"THEREFORE IS THE NAME OF IT CALLED BABEL"

And still we stood and stared far down
Into that ember-glowing town,
Which every shaft and shock of fate
Had shorn unto its base. Too late
Came carelessly Serenity.

Now torn and broken houses gaze
On to the rat-infested maze
That once sent up rose-silver haze
To mingle through eternity.

The outlines once so strongly wrought,
Of city walls, are now a thought
Or jest unto the dead who fought...
Foundation for futurity.

The shimmering sands where once there played
Children with painted pail and spade
Are dreary desolate—afraid
To meet night's dark humanity,

Whose silver cool remakes the dead,
And lays no blame on any head
For all the havoc, fire, and lead,
That fell upon us suddenly,

When all we came to know as good
Gave way to Evil's fiery flood,
And monstrous myths of iron and blood
Seem to obscure God's clarity.

Deep sunk in sin, this tragic star
Sinks deeper still, and wages war
Against itself; strewn all the seas
With victims of a world disease
—And we are left to drink the lees
Of Babel's direful prophecy.

January, 1916.

TWENTIETH-CENTURY HARLEQUINADE

Fate, malign dotard, weary from his days,
Too old for memory, yet craving pleasure,
Now finds the night too long and bitter cold
—Reminding him of death—the sun too hot.
The beauty of the universe he hates,
Yet stands regarding earthly carnivals:
The clatter and the clang of car and train,
The hurrying throng of homeward-going men,
The cries of children, colour of the streets,
Their whistling and their shouting and their joy,
The lights, the trees, the fanes and towers of churches,
Thanksgiving for the sun, the moon, the earth,
The labour, love, and laughter of our lives.

He thinks they mock his age with ribaldry.

From far within his Æon-battered brain
Well up those wanton wistful images
That first beguiled the folk of Bergamo.
Now like himself, degraded and distress'd,
They sink to ignominy; but the clown
Remains, reminder of their former state,
And still earns hurricanes of hoarse applause.

This dotard now decides to end the earth
(Wrecked by its own and his futility).
Recalls the formula of world-broad mirth
—A senseless hitting of those unaware,
Unnecessary breaking of their chattels.

The pantomime of life is near its close:
The stage is strewn with ends and bits of things,
With mortals maim'd or crucified, and left
To gape at endless horror through eternity.

The face of Fate is wet with other paint
Than that incarnadines the human clown:
Yet still he waves a bladder, red as gold,
And still he gaily hits about with it,
And still the dread revealing limelight plays
Till the whole sicken'd scene becomes afire.
Antic himself falls on the funeral pyre
Of twisted, tortured, mortifying men.

March, 1916.

To HELEN

THIS GENERATION

Their youth was fevered—passionate, quick to drain
The last few pleasures from the cup of life
Before they turn'd to suck the dregs of pain
And end their young-old lives in mortal strife.
They paid the debts of many a hundred year
Of foolishness and riches in alloy.
They went to death; nor did they shed a tear
For all they sacrificed of love and joy.
Their tears ran dry when they were in the womb,
For, entering life—they found it was their tomb.

1917.

To FRANCIS MEYNELL

SHEEP-SONG

From within our pens,
Stout built,
We watch the sorrows of the world.
Imperturbably
We see the blood
Drip and ooze on to the walls.
Without a sigh
We watch our lambs
Stuffed and fattened for the slaughter....

In our liquid eyes lie hidden
The mystery of empty spaces
All the secrets of the vacuum.

Yet we can be moved;
When the head-sheep bleats,
We bleat with him;
When he stampedes
—Heavy with foot-rot—
We gallop after him
Until
In our frenzy
We trip him up
—And a new sheep leads us.

We are the greatest sheep in the world;
There are no sheep like us.
We come of an imperial bleat;
Our voices,
Trembling with music,
Call to our lambs oversea.
With us they crash across continents.

We will not heed the herdsmen,
For they warned us,
"Do not stampede";
Yet we were forced to do so.
Never will we trust a herdsman again.

Then the black lamb asked,
Saying, "Why did we start this glorious Gadarene descent?"
And the herd bleated angrily,
"We went in with clean feet,
And we will come out with empty heads.
We gain nothing by it,
Therefore
It is a noble thing to do.
We are stampeding to end stampedes.
We are fighting for lambs
Who are never likely to be born.

When once a sheep gets its blood up
The goats will remember...."

But the herdsman swooped down
Shouting,
"Get back to your pens there."

September, 1918.

THE POET'S LAMENT.

Before the dawning of the death-day
My mind was a confusion of beauty.
Thoughts fell from it in riot
Of colour,
In wreaths and garlands of flowers and fruit...

Then the red dawn came
—And no thought came to me
Except anger
And bitter reproach.
God filled my mouth
With the burning pebbles of hatred,
And choked my soul
With a whirl-wind of fury.
He made my tongue
A flaming sword
To cut and wither
The white soft edges
Of their anÆmic souls.
I ridiculed them,
I despised them,
I loathed them
... But they had stolen my soul away.

Yes, they had stolen my soul from me.
My heart jumps up into my mouth
In fury;
They have stolen my soul away.

But we will wait,
And later words will come
—Words that in their burning flight
Shall scorch and flay,
Or flare like fireworks
Above their heads.
In those days my soul shall be restored to me
And they shall remember,
They shall remember!

JUDAS AND THE PROFITEER

Judas descended to this lower Hell
To meet his only friend—the profiteer—
Who, looking fat and rubicund and well,
Regarded him, and then said with a sneer,
"Iscariot, they did you! Fool! to sell
For silver pence the body of God's Son,
Whereas for maiming men with sword and shell
I gain at least a golden million."

But Judas answered: "You deserve your gold;
It's not His body but His soul you've sold!"

To H. W. MASSINGHAM

RHAPSODE

Why should we sing to you of little things—
You who lack all imagination?
Why should we sing to you of your poor joys,
That you may see beauty through a poet's mind—
Beauty where there was none before?
Why should we heed your miserable opinions,
And your paltry fears?
Why listen to your tales and narratives—
Long lanes of boredom along which you
Amble amiably all the dull days
Of your unnecessary lives?
We know you now—and what you wish to be told:
That the larks are singing in the trenches,
That the fruit trees will again blossom in the spring,
That Youth is always happy;
But you know the misery that lies
Under the surface—
And we will dig it up for you!
We shall sing to you
Of the men who have been trampled
To death in the circus of Flanders;
Of the skeletons that gather the fruit
From the ruined orchards of France;
And of those left to rot under an Eastern sun—
Whose dust mingles with the sand
Of distant, strange deserts,
And whose bones are crushed against
The rocks of unknown seas;
All dead—dead,
Defending you and what you stand for.

You hope that we shall tell you that they found their
happiness in fighting,
Or that they died with a song on their lips,
Or that we shall use the old familiar phrases
With which your paid servants please you in the Press:
But we are poets,
And shall tell the truth.

You, my dear sir,
You are so upset
At being talked to in this way
That when night
Has coffin'd this great city
Beneath the folds of the sun's funeral pall,
You will have to drink a little more champagne,
And visit a theatre or perhaps a music-hall.
What you need (as you rightly say, my dear sir) is CHEERING-UP.
There you will see vastly funny sketches
Of your fighting countrymen;
And they will be represented
As those of whom you may be proud.
For they cannot talk English properly,
Or express themselves but by swearing;
Or perhaps they may be shown as drunk.
But they will all appear cheerful,
And you will be pleased;
And as you lurch amiably home, you will laugh,
And at each laugh
Another countryman will be dead!

When Christ was slowly dying on that tree—
Hanging in agony upon that hideous Cross—
Tortured, betrayed, and spat upon,
Loud through the thunder and the earthquake's roar
Rang out
Those blessed humble human words of doubt:
"My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken Me?"
But near by was a cheerfully chattering group
Of sects,
Of Pharisees and Sadducees,
And all were shocked—
Pained beyond measure.
And they said:
"At least he might have died like a hero
With an oath on his lips,
Or the refrain from a comic song—
Or a cheerful comment of some kind.
It was very unpleasant for all of us—
But we had to see it through.
I hope people will not think we have gone too far—
Or behaved badly in any way."

There in the street below a drunken man reels home,
And as he goes
He sings with sentiment:
"Keep the home fires burning!"
And the constable helps him on his way.
But we—
We should be thrown into prison,
Or cast into an asylum,
For we want—
PEACE!

September, 1917.

To SIEGFRIED SASSOON

THE MODERN ABRAHAM

His purple fingers clutch a large cigar—
Plump, mottled fingers, with a ring or two.
He rests back in his fat armchair. The war
Has made this change in him. As he looks through
His cheque-book with a tragic look he sighs:
"Disabled Soldiers' Fund" he reads afresh,
And through his meat-red face peer angry eyes—
The spirit piercing through its mound of flesh.

They should not ask me to subscribe again!
Consider me and all that I have done—
I've fought for Britain with my might and main;
I make explosives—and I gave a son.
My factory, converted for the fight
(I do not like to boast of what I've spent),
Now manufactures gas and dynamite,
Which only pays me seventy per cent.
And if I had ten other sons to send
I'd make them serve my country to the end,
So all the neighbours should flock round and say:
"Oh! look what Mr. Abraham has done.
He loves his country in the elder way;
Poor gentleman, he's lost another son!"

1917.

THE TRAP

The world is young and green.
Its woods are golden beneath the May-time sun;
But within its trap of steel the rabbit plunges
Madly to and fro.
It will bleed to death
Slowly,
Slowly,
Unless there is some escape.
Why will not someone release it?

And presently a kindly passer-by
Stoops down.
The rabbit's eye glints at him—
Gleaming from the impenetrable obscurity of its prison.
He stoops and lifts the catch
(He cannot hold it long, for the spring is heavy).
The rabbit could now be free,
But it does not move;
For from the darkness of its death-hutch
The world looks like another brightly baited trap.
So, remaining within its steel prison,
It argues thus:
"Perhaps I may bleed to death,
But it will probably take a long time,
And, at any rate,
I am secure
From the clever people outside.
Besides, if I did come out now
All the people who thought I was a lion
Would see, by the trap-mark on my leg,
That I am only an unfortunate rabbit,
And this might promote disloyalty among the children.
When the clamp closed on my leg
It was a ruse
To kill me.
Probably the lifting of it betrays the same purpose!
If I come out now
They will think they can trap rabbits
Whenever they like.
How do I know they will not snare me
Again next year?
Besides, it looks to me from here..."

But the catch drops down,
For the stranger is weary.
From within the hutch
A thin stream of blood
Trickles on to the grass
Outside,
And leaves a brown stain on its brightness.
But the dying rabbit is happy,
Saying:
"I knew it was only a trap!"

April, 1918.

To RODERICK MEIKLEJOHN

THE ETERNAL CLUB

Warming their withered hands, the dotards say:
"In our youth men were happy till they died.
What is it ails the young men of to-day—
To make them bitter and dissatisfied?"

Two thousand years ago it was the same:
"Poor Joseph! How he'll feel about his son!
I knew him as a child—his head aflame
With gold. He seemed so full of life and fun.
And even as a young man he was fine,
Converting tasteless water into wine.
Then something altered him. He tried to chase
The money-changers from the Temple door.
White ringlets swung and tears shone in their poor
Aged eyes. He grew so bitter and found men
For friends as discontented—lost all count
Of caste—denied his father, faith, and then
He preached that dreadful Sermon on the Mount!
But even then he would not let things be;
For when they nailed him high up on the tree,
And gave him vinegar and pierced his side,
He asked God to forgive them—still dissatisfied!"

HEAVEN

A theatre rises dark and mute and drear
Among those houses that stand clustering round.
Passing this pleasure-house, I seem'd to hear
The distant rhythm of some lauding sound,
The hot applause that greeted every night
The favourite song, or girl, or joke, or fight.
The laughter of the young and strong and gay
Who greeted life—then laid their lives away.

Do they, then, watch the same old blatant show,
Forgetting all death's wrench and all its pain
And all their courage shown against the foe?
Is this the heaven that they died to gain?

THE BLIND PEDLAR

I stand alone through each long day
Upon these pavers; cannot see
The wares spread out upon this tray
—For God has taken sight from me!

Many a time I've cursed the night
When I was born. My peering eyes
Have sought for but one ray of light
To pierce the darkness. When the skies

Rain down their first sweet April showers
On budding branches; when the morn
Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers,
I've cursed the night when I was born.

But now I thank God, and am glad
For what I cannot see this day
—The young men crippled, old, and sad,
With faces burnt and torn away;

Or those who, rich and old,
Have battened on the slaughter,
Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,
Are creased in purple laughter!

January, 1919.

WORLD-HYMN TO MOLOCH

Holy Moloch, blessed lord,
Hatred to our souls impart.
Put the heathen to the sword,
Wound and pierce each contrite heart.
Never more shall darkness fall
But it seems a funeral pall;
Never shall the red sun rise
But to red and swollen eyes.
In the centuries that roll,
Slowly grinding out our tears,
Often thou hast taken toll;
Never till these latter years
Have all nations lost the fray;
Lead not thou our feet astray.
Never till the present time
Have we offered all we hold,
With one gesture, mad, sublime,
Sons and lovers, lands and gold.
Must we then still pray to thee,
Moloch, for a victory?

Eternal Moloch, strong to slay,
Do not seek to heal or save.
Lord, it is the better way
Swift to send them to the grave.
Those of us too old to go
Send our sons to face the foe,
But, O lord! we must remain
Here, to pray and sort the slain.
In every land the widows weep,
In every land the children cry.
Other gods are lulled to sleep,
All the starving peoples die.
What is left to offer you?
Thou, O Sacred King of Death!
God of Blood and Lord of Guile,
Do not let us waste our breath,
Cast on us thy crimson smile.
Moloch, lord, we pray to thee,
Send at least one victory.

All the men in every land
Pray to thee through battle's din,
Swiftly now to show thy hand,
Pray that soon one side may win.
Under sea and in the sky,
Everywhere our children die;
Laughter, happiness and light
Perished in a single night.
In every land the heaving tides
Wash the sands a dreadful red,
In every land the tired sun hides
Under heaps and hills of dead.
In spite of all we've offered up
Must we drink and drain the cup?
Everywhere the dark floods rise,
Everywhere our hearts are torn.
Every day a new Christ dies,
Every day a devil's born.
Moloch, lord, we pray to thee,
Send at least one victory.

1917.

ARMCHAIR

If I were still of handsome middle-age
I should not govern yet, but still should hope
To help the prosecution of this war.
I'd talk and eat (though not eat wheaten bread),
I'd send my sons, if old enough, to France,
Or help to do my share in other ways.
All through the long spring evenings, when the sun
Pursues its primrose path towards the hills,
If fine, I'd plant potatoes on the lawn;
If wet, write anxious letters to the Press.
I'd give up wine and spirits, and with pride
Refuse to eat meat more than once a day,
And seek to rob the workers of their beer.
The only way to win a hard-fought war
Is to annoy the people in small ways,
Bully or patronise them, as you will!
I'd teach poor mothers, who have seven sons
—All fighting men of clean and sober life—
How to look after babies and to cook;
Teach them to save their money and invest;
Not to bring children up in luxury
—But do without a nursemaid in the house!

