle in the street; They flutter at Victoria around the horses' feet; They fly to meet the royal trains with many a loyal phrase And strut to meet their sovereign on strips of scarlet baize; _But Peter, Peter Pigeon, salutes his cradle days._ The pigeons build in Bloomsbury; they rear their classic homes Where pedants clamber sable steps to search forgotten tomes; They haunt Ionic capitals with learned lullabies And each laments in anapaests and in iambics cries; _But Peter, Peter Pigeon, how sleepily he sighs!_ The pigeons walk the Guildhall; they dress in civic taste With amplitude of mayoral chain and aldermanic waist; They bow their grey emphatic heads, their topknots rise and fall, They cluster in the courtyard at their midday dinner call; _But Peter, Peter Pigeon, he nods beneath my shawl_. The pigeons brood in Battersea; while yet the dawn is dark Their ready aubade ripples in the plane-trees round the park; They light upon your balcony, a brave and comely band, Till night decoys their coral feet, their voices low and bland; _But Peter, Peter Pigeon, his feet are in my hand_. "I AM GLAD THE MARTINS ARE BUILDING AGAIN...." I am glad the martins are building again, They had all departed From the old deserted House by the stream; Its windows were black to the snow and the rain And the sky and the sun, And the river sobbed on, Like a child in a dream, Under the unlopped sycamore boughs That stifled the old stone house. Now the axe-edge is blue on the sycamore rind, By the workers huzza'd Till the ashlared façade Outpeers its disguise; Now little white curtains flap out to the wind Across the grey sills And summer instils The peace of the skies And the zest of the sun into every old room So given to grief and gloom. And the children who wake the green walks with their mirth And lift the shy heads Of the flowers from their beds, By a strange cry stirred-- Desert their dear pastime, look up from the earth, Up, up, through the leaves Where under the eaves Clings the back of the bird: And his nest-mate white-throated regards the new day From her arch of inverted clay. A PARLEY WITH GRIEF Grief, let us come to terms! Your strict siege narrows In on the final citadel of my soul, Perish the outworks in a storm of arrows, Mangonel, mace and battleaxe gain their goal. Yet have we still provision and caparison, You will not brook, nor we admit, defeat-- Take then the broken fort not grudge the garrison Generous safe-conduct and a proud retreat. Granted, O Grief? So am I saved disbanding, Even in my end, the powers which called me chief-- Sick Memory, weak Will and Understanding Wounded to death. Marvellest thou, chivalrous Grief, Seeing us slink into the eternal distance, A foe so faint should make such long resistance? LEVÉE DE RIDEAU He rode upon the sorrel horse and led the dapple grey, They passed below the gables mute soon after dawn of day, Before the bell had chimed for Mass, while yet the sunless air Lifted the straws of yesterday about the sleeping square. I recked not of his name and fate nor yet did I surmise Whose were the steeds whose locks were blown betwixt their spacious eyes, The finches fluttered from their hoofs, I stayed to mark the ease Of him who led the grey and swayed the sorrel with his knees. They passed. Uprose the rural sun and spake his prologue clear Across the world for suburbs sleek and linkèd slums to hear-- "Come hither, hither, where are played the interludes of light And day enacts her dearest parts for your abusèd sight!" AN AFTERTHOUGHT ON APPLES While yet unfallen apples throng the bough, To ripen as they cling In lieu of the lost bloom, I ponder how Myself did flower in so rough a spring; And was not set in grace When the first flush was gone from summer's face. How in my tardy season, making one Of a crude congregation, sour in sin, I nodded like a green-clad mandarin, Averse from all that savoured of the sun. But now throughout these last autumnal weeks What skyey gales mine arrogant station thresh, What sunbeams mellow my beshadowed cheeks, What steely storms cudgel mine obdurate flesh; Less loath am I to see my fellows launch Forth from my side into the air's abyss, Whose own stalk is Grown untenacious of its wonted branch. And yet, O God, Tumble me not at last upon the sod, Or, still superb above my fallen kind, Grant not my golden rind To the black starlings screaming in the mist. Nay, rather on some gentle day and bland Give Thou Thyself my stalk a little twist, Dear Lord, and I shall fall into Thy hand. RECRUITS ON THE ROAD TO OXFORD They passed in dusty black defile Along the burning champaign's edge Where English oaks for many a mile Dripped acorns o'er the berried