The Project Gutenberg eBook of October, and Other Poems; with Occasional Verses on the War

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: October, and Other Poems; with Occasional Verses on the War

Author: Robert Bridges

Release date: July 2, 2017 [eBook #55031]
Most recently updated: January 24, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OCTOBER, AND OTHER POEMS; WITH OCCASIONAL VERSES ON THE WAR *** 





[Image of the book's cover unavailable.]





THE COLLECTED EDITION
 OF THE POETICAL WORKS
 OF A. C. SWINBURNE


In 6 Vols. Cr. 8vo. 45s. net.


I.POEMS AND BALLADS (1st series)


II.SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE and SONGS OF TWO NATIONS


III.POEMS AND BALLADS (2nd and 3rd series), and SONGS OF THE SPRINGTIDES


IV.TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE, THE TALE OF BALEN, ATALANTA IN CALYDON, ERECHTHEUS


V.STUDIES IN SONG, A CENTURY OF ROUNDELS, SONNETS ON ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS, THE HEPTALOGIA, etc.


VI.A MIDSUMMER HOLIDAY, ASTROPHEL, A CHANNEL PASSAGE, and other Poems


LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN, BEDFORD ST.




OCTOBER

AND OTHER POEMS




THE GOLDEN PINE EDITION
 OF SWINBURNE’S WORKS


Each Volume Cr. 8vo. Cloth 4s. net;

Leather 6s. net.


I.POEMS AND BALLADS (1st series)


II.POEMS AND BALLADS (2nd and 3rd series)


III.SONGS BEFORE SUNRISE (Including Songs of Italy)


IV.ATALANTA IN CALYDON AND ERECHTHEUS


V.TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE


VI.A STUDY OF SHAKESPEARE


LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN, BEDFORD ST.





O C T O B E R

AND OTHER POEMS

WITH OCCASIONAL VERSES

ON THE WAR



BY

ROBERT   BRIDGES

POET LAUREATE



[Image unavailable: colophon: 1920, LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN]






TO

GENERAL THE RIGHT HONOURABLE


JAN   CHRISTIAAN   SMUTS


Prime Minister of the Union

of South Africa


SOLDIER, STATESMAN, & SEER


WITH THE AUTHOR’S

HOMAGE




{ix}


PREFACE


This miscellaneous volume is composed of three sections. The first
twelve poems were written in 1913, and printed privately by Mr. Hornby
in 1914.


The last of these poems proved to be a “war poem,” and on that follow
eighteen pieces which were called forth on occasion during the War, the
last being a broadsheet on the surrender of the German ships. All of
these verses appeared in some journal or serial. There were a few
others, but they are not included in this collection, either because
they are lost, or because they show decidedly inferior claims to
salvage.


The last six poems or sonnets are of various dates.



R. B.




{x}


{xi}


CONTENTS




 PAGE


October1


The Flowering Tree2


Noel: Christmas Eve, 19134


In der Fremde6


The Philosopher and his Mistress7


Narcissus8


Our Lady10


The Curfew Tower13


Flycatchers15


Ghosts16


Έτώσιον ἄχθος ἀρούρης16


Hell and Hate17


“Wake up, England!”20


Lord Kitchener22


Ode on the Tercentenary Commemoration of Shakespeare,

1916		23


The Chivalry of the Sea28


For “Pages Inédites,” Etc.30


Gheluvelt30


The West Front31


To the United States of America33


Trafalgar Square{xii}34


Christmas Eve, 191736


To the President of the United States of America38


Our Prisoners of War in Germany39


Harvest-Home40


To Australia42


The Excellent Way43


England to India45


Britannia Victrix47


Der Tag: Nelson and Beatty51


To Burns56


Poor Child57


To Percy Buck58


To Harry Ellis Wooldridge59


Fortunatus Nimium60


Democritus62


Notes63




{1}


OCTOBER.





April adance in play

met with his lover May

where she came garlanded.

The blossoming boughs o’erhead

were thrill’d to bursting by

the dazzle from the sky

and the wild music there

that shook the odorous air.



Each moment some new birth

hasten’d to deck the earth

in the gay sunbeams.

Between their kisses dreams:

And dream and kiss were rife

with laughter of mortal life.



But this late day of golden fall

is still as a picture upon a wall

or a poem in a book lying open unread.

Or whatever else is shrined

when the Virgin hath vanishèd:

Footsteps of eternal Mind

on the path of the dead.






{2}


THE FLOWERING TREE.





What Fairy fann’d my dreams

while I slept in the sun?

As if a flowering tree

were standing over me:

Its young stem strong and lithe

went branching overhead

And willowy sprays around

fell tasseling to the ground

All with wild blossom gay

as is the cherry in May

When her fresh flaunt of leaf

gives crowns of golden green.



The sunlight was enmesh’d

in the shifting splendour

And I saw through on high

to soft lakes of blue sky:

Ne’er was mortal slumber

so lapt in luxury.{3}



Rather—Endymion—

would I sleep in the sun

Neath the trees divinely

with day’s azure above

When my love of Beauty

is met by beauty’s love.



So I slept enchanted

under my loving tree

Till from his late resting

the sweet songster of night

Rousing awaken’d me:

Then! this—the birdis note—

Was the voice of thy throat

which thou gav’st me to kiss.






{4}


NOEL: CHRISTMAS EVE, 1913.


Pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis.





A frosty Christmas Eve

when the stars were shining

Fared I forth alone

where westward falls the hill,

And from many a village

in the water’d valley

Distant music reach’d me

peals of bells aringing:

The constellated sounds

ran sprinkling on earth’s floor

As the dark vault above

with stars was spangled o’er.



Then sped my thought to keep

that first Christmas of all

When the shepherds watching

by their folds ere the dawn

Heard music in the fields

and marveling could not tell

Whether it were angels

or the bright stars singing.{5}



Now blessed be the tow’rs

that crown England so fair

That stand up strong in prayer

unto God for our souls:

Blessed be their founders

(said I) an’ our country folk

Who are ringing for Christ

in the belfries to-night

With arms lifted to clutch

the rattling ropes that race

Into the dark above

and the mad romping din.



But to me heard afar

it was starry music

Angels’ song, comforting

as the comfort of Christ

When he spake tenderly

to his sorrowful flock:

The old words came to me

by the riches of time

Mellow’d and transfigured

as I stood on the hill

Heark’ning in the aspect

of th’ eternal silence.






{6}


IN DER FREMDE.





Ah! wild-hearted wand’rer

far in the world away

Restless nor knowest why

only thou canst not stay

And now turnest trembling

hearing the wind to sigh:

’Twas thy lover calling

whom thou didst leave forby.



So faint and yet so far

so far and yet so fain—

“Return belov’d to me”

but thou must onward strain:

Thy trembling is in vain

as thy wand’ring shall be.

What so well thou lovest

thou nevermore shalt see.






{7}


THE PHILOSOPHER AND HIS MISTRESS.





We watch’d the wintry moon

Suffer her full eclipse

Riding at night’s high noon

Beyond the earth’s ellipse.



The conquering shadow quell’d

Her splendour in its robe:

And darkling we beheld

A dim and lurid globe;



Yet felt thereat no dread,

Nor waited we to see

The sullen dragon fled,

The heav’nly Queen go free.



So if my heart of pain

One hour o’ershadow thine,

I fear for thee no stain,

Thou wilt come forth and shine:



And far my sorrowing shade

Will slip to empty space

Invisible, but made

Happier for that embrace.






{8}


NARCISSUS.





Almighty wondrous everlasting

Whether in a cradle of astral whirlfire

Or globed in a piercing star thou slumb’rest

The impassive body of God:

Thou deep i’ the core of earth—Almighty!—

From numbing stress and gloom profound

Madest escape in life desirous

To embroider her thin-spun robe.



’Twas down in a wood—they tell—

In a running water thou sawest thyself

Or leaning over a pool: The sedges

Were twinn’d at the mirror’s brim

The sky was there and the trees—Almighty!—

A bird of a bird and white clouds floating

And seeing thou knewest thine own image

To love it beyond all else.



Then wondering didst thou speak

Of beauty and wisdom of art and worship

Didst build the fanes of Zeus and Apollo

The high cathedrals of Christ.{9}



All that we love is thine—Almighty!—

Heart-felt music and lyric song

Language the eager grasp of knowledge

All that we think is thine.



But whence?—Beauteous everlasting!—

Whence and whither? Hast thou mistaken?

Or dost forget? Look again! Thou seest

A shadow and not thyself.






{10}


OUR LADY.


I.





Goddess azure-mantled and aureoled

That standing barefoot upon the moon

Or throned as a Queen of the earth

Tranquilly smilest to hold

The Child-god in thine arms,

Whence thy glory? Art not she

The country maiden of Galilee

Simple in dowerless poverty

Who from humble cradle to grave

Hadst no thought of this wonder?



When to man dull of heart

Dawn’d at length graciously

Thy might of Motherhood

The starry Truth beam’d on his home;

Then with insight exalted he gave thee

The trappings—Lady—wherewith his art

Delighteth to picture his spirit to sense

And that grace is immortal.{11}



Fount of creative Love

Mother of the Word eternal

Atoning man with God:

Who set thee apart as a garden enclosed

From Nature’s all-producing wilds

To rear the richest fruit o’ the Life

Ever continuing out from Him

Urgent since the beginning.






II.





Behold! Man setteth thine image in the height of Heaven

And hallowing his untemper’d love

Crowneth and throneth thee ador’d

(Tranquilly joyous to hold

The man-child in thine arms)

God-like apart from conflict to save thee

To guard thy weak caressive beauty

With incontaminate jewels of soul

Courage, patience, and self-devotion:

All this glory he gave thee.



Secret and slow is Nature

Imperceptibly moving

With surely determinate aim:

To woman it fell to be early in prime{12}

Ready to labour, mould, and cherish

The delicate head of all Production

The wistful late-maturing boy

Who made Knowing of Being.



Therefore art thou ador’d

Mother of God in man

Naturing nurse of power:

They who adore not thee shall perish

But thou shalt keep thy path of joy

Envied of Angels because the All-father

Call’d thee to mother his nascent Word

And complete the creation.






{13}


THE CURFEW TOWER.





Thro’ innocent eyes at the world awond’ring

Nothing spake to me more superbly

Than the round bastion of Windsor’s wall



That warding the Castle’s southern angle

An old inheritor of Norman prowess

Was call’d by the folk the Curfew Tow’r.



Above the masonry’s rugged courses

A turreted clock of Caroline fashion

Told time to the town in black and gold.



It charmed the hearts of Henry’s scholars

As kingly a mentor of English story

As Homer’s poem is of Ilion:



Nor e’er in the landscape look’d it fairer

Than when we saw its white bulk halo’d

In a lattice of slender scaffoldings.{14}



Month by month on the airy platforms

Workmen labour’d hacking and hoisting

Till again the tower was stript to the sun:



The old tow’r? Nay a new tow’r stood there

From footing to battlemented skyline

And topt with a cap the slice of a cone



Archæologic and counterfeited

The smoothest thing in all the high-street

As Eton scholars to-day may see:



They—wherever else they find their wonder

And feed their boyhood on Time’s enchantment—

See never the Tow’r that spoke to me.






{15}


FLYCATCHERS.





Sweet pretty fledgelings, perched on the rail arow,

Expectantly happy, where ye can watch below

Your parents a-hunting i’ the meadow grasses

All the gay morning to feed you with flies;



Ye recall me a time sixty summers ago,

When, a young chubby chap, I sat just so

With others on a school-form rank’d in a row,

Not less eager and hungry than you, I trow,

With intelligences agape and eyes aglow,

While an authoritative old wise-acre

Stood over us and from a desk fed us with flies.



Dead flies—such as litter the library south-window,

That buzzed at the panes until they fell stiff-baked on the sill,

Or are roll’d up asleep i’ the blinds at sunrise,

Or wafer’d flat in a shrunken folio.



A dry biped he was, nurtured likewise

On skins and skeletons, stale from top to toe

With all manner of rubbish and all manner of lies.






{16}


GHOSTS.





Mazing around my mind like moths at a shaded candle,

In my heart like lost bats in a cave fluttering,

Mock ye the charm whereby I thought reverently to lay you,

When to the wall I nail’d your reticent effigys?






Έτώσιον ἄχθος ἀρούρης





Who goes there? God knows. I’m nobody. How should I answer?

Can’t jump over a gate nor run across the meadow.

I’m but an old whitebeard of inane identity. Pass on!

What’s left of me to-day will very soon be nothing.






{17}


HELL AND HATE.





Two demons thrust their arms out over the world,

Hell with a ruddy torch of fire,

And Hate with gasping mouth,

Striving to seize two children fair

Who play’d on the upper curve of the Earth.



Their shapes were vast as the thoughts of man,

But the Earth was small

As the moon’s rim appeareth

Scann’d through an optic glass.



The younger child stood erect on the Earth

As a charioteer in a car

Or a dancer with arm upraised;

Her whole form—barely clad

From feet to golden head—

Leapt brightly against the uttermost azure,

Whereon the stars were splashes of light

Dazed in the gulfing beds of space.{18}



The elder might have been stell’d to show

The lady who led my boyish love;

But her face was graver than e’er to me

When I look’d in her eyes long ago,

And the hair on her shoulders fal’n

Nested its luminous brown

I’ the downy spring of her wings:

Her figure aneath was screen’d by the Earth,

Whereoff—so small that was

No footing for her could be—

She appeared to be sailing free

I’ the glide and poise of her flight.



Then knew I the Angel Faith,

Who was guarding human Love.



Happy were both, of peaceful mien,

Contented as mankind longeth to be,

Not merry as children are;

And show’d no fear of the Fiends’ pursuit,

As ever those demons clutched in vain;

And I, who had fear’d awhile to see

Such gentleness in such jeopardy,

Lost fear myself; for I saw the foes

Were slipping aback and had no hold

On the round Earth that sped its course.{19}



The painted figures never could move,

But the artist’s mind was there:

The longer I look’d the more I knew

They were falling, falling away below

To the darkness out of sight.






December 16, 1913.{20}


“WAKE UP, ENGLAND!”[A]





Thou careless, awake!

Thou peacemaker, fight!

Stand England for honour

And God guard the Right!



Thy mirth lay aside,

Thy cavil and play;

The fiend is upon thee

And grave is the day.



* * *



Through fire, air and water

Thy trial must be;

But they that love life best

Die gladly for thee.



* * *



Much suffering shall cleanse thee

But thou through the flood

Shalt win to salvation,

To beauty through blood.{21}



Up, careless, awake!

Ye peacemakers, fight!

Stand England for honour,

And God guard the Right!






August, 1914.


[A] See notes at end of volume.


{22}


LORD KITCHENER.





Unflinching hero, watchful to foresee

And face thy country’s peril wheresoe’er,

Directing war and peace with equal care,

Till by long toil ennobled thou wert he

Whom England call’d and bade “Set my arm free

To obey my will and save my honour fair”—

What day the foe presumed on her despair

And she herself had trust in none but thee:



Among Herculean deeds the miracle

That mass’d the labour of ten years in one

Shall be thy monument. Thy work is done

Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea-swell

Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell

By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun.






{23}


ODE ON THE TERCENTENARY COMMEMORATION OF SHAKESPEARE, 1916.





Kind dove-wing’d Peace, for whose green olive-crown

The noblest kings would give their diadems,

Mother who hast ruled our home so long,

How suddenly art thou fled!

Leaving our cities astir with war;

And yet on the fair fields deserted

Lingerest, wherever the gaudy seasons

Deck with excessive splendour

The sorrow-stricken year,

Where cornlands bask and high elms rustle gently,

And still the unweeting birds sing on by brae and bourn.



The trumpet blareth and calleth the true to be stern

Be then thy soft reposeful music dumb;

Yet shall thy lovers awhile give ear

—Tho’ in war’s garb they come—

To the praise of England’s gentlest son;

Whom when she bore the Muses lov’d

Above the best of eldest honour{24}

—Yea, save one without peer—

And by great Homer set,

Not to impugn his undisputed throne,

The myriad-hearted by the mighty-hearted one.



