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 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
132
1912
O Fair and Fair and Fierce,
Tigress mother of ours,
Beautiful-browed, deep-thewed
Passionate mother of ours,
Hearken! The drums of doom
Are beaten at the gate,
And it is meet that THOU,
Whose breasts are ice and steel,
Whose heart is all a fire,
Should show us frightened eyes,
And lips becomingly blenched;
So say the very wise.
Tigress mother of ours,
Beautiful-browed, deep-thewed
Passionate mother of ours,
Hearken! The drums of doom
Are beaten at the gate,
And it is meet that THOU,
Whose breasts are ice and steel,
Whose heart is all a fire,
Should show us frightened eyes,
And lips becomingly blenched;
So say the very wise.
For when the thrones were made
Thine, the throne of the thrones,
Was set in the yeasty seas:
Built and bastioned and braced,
A tower of brass, a rock,
An adamant pyramid,
A strength unshakeable;
And to thy hands were given
Power and dominion
Wherever water is salt,
Wherever a shipboy sings,
Wherever ships may ride;
So that the seas of the world
Though they be seventy times seven,
Are English seas, and thine;
Whether it be the harsh
And bitter seas of the north,
Flurried by little winds,
And pushed by piping gales
Against the winking stars;
Or the still blue middle seas;
Or where the daffodil moon
Slips down an amethyst sky
To walk with silver feet
On the Southern, soft lagoons,
It is the English sea. . . .
Thine, the throne of the thrones,
Was set in the yeasty seas:
Built and bastioned and braced,
A tower of brass, a rock,
An adamant pyramid,
A strength unshakeable;
133
Power and dominion
Wherever water is salt,
Wherever a shipboy sings,
Wherever ships may ride;
So that the seas of the world
Though they be seventy times seven,
Are English seas, and thine;
Whether it be the harsh
And bitter seas of the north,
Flurried by little winds,
And pushed by piping gales
Against the winking stars;
Or the still blue middle seas;
Or where the daffodil moon
Slips down an amethyst sky
To walk with silver feet
On the Southern, soft lagoons,
It is the English sea. . . .
Who is this that waits
By the weary Baltic shore,
By the kneeling Baltic shore,
With shrouded arm and hand,
And a hand whereon there gleams
A glove of impudent mail?
Behind him stretch afar
The pleasant, placid spas,
Fattened with English aches;
And the four-three factories,
And the reek of the dumper's fires,
And the pretty river Rhine
(Which owes so much to Cooks),
And rows, and rows, and rows
Of flat-head soldier men,
And the works of Schichau and Krupp,
And for a sign in the blue,
The tender himmelblau,
The good, grey Count's balloons!
By the weary Baltic shore,
By the kneeling Baltic shore,
With shrouded arm and hand,
And a hand whereon there gleams
A glove of impudent mail?
Behind him stretch afar
The pleasant, placid spas,
Fattened with English aches;
And the four-three factories,
134
And the pretty river Rhine
(Which owes so much to Cooks),
And rows, and rows, and rows
Of flat-head soldier men,
And the works of Schichau and Krupp,
And for a sign in the blue,
The tender himmelblau,
The good, grey Count's balloons!
Do you know this singular Lord,
This humorous, hearty Prince,
Whose cry is “Peace, Peace, Peace,”
Abroad, and at home “War, War”;
Who preaches through the day
With olive twigs in his hair,
And rises in the night
To fan the secret forge;
Who says, “Why should we fight?
Prithee, why should we fight?
What cause have we to fight?
Are we not friends, please God,
And Customers? . . . My glass
Is raised to you and Peace
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra!”
This humorous, hearty Prince,
Whose cry is “Peace, Peace, Peace,”
Abroad, and at home “War, War”;
Who preaches through the day
With olive twigs in his hair,
And rises in the night
To fan the secret forge;
Who says, “Why should we fight?
Prithee, why should we fight?
What cause have we to fight?
Are we not friends, please God,
And Customers? . . . My glass
Is raised to you and Peace
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra!”
Who says again, “My arms
Must flourish on the seas,
My arms and mine alone
If you wish a place in the sun;
As for the one in our path
The one whom we all so love,
By nineteen hundred and twelve
I shall be ready for HER!!
I have promised you your Day—
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra!”
Must flourish on the seas,
My arms and mine alone
If you wish a place in the sun;
As for the one in our path
135
By nineteen hundred and twelve
I shall be ready for HER!!
I have promised you your Day—
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra!”
It is nineteen hundred and ten
And the Seas are English seas,
They will be English seas
Till they shall give up Drake
And the thousand English hearts
Which have made rich the depths:
Until they shall be rolled
Together like a scroll
They shall be English seas.
We sleep sound in our beds;
We fear no fist of mail;
We fear no withered arm;
We are not afraid of Krupp
Nor yet of Blohm and Voss.
We wish you the Devil's joy
Of all you have hidden and built;
It is nineteen hundred and ten.
We have simple words for you:
In the English history books
There is Eighteen Hundred and Five;
We say to you when you pray,
Thank Heaven if we do not write
In the English history books
With beautiful German blood
Nineteen Hundred and Twelve.
And the Seas are English seas,
They will be English seas
Till they shall give up Drake
And the thousand English hearts
Which have made rich the depths:
Until they shall be rolled
Together like a scroll
They shall be English seas.
We sleep sound in our beds;
We fear no fist of mail;
We fear no withered arm;
We are not afraid of Krupp
Nor yet of Blohm and Voss.
We wish you the Devil's joy
Of all you have hidden and built;
It is nineteen hundred and ten.
We have simple words for you:
In the English history books
There is Eighteen Hundred and Five;
We say to you when you pray,
Thank Heaven if we do not write
In the English history books
With beautiful German blood
Nineteen Hundred and Twelve.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |