 | Poems from the Garland of New Poetry |  |
3
THE SOLITARIES
Hampden, when charge on charge o'er Chalgrove Field
Was broken, and thou took'st thy desolate way
Forth from the battle, ere the clarions pealed
To tell thee thy old cause had lost the day,
Was broken, and thou took'st thy desolate way
Forth from the battle, ere the clarions pealed
To tell thee thy old cause had lost the day,
Thou wounded unto death, thou quite fordone,
Thou riding with droopt head and hands declined
Upon the saddle, hadst indeed begun
To be the symbol of the Lonely Mind.
Thou riding with droopt head and hands declined
Upon the saddle, hadst indeed begun
To be the symbol of the Lonely Mind.
For some there be who dwell in solitude,
Though honours brighten and though friends acclaim,
And hourly fame and faith repel the rude
Onset of thickening years and Death's last shame;
Though honours brighten and though friends acclaim,
And hourly fame and faith repel the rude
Onset of thickening years and Death's last shame;
4
Ay, some, great Rebel, though exceeding strait
Their little walk in life, more than obscure,
Like thee have still foretasted the lone fate
Which at the close of all thou didst endure.
Their little walk in life, more than obscure,
Like thee have still foretasted the lone fate
Which at the close of all thou didst endure.
To live alone—that is their doom: to die
Unhelpt by earthly aids, lover or friend,
Reason, a bird along the lonely sky,
Guiding their desolate footsteps unto the end;
Unhelpt by earthly aids, lover or friend,
Reason, a bird along the lonely sky,
Guiding their desolate footsteps unto the end;
Reason, a golden angel climbing still
In uttermost heav'n above their painful road,
A strong compelling spirit, whose stern will
Is their prime glory and their heavy load.
In uttermost heav'n above their painful road,
A strong compelling spirit, whose stern will
Is their prime glory and their heavy load.
Thou hadst a mighty king wherewith to cope:
They but oppressors small, who, day by day,
Pettily sap their every faith and hope:
Yet are ye one in sorrows, thou and they!
They but oppressors small, who, day by day,
Pettily sap their every faith and hope:
Yet are ye one in sorrows, thou and they!
Hampden, on this June morn, when every air
Is sweet with rose-bloom and the summer's breath,
Some solitaries know thy last despair
Through Reason and old ever-beckoning Death.
Is sweet with rose-bloom and the summer's breath,
Some solitaries know thy last despair
Through Reason and old ever-beckoning Death.
5
THE FIRSTBORN
What time the night doth fallAlong the hall,
Filling the house with gloom,
In a warm room,
Beside the merry fire
Sits Heart's Desire.
Mother her form enfolds,
And father holds
One little rose-like hand.
With action bland
She clasps his middle finger.
Her sweet eyes linger
On things we cannot guess
Nor she express;
Yet at this fall of night
They are not quite
Alone in the dim room.
The pleasant gloom
Is populous, I think,
With such as shrink
From the day's glare and stir.
6
Who is sole ultimate heir
Of all they were,
Forth from their nooks they glide,
Serene, grave-eyed;
Intangibly possess
The silence, press
About the little face
Wherein their race,
And all it held most dear
In small appear.
What loving hopes have they
For her to-day,
With what solicitude
Are they imbued!
Their course on earth is run—
'Twas lost or won!
But ah! this is a life
That fronts the strife!
Will that old race re-bloom
Or ere the tomb
Close on this innocent?
Shall their intent
Bear goodly flower and fruit
Upon this shoot?
Will she fail? Will she win?
The Jacobin
With melancholy brow
Broods on her now,
7
With noble head,
Grown grey in Wisdom's laws
And wageless cause,
Smiles with a questioning look
On this last Book!
Is her word Forward too?
Will she prove true
To the Tradition, seek
What they sought, speak
What they spoke, cherish still
A rational will,
A liberal studious mind,
A heart refined?
So small and weak she seems—
This babe, who dreams
Within our arms, and yet
Whole hosts do fret
In grave and anxious love
For what she'll prove!
Forth from their nooks they glide,
Serene, grave-eyed;
Intangibly possess
The silence, press
About the little face,
Wherein a race,
And all it held most dear,
In small appear.
8
TO THE MEN OF “WARRIORS' WARD,”
Buried in a Common Grave in the Cemetery of Greenwich Hospital.
Nightly, amid my books, I stand and view
A graveyard with sparse headstones clustering white
Among some lonely shapes of cypress yew,
Which spire into the night.
A graveyard with sparse headstones clustering white
Among some lonely shapes of cypress yew,
Which spire into the night.
Shadows of tomb and tree above a sweep
Of vacant grass lie soft, as though to mark
That which is holiest in yon place of sleep,
So full of misty dark.
Of vacant grass lie soft, as though to mark
That which is holiest in yon place of sleep,
So full of misty dark.
Hard by, the River curves in that great bend
Where the majestic convoy once did float,
From Greenwich Stairs to Woolwich, to attend
The great dead Captain's boat!
Where the majestic convoy once did float,
From Greenwich Stairs to Woolwich, to attend
The great dead Captain's boat!
To-day they wreathe his column: no breeze stirs
One votive leaf on all this graveless sward,
Where sleep the worn three thousand Pensioners,
The men of “Warriors' Ward.”
One votive leaf on all this graveless sward,
Where sleep the worn three thousand Pensioners,
The men of “Warriors' Ward.”
9
Torn from dear homes, dear arms, pressed and entrapped,
They came an angry throng to their sea-fate,
But soon the veriest veteran's hate was capped
By their tremendous hate!
They came an angry throng to their sea-fate,
But soon the veriest veteran's hate was capped
By their tremendous hate!
Loudly through those old battles rushed and broke
The scattering shells: 'mong crash of mast and spar,
Stript to the waist, blackened by battle smoke,
Loomed each terrific tar!
The scattering shells: 'mong crash of mast and spar,
Stript to the waist, blackened by battle smoke,
Loomed each terrific tar!
Down their best Admiral dropt: then up they ran
Another gun. Though all who held command
Died to the last robustious midshipman,
They boarded, pike in hand.
Another gun. Though all who held command
Died to the last robustious midshipman,
They boarded, pike in hand.
Nothing could daunt them: nothing could oppress
Those hawk-faced, pig-tailed men, so strangely breeched,
Invincible in proud foolhardiness,
By death alone o'er-reached!
Those hawk-faced, pig-tailed men, so strangely breeched,
Invincible in proud foolhardiness,
By death alone o'er-reached!
The blood from their dead faces long ago
Was wiped away; long since the bandages
Were taken from those limbs that are brought low,
Death their great Surgeon is!
Was wiped away; long since the bandages
Were taken from those limbs that are brought low,
Death their great Surgeon is!
10
And now the white bones wait, maimed, but august,
Nameless, dispersed, o'er-crowded, yet sublime,
Trusting that He in whom they put their trust
Will mend them when 'tis time.
Nameless, dispersed, o'er-crowded, yet sublime,
Trusting that He in whom they put their trust
Will mend them when 'tis time.
Trafalgar Day, 1896.
11
IN MEMORY OF A GROVE,
Recently felled upon waste ground at the Combe, Greenwich.
The town about my house upon the hill
Has year by year ungraciously increased,
Yet has there been one sweet small franchise still
Where the mean houses ceased!
Has year by year ungraciously increased,
Yet has there been one sweet small franchise still
Where the mean houses ceased!
How beautiful you were, forgotten grove,
How classic and how tall, O little wood!
'Gainst the red winter sunsets, O my love,
How shapely forth you stood!
How classic and how tall, O little wood!
'Gainst the red winter sunsets, O my love,
How shapely forth you stood!
The birds of spring 'mid your green spaces whirred:
They could not leave the pleasant grove they knew;
And once, at dawn, a single time, I heard
The cuckoo's voice in you!
They could not leave the pleasant grove they knew;
And once, at dawn, a single time, I heard
The cuckoo's voice in you!
From what far woodland had he weirdly come,
True to what ancient impulse? Has man guessed
Whither, toward winter, nightingales fly home,
Where migrant swallows rest?
True to what ancient impulse? Has man guessed
Whither, toward winter, nightingales fly home,
Where migrant swallows rest?
12
For years, when in deep autumn midnights drear
The storm from forth its country borders crossed,
Issuing from miles of infinite shadow where
The trees obscurely tossed,
The storm from forth its country borders crossed,
Issuing from miles of infinite shadow where
The trees obscurely tossed,
All night the reboant cannonading wind
Along my little grove raved on and on,
As though it sang to Niflheim's gods reclined
The storm's dark arms upon.
Along my little grove raved on and on,
As though it sang to Niflheim's gods reclined
The storm's dark arms upon.
Waking upon the middle of a dream,
You heard the splendid music and were glad;
You heard entangled branches hoarsely scream
As though some soul were sad!
You heard the splendid music and were glad;
You heard entangled branches hoarsely scream
As though some soul were sad!
The little child from her deep sleep awoke:
With eyes of awe she listened to that song:
Elves, gnomes, and daemons, gins and faëry folk
Swept through that air along!
With eyes of awe she listened to that song:
Elves, gnomes, and daemons, gins and faëry folk
Swept through that air along!
But now those chanting branches, week by week,
And that poetic wood have been brought low:
With jingling harness-plates and jocund creak
The wains went to and fro,
And that poetic wood have been brought low:
With jingling harness-plates and jocund creak
The wains went to and fro,
Each burdened with its dead, and, day by day,
With a long human cry some tree stoopt down,
And still 'mong outraged nests an axe would play
To swell the unlovely town!
With a long human cry some tree stoopt down,
And still 'mong outraged nests an axe would play
To swell the unlovely town!
13
For him who burns a Raphael are there chains?
Do gyves gall those who spoil what wise men love?
Shall he make proof of sharp religious pains
Who fells a London grove?
Do gyves gall those who spoil what wise men love?
Shall he make proof of sharp religious pains
Who fells a London grove?
14
THE MARSEILLAISE
A band a-playing, a few sooty rods
Of London garden in a foggy cloud,
Mill's effigy and Forster's for sole gods,
Pale workmen, a tired crowd.
Of London garden in a foggy cloud,
Mill's effigy and Forster's for sole gods,
Pale workmen, a tired crowd.
Ah, but the dullest scene is often rife
With gleams and visions and bewitching power
To charm the flagging fancies back to life,
So now, at this dead hour,
With gleams and visions and bewitching power
To charm the flagging fancies back to life,
So now, at this dead hour,
The drums confer, according to old use,
In low, restrained, yet strangely thrilling ways,
Then, like armed Pallas from the brain of Zeus,
Leaps forth the Marseillaise!
In low, restrained, yet strangely thrilling ways,
Then, like armed Pallas from the brain of Zeus,
Leaps forth the Marseillaise!
Song that was framed where my forefather dwelt!
As thrills the Clansman when old pibrochs shrill,
I bred in Saxon schools, I nowise Celt,
To thee again I thrill!
As thrills the Clansman when old pibrochs shrill,
I bred in Saxon schools, I nowise Celt,
To thee again I thrill!
The dark-faced rabbles of the past arise—
Maenads and beggars in untoward rags,
Exalted faces, fierce ideal eyes,
And a Republic's flags!
Maenads and beggars in untoward rags,
Exalted faces, fierce ideal eyes,
And a Republic's flags!
15
O'er the huge rounded cobbles of the street,
By the gaunt beetling houses, in a throng,
They march and pass with bare but steadfast feet,
And mouths rotund in song!
By the gaunt beetling houses, in a throng,
They march and pass with bare but steadfast feet,
And mouths rotund in song!
The tocsin shrills: the kennel underneath
Blackens with blood: there's blood in dew and rain:
All things are sullied with the crimson death
Save that august refrain!
Blackens with blood: there's blood in dew and rain:
All things are sullied with the crimson death
Save that august refrain!
You cannot say of tide or fire “they err,”
Or predicate of joy and anger shame;
Laughter and tempest are commingled here,
Billows and wrath and flame!
Or predicate of joy and anger shame;
Laughter and tempest are commingled here,
Billows and wrath and flame!
And if to some this song that greatly comes
Out of the past bring but a tale of wars,
Of sweating horses and of roaring drums,
Sword-strokes and heroes' scars,
Out of the past bring but a tale of wars,
Of sweating horses and of roaring drums,
Sword-strokes and heroes' scars,
To some it brings, not these, but man's old rage
For Truth, Peace, Justice, Life's auguster plan,
The poor man's hope, the meek man's heritage,
Not France alone, but Man!