For God of His gifts pour’d on him a full measure,

And gave him to know Nature and the ways of men:

To dower with inexhaustible treasure

A world-conquering speech,

Which surg’d as a river high-descended

That gathering tributaries of many lands

Rolls through the plain a bounteous flood,

Picturing towers and temples

And ruin of bygone times,

And floateth the ships deep-laden with merchandise

Out on the windy seas to traffic in foreign climes.



Thee Shakespeare to-day we honour; and evermore,

Since England bore thee, the master of human song,

Thy folk are we, children of thee,

Who knitting in one her realm

And strengthening with pride her sea-borne clans,

Scorn’st in the grave the bruize of death.

All thy later-laurel’d choir

Laud thee in thy world-shrine:

London’s laughter is thine;

One with thee is our temper in melancholy or might,

And in thy book Great-Britain’s rule readeth her right.{25}



Her chains are chains of Freedom, and her bright arms

Honour Justice and Truth and Love to man.

Though first from a pirate ancestry

She took her home on the wave,

Her gentler spirit arose disdainful,

And smiting the fetters of slavery

Made the high seaways safe and free,

In wisdom bidding aloud

To world-wide brotherhood,

Till her flag was hail’d as the ensign of Liberty,

And the boom of her guns went round the earth in salvos of peace.



And thou, when Nature bow’d her mastering hand

To borrow an ecstasy of man’s art from thee,

Thou her poet secure as she

Of the shows of eternity,

Didst never fear thy work should fall

To fashion’s craze nor pedant’s folly

Nor devastator whose arrogant arms

Murder and maim mankind;

Who when in scorn of grace

He hath batter’d and burn’d some loveliest dearest shrine,

Laugheth in ire and boasteth aloud his brazen god.



* * * * *

{26}


I saw the Angel of Earth from strife aloof

Mounting the heavenly stair with Time on high,

Growing ever younger in the brightening air

Of the everlasting dawn:

It was not terror in his eyes nor wonder,

That glance of the intimate exaltation

Which lieth as Power under all Being,

And broodeth in Thought above,

As a bird wingeth over the ocean,

Whether indolently the heavy water sleepeth

Or is dash’d in a million waves, chafing or lightly laughing.



I hear his voice in the music of lamentation,

In echoing chant and cadenced litany,

In country song and pastoral piping

And silvery dances of mirth:

And oft, as the eyes of a lion in the brake,

His presence hath startled me,

In austere shapes of beauty lurking,

Beautiful for Beauty’s sake;

As a lonely blade of life

Ariseth to flower whensoever the unseen Will

Stirreth with kindling aim the dark fecundity of Being.



Man knoweth but as in a dream of his own desire

The thing that is good for man, and he dreameth well:{27}

But the lot of the gentle heart is hard

That is cast in an epoch of life,

When evil is knotted and demons fight,

Who know not, they, that the lowest lot

Is treachery hate and trust in sin

And perseverance in ill,

Doom’d to oblivious Hell,

To pass with the shames unspoken of men away,

Wash’d out with their tombs by the grey unpitying tears of Heaven.



But ye, dear Youth, who lightly in the day of fury

Put on England’s glory as a common coat,

And in your stature of masking grace

Stood forth warriors complete,

No praise o’ershadoweth yours to-day,

Walking out of the home of love

To match the deeds of all the dead.—

Alas! alas! fair Peace,

These were thy blossoming roses.

Look on thy shame, fair Peace, thy tearful shame!

Turn to thine isle, fair Peace; return thou and guard it well!






{28}


THE CHIVALRY OF THE SEA.


DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF CHARLES FISHER, LATE
 STUDENT OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD, LOST
 IN THE “INVINCIBLE.”





Over the warring waters, beneath the wandering skies,

The heart of Britain roameth, the Chivalry of the sea,

Where Spring never bringeth a flower, nor bird singeth in a tree;

Far, afar, O beloved, beyond the sight of our eyes,

Over the warring waters, beneath the stormy skies.



Staunch and valiant-hearted, to whom our toil were play,

Ye man with armour’d patience the bulwarks night and day,

Or on your iron coursers plough shuddering through the Bay,

Or neath the deluge drive the skirmishing sharks of war:

Venturous boys who leapt on the pinnace and row’d from shore,

A mother’s tear in the eye, a swift farewell to say,

And a great glory at heart that none can take away.{29}



Seldom is your home-coming; for aye your pennon flies

In unrecorded exploits on the tumultuous wave;

Till, in the storm of battle, fast-thundering upon the foe,

Ye add your kindred names to the heroes of long-ago,

And mid the blasting wrack, in the glad sudden death of the brave,

Ye are gone to return no more.—Idly our tears arise;

Too proud for praise as ye lie in your unvisited grave,

The wide-warring water, under the starry skies.






{30}


FOR “PAGES INÉDITES,” Etc.


April, 1916.





By our dear sons’ graves, fair France, thou’rt now to us, endear’d;

Since no more as of old stand th’ English against thee in fight,

But rallying to defend thee they die guarding thy beauty

From blind envious Hate and Perfidy leagued with Might.






GHELUVELT.


EPITAPH ON THE WORCESTERS. OCTOBER 31, 1914.





Askest thou of these graves? They’ll tell thee,

O stranger, in England

How we Worcesters lie where we redeem’d the battle.






{31}


THE WEST FRONT.


AN ENGLISH MOTHER, ON LOOKING INTO MASEFIELD’S “OLD FRONT LINE.”





No country know I so well

as this landscape of hell.

Why bring you to my pain

these shadow’d effigys

Of barb’d wire, riven trees,

the corpse-strewn blasted plain?



And the names—Hebuterne

Bethune and La Bassée—

I have nothing to learn—

Contalmaison, Boisselle,

And one where night and day

my heart would pray and dwell;



A desert sanctuary,

where in holy vigil

Year-long I have held my faith

against th’ imaginings

Of horror and agony

in an ordeal above{32}



The tears of suffering

and took aid of angels:

This was the temple of God:

no mortuary of kings

Ever gathered the spoils

of such chivalry and love:



No pilgrim shrine soe’er

hath assembled such prayer—

With rich incense-wafted

ritual and requiem

Not beauteous batter’d Rheims

nor lorn Jerusalem.






{33}


TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


April, 1917.





Brothers in blood! They who this wrong began

To wreck our commonwealth, will rue the day

When first they challenged freemen to the fray,

And with the Briton dared the American.

Now are we pledged to win the Rights of man;

Labour and justice now shall have their way,

And in a League of Peace—God grant we may—

Transform the earth, not patch up the old plan.



Sure is our hope since he, who led your nation,

Spake for mankind; and ye arose in awe

Of that high call to work the world’s salvation;

Clearing your minds of all estranging blindness

In the vision of Beauty, and the Spirit’s law,

Freedom and Honour and sweet Loving-kindness.






{34}


TRAFALGAR SQUARE


September, 1917.





Fool that I was: my heart was sore,

Yea sick for the myriad wounded men,

The maim’d in the war: I had grief for each one:

And I came in the gay September sun

To the open smile of Trafalgar Square;

Where many a lad with a limb fordone

Loll’d by the lion-guarded column

That holdeth Nelson statued thereon

Upright in the air.



The Parliament towers and the Abbey towers,

The white Horseguards and grey Whitehall,

He looketh on all,

Past Somerset House and the river’s bend

To the pillar’d dome of St. Paul,

That slumbers confessing God’s solemn blessing

On England’s glory, to keep it ours—

While children true her prowess renew

And throng from the ends of the earth to defend

Freedom and honour—till Earth shall end.{35}



The gentle unjealous Shakespeare, I trow,

In his country tomb of peaceful fame,

Must feel exiled from life and glow

If he think of this man with his warrior claim,

Who looketh o’er London as if ’twere his own,

As he standeth in stone, aloft and alone,

Sailing the sky with one arm and one eye.






{36}


CHRISTMAS EVE, 1917





Many happy returns, sweet Babe, of the day!

Didst not thou sow good seed in the world, thy field?

Cam’st thou to save the poor? Thy poor yet pine.

Thousands to-day suffer death-pangs like thine;

Our jewels of life are spilt on the ground as dross;

Ten thousand mothers stand beneath the cross.

Peace to men of goodwill was the angels’ song:

Now there is fiercer war, worse filth and wrong.

If thou didst sow good seed, is this the yield?

Shall not thy folk be quell’d in dead dismay?



Nay, with a larger hope we are fed and heal’d

Than e’er was reveal’d to the saints who died so strong;

For while men slept the seed had quicken’d unseen.

England is as a field whereon the corn is green.



Of trial and dark tribulation this vision is born—

Britain as a field green with the springing corn.

While we slumber’d the seed was growing unseen.

Happy returns of the day, dear Babe, we say.{37}



England has buried her sins with her fathers’ bones.

Thou shalt be throned on the ruin of kingly thrones.

The wish of thine heart is rooted in carnal mind;

For good seed didst thou sow in the world thy field:

It shall ripen in gold and harvest an hundredfold.

Peace shall come as a flood upon all mankind;

Love shall comfort and succour the poor that are pined.



Wherever our gentle children are wander’d and sped,

Simple apostles thine of the world to come,

They carried the living seed of the living Bread.

The angel-song and the gospel of Christendom,

That while the nation slept was springing unseen.



So tho’ we be sorely stricken we feel no dread:

Our thousand sons suffer death-pangs like thine:

It shall ripen in gold and harvest an hundredfold:

Peace and Love shall hallow our care and teen,

Shall bind in fellowship all the folk of the earth

To kneel at thy cradle, Babe, and bless thy birth.



Ring we the bells up and down in country and town,

And keep the old feast unholpen of preacher or priest,

Wishing thee happy returns, and thy Mother May,

Ever happier and happier returns, dear Christ, of thy day!






{38}


TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


August, 1918.





See England’s stalwart daughter, who made emprise

’Gainst her own mother, freeborn of the free,

Who slew her sons for her slaves’ liberty,

See for mankind her majesty arise!

From her new world her unattainted eyes

Espy deliverance, and her bold decree

Speaks for Great Britain’s wide confederacy:

The folk shall rule, if only they be wise.



Ambition, hate, revenge, the secret sway

Of priest and kingcraft shall be done away

By faith in beauty, chivalry and good.

One God made all, and will all wrongs forgive

Save their hell-heart who stab man’s hope to live

In mutual freedom, peace and brotherhood.






{39}


OUR PRISONERS OF WAR IN GERMANY


October, 1918.





Prisoners to a foe inhuman, Oh! but our hearts rebel:

Defenceless victims ye are, in claws of spite a prey,

Conquering your torturers, enduring night and day

Malice, year-long drawn out your noble spirits to quell.

Fearsomer than death this rack they ranged, and reckon’d well

’Twould harrow our homes, and plied, such devilish aim had they,

That England roused to rage should wrong with wrong repay,

And smirch her envied honour in deeds unspeakable.



Nor trouble we just Heaven that quick revenge be done

On Satan’s chamberlains highseated in Berlin;

Their reek floats round the world on all lands ’neath the sun:

Tho’ in craven Germany was no man found, not one

With spirit enough to cry Shame!—Nay, but on such sin

{40}    Follows Perdition eternal ... and it has begun.