If I were old, or only seventy,
Then should I be a great man in his prime.
I should rule army corps; at my command
Men would rise up, salute me, and attack
—And die. Or I might also govern men
By making speeches with my toothless jaws,
Chattering constantly; and men should say,
"One grand old man is still worth half his pay!"
That day I'd send my grandsons out to France
—And wish I'd got ten other ones to send
(One cannot sacrifice too much, I'd say).
Then would I make a noble toothless speech,
And all the listening Parliament would cheer.
"Gentlemen, we will never end this war
Till all the younger men with martial mien
Have entered capitals; never make peace
Till they are cripples, on one leg, or dead!"
Then would the Bishops all go mad with joy,
Cantuar, Ebor, and the other ones,
Be overwhelmed with pious ecstasy.
In thanking Him we'd got a Christian—
An Englishman—still worth his salt—to talk,
In every pulpit they would preach and prance;
And our great Church would work, as heretofore,
To bring this poor old nation to its knees.
Then we'd forbid all liberty, and make
Free speech a relic of our impious past;
And when this war is finished, when the world
Is torn and bleeding, cut and bruised to death,
Then I'd pronounce my peace terms—to the poor!
But as it is, I am not ninety yet,
And so must pay my reverence to these men—
These grand old men, who still can see and talk,
Who sacrifice each other's sons each day.
O Lord! let me be ninety yet, I pray.
Methuselah was quite a youngster when
He died. Now, vainly weeping, we should say:
"Another great man perished in his prime!"
O let me govern, Lord, at ninety-nine!"

August, 1917.

RAGTIME

The lamps glow here and there, then echo down
The vast deserted vistas of the town—
Each light the echo'd note of some refrain
Repeated in the city's fevered brain.
Yet all is still, save when there wanders past
—Finding the silence of the night too long—
Some tattered wretch, who, from the night outcast,
Sings, with an aching heart, a comic song.
The vapid parrot-words flaunt through the night—
Silly and gay, yet terrible. We know
Men sang these words in many a deadly fight,
And threw them—laughing—to a solemn foe;
Sang them where tattered houses stand up tall and stark,
And bullets whistle through the ruined street,
Where live men tread on dead men in the dark,
And skulls are sown in fields once sown with wheat.
Across the sea, where night is dark with blood
And rockets flash, and guns roar hoarse and deep,
They struggle through entanglements and mud,
They suffer wounds—and die—
But here they sleep.
From far away the outcast's vacuous song
Re-echoes like the singing of a throng;
His dragging footfalls echo down the street,
And turn into a myriad marching feet.

December, 1916.

PEACE CELEBRATION

Now we can say of those who died unsung,
Unwept for, torn, "Thank God they were not blind
Or mad! They've perished strong and young,
Missing the misery we elders find
In missing them." With such a platitude
We try to cheer ourselves. And for each life
Laid down for us, with duty well-imbued,
With song-on-lip, in splendid soldier strife—
For sailors, too, who willingly were sunk—
We'll shout "Hooray!"—
And get a little drunk.

To SACHEVERELL

THE NEXT WAR

The long war had ended.
Its miseries had grown faded.
Deaf men became difficult to talk to.
Heroes became bores.

Those alchemists
Who had converted blood into gold,
Had grown elderly.
But they held a meeting,
Saying,
"We think perhaps we ought
To put up tombs
Or erect altars
To those brave lads
Who were so willingly burnt,
Or blinded,
Or maimed,
Who lost all likeness to a living thing,
Or were blown to bleeding patches of flesh
For our sakes.
It would look well.
Or we might even educate the children."

But the richest of these wizards
Coughed gently;
And he said,
"I have always been to the front
—In private enterprise—
I yield in public spirit
To no man.
I think yours is a very good idea
—A capital idea—
And not too costly.
But it seems to me
That the cause for which we fought
Is again endangered.
What more fitting memorial for the fallen
Than that their children
Should fall for the same cause?"
Rushing eagerly into the street,
The kindly old gentlemen cried
To the young:
"Will you sacrifice
Through your lethargy
What your fathers died to gain?
Our cause is in peril.
The world must be made safe for the young!"
And the children
Went....

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