LAUGHS AND WHIFTS OF SONG |
A SONG OF COLOURS GOLD for the crown of Mary,
Blue for the sea and sky,
Green for the woods and meadows
Where small white daisies lie,
And red for the colour of Christ’s blood
When He came to the cross to die.
These things the high God gave us
And left in the world He made—
Gold for the hilt’s enrichment,
And blue for the sword’s good blade,
And red for the roses a youth may set
On the white brows of a maid.
Green for the cool, sweet gardens
Which stretch about the house,
And the delicate new frondage
The winds of Spring arouse,
And red for the wine which a man may drink
With his fellows in carouse.
Blue and green for the comfort
Of tired hearts and eyes,
And red for that sudden hour which comes
With danger and great emprise,
And white for the honour of God’s throne
When the dead shall all arise.
Gold for the cope and chalice,
For kingly pomp and pride,
And red for the feathers men wear in their caps
When they win a war or a bride,
And red for the robe which they dressed God in
On the bitter day He died.
CECIDIT, CECIDIT BABYLON MAGNA!
APOCALYPSE “And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first
heaven and the first earth were passed away.”—Apoc.. xxi, I. SHALL summer woods where we have laughed our fill;
Shall all your grass so good to walk upon;
Each field which we have loved, each little hill
Be burnt like paper—as hath said Saint John?
Then not alone they die! For God hath told
How all His plains of mingled fire and glass,
His walls of hyacinth, His streets of gold,
His aureoles of jewelled light shall pass,
That He may make us nobler things than these,
And in her royal robes of blazing red
Adorn His bride. Yea, with what mysteries
And might and mirth shall she be diamonded!
And what new secrets shall our God disclose;
Or set what suns of burnished brass to flare;
Or what empurpled blooms to oust the rose;
Or what strange grass to glow like angels’ hair!
What pinnacles of silver tracery,
What dizzy rampired towers shall God devise
Of topaz, beryl and chalcedony
To make Heaven pleasant to His children’s eyes!
And in what cataclysms of flame and foam
Shall the first Heaven sink—as red as sin—
When God hath Cast aside His ancient home
As far too mean to house His Children in!
GHOSTS SOME dismal nights there are when spirits walk
Who lived and died unhappy in their time,
To waste the air with vows and whispered talk
Of tarnished love or hate or secret crime—
But now the moon moves splendid through the sky;
The night is brilliant like a silver shield;
And in their cavalcades come riding by
The mighty dead of many a tented field.
On this one night at least of all the year
The lists are set again, the lines are drawn;
Again resounds the clang of horse and spear;
The sweet applause of ladies, till the dawn
Makes glad the souls of vizored knights—then they,
Hearing that seneschal, the cock, all troop away.
PROCESSIONAL SEE how the plated gates unfold,
How swing the creaking doors of brass!
With drums and gleaming arms, behold
Christ’s regal cohorts pass!
Shall Christ not have His chosen men,
Nor lead His crested knights so tall,
Superb upon their horses, when
The world’s last cities fall?
Ah, no! These few, the maimed, the dumb,
The saints of every lazar’s den,
The earth’s off-scourings—they come
From desert and from fen
To break the terror of the night,
Black dreams and dreadful mysteries,
And proud, lost empires in their might,
And chains and tyrannies.
There ride no gold-encinctured kings
Against the potentates of earth;
God chooses all the weakest things,
And gives Himself in birth
With beaten slaves to draw His breath,
And sleeps with foxes on the moor,
With malefactors shares His death,
Tattered and worn and poor.
See how the plated gates unfold,
How swing the creaking doors of brass!
Victorious in defeat—behold,
Christ and His cohorts pass!
A SONG OF LAUGHTER THE stars with their laughter are shaken;
The long waves laugh at sea;
And the little Imp of Laughter
Laughs in the soul of me.
I know the guffaw of a tempest,
The mirth of a blossom and bud—
But I laugh when I think of Cuchulain[A] who laughed
At the Crows with their bills in his blood.
The mother laughs low at her baby,
The bridegroom with joy in his bride—
And I think that Christ laughed when they took Him with staves
On the night before He died.
BALLADE IN PRAISE OF ARUNDEL (Made after a walk through Surrey and Sussex.) I’VE trudged along the Pilgrims’ Way,
And from St. Martha’s Hill looked down
O’er Surrey woods and fields which lay
Green in the sunlight. On the crown
Of Hindhead and the Punchbowl’s brink
Of no good thing I’ve been bereaven:
But Arundel’s the place for drink—
The pubs keep open till eleven.
White chalk-cliffs and the stubborn clay
Are thrown about, and many a town
Breaks on the sight like breaking day;
But after all, who but a clown
Could Arundel with Midhurst link,
Where men go dry from two till seven?
In Arundel (no truth I’ll shrink)
The pubs keep open till eleven.
A great cool church where men can pray
Secure from misbelieving frown;
And in the Square, I beg to say,
The beer is strong and rich and brown.
Some poor, misguided people think
Petworth’s the spot that’s nearest Heaven:
In Arundel the ale-pots clink—
The pubs keep open till eleven.
L’Envoi Duke, at the dreadful Judgment Day
Your soul will surely be well shriven,
For then all angel trumps shall bray,
He kept pubs open till eleven!
THE TRAMP MY brothers stay in cities
To gather shame and gold,
But I am for the highway
And the wind upon the wold.
They take the train each morning
To a dull, bricked-up place;
I trudge the living country
With the sunlight on my face.
I know no home or shelter,
No bed but good green grass,
Nor any friends but hedgerows
To greet me as I pass.
But though the road still calls me
To places wild and steep,
I find the going heavy;
My eyes are full of sleep.
The fields lie all about me;
The trees are gay with sap—
As I go weary, weary
To my great mother’s lap,
To rest me with my mother,
The kindly earth so brown.
And Lord! But well contented
I’ll lay my carcase down.
THE WORLD’S MISER I A MISER with an eager face
Sees that each roseleaf is in place.
He keeps beneath strong bolts and bars
The piercing beauty of the stars.
The colours of the dying day
He hoards as treasure—well He may!—
And saves with care (lest they be lost)
The dainty diagrams of frost.
He counts the hairs of every head,
And grieves to see a sparrow dead.
II Among the yellow primroses
He holds His summer palaces,
And sets the grass about them all
To guard them as His spearmen small.
He fixes on each wayside stone
A mark to shew it as His Own,
And knows when raindrops fall through air
Whether each single one be there,
That gathered into ponds and brooks
They may become His picture-books,
To shew in every spot and place
The living glory of His face.
EASTER AMONG the gay, exultant trees,
Over the green and growing grass,
Clothed in immortal mysteries,
I see His living body pass.
The catkins fling abroad His name,
While birds from every bush and spray
Strain feathered necks, and tipped with flame
The hills all stand to greet His day.
Each violet and bluebell curled
Wakes with the dead Christ’s waking eye,
And like burst gravestones clouds are hurled
Across the wide and waiting sky.
And drenched, for very height of mirth,
With clean white tears of April rain,
Like Mary Magdalene the earth
Finds April’s risen Lord again.
THE GLORY OF THE ORIFLAMME THE glory of the Oriflamme,
Or strange, red flowers of the South
Hold no such splendours as lie hid
In your sweet mouth!
The secret honey of the Cliff,
The lure and laughter of the sea
Are not the dear delight that is
Your face to me!
What wilful trees of any spring
Than your young body are more fair?
What glamour of forgotten gold
Lurks in your hair?
The glory of the Oriflamme,
Or strange, red flowers of the South
Hold no such splendours as lie hid
In your sweet mouth!
TO A GOOD ATHEIST THAT you can keep your crested courage high,
And hopeless hope without a cause, and wage
Christ’s warfare, lacking all the panoply
Of Faith which shall endure the end of age,
You must be made of finely tempered stuff,
And have a kinship with that Spanish saint,
Who wrote of his soul’s night—it was enough
That he should drag his footsteps tired and faint
Along his God-appointed pathway. You
Have stood against our day of bitter scorn,
When loudly its triumphant trumpets blew
Contempt of all God’s poor. Had you been born
But in the time of Jeanne or Catharine,
Whose charity was as a sword of flame,
With those who drank up martyrdom like wine
Had stood your aureoled and ringing name.
Yet, when that secret day of God shall break
With strange and splendid justice through the skies,
When last are first, then star-ward you shall take
The praise and sorrow of your starry eyes.
TO A BAD ATHEIST who wrote what he called a trinity of meek retorts to the preceding
poem, which were not meek, but full of pride and
abominable heresy
YOU do not love the shadows on the wall,
Or mists that flee before a blowing wind,
Or Gothic forests, or light aspen leaves,
Or skies that melt into a dreamy sea.
In the hot, glaring noontide of your mind
(I have your word for it) there is no room
For anything save sawdust, sun and sand.
No monkish flourishes will do for you;
Your life must be set down in black and white.
The quiet half-light of the abbey close,
The cunning carvings of a chantry tomb,
The leaden windows pricked with golden saints—
All these are nothing to your ragtime soul!
Yet, since you are a solemn little chap,
In spite of all your blasphemy and booze,
That dreadful sword of satire which you shake
Hurts no hide but your own,—you cannot use
A weapon which is bigger than yourself.
Yet some there were who rode all clad in mail,—
With crosses blazoned on their mighty shields,
Roland who blew his horn against the Moor,
Richard who charged for Christ at Ascalon,
Louis a pilgrim with his chivalry,
And Blessed Jeanne who saved the crown of France—
Pah! you may keep your whining Superman!
PALM SUNDAY THE grey hairs of Caiaphas
Shall know the truth to-day,
For kingly, riding on an ass,
The Truth has come his way.
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,
And Golgotha is empty still!)
Caiaphas waxes eloquent
On tittle and on jot,
But when they cry “Hosanna!”
Caiaphas answers not.
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,
And Golgotha is empty still!)
In the temple of Caiaphas
Stand two gold seraphim—
They do not worship Christ nor shout
As the grey stones shout for Him.
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,
And Golgotha is empty still!)
The vestments of Caiaphas
With gold and silver shone—
They would get soiled if he cast them down
For the ass to walk upon.
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,
And Golgotha is empty still!)
The religion of Caiaphas
Is very spick and span,
It does not love the ill-bred mob,
The homespun Son of Man!
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,
And Golgotha is empty still!)
The dark soul of Caiaphas
Is full of sin and pride;
It does not know the splendour
Or the triumph of that ride!
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,
And Golgotha is empty still!)
WHEN I RIDE INTO THE TOWN WHEN I go riding into the town,
When I ride into the town,
I fill my skin at the nearest inn
When I ride into the town.
Oh, what is there then to trouble about?
There are no such things as despair and doubt—
For when ale goes in the truth comes out,
When I ride into the town!
When I go riding out of the town,
When I ride out of the town,
I have my men behind me then
When I ride out of the town;
Halberd, battle-axe, culverin, bow,
Four hundred strong as out we go,
Four hundred yeomen to meet the foe,
When I ride out of the town!
When I ride into the Town of Death—
That strange and unknown town!—
It will not be all cap-À-pie,
But with sword and lance laid down.
Then may our Lady beside me stand;
Saint Michael guard at my good right hand—
God rest my soul and the souls of my band,
When we ride into the Town!
REQUIEM WHEN my last song is sung and I am dead
And laid away beneath the kindly clay,
Set a square stone above my dreamless head,
And sign me with the cross and signing say:
“Here lieth one who loved the steadfast things
Of his own land, its gladness and its grace,
The stubbled fields, the linnets’ gleaming wings,
The long, low gables of his native place,
Its gravelled paths, and the strong wind that rends
The boughs about the house, the hearth’s red glow,
The surly, slow good-fellowship of friends,
The humour of the men he used to know,
And all their swinging choruses and mirth”—
Then turn aside and leave my dust in earth.
AVE ATQUE VALE! MY friends, I may no longer ride with you
To bear a sword in your brave company,
Or follow our poor tattered flag which knew
No shame or slur—or any victory.
But this at least, with courage and with mirth
We starveling poets and enthusiasts
Have shirked no battle for the stricken earth
Against its tyrants’ spears and arbalests.
And though I go to guard another sign,
These things, please God, shall stand and never slip—
(O friends of mine, O splendid friends of mine!)
Honour and Freedom and Goodfellowship,
On which and on your ragged chivalry
I always think with proud humility.
ALADDIN THOUGH worlds all melt away in mist,
The Heavens’ slender filament,
The orange and the amethyst,
Are left me—and I am content!
I stand serene amid the shocks,
Upheavals, cataclysmic dust,
The binding fires, the falling rocks,
The withering of life and lust.
This little burnished lamp I hold
Has shattered the eternities;
The glamour of all unknown gold,
The ancient puissance of the seas,
The sunlight and the love of God
Are Cast in chains beneath my feet—
For at my first behest this sod
Becomes a cosmos, new, complete,
Instinct with unimagined power,
In colour radiant pole to pole,
The sudden glory of an hour,
The epic moment of my soul!
ADAM I SAW a red sky boding woe,
The gleam of an eternal sword,
And heard the voice that bid me go
From the green garden of the Lord.
I knew the prick of Destiny,
The scorn of the relentless stars;
The very grass looked down on me—
The first of all the Avatars!
Each flower seemed to see my shame;
Each bird as though insulted flew
Before my hateful face—my name
Was blown about the whole world through!
Even my house with its red roof,
Dear as it is, looks strange and odd;
My garden beds are more aloof
From me than is my angry God!
THE ENGLISH SPRING I LOVE each inch of English earth;
I love each stone upon the way—
Whether in Winter’s sullen dearth,
When the soil is trodden into clay—
In Autumn ripeness, or the mirth
Of a Summer’s day.
Something peculiar to our land
Is hid in even the greyest sky,
When stiff and stark the tall trees stand
And the wind is high.
But this one season of our year
Is so peculiarly an English thing,
When the woolly catkins first appear,
And yellow burgeoning
Upon the little coppice here—
This native Spring
Which comes to us so suddenly,
Blown over the hills from the fruitful South;
Full of the laughter of the laughing sea
She comes with singing mouth.
The cool, sweet Wiltshire meadows lie
With buttercups from end to end;
In secret woods are small blooms, shy
Bluebells the good gods send.
There is no cloud that wanders by
But is my friend.
And now the gorse is gold again;
The violet hides beneath the leaves;
And quickened by thin April rain
The debonair young sapling weaves
His coat of lightest green; again
Birds chirp at the eaves.
Each hidden brook and waterfall,
Each tiny daisy in the sun
Calls to my heart—the hedgerows all
So full of twigs, they call, each one;
And with insistent voices call
The roads where the wild flowers run.
O set with grass and the English hedge
Are the long, white roads which wind and wind—
Roads which reach to the world’s edge,
Where the world is left behind.
AT THE CRIB AGAIN the royalties are shed,
Disdiademed the kingly head,
He lies again—ah, very small!—
Among the cattle in the stall,
Or in His slender mother’s arms
Is snuggled up from baby harms.
The Tower of Ivory leans down
From Paradise’s topmost crown;
The House of Gold on earth takes root;
From Jesse comes a saving shoot,
For Mary gives (O manifold
Her courtesies!) that we may hold
Our little Lord’s poor fragile hands
And feet, the guerdon of all lands.
No fool need fail to enter in
The guarded Heaven we strive to win,
Or miss upon a casual street
The fiery impress of His feet,
But touch with every stone and sod
The extended fingers of our God,
And see in twigs of the stiff hedgerows,
Or in the woods where quiet grows
Among the naked Winter trees,
A thousand times these mysteries:
The branching arms with Christly fruit,
The thorns which bruise His head and foot.
No more with silver shrilly blown
He treads a conqueror, but, flown
With swift and silent whitening wings,
He comes enwrapped in baby things.
Our God adventures everywhere
Beneath the cool and Christmas air,
And setteth still His candid star
Where Mary and her baby are!
THE MYSTIC WHEN all my long and weary work is done
(Toiling both soon and late, by candle-light,
Sewing and sewing while my eyes can see)
I lay my glasses by and watch the walls—
The plaster off in patches, stained with smoke—
Melt as a hoary mist and flee away.
Then through the splendour of the evening skies,
Along its star-lit paths, past pearl-white clouds
I hasten till I reach the region where
God’s holy city like a virgin keeps
Its spotless tryst, forever night and day.
I do not linger here, but take my way
To Him who sits among the Seraphim;
And He who knows I am a poor old wife,
With naught of wit or wealth that I can bring,
And that my hands are hardened by my toil—
Sees that ’tis I that need Him most of all.
Yea, God will have the music hushed (for I
Am growing somewhat deaf) and we will talk
Of many things, as friend may talk with friend.
Ah, I have looked, and in the dear Lord’s face
(More lined with care than any earthly man’s)
Seen that He suffers too, and understands
How hard and late I work to keep the wolf
Outside my door, and bring my children up
To serve Him always, and to keep them clean
In body, heart and mind....
At the sun’s call,
Working with all my strength from early dawn,
Through the long day, and then by candle-light
Sewing on buttons while my eyes can see,
I know the glory of God’s gracious face,
And at His touch my weary hands grow strong,
Hearing His voice my heart is glad and gay.
TO ANY SAINT BEFORE the choirs of angels burst to song,
In night and loneliness your way you trod—
O valiant heart, O weary feet and strong,
There are no easy by-paths unto God.
Darkness there was, thick darkness all around;
Nor spoken word, nor hand to touch you knew,
But One who walked the self-same stony ground
And shared your dereliction there with you.
O valiant heart! O fixed, undaunted will!
While all the heavens hung like brass above,
You faltered not, but steadfast journeyed still
Upon the road of sainthood to your Love.
And was not it reward exceeding great
To kiss at last with passionate lips His side,
His hands, His feet? O pomp! O regal state!
O crown of life He gives unto His bride!
Lovers there are with roses chapleted,
But more than theirs is your Lord’s loveliness;
Your Love is crowned with thorns upon His head,
And pain and sorrow woven is His dress.
SUNSET ON THE DESERT AS some priest turns, his ritual all done,
And stretching hands above the kneeling crowd,
Who rapt and silent, wait with heads all bowed
For the last holy words of benison—
“Now God be with thee, ever Three in One”—
So turns the sun, though all reluctantly.
One thrilling moment comes to shrub and tree;
Expectant stillness falls; then dark and dun
The silhouettes of sphinx and pyramid
Gaze at the last deep amber after-glow;
The little stars peep down between the palms;
And all the ghosts that garish daylight hid
Are quickened—Isis with the breasts of snow
And Antony with Egypt in his arms.
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