hedge, With valorous smiles on faces soiled Out of the autumn's heat and light These who on English earth had toiled Came forth for English earth to fight, Round their descending flank outspread The country like a painted page-- God's truth, a man were lightly dead For such a golden heritage! But these, the surging centuries' wrack Beyond all tides auspicious thrown, Doomed with bowed head and threadbare back To till the land they might not own, Reft of the swallow's tranquil lease, Reft of the scrap-fed robin's dole-- How have these reared in starving peace This flaming valiancy of soul?... O England, when with fluttered breath You greet the victory they earn And when with eyes that looked on death The remnant of your sons return, On your inviolate soil repent And give the guerdon unbesought-- To these whose lives were freely lent Some share of that for which they fought! A VOLUNTEER He had no heart for war, its ways and means, Its train of machinations and machines, Its murky provenance, its flagrant ends; His soul, unpledged for his own dividends, He had not ventured for a nation's spoils. So had he sighed for England in her toils Of greed, was't like his pulse would beat less blithe To see the Teuton shells on Rotherhithe And Mayfair--so each body had 'scaped its niche, The wretched poor, the still more wretched rich? Why had he sought the struggle and its pain? Lest little girls with linked hands in the lane Should look "You did not shield us!" as they wended Across his window when the war was ended. ARS IMMORTALIS Betsey, when all the stalwarts left Us women to our tasks befitting, Your little fingers, far from deft, Coped for an arduous week with knitting; And, though the meekness of your hair Drooped o'er the task disarmed my strictures, The Army gained when in despair You dropped its socks to paint it pictures. I, knowing well your guileless brush, Urged that there wanted something subtler To put Meissonier to the blush And snatch the bays from Lady Butler; And so your skies retained their blue, Nor reddened with the wrath of nations, To prove at least one artist knew Her public and her limitations. A dozen warriors far away Craved of your skill to keep them posted, With coloured pictures day by day, In aught of note their birthplace boasted; Hence these "Arriving Refugees" (Cheerful in burnt sienna) hurry To soothe your uncle's hours of ease In some congested hut in Surrey. I hear that Nurse's David gets (His valour is already French's) Your "Market" with the cigarettes His sister forwards to the trenches; This "Cat" (for Rupert in the East), Limned in its moments of inertia, You send that he may show the beast To its progenitors in Persia. Daily your brush depicts a home Such as our duller pens are mute on; Squanders Vermilion, Lake and Chrome And Prussian Blue--that furious Teuton Paper beneath your fingers calls For forms and figures to divide it, Colours and cock-eyed capitals And kisses cruciform to hide it. Till brushes sucked and laid apart, And candles lit and daylight dying And you asleep, your works of art Ranged on the mantelpiece and drying-- We elders (older when you're gone) Muse on our country's gains and losses ... Ah, Betsey, is it you alone Who send your kisses shaped like crosses? THE ADMONITION: TO BETSEY _Remember, on your knees,_ _The men who guard your slumbers_-- And guard a house in a still street Of drifting leaves and drifting feet, A deep blue window where below Lies moonlight on the roof like snow, A clock that still the quarters tells To the dove that roosts beneath the bell's Grave canopy of silent brass Round which the little night winds pass Yet stir it not in the grey steeple; And guard all small and drowsy people Whom gentlest dusk doth disattire, Undressing by the nursery fire In unperturbed numbers On this side of the seas-- _Remember, on your knees,_ _The men who guard your slumbers_. THE GREAT REBUKE "May those at war soon lay down the sword and so end the slaughter which is dishonouring Europe and humanity."--BENEDICT XV. "Put up thy sword." So Peter found Rebuke upon his weapon's aid, The High Priest's servant of his wound Was healed, and the disciple's blade Rebidden to its scabbard. See, O World, the lovely evidence-- True lesson of Gethsemane-- That Heaven on Earth disdained defence. For still the hostile ages pass, And force may strive for right, but know, You cannot cut at Caiaphas But the hired servant bears the blow; And still the apostle, he who dies In thought to stem Christ's Passion, falls Short of his fervour and denies His Master in the High Priest's halls ... Forth leaps the sword upon the same Innocent pretexts--little homes Childhood and womanhood wronged, the Name Of this rebuking Christ: hence comes A votive fury that begins All conflicts, and the justest pride Is first the stalking-horse of sins And then deserted and denied. Despots, diplomatists, dark trades Set men unceasingly at strife, Usurp the war-cries of crusades, Divert each God-devoted life; Never, Oh never yet, will war, Howe'er so poisonous root and stem, Lack the assurance of a star Outdazzling His of Bethlehem Till Truth and Innocence reprove Their ghastly champions with His word-- Who chid the violence even of love-- "Put up thy sword." "Put up thy sword." A CHAIRMAN OF TRIBUNAL "I am joined with ... nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers such as ... pray continually to their saint the commonwealth."--I _Henry IV_, ii. 1. So ringed about with sparrow-hawks and owls, Bloodhounds and weasels, triplicated jowls, Complaisant dewlaps and uneasy eyes, He sits--this President of Destinies-- Fingers his papers, strokes his creasy chin, Bellows beneath his borrowed baldaquin. Cocytus still sobs past him, on its brink He lays nice odds which souls emerge or sink, Paddles his bovine hoofs in the spilt bliss Of Love, and in the tearfullest abyss Angles for little jests. He knows no ruth-- Though even Pilate was concerned for Truth And Caiaphas for Forms--his scarlet thumb Was born reversed: and Innocence is dumb Bound by the implication of his dream, Unholy revenant of a dead régime, Who made red War ere God made me and you And now, God willing, thinks to see it through. AFTER THE STORM Along the silent lane I found-- Where all night long the wind blew Hell-- The chestnut trees had heaped the ground With ruthless spoil of nut and shell. So shall we see our night's grim tolls-- When dawn displays the insensate dusk's Ravage--the unnumbered, fallen souls, The unnumbered, vacant, mangled husks. THE PHOENIX LIBERTY One dark December day, the text-books teach, The English Commons set unbending names, By the wan light of wavering candle-flames, To their immortal Protest for Free Speech: Stern signatories, who spared not to impeach Mompesson and Mitchell of corrupted aims, "And argue and debate," said peevish James, "Publicly, matters far beyond their reach." "O fiery popular spirits," re-create Some sparkle of your ashes. Let us see The Phoenix Liberty, that chirps by stealth Through chinks and crannies of our shuttered state, Bright as the sun and unabashed as he, Cry through the casements of the commonwealth. _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ "BREAD AND CIRCUSES" _Crown 8vo, =3/6= net._ Some Opinions of the Press "The best first book produced in many a year."--_The New York Times._ "It is difficult to describe the effect they produce without seeming to use the language of exaggeration."--_The Westminster Gazette._ "There is not a piece in the engaging volume that does not make appeal."--_The Daily Telegraph._ "A remarkable event in the world of women."--G. B. D., in _The Queen_. "The large bulk of this small volume is a sheer delight."--E. H. L., in the _Manchester Guardian_. "She has approached common things and great things with a quiet delicate ecstasy that is clean and refreshing."--J. M. B., in _The Graphic_. "Mrs. Eden at once secures for herself a place by her first volume in the distinctively literary class of her day. It is the best volume of light verse that has been issued for many a year."--CLEMENT SHORTER, in _The Sphere_. "I have read it a great many times myself and it has become part of my existence in a peculiar manner."--G. K. CHESTERTON, in _The New Witness_. "Poems ... which competent critics consider the noblest devotional poetry written since the death of Francis Thompson."--JOYCE KILMER, in the _New York Independent_. "She can work innocence into art without damaging the dew on it: the very cunning of her verse seems indeed a kind of added candour--a sort of celestial mischief that proves the possession of the full freedom of heaven."--DIXON SCOTT, in the _Liverpool Daily Courier_. _RECENT VERSE_ CHRIST IN HADES By STEPHEN PHILLIPS. With an Introduction by C. LEWIS HIND. Illustrated by STELLA LANGDALE. Demy 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. (Uniform with "The Dream of Gerontius.") _Daily News_: "Mr. Lewis Hind has written a fascinating and amusing chapter of memories of the literary 'nineties." CACKLES AND LAYS RHYMES OF A HENWIFE. By MARGARET LAVINGTON. With numerous Illustrations by HELEN URQUHART. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. If Ann and Jane Taylor had lived in the twentieth century and taken to keeping poultry for profit in war time, they would probably have had a laudable desire to inculcate the principles and practice of hen-keeping among the young. But unless they had developed an unexpected sense of humour they wouldn't have produced anything like "Cackles and Lays," for while some of Margaret Lavington's rhymes are practical and sprightly, others are just delightfully whimsical and humorous. POEMS OF WEST AND EAST By V. SACKVILLE-WEST (the Hon. Mrs. Harold Nicolson). Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. _Morning Post_: "These poems reveal a personality both charming and courageous. They have all been lived--not merely written." THE RHYME GARDEN By MARGUERITE BULLER-ALLAN. With Pictures in Black and White and Colour by the Author. Crown 4to. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. An unconventional book for children in that it is illustrated in what seems at first sight a conventional childish manner, but behind the apparent crudity there is real art and colour of the kind that will appeal to all children and all grown-ups who love children. HAY HARVEST and Other Poems By LUCY BUXTON. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. A HIGHLAND REGIMENT and Other Poems By LIEUT. E. A. MACKINTOSH, M.C. 3rd edition. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. _Daily Graphic_: "This is one of the most notable poetic harvests of the war." WAR THE LIBERATOR and Other Pieces By E. A. MACKINTOSH, M.C., Author of "A Highland Regiment." Crown 8vo. With portrait. 5_s._ net. MESSINES ET AUTRES POÈMES. Messines and Other Poems By EMILE CAMMAERTS. English version by TITA BRAND CAMMAERTS. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. ON HEAVEN and Other Poems By FORD MADOX HUEFFER. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. RETROGRESSION and Other Poems By SIR WILLIAM WATSON. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ _Daily News_: "'Retrogressions' will revive a splendid reputation." AN EVENING IN MY LIBRARY AMONG THE ENGLISH POETS By the HON. STEPHEN COLERIDGE. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. POEMS OF CAPTAIN BRIAN BROOKE With a Foreword by M. P. WILLCOCKS, and nine Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. _Land and Water_: "I cannot forbear the pleasure of quoting from a book that will soon be by the side of Lindsay Gordon's poems on the shelves of all those who love the poetry of out-of-doors." THERE IS NO DEATH Poems by the late RICHARD DENNYS. With an Introduction by CAPTAIN DESMOND COKE, and a Photogravure Portrait of the Author. Crown 8vo. 2_s._ 6_d._ net. _Globe_: "This graceful verse is distinguished by its manly tone and vigorous quality." THE DAY and Other Poems By HENRY CHAPPELL. With an Introduction by SIR HERBERT WARREN, K.C.V.O. Crown 8vo. Cloth (with a Portrait), 2_s._ 6_d._ net. Henry Chappell has long been widely known as the railway-porter poet of Bath, and many of his poems have been published in the press, and not a few set to music. His famous poem, "The Day," was printed in practically every newspaper in America. The present volume, however, constitutes the first publication of his work in a collected form. OUR GIRLS IN WAR TIME By JOYCE DENNYS. With Topical Verses by HAMPDEN GORDON. Crown 4to. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. 2nd Edition. This is a companion volume to "Our Hospital A B C." _Morning Post_: "Once again these clever collaborators play up to the cheery souls on the Western Front, and their new consignment of the munitions of merriment will be even more sought after than the first volume. This Christmas the Dennys Girl will become as well established as the Gibson Girl." ODES TO TRIFLES, and Other War Rhymes Poems by R. M. EASSIE (Sergt. 5th Canadian Infantry) Crown 8vo. 3_s._ 6_d._ net. _The Times_: "Humorous verse, by a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, in which every stanza gets well home; written with a refreshing air of conviction and a real wit which scintillates the more sharply because not a word of it could be spared." FLOWER-NAME FANCIES Designed and Written by GUY PIERRE FAUCONNET. English Rhymes by HAMPDEN GORDON. Crown 4to. 2_s._ 6_d._ net. A charming series of drawings illustrating in a delightfully quaint and delicate manner the popular nicknames of many flowers, both in French and English. Each drawing is accompanied by an explanation as quaint as itself, in French and English, the latter in rhyme by Hampden Gordon. JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO STREET, W. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COAL AND CANDLELIGHT, AND OTHER VERSES *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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