For Truth, Peace, Justice, Life's auguster plan,
The poor man's hope, the meek man's heritage,
Not France alone, but Man!
16
THE IMPERIAL PRAYERS
Suggested by a passage in Mr. Valentine Chirol's the “Far Eastern Question.”
Silenced the streets with sand of holy hue,
Shrouded the curious houses with faint sheen
Of silk and broid'ry, which for months between
These awful feasts none but the moth dare view;
The Son of Heaven, the Unutterable Kwang Hsu,
Borne in his lofty-looming palanquin,
By slaves who, if they stumble, die unseen,
Flits like a ghost through midnight—what to do?
Shrouded the curious houses with faint sheen
Of silk and broid'ry, which for months between
These awful feasts none but the moth dare view;
The Son of Heaven, the Unutterable Kwang Hsu,
Borne in his lofty-looming palanquin,
By slaves who, if they stumble, die unseen,
Flits like a ghost through midnight—what to do?
The West stands clamouring outside his door:
We plan division of his lands and fame,
Yet hold Heredity for proven Truth.
To pray to his great Fathers gone before,
—Might not Marc Brutus once have done the same?—
Goes that spoiled, wretched, and mysterious youth.
We plan division of his lands and fame,
Yet hold Heredity for proven Truth.
To pray to his great Fathers gone before,
—Might not Marc Brutus once have done the same?—
Goes that spoiled, wretched, and mysterious youth.
17
HUG THE BEAR!
So 'twas for this that with consuming rage
Your grandsires brake their bonds, and with a flood
Of rich, and ancient, and tyrannic blood
Washed Serfdom out from the annals of their age;
For this the barefoot Armies did engage
Upon a hundred fields; for this the good
Grey-headed Hugo sang of Brotherhood
In many a perfect line and laurelled page!
Your grandsires brake their bonds, and with a flood
Of rich, and ancient, and tyrannic blood
Washed Serfdom out from the annals of their age;
For this the barefoot Armies did engage
Upon a hundred fields; for this the good
Grey-headed Hugo sang of Brotherhood
In many a perfect line and laurelled page!
It was for this! Well, if all shame be o'er,
Fawn on the Russ, and when he smites one cheek
Turn to him the other too, and since 'twere weak
To seem half-hearted in such vile collapse,
Trail through your festal streets the old crimson caps,
And down each cesspool stuff a Tricolor!
Fawn on the Russ, and when he smites one cheek
Turn to him the other too, and since 'twere weak
To seem half-hearted in such vile collapse,
Trail through your festal streets the old crimson caps,
And down each cesspool stuff a Tricolor!
18
“CES PETITS FANTASSINS”
You jeered to see the soldiers when
They sought heroic graves,—
Boys and small merry husbandmen,
Pale children of the stool and pen,
And branded galley-slaves;
They sought heroic graves,—
Boys and small merry husbandmen,
Pale children of the stool and pen,
And branded galley-slaves;
But you stood back in awestruck wise
When homeward they did lag,
Death looking out of many eyes,
Red heart's-blood soaking through the dyes
Of their old riddled flag!
When homeward they did lag,
Death looking out of many eyes,
Red heart's-blood soaking through the dyes
Of their old riddled flag!
19
ON CHANGE OF OPINIONS
As you advance in years you long
For what you scorned when but a boy:
Then 'twas the town, now the birds' song
Is your obsession and your joy.
For what you scorned when but a boy:
Then 'twas the town, now the birds' song
Is your obsession and your joy.
And, as you lie and die, maybe
You will look back, unreconciled
To that dark hour, and clearly see
Yourself a little wistful child.
You will look back, unreconciled
To that dark hour, and clearly see
Yourself a little wistful child.
Into the jaws of death you'll bring
No virile triumph, wrought with pain;
But only to the monster fling
The daydream and the daisy-chain,
No virile triumph, wrought with pain;
But only to the monster fling
The daydream and the daisy-chain,
The lispéd word, the gentle touch,
The wonder, and the mystic thought,
For old gray Death upon his crutch
To rake into his Bag of Nought.
The wonder, and the mystic thought,
For old gray Death upon his crutch
To rake into his Bag of Nought.
| Poems from the Garland of New Poetry | |