  "Fairplay's good sport, and we're all mortal worms."—Mrs. Delilah Becker. IBlessed above all women Shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be. Jael, a queen in Heaven Surely will speak out straight in defence of me. Shall I despair Salvation? Was Sisera then more ripe for the knife or nail Than rat-soul'd Becker? Do I misread the tale? I was no stealthy serpent. (Jael flattered and killed her man as he slept.) I was a lion, I challenged before I leapt. Three times I gave clear warning (Fair-play's good sport), then standing I struck him dead. Ram-faced lecher, the blood on his own beast head! Blessed above all women Shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be. Ah, she won fame for her triumph, My inward joy was payment enough for me. IIOld Becker crawling in the night From his grave at the stair-foot, Labours up the long flight, Feeble, dribbling, black as soot, Quakes at his own ghostly fright. A cat goes past with lantern eyes Shooting splendour through the dark. Murder! Help! a voice cries In nightmare; the son dreams that stark In lead his vanished father lies. A stair-top glimmer points the goal. Becker goes wavering up, tongue-tied, Stoops, with eye to keyhole.... There, a tall candle by her side, Delilah sits, serene and whole. Her fingers turn the prayer-book leaves, Her forehead hints no mental strife: Soft and calm her breast heaves: So calmly, with his cobbling knife She stabbed him through ... now never grieves. Baffled, aghast with hate, mouse-poor, He glares and clatters the brass knob ... Through his heart it slid sure: He bowed, he died with never a sob, Again she stabbed, now sits secure. Praying as she has always prayed For great Victoria's Majesty, Droning prayer for God's aid To succour long dead Royalty, The Consort Prince, Queen Adelaide.... She falls asleep, the clocks chime two; Old Becker sinks to unquiet rest. Loud and sad the cats mew: Lead weighs cruelly on his breast: His bones are tufted with mildew. IIIWhat's that, who's that comes breaking on my sleep With groans? What, father, you? (The very look, The same smudged foolish face like an old sheep Even after twenty years scarcely mistook.) Speak, Father, speak; that night what came to you Vanished in wrath or terror? Tell the tale; Your beer left still in mug, your half-made shoe On last, your turnip ticking on its nail! "Son, it was Death. I have not stirred a foot Out of this horrible dwelling all these years, But planted like a kail I have taken root Under the stairs, my son, under the stairs. "Do not avenge me, Henry. Let all slide. I grudge your death. See, do not touch the snake. A cowardice taints you from your father's side And a coward's lusts, but curb them, for my sake! "Back to your grave, back Father, lest she wake!" IVTwo full hours before the dawn, Dotard Parrot cocks an ear To the sleeper's moan, long-drawn, To her slurring tale of fear. Parrot hears Delilah tell Who lies dead below the stair; How he shuddered, stumbled, fell; In whose cause she laid him there. The knife bit, thus: thus, the blood spread! Connoisseur of fo'c'stle speeches Parrot tilts his bald, sly head, Learns the spicy yarn she teaches. Soon, when sunlight warms his cage, He plots to cheer the passers-by With burlesque of murderous rage, Acting how his victims die: Thus, he stabs 'em; there, they lie. POETRY BY THE SAME AUTHOR 1916 Over the Brazier Poetry Bookshop. |
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