 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
198
THE NEWT
What means this enmity 'twixt life and life
Both bidden to be here?—
This dull, instinctive hate, compelling strife
With what I scorn, yet fear?
I fondly bend above the crystal pool,
And start to see thee rise,
Grim water-demon, sliding through the cool
With horns and humps and eyes.
The mystic wavings of thy arrowy tail,
Thy helpless groping hands
(I follow ancient sages)—can avail
To sicken, where he stands,
The thirsty ox, that with blunt muzzle bends
To draw the warm wave in,
Whilst thou for thine obscene and secret ends
Dost work the dainty sin.
Thou with corroding venom, deftly flung
In unsuspecting eyes,
Didst blind the stripling that hot-handed hung
To pull his lilied prize.
Both bidden to be here?—
This dull, instinctive hate, compelling strife
With what I scorn, yet fear?
I fondly bend above the crystal pool,
And start to see thee rise,
Grim water-demon, sliding through the cool
With horns and humps and eyes.
The mystic wavings of thy arrowy tail,
Thy helpless groping hands
(I follow ancient sages)—can avail
To sicken, where he stands,
The thirsty ox, that with blunt muzzle bends
To draw the warm wave in,
Whilst thou for thine obscene and secret ends
Dost work the dainty sin.
Thou with corroding venom, deftly flung
In unsuspecting eyes,
Didst blind the stripling that hot-handed hung
To pull his lilied prize.
Nay, I suspend my fury; let me see
How thou, uncleanly eft,
Dost while away in loathly alchemy
The hours of daylight left:
I'll see thee pack in folded water-leaves
Thy black and oozy egg,
Or swallow down the filmy phantom greaves
Torn from thy naked leg,
Or rend thy smoother, sicklier brother—him
Thou dost devour in deep
And tangled dens, in weedy coverts dim,
Then sink in sullen sleep.
But when the brief spring days are o'er, and thou
Hast loved, and slain thy foes,
The crest is doffed that towers above thy brow;
A warrior in repose,
Eating not, breathing not, with orange gleam
Of belly mailed, within
Some damp sequestered cranny, thou dost dream
Of all thy summer sin.
How thou, uncleanly eft,
199
The hours of daylight left:
I'll see thee pack in folded water-leaves
Thy black and oozy egg,
Or swallow down the filmy phantom greaves
Torn from thy naked leg,
Or rend thy smoother, sicklier brother—him
Thou dost devour in deep
And tangled dens, in weedy coverts dim,
Then sink in sullen sleep.
But when the brief spring days are o'er, and thou
Hast loved, and slain thy foes,
The crest is doffed that towers above thy brow;
A warrior in repose,
Eating not, breathing not, with orange gleam
Of belly mailed, within
Some damp sequestered cranny, thou dost dream
Of all thy summer sin.
Thou that wouldst read the riddle of thy birth
Across the ages old,
And bid the shameless secrets of the earth
Before thine eyes unfold,
To breed one puny eft, the sovereign powers
Conspired and schemed and planned,
The restless sea through dark and tedious hours
Foamed out the shifting sand;
A race of forms, in monstrous nightmare dreamed
By spirits ill at ease,
Crawled in the weltering ooze, or dimly gleamed
Across the plunging seas,
Till Time, diminished and enslaved, let fall
His ancient vaster spoil,
And thou, poor water-worm, art heir of all
The horror and the toil!
The bony relics of thy ancient race
Hang in the shattered cleft,
And Nature hastens on through wandering space
To sport with what is left.
She plays her bitter game in smiling scorn
Until her dreaming age
Be rent with strong convulsions, tossed and torn;
As that beleaguered sage,
Who, when the vengeful crowd burst raging through
The bastions he had planned,
Was pierced by Roman daggers, as he drew
His circles on the sand.
Across the ages old,
And bid the shameless secrets of the earth
Before thine eyes unfold,
To breed one puny eft, the sovereign powers
Conspired and schemed and planned,
The restless sea through dark and tedious hours
Foamed out the shifting sand;
A race of forms, in monstrous nightmare dreamed
By spirits ill at ease,
Crawled in the weltering ooze, or dimly gleamed
Across the plunging seas,
200
His ancient vaster spoil,
And thou, poor water-worm, art heir of all
The horror and the toil!
The bony relics of thy ancient race
Hang in the shattered cleft,
And Nature hastens on through wandering space
To sport with what is left.
She plays her bitter game in smiling scorn
Until her dreaming age
Be rent with strong convulsions, tossed and torn;
As that beleaguered sage,
Who, when the vengeful crowd burst raging through
The bastions he had planned,
Was pierced by Roman daggers, as he drew
His circles on the sand.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |