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27
LEAVES FROM VALLOMBROSA
29
DO WE BELIEVE?
(February 1912)
Do we believe?—Men asked in Galilee
The question nigh two thousand years ago,
When lived the Christ for all to hear and see.
A hundred answered, Yes—a million, No,
The question nigh two thousand years ago,
When lived the Christ for all to hear and see.
A hundred answered, Yes—a million, No,
And killed Him. From His rock-hewn tomb there came
A counter-stroke—the o'erwhelming miracle.
Henceforth on Earth the Eden sword of flame
Drives toward the wide-swung gates of Heaven or Hell
A counter-stroke—the o'erwhelming miracle.
Henceforth on Earth the Eden sword of flame
Drives toward the wide-swung gates of Heaven or Hell
The mortal myriads who believe and live,
Or doubt and, dying, char in quenchless fires.
No rat-hole harbours any fugitive:—
Believe or perish—thus High God requires!
Or doubt and, dying, char in quenchless fires.
No rat-hole harbours any fugitive:—
Believe or perish—thus High God requires!
Do we believe?—Still his world-tortured Race
Affirms in thunderous chant its God is One.
In His own land still—by Mohammed's grace—
The Cross beside the Crescent fronts the Sun.
Affirms in thunderous chant its God is One.
In His own land still—by Mohammed's grace—
The Cross beside the Crescent fronts the Sun.
The Muezzin on his mist-hid tower withdrawn,
The Sheik amid the sand-hills' glimmering sheen,
In adoration, up the stair of dawn
Speeds not for Thee his cry, O Nazarene!
The Sheik amid the sand-hills' glimmering sheen,
In adoration, up the stair of dawn
Speeds not for Thee his cry, O Nazarene!
Above the brooding wisdom of the East
Where stirs the wind that makes Thy presence known?
Since Islam rose, there leaps no flame released—
No flicker ere a thunderbolt is thrown.
Where stirs the wind that makes Thy presence known?
Since Islam rose, there leaps no flame released—
No flicker ere a thunderbolt is thrown.
30
Do we believe?—Full half the world replies
“We know Thee not!” Its stars their courses keep.
The night of ages lingers in its skies:
No dawn-streak reddens o'er that field of sleep.
“We know Thee not!” Its stars their courses keep.
The night of ages lingers in its skies:
No dawn-streak reddens o'er that field of sleep.
Nay, 'tis the West installed the Creed divine.
There, in thronged fanes, the Centuries knelt to pray,
And ate and drank their God in bread and wine.
Built from their crumbling dust, behold Today!
There, in thronged fanes, the Centuries knelt to pray,
And ate and drank their God in bread and wine.
Built from their crumbling dust, behold Today!
Still spring the belfry-voices up the sky;
Still throb reverberant aisles with rapturous sound.
Soars Faith on fervid wings, or doth she lie,
Drowsy or drugged, in shackles underground?
Still throb reverberant aisles with rapturous sound.
Soars Faith on fervid wings, or doth she lie,
Drowsy or drugged, in shackles underground?
Rather her wings are cramped; they thrash the air
In low, concentric circles traced in vain.
The Pharisaic fillets still are there;
Impulse and Inspiration only wane.
In low, concentric circles traced in vain.
The Pharisaic fillets still are there;
Impulse and Inspiration only wane.
Do we believe?—What answers Christendom?
Through Courts and Senates drifts a tainted breath.
In World concerns, the Nations' souls are numb,
Or cataleptic, simulating death.
Through Courts and Senates drifts a tainted breath.
In World concerns, the Nations' souls are numb,
Or cataleptic, simulating death.
The Master-word ‘Expansion’ vindicates
The timed offence, the instant act long-planned,
That launches ‘Patriot’ armies through the gates
Of conquest on some rich, defenceless land;
The timed offence, the instant act long-planned,
That launches ‘Patriot’ armies through the gates
Of conquest on some rich, defenceless land;
Begirt with hosts embattled, Force is lord,
Grips what it covets with a fist of mail.
Rights shrivel in the lightnings of its sword,
And the last Dreadnought turns the loaded scale,
Grips what it covets with a fist of mail.
Rights shrivel in the lightnings of its sword,
And the last Dreadnought turns the loaded scale,
31
Till the first air-fleets men have taught to soar
Shed new Olympian bolts on sky and sea.
Ask him, who, breathing peace and breeding war,
Poises Germania's menacing destiny,
Shed new Olympian bolts on sky and sea.
Ask him, who, breathing peace and breeding war,
Poises Germania's menacing destiny,
Until the chance shall fall, the auspicious hour,
To trample down old realms and reign alone,
Building the blood-drenched fabric of his power
Out of the sherds of Empires overthrown.
To trample down old realms and reign alone,
Building the blood-drenched fabric of his power
Out of the sherds of Empires overthrown.
Do we believe?—Ask them who fain would slit
Her pockets while they snatch the Church's crown—
Papist and Puritan grotesquely knit,
Lords of the hour, to drag her splendours down.
Her pockets while they snatch the Church's crown—
Papist and Puritan grotesquely knit,
Lords of the hour, to drag her splendours down.
Ask them who, luring votes with painted lies,
Infect the crowd with subtle poison-fangs;
Whose consciences, in thrall to Party cries,
Cringe to the word of the Whip, like slaves in gangs.
Infect the crowd with subtle poison-fangs;
Whose consciences, in thrall to Party cries,
Cringe to the word of the Whip, like slaves in gangs.
Ask them whose ruthless wills, annealed in pain,
Graft cancerous growths on sentient, quivering life,
And celebrate, a thousand times in vain,
The ghastly sacrament of lens and knife.
Graft cancerous growths on sentient, quivering life,
And celebrate, a thousand times in vain,
The ghastly sacrament of lens and knife.
Lord of the heights and depths, of flame and frost,—
Of winds that, ebbing past all stars in sight,
Break next on world in utter distance lost,
Poised on immeasurable spires of light,—
Of winds that, ebbing past all stars in sight,
Break next on world in utter distance lost,
Poised on immeasurable spires of light,—
Of comets in prodigious orbits chained,
Scattering the dust of life in wastes unsown,—
Of sovereign spheres in shining ranks ordained
Above whose dominance Thou brood'st alone,—
Scattering the dust of life in wastes unsown,—
Of sovereign spheres in shining ranks ordained
Above whose dominance Thou brood'st alone,—
32
What then is Man that Thou wert mindful of him
So to divide Thy Godhood—as is said—
As to be born his son, live with and love him,
Die by his hand, and drive for all his dead
So to divide Thy Godhood—as is said—
As to be born his son, live with and love him,
Die by his hand, and drive for all his dead
A roadway out of Death's unfractured hold?
Do we believe?—If Life and conduct shew
The fruit of such a Faith, still, as of old,
The hundreds answer, Yes—the millions, No!
Do we believe?—If Life and conduct shew
The fruit of such a Faith, still, as of old,
The hundreds answer, Yes—the millions, No!
33
TO THE VANISHED MUSE
Why hast thou fled into thy secret isle,
Dear Muse of Song, whom oft of old I found
Loitering by any copse or wayside stile
On Youth's enchanted ground?
Now, though I search along the moss-grown wall,
And beat the brake through which each streamlet flows,
I find thee not, nor hear thy honey call
In dusk of dreams, nor start to know thee close,
Brushing my window with a drowsy rose.
Thus once it was—not now. What have I done
To thee or left undone, that thou should'st fade
Out of my ken like glint of fairy gold—
A shadow from the pathway of the sun—
A rustle from the umbrage of the glade—
Is it that thou art false since I am old?
Dear Muse of Song, whom oft of old I found
Loitering by any copse or wayside stile
On Youth's enchanted ground?
Now, though I search along the moss-grown wall,
And beat the brake through which each streamlet flows,
I find thee not, nor hear thy honey call
In dusk of dreams, nor start to know thee close,
Brushing my window with a drowsy rose.
Thus once it was—not now. What have I done
To thee or left undone, that thou should'st fade
Out of my ken like glint of fairy gold—
A shadow from the pathway of the sun—
A rustle from the umbrage of the glade—
Is it that thou art false since I am old?
Well mayst thou shun, Parnassian-born, to mate
The clarity and magic of thy strain
With halting measures half-articulate,
And threnodies of pain,
Thou rider of the rainbow and the wave,
Voice of the winds and mountain solitudes,
And tutor to the nightingales who rave
Beside their sombre eggs and tawny broods
Their hearts out in the midnight of the woods.
Yet, since thy fingers once caressed my hand,
Then, beckoning ever, lured me down the track
Thy footsteps followed on the darkening wold
Toward the dim confines of this tragic land,
Whence no path leadeth through or turneth back,
Should'st thou forsake me now that I am old?
The clarity and magic of thy strain
With halting measures half-articulate,
And threnodies of pain,
Thou rider of the rainbow and the wave,
Voice of the winds and mountain solitudes,
And tutor to the nightingales who rave
Beside their sombre eggs and tawny broods
Their hearts out in the midnight of the woods.
Yet, since thy fingers once caressed my hand,
Then, beckoning ever, lured me down the track
Thy footsteps followed on the darkening wold
Toward the dim confines of this tragic land,
Whence no path leadeth through or turneth back,
Should'st thou forsake me now that I am old?
34
Old, and thy smiles are all for Youth's disport
Who hath the steeds of Morning at his call
To scour the world, yet fills his amorous Court
With masks of Carnival,
Battles of blossoms, pageantry and wine,
Jongleurs and Mimes who troll lascivious lays,
While emulous harlots round their temples twine
Bespattered chaplets of Apollo's bays.
Ah then, Farewell, if such command thy praise—
If thou art won by tawdry boys like these:
Henceforth toward other shrines my steps shall wend
Leaving thy secret altar mute and cold,
Seeking a woodland cell and hermit's frieze
Wherein to move some queen of tears to spend
Her frigid alms upon me, being old.
Who hath the steeds of Morning at his call
To scour the world, yet fills his amorous Court
With masks of Carnival,
Battles of blossoms, pageantry and wine,
Jongleurs and Mimes who troll lascivious lays,
While emulous harlots round their temples twine
Bespattered chaplets of Apollo's bays.
Ah then, Farewell, if such command thy praise—
If thou art won by tawdry boys like these:
Henceforth toward other shrines my steps shall wend
Leaving thy secret altar mute and cold,
Seeking a woodland cell and hermit's frieze
Wherein to move some queen of tears to spend
Her frigid alms upon me, being old.
Listen! Is that the carol of a bird
Cradling in air, frenzied with wind and light,
Who, on his nest, in ecstasy unblurred
Dreamed of his song all night?—
Nay, 'tis the Muse returns; at last she comes,
Waking the brimming laughter of the wells.
Midsummer-dors sail out and thrash their drums;
Tip-toe campanulas rock their peals of bells
And ringdoves croon delirious in the dells.
Mad hedgerows burst with roses; poppies spring
To flame in the last pathway of the plough;
Staid sheep-bells riot round the mountain fold;
Larks leave their sedges on more vibrant wing;
New, vivid mosses splash the sapless bough,
And I, to-day, forget that I am old.
Cradling in air, frenzied with wind and light,
Who, on his nest, in ecstasy unblurred
Dreamed of his song all night?—
Nay, 'tis the Muse returns; at last she comes,
Waking the brimming laughter of the wells.
Midsummer-dors sail out and thrash their drums;
Tip-toe campanulas rock their peals of bells
And ringdoves croon delirious in the dells.
Mad hedgerows burst with roses; poppies spring
To flame in the last pathway of the plough;
Staid sheep-bells riot round the mountain fold;
Larks leave their sedges on more vibrant wing;
New, vivid mosses splash the sapless bough,
And I, to-day, forget that I am old.
35
A DREAM IN THE FEN
Boy of the Past whom I knew so well in the Cambridgeshire village
Trailing down from the chalk to the black, low brink of the Fens,
Borne from me, torn from me, you, by the years of battle and pillage,
Why are you vivid tonight in the ray of Life's wandering lens?
Boy of the Past who played and ran in the dyke-girdled meadows
Bright with blooms of the paigles before the grasses were mown,—
Started and fled, lest they stung, from Midsummerdors in the shadows—
Why do you visit me now, so long forgotten, outgrown?
Trailing down from the chalk to the black, low brink of the Fens,
Borne from me, torn from me, you, by the years of battle and pillage,
Why are you vivid tonight in the ray of Life's wandering lens?
Boy of the Past who played and ran in the dyke-girdled meadows
Bright with blooms of the paigles before the grasses were mown,—
Started and fled, lest they stung, from Midsummerdors in the shadows—
Why do you visit me now, so long forgotten, outgrown?
Ah, how it all comes back, framed, like your face, in a glory!
Low you crouch by the hearth, toward the turf-fire's kernel of heat,
Eager to trap the flare to light some wonderful story.
Bleak winds rattle the pane as they stride through the empty street.
Vague-swaying phantoms loom elusive 'twixt roof-tree and rafter;
Long past the curfew you lag, respinning the web of your Prayers;
Banished at last to bed from lighted islands of laughter,
Sleepless you shiver, marooned up pitch-black mountains of stairs.
Low you crouch by the hearth, toward the turf-fire's kernel of heat,
Eager to trap the flare to light some wonderful story.
Bleak winds rattle the pane as they stride through the empty street.
Vague-swaying phantoms loom elusive 'twixt roof-tree and rafter;
Long past the curfew you lag, respinning the web of your Prayers;
Banished at last to bed from lighted islands of laughter,
Sleepless you shiver, marooned up pitch-black mountains of stairs.
Cohorts of turbulent rats, returning agog with their plunder,
Trample by centuried runs to granaries under the floor.
Gusts in cavernous chimneys moan and volley in thunder;
Boards creak loud in the passage, clicks the latch on the door;
Booms the clock with the moon-face:—hark—it is only eleven!
Spirits are penned in the church-yard until the midnight shall toll.
Bury your head in the blankets—besiege the slumber of Heaven,
Screened from the terrors of darkness turning to water your soul.
36
Gusts in cavernous chimneys moan and volley in thunder;
Boards creak loud in the passage, clicks the latch on the door;
Booms the clock with the moon-face:—hark—it is only eleven!
Spirits are penned in the church-yard until the midnight shall toll.
Bury your head in the blankets—besiege the slumber of Heaven,
Screened from the terrors of darkness turning to water your soul.
Sudden you leap out of sleep, when the flush of the dawn bedizens,
Bathed in amber and lake, unscalable crests in the sky.
Far o'er the fen burns the Sun on the edge of its empty horizons:
Lone in the world you stand, confronting his sovereign eye.
'Tis for a moment only; beasts in the farm-yard awaken;
Soon the impatient cows will low for the milking-pails:
Horse-gear clanks in the stalls; and now, in the mill forsaken,
The miller trims to the wind of the morn his languorous sails.
Bathed in amber and lake, unscalable crests in the sky.
Far o'er the fen burns the Sun on the edge of its empty horizons:
Lone in the world you stand, confronting his sovereign eye.
'Tis for a moment only; beasts in the farm-yard awaken;
Soon the impatient cows will low for the milking-pails:
Horse-gear clanks in the stalls; and now, in the mill forsaken,
The miller trims to the wind of the morn his languorous sails.
Out of their mud-built domes knit to the eaves of your dwelling
Martins, eager for breakfast, dart past your window-sills.
Deep in the dense-hung walls of orchards where ribstons are swelling,
Count twice the eggs in the nests and cluttering, tawny bills.
Rooks are scraping and cawing, lost in the long, black furrows:
High in a cleft of Heaven the kestrel hangs for his prey.
Even the moles have quitted the covered lanes of their burrows,
So catch your pony—with sugar—up-saddle, on, and away!
Martins, eager for breakfast, dart past your window-sills.
37
Count twice the eggs in the nests and cluttering, tawny bills.
Rooks are scraping and cawing, lost in the long, black furrows:
High in a cleft of Heaven the kestrel hangs for his prey.
Even the moles have quitted the covered lanes of their burrows,
So catch your pony—with sugar—up-saddle, on, and away!
Canter by green, still droves past barns with their stacks beside them,
Sentried by shivering alders, engirt with osier canes.
Onward the lodes go lagging until the mills bestride them,
Driving their droning waters through sluices out to the drains.—
Just a sigh of the sedge as it yields to the wind's embraces;
Just a sob in the dyke as the water-rat dips to his lair:—
Lo, you are trapped in the magic of silence and infinite spaces!
Time past, high keeper of visions, hath you safe in his snare!
Sentried by shivering alders, engirt with osier canes.
Onward the lodes go lagging until the mills bestride them,
Driving their droning waters through sluices out to the drains.—
Just a sigh of the sedge as it yields to the wind's embraces;
Just a sob in the dyke as the water-rat dips to his lair:—
Lo, you are trapped in the magic of silence and infinite spaces!
Time past, high keeper of visions, hath you safe in his snare!
Mists condense and disperse; the world is water about you:
Soham Mere swings out its surges and swallows the Fen.
League-deep thickets of pathless reeds entangle and flout you:
Hark to the scream of the mallard—the cluck of the water-hen!
See—a splash in the channel; that was an osprey diving:
There is the love-sick bittern booming into his reed.
What are those harsh, wild cries? Only the herons wiving,
Or wading out to their larder, sunk in a mile of weed.
Soham Mere swings out its surges and swallows the Fen.
League-deep thickets of pathless reeds entangle and flout you:
38
See—a splash in the channel; that was an osprey diving:
There is the love-sick bittern booming into his reed.
What are those harsh, wild cries? Only the herons wiving,
Or wading out to their larder, sunk in a mile of weed.
Ely, enthroned as a queen, reigns over her island morasses,—
Ripe for the Conqueror's lash would she but crouch to his heel.
See his flotilla of rafts, threading the maze of the passes,
Thronged with his Knights and their Squires, grim in their hauberks of steel,
Chanting the song of Roland, till Hereward's battle-cry breaks them.
Fire is alive in the reeds; they travel in dead men's shoes.
Frantic they leap to doom ere the snaffle of flame overtakes them;
And eels and pike shall strip their armour off in the ooze.
Ripe for the Conqueror's lash would she but crouch to his heel.
See his flotilla of rafts, threading the maze of the passes,
Thronged with his Knights and their Squires, grim in their hauberks of steel,
Chanting the song of Roland, till Hereward's battle-cry breaks them.
Fire is alive in the reeds; they travel in dead men's shoes.
Frantic they leap to doom ere the snaffle of flame overtakes them;
And eels and pike shall strip their armour off in the ooze.
Dreams—all dreams! They have fled, or flit, wan ghosts, in the meadows.
Just a mirage of the Fen, spun out of space as you rode,
Like this mirage in my brain. Your face, too, drowns in the shadows—
Fades from the circle of light, where for an evening it glowed;
Fleets away to the years where I lost it when it was part of me,—
Out of recall, save in dream, until my dreaming be done.
Face of a lonely boy, hidden yet dim in the heart of me:—
Face that was mine in the Past—for, Boy of the Past, we are one!
Just a mirage of the Fen, spun out of space as you rode,
Like this mirage in my brain. Your face, too, drowns in the shadows—
Fades from the circle of light, where for an evening it glowed;
39
Out of recall, save in dream, until my dreaming be done.
Face of a lonely boy, hidden yet dim in the heart of me:—
Face that was mine in the Past—for, Boy of the Past, we are one!
40
THE UNDYING PAST
I
Out of the VastMan steps, in chains;
Slips, and is past:
Then what remains?—
Heredity:—
More chains to bind
The man to be
To all behind.
II
Are we but blended types, rebred
From the battalions of the Dead,
Back to the days of low degrees
When bald apes, swinging in the trees,
Bandied sharp jibes across the boughs,
As, erst, men in Saint Stephen's House;—
Gabbled in chattering sapience
From the drear ridge of empty brows,
And gave applause and took offence
Mid blindfold play of wit and sense?
From the battalions of the Dead,
Back to the days of low degrees
When bald apes, swinging in the trees,
Bandied sharp jibes across the boughs,
As, erst, men in Saint Stephen's House;—
Gabbled in chattering sapience
From the drear ridge of empty brows,
And gave applause and took offence
Mid blindfold play of wit and sense?
Back through the years of flint and bone,
Ere ever loaded bomb was thrown,
When, faithful to his tribal law,
The amorous savage trapped his squaw
And haled her, out of feigned attack,
Far down some lonely forest track,
Where later, flying at his throat,
For all she bore she paid him back,
And burned his hovel or his boat
For screeds less sacred than the Vote.
Ere ever loaded bomb was thrown,
When, faithful to his tribal law,
The amorous savage trapped his squaw
And haled her, out of feigned attack,
Far down some lonely forest track,
Where later, flying at his throat,
For all she bore she paid him back,
And burned his hovel or his boat
For screeds less sacred than the Vote.
41
Back to the days when Gods were thick
As blossoms in the budded quick,
Since each took idols as he chose,
And, unpropitious, gave them blows,
Or burned rare spice about their knees
And wrought them gilded Sanctuaries.
Therefore in no more subtle way,
Their help to gain or wrath appease
And heedless of their feet of clay,
We supplicate our Gods to-day.
As blossoms in the budded quick,
Since each took idols as he chose,
And, unpropitious, gave them blows,
Or burned rare spice about their knees
And wrought them gilded Sanctuaries.
Therefore in no more subtle way,
Their help to gain or wrath appease
And heedless of their feet of clay,
We supplicate our Gods to-day.
Happy the man whose life accords
Least with his ante-natal lords:
Who, in the runnels of his veins,
No secret-seething tide constrains,
Tumultuous with the bursting spores
Of sins that slew his ancestors;
Nor in some strait of desperate dole,
A slave to what his mind abhors,
Down the blind spade-ways of the mole
Senses the tyrants of his soul.
Least with his ante-natal lords:
Who, in the runnels of his veins,
No secret-seething tide constrains,
Tumultuous with the bursting spores
Of sins that slew his ancestors;
Nor in some strait of desperate dole,
A slave to what his mind abhors,
Down the blind spade-ways of the mole
Senses the tyrants of his soul.
For half a lifetime, chaste and prim,
We rally to the Vesper Hymn,
The cushioned pew, the bread and wine,
The Saints that from the windows shine,
Yet nursing sparks of smouldering ire
That ravined in a Berserk sire:
Then, in some tissue's secret cell,
The breeding plague-spot bursts afire,—
Leaps out, a rage untamable,
And drags us to the gulfs of Hell.
We rally to the Vesper Hymn,
The cushioned pew, the bread and wine,
The Saints that from the windows shine,
Yet nursing sparks of smouldering ire
That ravined in a Berserk sire:
Then, in some tissue's secret cell,
The breeding plague-spot bursts afire,—
Leaps out, a rage untamable,
And drags us to the gulfs of Hell.
Lusts that men knew and wearied of
Earlier than Rameses and Thoth,
Resurging in a riotous brain
Their grip upon the world maintain.
Red are the roses as of yore
That sway, festooned, by many a door
And shrouding jalousie discreet:
The fruit yet riper than before;
As multitudinous the feet
That enter the forbidden street.
Earlier than Rameses and Thoth,
Resurging in a riotous brain
Their grip upon the world maintain.
42
That sway, festooned, by many a door
And shrouding jalousie discreet:
The fruit yet riper than before;
As multitudinous the feet
That enter the forbidden street.
From the chance-medleys of the womb
Now burgeons what malignant bloom?—
The fierce, destructive Communist,
With bomb, and dagger at his wrist;—
His stealthier sister-petroleuse,
Adept alike with can and fuse,
A poison gas, corroding lime,
Slipped from the sky, like falling dews,—
Building in tragic Pantomime
New Babels on the shoals of Time:—
Now burgeons what malignant bloom?—
The fierce, destructive Communist,
With bomb, and dagger at his wrist;—
His stealthier sister-petroleuse,
Adept alike with can and fuse,
A poison gas, corroding lime,
Slipped from the sky, like falling dews,—
Building in tragic Pantomime
New Babels on the shoals of Time:—
Far kindred to that Lemnian band
Who killed their men-folk out of hand;
Or them who rent their children's limbs
To the mad throb of Bacchic hymns;
Or later, raised the Rataplan
In Paris, for the Rights of Man;
The Guillotine's dulled blades reset:—
Screaming beside the tumbrils ran,
And, from Saint Antoine's shambles wet,
Shore the crowned curls of Antoinette.
Who killed their men-folk out of hand;
Or them who rent their children's limbs
To the mad throb of Bacchic hymns;
Or later, raised the Rataplan
In Paris, for the Rights of Man;
The Guillotine's dulled blades reset:—
Screaming beside the tumbrils ran,
And, from Saint Antoine's shambles wet,
Shore the crowned curls of Antoinette.
Nay, rather, may not I and you
Unending destinies pursue,
From life to life still onward tossed,
In the vast maze of Being lost;—
Our exits darkened paths between
That double back into the scene
Whereof the earlier memory dies
Like lantern pictures from the screen,
Greeting with unrecalling eyes
Old aspects of the older skies?
Unending destinies pursue,
From life to life still onward tossed,
In the vast maze of Being lost;—
Our exits darkened paths between
That double back into the scene
Whereof the earlier memory dies
43
Greeting with unrecalling eyes
Old aspects of the older skies?
Behold the World—an endless Fair,
With clamorous drums and lights aflare
Round booths that teem with monstrous shows
And Stages where the drama flows
Eddying from Farce to Tragedy,
While restless crowds sway surging by
Shouting or dumb but unconcerned.—
A sudden flicker in the sky—
A flamelet from a lamp o'erturned—
A mob wiped out, a city burned!
With clamorous drums and lights aflare
Round booths that teem with monstrous shows
And Stages where the drama flows
Eddying from Farce to Tragedy,
While restless crowds sway surging by
Shouting or dumb but unconcerned.—
A sudden flicker in the sky—
A flamelet from a lamp o'erturned—
A mob wiped out, a city burned!
And all the while across the way,
Fresh clowns buffoon, more Antics play.
But trampled on the eternal round
The puppets from the dust rebound,
Ten thousand times destroyed, renewed,
Or ravished out of desuetude,
Changing in semblance, speech, and name,
The part assigned, the dream pursued,
Yet in their essences the same
Unto the Masters of the Game.
Fresh clowns buffoon, more Antics play.
But trampled on the eternal round
The puppets from the dust rebound,
Ten thousand times destroyed, renewed,
Or ravished out of desuetude,
Changing in semblance, speech, and name,
The part assigned, the dream pursued,
Yet in their essences the same
Unto the Masters of the Game.
44
RONDEAUX OF A BIBLIOPHILE
(I)
What long delight the cherished books ensure
Which for a wasting day my shelves immure,
Till, torn apart, I toward the Darkness slide!
In Books of Hours where Pucks and Goblins glide
Empanelled round the lustrous Miniature:—
Which for a wasting day my shelves immure,
Till, torn apart, I toward the Darkness slide!
In Books of Hours where Pucks and Goblins glide
Empanelled round the lustrous Miniature:—
In Cradle-books that sprang with Types mature
From clumsy Presses vagrant and obscure,
Fast shut with carven clasps in figured hide,
What long delight!
From clumsy Presses vagrant and obscure,
Fast shut with carven clasps in figured hide,
What long delight!
In copper-plates whose gloss and bloom endure,
Cut deep by Hollar, Gravelot or Le Sueur:—
In bindings where the golden trails divide
Round shields of priest or king or harlot's pride:—
In Anonymes that baffle and allure:—
In book-plates on the cover's virgin side,
(Send Fortune, soon, a Pepys or a Hewer,)
What long delight!
Cut deep by Hollar, Gravelot or Le Sueur:—
In bindings where the golden trails divide
Round shields of priest or king or harlot's pride:—
In Anonymes that baffle and allure:—
In book-plates on the cover's virgin side,
(Send Fortune, soon, a Pepys or a Hewer,)
What long delight!
(2)
Tout lasse, tout passe; and Ye who line the wall
Will scarce, I think, outstay my funeral.
I see the Country dealers form their ring,—
Londoners will not heed so slight a thing,—
The lots held up, the fateful hammer fall.
Will scarce, I think, outstay my funeral.
I see the Country dealers form their ring,—
Londoners will not heed so slight a thing,—
The lots held up, the fateful hammer fall.
There go my first editions, cropped or tall;
The bindings tooled for Prince and Cardinal,
And loved in some long-dead Italian Spring.
Tout lasse, tout passe.
The bindings tooled for Prince and Cardinal,
And loved in some long-dead Italian Spring.
Tout lasse, tout passe.
45
And there my Froissart, Monstrelet, and Hall;
My Regent's Chloe—fold her in a shawl,
So naïve, so nude;—my dwarfs from Pickering,
My Fletcher, Drayton, Crashaw, vanishing.
Rapt loves, whom some new lover shall enthral
And comfort in the shelter of his wing,
God give you joy when I have lost you all.
Tout lasse, tout passe.
My Regent's Chloe—fold her in a shawl,
So naïve, so nude;—my dwarfs from Pickering,
My Fletcher, Drayton, Crashaw, vanishing.
Rapt loves, whom some new lover shall enthral
And comfort in the shelter of his wing,
God give you joy when I have lost you all.
Tout lasse, tout passe.
46
A CASE OF RENAISSANCE MEDALS
(1)
My Medals see—perchance, to-morrow, thine—
Long wrapped in silk or choked in travertine:—
Of Malatesta from his robber lair,
And sly Isotta with the coif-bound hair,
And many a Ferrarese and Florentine.
Long wrapped in silk or choked in travertine:—
Of Malatesta from his robber lair,
And sly Isotta with the coif-bound hair,
And many a Ferrarese and Florentine.
Princes and Popes of Medicean line,
And treacherous Borgias, deft with poisoned wine:
Sixtus and bull-necked Julius, born Rovere:
My Medals—See!
And treacherous Borgias, deft with poisoned wine:
Sixtus and bull-necked Julius, born Rovere:
My Medals—See!
Visconti, with the viper for their sign
And fierce Colonnas, lords of Palestrine;
Estes and Gonzagas, proud but debonnair;
And women roped with pearls or robed in vair,—
Children of days malignant yet divine,
Deaf to all days of triumph and despair,—
But sometimes, gazing out through storm and shine,
My Medals see.
And fierce Colonnas, lords of Palestrine;
Estes and Gonzagas, proud but debonnair;
And women roped with pearls or robed in vair,—
Children of days malignant yet divine,
Deaf to all days of triumph and despair,—
But sometimes, gazing out through storm and shine,
My Medals see.
(2)
What have Ye seen?—Rome's sack and overthrow,
Thou, Clement, crouching in Saint Angelo.
Thee, Clement, later, foremost in the race,
Florence, thy fortune's cradle, to efface.
Unbridled wills, immeasurable woe.
Thou, Clement, crouching in Saint Angelo.
Thee, Clement, later, foremost in the race,
Florence, thy fortune's cradle, to efface.
Unbridled wills, immeasurable woe.
Borgia, who tossed thy son to Tiber-flow?
Wert thou at Sinigaglia, first to know
When smooth Cæsare played his sovereign ace?
What have ye seen?
Wert thou at Sinigaglia, first to know
When smooth Cæsare played his sovereign ace?
What have ye seen?
47
Phantasmal States that shrivel while they grow;
Renaissance and reaction,—spasm and throe
Of birth and death that clutch and interlace;
Pontiffs and Kings that pass in spectral chase;
Spaniard and Frank and Austrian come and go;
Out of the Alpine war-clouds bursting low
The new Italia risen into their place:—
These have Ye seen!
Renaissance and reaction,—spasm and throe
Of birth and death that clutch and interlace;
Pontiffs and Kings that pass in spectral chase;
Spaniard and Frank and Austrian come and go;
Out of the Alpine war-clouds bursting low
The new Italia risen into their place:—
These have Ye seen!
48
A BALLADE OF VILLON, HIS CAT
(“C'est à mau rat mau chat.”)
I am that cat, nine lives agone,
Who brushed about your shoon, Villon,
And round Montfaucon spat and preyed
While kindred rogues on gibbets swayed
Who erst had drunk and diced, God wot,
In midnight bordels, piping hot,
With itching fingers, prone to grow
Too nigh the breasts of Grosse Margot.
Who brushed about your shoon, Villon,
And round Montfaucon spat and preyed
While kindred rogues on gibbets swayed
Who erst had drunk and diced, God wot,
In midnight bordels, piping hot,
With itching fingers, prone to grow
Too nigh the breasts of Grosse Margot.
I watched your antics, beryl-eyed,
Then mewed and miawled in amorous pride,
With Gallic Thomases, for miles
Athwart the steep-pitched Paris tiles.
Now all that merry crew, Pardie,
Are clean forgot, save you and me,
And Grosse Margot, this many a day,
Is dust and lime in Paris clay.
Then mewed and miawled in amorous pride,
With Gallic Thomases, for miles
Athwart the steep-pitched Paris tiles.
Now all that merry crew, Pardie,
Are clean forgot, save you and me,
And Grosse Margot, this many a day,
Is dust and lime in Paris clay.
But you, François, arch rogue and poet,
And I, your cat—may all men know it—
Let not the Centuries trample down
The memory of our just renown.
Above the world we loom and brood
In splendid, astral solitude,
Intoning our antiphonies
As when we sat on Margot's knees.
And I, your cat—may all men know it—
Let not the Centuries trample down
The memory of our just renown.
Above the world we loom and brood
In splendid, astral solitude,
Intoning our antiphonies
As when we sat on Margot's knees.
L'ENVOI
Throned Imp of Song, in the land of the deadDo you dream of the laurels that crown your head,
Or ever a tear or thought bestow
On old Greymalkin—or Grosse Margot?
“Gallic Thomases”—The use of this expression seems to indicate a lady cat of English extraction—possibly a straggler from the Army of Occupation which collapsed in 1453.
49
A BUCCANEER'S LAST CHANTY
(1698)
Say, Bill, pass the—what the—Thinking?—well, I'm blasted!
What in thunder is it now?—
O, the Tropic Seas o' nights and the pathway of the Moon,
And the lines we used to fish with by the lantern in the prow—
That old tune!—
Hell, what a life it was, a torch-flare while it lasted,
But 'twill all be over soon,
For they'll swing us off tomorrow nigh the full height of the mast-head,
To dance on next to nothing, like ripe apples on a bough.
What in thunder is it now?—
O, the Tropic Seas o' nights and the pathway of the Moon,
And the lines we used to fish with by the lantern in the prow—
That old tune!—
Hell, what a life it was, a torch-flare while it lasted,
But 'twill all be over soon,
For they'll swing us off tomorrow nigh the full height of the mast-head,
To dance on next to nothing, like ripe apples on a bough.
Aye, Bill, in Execution Dock we'll ride at anchor,
Home fröm all the stormy seas,
While the black flag waves flip-flapping at our corpses as they sway
In the wind that blows past Limehouse from the scented Caribbees—
All the way.
There the long-boats lurk in ambush for the ships for which they hanker,
Mid the mangroves round the Bay,
In the snaky creeks of silence, deep as prison-cells and ranker,
Where the Boas and lianas trail in clusters from the trees.
Home fröm all the stormy seas,
While the black flag waves flip-flapping at our corpses as they sway
In the wind that blows past Limehouse from the scented Caribbees—
All the way.
There the long-boats lurk in ambush for the ships for which they hanker,
Mid the mangroves round the Bay,
In the snaky creeks of silence, deep as prison-cells and ranker,
Where the Boas and lianas trail in clusters from the trees.
Say, Bill, d'ye call to mind the midnight island-beaches
White with stars in the wet sand;
Where the turtles crawled in day-time till we turned them on their backs,
And o' moon-lit nights—they said—the Mermaids swam to land,
Soft as flax:
Or the long, dark paths we threaded through the miles of forest reaches
Where the monkeys cursed in packs,
Like the crowds in Ratcliff Highway, who'll stun us with their screeches
When we drive in state along it like the Dutchman down the Strand?
White with stars in the wet sand;
50
And o' moon-lit nights—they said—the Mermaids swam to land,
Soft as flax:
Or the long, dark paths we threaded through the miles of forest reaches
Where the monkeys cursed in packs,
Like the crowds in Ratcliff Highway, who'll stun us with their screeches
When we drive in state along it like the Dutchman down the Strand?
Aye, Bill, Life frothed its highest when, with sails, like vultures, flopping
From the sack of Panama,
Gold-loaded to the gunnels ploughed back each boisterous rover
To the Bagnios by the Keys in the Isle of Tortuga.
Ah, that's over!
How we drank and diced, the Moidores from our ready pockets dropping,—
Kept our harlot girls in clover!
Gripped in their lithe arms, we dreamed not of the hangman's noose at Wapping,
Nor the Night that blackens round us with one blood-red, shuddering star.
From the sack of Panama,
Gold-loaded to the gunnels ploughed back each boisterous rover
To the Bagnios by the Keys in the Isle of Tortuga.
Ah, that's over!
How we drank and diced, the Moidores from our ready pockets dropping,—
Kept our harlot girls in clover!
Gripped in their lithe arms, we dreamed not of the hangman's noose at Wapping,
Nor the Night that blackens round us with one blood-red, shuddering star.
Say, Bill, d'ye ever dream and strike at putrid faces
Spun in eddies round your barque,
Leering in at every porthole, pitching past on surge and spate,
Sure as Death to catch and kiss you, in a nightmare trapped and stark,
Soon or late?
Hell!—can we ever find one in the waste, unsounded Spaces,
Worse than nightly lies in wait?—
Death may rid us of the torment of these leprous, loathed embraces:
Take your leap, Bill, full of courage, high of hope, into the Dark!
Spun in eddies round your barque,
Leering in at every porthole, pitching past on surge and spate,
Sure as Death to catch and kiss you, in a nightmare trapped and stark,
Soon or late?
51
Worse than nightly lies in wait?—
Death may rid us of the torment of these leprous, loathed embraces:
Take your leap, Bill, full of courage, high of hope, into the Dark!
52
A DEAD TERRIER
(Ob. Oct. 1927)
Dear waif from Sirius with thy constant flameOf loyalty and love, who now art gone,
Approved a terrier void of taint or blame,
Lulled with the poppies of oblivion,
Back to the star where all thy race attain
Felicity, and doze in halcyon dreams
Of old companionships, and, off the chain,
Chase phantom rats by summer banks and streams,
Yet vaguely scenting still an ancient trail
Which hath not wholly faded from thy ken,
Challenging with tense ears and quivering tail
One longed-for footstep from the world of men:—
If it could be, if we should meet once more,
What greetings, raptures, on that happy shore!
53
SIESTA
Choose a pair of tired eyes:
Lend them sleep more soft than snow;
Then with mist of dreams surprise
Wits that, waking, never know
Rest, nor think of birds upsteering,—
Winds in empty heavens careering,—
Buds that only live to blow.
Lend them sleep more soft than snow;
Then with mist of dreams surprise
Wits that, waking, never know
Rest, nor think of birds upsteering,—
Winds in empty heavens careering,—
Buds that only live to blow.
Stretch a cobweb, fairy spun,
Flecked and crossed with threads of rain
Turned to rainbows by the sun,
At the windows of the brain,
That the visions inward stealing
May be charged with peace and healing,
And efface the ancient pain.
Flecked and crossed with threads of rain
Turned to rainbows by the sun,
At the windows of the brain,
That the visions inward stealing
May be charged with peace and healing,
And efface the ancient pain.
Flatter next the unconscious ear
With the music of a reed,
Which at length the soul may hear
And absorb into her need,
Later, thence the signal taking
For the hour of her awaking,
Rich with pregnant thought and deed.
With the music of a reed,
Which at length the soul may hear
And absorb into her need,
Later, thence the signal taking
For the hour of her awaking,
Rich with pregnant thought and deed.
Must she then desert the shore
Of her deep Elysian ease,
For the thraldom of the oar
And the torment of the seas?—
Of the land of endless leisure,
Void of strife and tears and pleasure
'Tis not Sleep that holds the keys
Of her deep Elysian ease,
For the thraldom of the oar
And the torment of the seas?—
Of the land of endless leisure,
Void of strife and tears and pleasure
'Tis not Sleep that holds the keys
54
“LA VIE EST VAINE”
What is man's life?—a transient thing:
A kerchief slipping through a ring,
Or a ring dropping from a hand,
Or water spilled on thirsty sand:
An acorn shredded from the oak:
A puff of cloud, a wisp of smoke:
Wind-ripples on the water's face:
A leaping fish that leaves no trace
Save bubbles bursting in a pool:
A thread unwinding from the spool:
A guttering candle-flame: a spark
From flint and tinder in the dark:
A shadow from a moment's sun:
A dream, a cry—and all is done.
A kerchief slipping through a ring,
Or a ring dropping from a hand,
Or water spilled on thirsty sand:
An acorn shredded from the oak:
A puff of cloud, a wisp of smoke:
Wind-ripples on the water's face:
A leaping fish that leaves no trace
Save bubbles bursting in a pool:
A thread unwinding from the spool:
A guttering candle-flame: a spark
From flint and tinder in the dark:
A shadow from a moment's sun:
A dream, a cry—and all is done.
What lies behind or looms before,
What oceans surge on either shore,
What riding-lights there are to guide
Across the welter of the tide,
All men conjecture, no man knows,
Or whence he comes or whither goes,
Or if his shallop sinks or sails,
Or if he steers by fairy tales,
Or if his flimsy keel shall shock
On Summer isle or Loadstone rock.—
What matter? Still one course pursue,
By the Soul's compass steering true;
Stedfast, whatever storm impend;
The goal we cannot set or mend.
What oceans surge on either shore,
What riding-lights there are to guide
Across the welter of the tide,
All men conjecture, no man knows,
Or whence he comes or whither goes,
Or if his shallop sinks or sails,
Or if he steers by fairy tales,
Or if his flimsy keel shall shock
On Summer isle or Loadstone rock.—
What matter? Still one course pursue,
By the Soul's compass steering true;
Stedfast, whatever storm impend;
The goal we cannot set or mend.
55
DISILLUSIONS
(To youth's illusions, buried long
In a forgotten grave of Song.)
In a forgotten grave of Song.)
Say these were walls of Jericho
That wavered when the trumpets passed,
But rocked and shattered in the throe
Of Life's immitigable blast;
That wavered when the trumpets passed,
But rocked and shattered in the throe
Of Life's immitigable blast;
Yet lost illusions still may hive
In stagnant tissues of the brain,
And phantom gates and bastions strive
To shape and weld themselves again
In stagnant tissues of the brain,
And phantom gates and bastions strive
To shape and weld themselves again
Out of the sombrous towers of cloud
High-flaming over sunset snow.—
What if Life's barrier-bounds enshroud
Our vanished walls of Jericho?
High-flaming over sunset snow.—
What if Life's barrier-bounds enshroud
Our vanished walls of Jericho?
56
WHAT OF THE NIGHT
While the deep shadows muster—in which dead faces cluster,—
And swamp Life's lingering daytime, and all its lights go down,
Has Death staged wild surprises before his Curtain rises?
What Play comes next to town?
And swamp Life's lingering daytime, and all its lights go down,
Has Death staged wild surprises before his Curtain rises?
What Play comes next to town?
In worlds of bliss and sorrow shall we but find, tomorrow,
A subtler rarefaction of senses, blunt today,
Wherewith to reap the guerdon, or bear the endless burden
Earned in the ended Play?
A subtler rarefaction of senses, blunt today,
Wherewith to reap the guerdon, or bear the endless burden
Earned in the ended Play?
Or is the scene not shifted—the Curtain dropped and lifted?—
Back to the life of striving, much care and little ease;
Trapped in the mine, the brickyard, the forge, the trench, the rickyard;
The swift, ship-hunting Seas!
Back to the life of striving, much care and little ease;
Trapped in the mine, the brickyard, the forge, the trench, the rickyard;
The swift, ship-hunting Seas!
Or will the Past be riven—forgotten and forgiven,—
Asperged from all the passion, the heartbreak, and the pain?
Man in a world new-shriven—from which the Snake is driven—
Be free to start again?
Asperged from all the passion, the heartbreak, and the pain?
Man in a world new-shriven—from which the Snake is driven—
Be free to start again?
57
TO F. W. G.
(Died in sleep, Oct. 1929)
Happy are they—the men of temperate mind,
Staunch as the magnet through the years of stress;
Of counsel wise; supreme in faithfulness;
Trusted by all, in tangled ways and blind,—
Beset in perilous straits before, behind,—
To steer by compass true, nor more, nor less,
Though doubting friends or foes may ban or bless;
Unswerved by storm, unswayed by volleying wind.
Staunch as the magnet through the years of stress;
Of counsel wise; supreme in faithfulness;
Trusted by all, in tangled ways and blind,—
Beset in perilous straits before, behind,—
To steer by compass true, nor more, nor less,
Though doubting friends or foes may ban or bless;
Unswerved by storm, unswayed by volleying wind.
But happiest they of all—that envied band,
Elect of God—who sink at night to sleep,
His tired children, worn with toil or play,
Nor feel Death's fingers o'er their pulses creep,
But wake with wondering eyes upon the strand
Of radiant seas, in a diviner day.
Elect of God—who sink at night to sleep,
His tired children, worn with toil or play,
Nor feel Death's fingers o'er their pulses creep,
But wake with wondering eyes upon the strand
Of radiant seas, in a diviner day.
58
THE EXILE
(To R. L. S.)
Out of the Golden Gate he sailed afar
Past coral atolls built in worlds of sea
Where giant breakers boom unendingly,
A myriad sea-birds watch a drifting spar,
To beaches framed in palms up ridge and scar
With wilding orchids swung from every tree,—
All life a dream, a perfume, melody,—
Eluding Fate, following his destined star.
Past coral atolls built in worlds of sea
Where giant breakers boom unendingly,
A myriad sea-birds watch a drifting spar,
To beaches framed in palms up ridge and scar
With wilding orchids swung from every tree,—
All life a dream, a perfume, melody,—
Eluding Fate, following his destined star.
Ah, Tusitala, on thy mountain crest,
Lulled by the droning surge round languorous isles,
Strayed exile from the heather to the foam,
Across the void, immeasurable miles
Of land and wave, fluttering in vague unrest,
Doth not thy heart yearn toward the hills of home?
Lulled by the droning surge round languorous isles,
Strayed exile from the heather to the foam,
Across the void, immeasurable miles
Of land and wave, fluttering in vague unrest,
Doth not thy heart yearn toward the hills of home?
59
APOLOGIA
I
Poet, leave your lonely height;
Tempests rack the wold;
Shapes of fear bestride the night
And the stars are cold.
Tempests rack the wold;
Shapes of fear bestride the night
And the stars are cold.
Tread at times the common paths
By the hedgerow side,
Where, between the falling swathes,
Field-mice slip and hide.
By the hedgerow side,
Where, between the falling swathes,
Field-mice slip and hide.
Give us flame to warm the hands,
Not to scorch the byre;
'Tis not lightning life demands;—
Friendly, lambent fire.
Not to scorch the byre;
'Tis not lightning life demands;—
Friendly, lambent fire.
Make yourself to many men
What you are to one;—
Singing water down the glen:
Radiance of the sun.
What you are to one;—
Singing water down the glen:
Radiance of the sun.
Though high Heaven be yours at will,
Prize the country lane;
Let your rainbow ladder still
Clutch of Earth retain.
Prize the country lane;
Let your rainbow ladder still
Clutch of Earth retain.
Thus, among Admetus' hinds
Young Apollo roved;
Carolled with the morning winds;
Saved the queen he loved.
Young Apollo roved;
Carolled with the morning winds;
Saved the queen he loved.
II
I would not sing divorced, by choice,
From all the woodland yields,
Fleeting, a disembodied voice,
In air above the fields.
From all the woodland yields,
Fleeting, a disembodied voice,
In air above the fields.
60
My heart regards and holds them all;—
The tints of drifting leaves;
The moss and frondage on the wall;
The nest beneath the eaves;
The tints of drifting leaves;
The moss and frondage on the wall;
The nest beneath the eaves;
But by the gate on which I swung,
The dells in which I played,
The paths are closed and barbs are strung;
Nature is leased to Trade.
The dells in which I played,
The paths are closed and barbs are strung;
Nature is leased to Trade.
The canker of the quarry scores
The spinney from the hills,
And down the twinkling trout-stream pours
The acid of the mills.
The spinney from the hills,
And down the twinkling trout-stream pours
The acid of the mills.
On all the jostling roads that thrust
Toward every jaded town,
There is but space for speed and dust;
Dreamers are trampled down.
Toward every jaded town,
There is but space for speed and dust;
Dreamers are trampled down.
Wherefore I hide, perforce, apart
Upon my hill of cloud,
From them who would but spurn my heart
Or toss it to the crowd;—
Upon my hill of cloud,
From them who would but spurn my heart
Or toss it to the crowd;—
Content to sing, content to dream
Out of the moil and daze;
Unseen, unheard, far from the stream
And frenzy of the ways;—
Out of the moil and daze;
Unseen, unheard, far from the stream
And frenzy of the ways;—
Content while here the voices blend
Of rills and woods below,—
The stars shine in, the birds ascend,
The Morning's clarions blow.
Of rills and woods below,—
The stars shine in, the birds ascend,
The Morning's clarions blow.
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