*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 55031 ***
[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

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 55031 ***