HARVEST-HOME


VERSES TO THE AMERICANS ON THEIR THANKSGIVING DAY, CELEBRATED IN ENGLAND NOVEMBER 28, 1918.





A toast for West and East

Drink on this Thursday feast

Last in November,

The year when Albion’s lands

Across the sea join hands—

Drink and remember!



Nineteen-eighteen fulfill’d

The kindly purpose will’d

By the Ever-living,

When first in hope upstay’d

The Pilgrim Fathers made

Harvest thanksgiving.



And since the seed bore fruit,

Which they went forth to root

In the wildernesses,

Ye now return to find

The Rose that they resigned

With their distresses.{41}



’Twas when the wide world o’er,

Whatever peaceful shore

Britons inherit,

Britons claim’d right of birth,

And fought hell in the mirth

Of Shakespeare’s spirit.



Then your true heart was stirr’d,

Your arm raised, and your word

Went forth, forecasting

That the great war should cease

In British bonds of peace,

Peace everlasting.



The good God bless this day,

And we for ever and aye

Keep our love living,

Till all men ’neath heaven’s dome

Sing Freedom’s Harvest-home

In one Thanksgiving!






{42}


TO AUSTRALIA


WITH THE WOUNDED AND THE SURVIVORS OF 1914 RETURNING HOME IN AUTUMN, 1918.





A loving message at Christmastide,

Sent round the world to the underside

A-sail in the ship that across the foam

Carries the wounded Aussies home,

Who rallied at War’s far-thundering call,

When England stood with her back to the wall,

To fight for Freedom, that ne’er shall die

So long as on earth the old flag fly.



O hearts so loving, eager and bold—

Whose praise hath claim to be writ on the sky

In letters of gold, of fire and gold—

Never shall prouder tale be told,

Than how ye fought as the knights of old

“Against the heathen in Turkye

In Flanders Artois and Picardie:”

But above all triumph that else ye have won

This is the goodliest deed ye have done,

To have seal’d with blood in a desperate day

The love-bond that binds us for ever and aye.






September, 1918.{43}


THE EXCELLENT WAY





Man’s mind that hath this earth for home

Hath too its far-spread starry dome

Where thought is lost in going free,

Prison’d but by infinity.

He first in slumbrous babyhood

Took conscience of his heavenly good;

Then with his sins grown up to youth

Wept at the vision of God’s truth.



Soon in his heart new hopes awoke

As poet sang or prophet spoke:

Temples arose and stone he taught

To stand agaze in trancèd thought:

He won the trembling air to tell

Of far passions ineffable,

Feeding the hungry things of sense

With instincts of omniscience,

Immortal modes that should abide

Cherish’d by love and pious pride,

That unborn children might inherit

The triumph of his holy spirit,{44}

Outbidding Nature, to entice

Her soul from her own Paradise,

Till her wild face had fallen to shame

Had he not praised her in God’s name.



Alas! poor man, what blockish curse

Would violate thy universe,

To enchain thy freedom and entomb

Thy pleasance in devouring gloom?

Behold thy savage foes of yore

With woes of pestilence and war,

Siva and Moloch, Odin and Thor,

Rise from their graves to greet amain

The deeds that give them life again.



Poor man, sunk deeper than thy slime

In blood and hate, in terror and crime,

Thou who wert lifted on the wings

Of thy desire, the king of kings,

In promise beyond ken sublime:

O thou man-soul, who mightest climb

To heavenly happiness, whereof

Thine easy path were Mirth and Love!






October, 1918.{45}


ENGLAND TO INDIA


Christmas, 1918.





Beautiful is man’s home: how fair,

Wrapt in her robe of azurous air,

The Earth thro’ stress of ice and fire

Came on the path of God’s desire,

Redeeming Chaos, to compose

Exquisite forms of lily and rose,

With every creature a design

Of loveliness or craft divine

Searchable and unsearchable,

And each insect a miracle!



Truth is as Beauty unconfined:

Various as Nature is man’s Mind:

Each race and tribe is as a flower

Set in God’s garden with its dower

Of special instinct; and man’s grace

Compact of all must all embrace.

China and Ind, Hellas or France,

Each hath its own inheritance;{46}

And each to Truth’s rich market brings

Its bright divine imaginings,

In rival tribute to surprise

The world with native merchandise.

Nor least in worth nor last in years

Of artists, poets, saints and seers,

England, in her far northern sea,

Fashion’d the jewel of Liberty,

Fetch’d from the shore of Palestine

(Land of the Lily and mystic Vine).

Where once in the everlasting dawn

Christ’s Love-star flamed, that heavenly sign

Whereto all nations shall be drawn,

Unfabled Magi, and uplift

Each to Love’s cradle his own gift.



Thou who canst dream and understand,

Dost thou not dream for thine own land

This dream of Truth, and contemplate

That happier world, Love’s free Estate?

Say, didst thou dream, O Sister fair,

How hand in hand we entered there?






{47}


BRITANNIA VICTRIX





Careless wast thou in thy pride,

Queen of seas and countries wide,

Glorying on thy peaceful throne:—

Can thy love thy sins atone?

What shall dreams of glory serve,

If thy sloth thy doom deserve,

When the strong relentless foe

Storm thy gates to lay thee low?



Careless, ah! he saw thee leap

Mighty from thy startled sleep,

Heard afar thy challenge ring:

’Twas the world’s awakening.



Welcome to thy children all

Rallying to thee without call

Oversea, the sportive sons

From thy vast dominions!

Stern in onset or defence,

Terrible in their confidence.{48}



Dauntless wast thou, fair goddess,

’Neath the cloud of thy distress;

Fierce and mirthful wast thou seen

In thy toil and in thy teen;

While the nations looked to thee,

Spent in worldwide agony.



Oft, throughout that long ordeal

Dark with horror-stricken duty,

Nature on thy heart would steal

Beckoning thee with heavenly beauty,

Heightening ever on thine isle

All her seasons’ tranquil smile;

Till thy soul anew converted,

Roaming o’er the fields deserted,

By thy sorrow sanctified,

Found a place wherein to hide.



Soon fresh beauty lit thy face,

Then thou stood’st in Heaven’s high grace:

Sudden in air on land and sea

Swell’d the voice of victory.



Now when jubilant bells resound

And thy sons come laurel-crown’d,

After all thy years of woe

Thou no longer canst forgo,

Now thy tears are loos’d to flow.{49}



Land, dear land, whose sea-built shore

Nurseth warriors evermore,

Land, whence Freedom far and lone

Round the earth her speech has thrown

Like a planet’s luminous zone,—

In thy strength and calm defiance

Hold mankind in love’s alliance!



Beauteous art thou, but the foes

Of thy beauty are not those

Who lie tangled and dismay’d;

Fearless one, be yet afraid

Lest thyself thyself condemn

In the wrong that ruin’d them.



God, who chose thee and upraised

’Mong the folk (His name be praised!),

Proved thee then by chastisement

Worthy of His high intent,

Who, because thou could’st endure,

Saved thee free and purged thee pure,

Won thee thus His grace to win,

For thy love forgave thy sin,

For thy truth forgave thy pride,

Queen of seas and countries wide,—

He who led thee still will guide.{50}



Hark! thy sons, those spirits fresh

Dearly housed in dazzling flesh,

Thy full brightening buds of strength,

Ere their day had any length

Crush’d, and fallen in torment sorest,

Hark! the sons whom thou deplorest

Call—I hear one call; he saith:

“Mother, weep not for my death:

’Twas to guard our home from hell,

’Twas to make thy joy I fell

Praising God, and all is well.

What if now thy heart should quail

And in peace our victory fail!

If low greed in guise of right

Should consume thy gather’d might,

And thy power mankind to save

Fall and perish on our grave!

On my grave, whose legend be

Fought with the brave and joyfully

Died in faith of victory.

Follow on the way we won!

Thou hast found, not lost thy son.”






November 23, 1918.{51}


DER TAG: NELSON AND BEATTY


A BROADSHEET.


1.





No doubt ’twas a truly Christian sight

When the German ships came out of the Bight,

But it can’t be said it was much of a fight

That grey November morning;

The wonderful day, the great Der Tag,

Which Prussians had vow’d with unmannerly brag

Should see Old England lower her flag

Some grey November morning.






2.





The spirit of Nelson, that haunts the Fleet,

Had come whereabouts the ships must meet,

But he fear’d there was some decoy or cheat

That grey November morning,

When the enemy led by a British scout

Stole ’twixt our lines ... and never a shout

Or a signal; and never a gun spoke out

That grey November morning.






{52}


3.





So he shaped his course to the Admiral’s ship,

Where Beatty stood with hand on hip

Impassive, nor ever moved his lip

That grey November morning;

And touching his shoulder he said: “My mate,

Am I come too soon or am I too late?

Is it friendly manœuvres or pageant of State

This grey November morning?”






4.





Then Beatty said: “As Admiral here

In the name of the King I bid you good cheer:

It’s not my fault that it looks so queer

This grey November morning;

But there come the enemy all in queues;

They can fight well enough if only they choose;

Small blame to me if the fools refuse,

This grey November morning.






5.





“That’s Admiral Reuter, surrendering nine

Great Dreadnoughts, all first-rates of the line;

Beyond, in the haze that veils the brine

This grey November morning,{53}

Loom five heavy Cruisers, and light ones four,

With a tail of Destroyers, fifty or more,

Each squadron under its Commodore,

This grey November morning.






6.





“The least of all those captive queens

Could have knock’d your whole navy to smithereens,

And nothing said of the other machines,

On a grey November morning,

The aeroplanes and the submarines,

Bombs, torpedoes, and Zeppelins,

Their floating mines and their smoky screens,

Of a grey November morning.






7.





“They’ll rage like bulls sans reason or rhyme,

And next day, as if ’twere a pantomime,

They walk in like cows at milking-time,

On a grey November morning.

We’re four years sick of the pestilent mob;

—You’ve heard of our biblical Battle in Gob?—

At times it was hardly a gentleman’s job

Of a grey November morning.”{54}






8.





Then Nelson said: “God bless my soul!

How things are changed in this age of coal;

For the spittle it isn’t with you I’d condole

This grey November morning.

By George! you’ve netted a monstrous catch:

You’ll be able to pen the best dispatch

That ever an Admiral wrote under hatch

On a grey November morning.






9.





“I like your looks and I like your name:

My heart goes out to the old fleet’s fame,

And I’m pleased to find you so spry at the game

This grey November morning.

Your ships, tho’ I don’t half understand

Their build, are stouter and better mann’d

Than anything I ever had in command

Of a grey November morning.”






10.





Then Beatty spoke: “Sir! none of my crew,

All bravest of brave and truest of true,

Is thinking of me so much as of you

This grey November morning.”{55}

And Nelson replied: “Well, thanks f’ your chat.

Forgive my intrusion! I take off my hat

And make you my bow ... we’ll leave it at that,

This grey November morning.”{56}






“TO BURNS”


TOAST FOR THE GREENOCK CLUB DINNER, JANUARY, 1914.





To Burns! brave Scotia’s laurel’d son

Who drove his plough on Helicon—

Who with his Doric rhyme erewhile

Taught English bards to mend their style—

And by the humour of his pen

Fairly befool’d auld Nickie-ben ...

Blithe Robbie Burns! we love thee well

Because thou wert so like thysel’,

And in full cups with festive cheer

We toast thy fame from year to year.






{57}


POOR CHILD





On a mournful day

When my heart was lonely,

O’er and o’er my thought

Conned but one thing only,



Thinking how I lost

Wand’ring in the wild-wood

The companion self

Of my careless childhood.



How, poor child, it was

I shall ne’er discover,

But ’twas just when he

Grew to be thy lover,



With thine eyes of trust

And thy mirth, whereunder

All the world’s hope lay

In thy heart of wonder.



Now, beyond regrets

And faint memories of thee.

Saddest is, poor child,

That I cannot love thee.






{58}


TO PERCY BUCK





Folk alien to the Muse have hemm’d us round

And fiends have suck’d our blood: our best delight

Is poison’d, and the year’s infective blight

Hath made almost a silence of sweet sound.

But you, what fortune, Percy, have you found

At Harrow? doth fair hope your toil requite?

Doth beauty win her praise and truth her right,

Or hath the good seed fal’n on stony ground?



Ply the art ever nobly, single-soul’d

Like Brahms, or as you ruled in Wells erewhile,

—Nor yet the memory of that zeal is cold—

Where lately I, who love the purer style,

Enter’d, and felt your spirit as of old

Beside me, listening in the chancel-aisle.






1904.{59}


TO HARRY ELLIS WOOLDRIDGE





Love and the Muse have left their home, now bare

Of memorable beauty, all is gone,

The dedicated charm of Yattendon,

Which thou wert apt, dear Hal, to build and share.

What noble shades are flitting, who while-ere

Haunted the ivy’d walls, where time ran on

In sanctities of joy by reverence won,

Music and choral grace and studies fair!



These on some kindlier field may Fate restore,

And may the old house prosper, dispossest

Of her whose equal it can nevermore

Hold till it crumble: O nay! and the door

Will moulder ere it open on a guest

To match thee in thy wisdom and thy jest.






October, 1905.{60}


FORTUNATUS NIMIUM





I have lain in the sun

I have toil’d as I might

I have thought as I would

And now it is night.



My bed full of sleep

My heart of content

For friends that I met

The way that I went.



I welcome fatigue

While frenzy and care

Like thin summer clouds

Go melting in air.



To dream as I may

And awake when I will

With the song of the birds

And the sun on the hill.{61}



Or death—were it death—

To what should I wake

Who loved in my home

All life for its sake?



What good have I wrought?

I laugh to have learned

That joy cannot come

Unless it be earned;



For a happier lot

Than God giveth me

It never hath been

Nor ever shall be.






{62}


DEMOCRITUS





Joy of your opulent atoms! wouldst thou dare

Say that Thought also of atoms self-became,

Waving to soul as light had the eye in aim;

And so with things of bodily sense compare

Those native notions that the heavens declare,

Space and Time, Beauty and God—Praise we his name!—

Real ideas, that on tongues of flame

From out mind’s cooling paste leapt unaware?



Thy spirit, Democritus, orb’d in the eterne

Illimitable galaxy of night

Shineth undimm’d where greater splendours burn

Of sage and poet: by their influence bright

We are held; and pouring from his quenchless urn

Christ with immortal love-beams laves the height.






1919.{63}


NOTES


Poem 3.—As the metre or scansion of this poem was publicly discussed
and wrongly analysed by some who admired its effects, it may be well to
explain that it and the three other poems in similar measure, “Flowering
Tree,” “In der Fremde,” “The West Front,” are strictly syllabic verse on
the model left by Milton in “Samson Agonistes”; except that his system,
which depended on exclusion of extra-metrical syllables (that is,
syllables which did not admit of resolution by “elision” into a
disyllabic scheme) from all places but the last, still admitted them in
that place, thereby forbidding inversion of the last foot. It is natural
to conclude that, had he pursued his inventions, his next step would
have been to get rid of this anomaly; and if that is done, the result is
the new rhythms that these poems exhibit. In this sort of prosody rhyme
is admitted, like alliteration, as an ornament at will; it is not
needed. My four experiments are confined to the twelve-syllable verse.
It is probably agreed that there are possibilities in that long six-foot
line which English poetry has not fully explored.


Poem 12, “Hell and Hate.”—This poem was written December 16, 1913. It
is the description of a little picture hanging in my bedroom; it had
been painted for me{64} as a New Year’s gift more than thirty years before,
and I described it partly because I never exactly knew what it meant.
When the war broke out I remembered my poem and sent it to The Times,
where it appeared in the Literary Supplement September 24, 1914.


Poem 13, “Wake up, England!”—This motto is the King’s well-known call
to the country in 1901 at the Guildhall.


The verses appeared in The Times on August 8, 1914. There were three
other stanzas, which are better omitted; and the last two lines, which
were printed in capitals and ran thus,





England stands for honour,

May God defend the right,






were purposely set out of metre. In the second stanza the words “The
fiend” are what I originally wrote, and I think that the friends who
persuaded me to substitute “Thy foe” will no longer wish to protest.



BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND