The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan In Two Volumes. With a Portrait |
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| Miscellaneous Poems. |
 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
414
Miscellaneous Poems.
TWO SONS.
I
I have two Sons, Wife—Two, and yet the same;
One his wild way runs, Wife,
Bringing us to shame.
The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and fights across the sea,
The other is a little son who sits upon your knee.
II
One is fierce and cold, Wife,As the wayward Deep:
Him no arms could hold, Wife,
Him no breast could keep.
He has tried our hearts for many a year, not broken them; for he
Is still the sinless little one that sits upon your knee.
III
One may fall in fight, Wife—Is he not our son?
Pray with all your might, Wife,
For the wayward one;
Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who fights across the sea,
Because you love the little son who smiles upon your knee.
IV
One across the foam, Wife,As I speak may fall;
But this one at home, Wife,
Cannot die at all.
They both are only one; and how thankful should we be,
We cannot lose the darling Son who sits upon your knee!
PAT MULDOON; OR, JACK THE GIANT-KILLER UP TO DATE.
‘Boys, give the divil his due! He's a man like me and you,
No wild baste!’ cried Drum-Major Pat Muldoon
To the new recruits from home, sailing southward o'er the foam
In the troopship, 'neath the shining tropie moon—
‘Give the blooming Boer his due; he's a man, like me or you,
Tho' like me or you he's rusty when he's riled—
If you scrape his rough old hide sure you'll find a heart inside
That's tinder to a woman or a child!
No wild baste!’ cried Drum-Major Pat Muldoon
To the new recruits from home, sailing southward o'er the foam
In the troopship, 'neath the shining tropie moon—
‘Give the blooming Boer his due; he's a man, like me or you,
Tho' like me or you he's rusty when he's riled—
If you scrape his rough old hide sure you'll find a heart inside
That's tinder to a woman or a child!
‘D'ye mind the time long past, when we met the beggars last?
(And begor’, they gave us beans on 'Juba Hill!)
I'd a cousin, Jack Molly, who had join'd as drummer boy,
A devil's imp—all mischief, never still!
And sure that same spalpeen, though only just fifteen,
And looking less than that—he was so small,
Could hold his own in jaw with the bloodiest Johnnie Raw
That ever hoped to dodge a cannon ball!
(And begor’, they gave us beans on 'Juba Hill!)
I'd a cousin, Jack Molly, who had join'd as drummer boy,
A devil's imp—all mischief, never still!
And sure that same spalpeen, though only just fifteen,
And looking less than that—he was so small,
Could hold his own in jaw with the bloodiest Johnnie Raw
That ever hoped to dodge a cannon ball!
‘“Sure they're Giants,” Jack would say, like the ones Jack wint to slay,
When he hid hisself and heard their “Fee! faw! fum!”
“It's our English blood they smell, but we're going to give them Hell,
And it's me that will be there to strike 'em dumb!
I'm a soger! Jack's my name! like that other known to fame!
And they'll find me just as sharp and wide awake!”
We slapt him on the back, and cried, laughing, “Bravo, Jack!
You're Jack the Giant-killer, no mistake!”
When he hid hisself and heard their “Fee! faw! fum!”
“It's our English blood they smell, but we're going to give them Hell,
And it's me that will be there to strike 'em dumb!
415
And they'll find me just as sharp and wide awake!”
We slapt him on the back, and cried, laughing, “Bravo, Jack!
You're Jack the Giant-killer, no mistake!”
‘Well, our work was cut out soon, right up country,’ cried Muldoon,
‘And begorra, we'd our bellyfull at last,
For the Boers, like Giants grim, fierce of face, and strong of limb,
Came thronging all around us thick and fast!
But the drum and fife still played, and we faced thim undismayed,
Though many a gallant soger had to fall,
And 'twas Hell and Tommie there, and no time to think or spare,
And that little imp of Cain was in it all!
‘And begorra, we'd our bellyfull at last,
For the Boers, like Giants grim, fierce of face, and strong of limb,
Came thronging all around us thick and fast!
But the drum and fife still played, and we faced thim undismayed,
Though many a gallant soger had to fall,
And 'twas Hell and Tommie there, and no time to think or spare,
And that little imp of Cain was in it all!
‘Well, not far from 'Juba Hill (where at last we got our fill,
Outnumber'd, squarely beat, as you've been told),
One night our camp was stormed, and the Dutchmen round us swarmed
Like flocks of hungry wolves around a fold!
Faith, like Giants thin indeed looked those men of mighty breed,
As they popt their shaggy heads out one by one!
And at every shot they sint, down a British soger wint,
And at last they made a dash—and we was done!
Outnumber'd, squarely beat, as you've been told),
One night our camp was stormed, and the Dutchmen round us swarmed
Like flocks of hungry wolves around a fold!
Faith, like Giants thin indeed looked those men of mighty breed,
As they popt their shaggy heads out one by one!
And at every shot they sint, down a British soger wint,
And at last they made a dash—and we was done!
‘Back to back we gather'd there, facing grim death and despair,
While plop and ping the leaden rain did fall,
And 'twas thin I chanced to spy that young imp of Cain close by,
Still standing up, though wounded by a ball!
His drum was riddled through, but he shrick'd and cried “Hurroo!”
And waved a small six-shooter in his fist,
And he emptied his last shot from the barrels smoking hot
At a Giant wid a bushy beard—and missed!
While plop and ping the leaden rain did fall,
And 'twas thin I chanced to spy that young imp of Cain close by,
Still standing up, though wounded by a ball!
His drum was riddled through, but he shrick'd and cried “Hurroo!”
And waved a small six-shooter in his fist,
And he emptied his last shot from the barrels smoking hot
At a Giant wid a bushy beard—and missed!
‘Sure, boys, it was a sight I remember day and night,
Though it lasted but a moment, as it were:
That shrieking soger imp, like a little redbiled shrimp,
And that Ogre wid the shaggy beard and hair!
He look'd right down at Jack, waved the other Giants back,
As they rush'd along that shrieking kid to slay—
Then smiled (I saw him do it!), then, almost before I knew it,
Tuck'd Jack beneath his arm, and walked away!
Though it lasted but a moment, as it were:
That shrieking soger imp, like a little redbiled shrimp,
And that Ogre wid the shaggy beard and hair!
He look'd right down at Jack, waved the other Giants back,
As they rush'd along that shrieking kid to slay—
Then smiled (I saw him do it!), then, almost before I knew it,
Tuck'd Jack beneath his arm, and walked away!
‘Thin thinks I, his time is come! and I thought of “Fee! faw! fum!”
And the bloody tales I'd read before that day;
Tho' we heard him squeal and call, sure we couldn't help at all,
For the inemy were round us like the Say—
And before that Say we ran, back to back and man to man,
Till safe within our lines we breath'd once more.
“Well, good-bye to Jack,” I said, for I gave him up for dead,—
Yis, gobbled up and aten by the Boer!
And the bloody tales I'd read before that day;
Tho' we heard him squeal and call, sure we couldn't help at all,
For the inemy were round us like the Say—
And before that Say we ran, back to back and man to man,
Till safe within our lines we breath'd once more.
“Well, good-bye to Jack,” I said, for I gave him up for dead,—
Yis, gobbled up and aten by the Boer!
‘Boys, some six weeks after that, as in camp our Tommies sat,
The news of peace thin spreading far and wide—
Up and down before our tint, smoking angry-like I wint,
For I thought of little Jack, and how he'd died—
And I longed to stand once more, wid my hand against the Boer,
To revenge the little divil caught and slain—
When I heard a loud laugh near, and a voice cried, “Pat, look 'ere!
It's Jack the Giant-killer—back again!”
The news of peace thin spreading far and wide—
Up and down before our tint, smoking angry-like I wint,
For I thought of little Jack, and how he'd died—
And I longed to stand once more, wid my hand against the Boer,
To revenge the little divil caught and slain—
When I heard a loud laugh near, and a voice cried, “Pat, look 'ere!
It's Jack the Giant-killer—back again!”
416
‘Holy Moses, it was him! There he stood, the divil's limb,
In his regimintals old, but patch'd and neat—
And upon his head he wore a big hat (just like a Boer!)
And a pair of buckskin boots upon his feet;
And pale and worn and thin, wid a kind of sheepish grin,
He came among the laughing, shouting throng—
“Is i: you, Jack, or your ghost? Sure we thought ye dead and lost!
Where the thunder have ye hid yourself so long?”
In his regimintals old, but patch'd and neat—
And upon his head he wore a big hat (just like a Boer!)
And a pair of buckskin boots upon his feet;
And pale and worn and thin, wid a kind of sheepish grin,
He came among the laughing, shouting throng—
“Is i: you, Jack, or your ghost? Sure we thought ye dead and lost!
Where the thunder have ye hid yourself so long?”
‘Thin he told us . . . such a tale! (and his face looked queer and pale,
Wid a quiet look it never had before)
How he'd lain for many a day, sick and wounded, far away,
A prisoner in the keepin’ of the Boer!
And the men began to laugh, crying round him in their chaff,
“Thin the Giants didn't ate ye, Jack, me boy!”
“Garn! give the Boer his due, he's a man like me or you,
Not a bloody raging baste,” said Jack Molloy.
Wid a quiet look it never had before)
How he'd lain for many a day, sick and wounded, far away,
A prisoner in the keepin’ of the Boer!
And the men began to laugh, crying round him in their chaff,
“Thin the Giants didn't ate ye, Jack, me boy!”
“Garn! give the Boer his due, he's a man like me or you,
Not a bloody raging baste,” said Jack Molloy.
‘Thin he told us how that night, when he vanish'd from our sight,
'Neath the armpit of that Giant wid the beard,
He felt the warm blood flow down his wounded side and so
He screech'd and swoon'd away—he was so skeered!
When he waken'd from that swoon—and he did wake!’ said Muldoon,
‘He thought that he was gone to Kingdom Come,
For 'twas darkness all around, and he couldn't hear a sound,
And all the world seem'd far away and dumb!
'Neath the armpit of that Giant wid the beard,
He felt the warm blood flow down his wounded side and so
He screech'd and swoon'd away—he was so skeered!
When he waken'd from that swoon—and he did wake!’ said Muldoon,
‘He thought that he was gone to Kingdom Come,
For 'twas darkness all around, and he couldn't hear a sound,
And all the world seem'd far away and dumb!
‘But, boys, he wasn't dead! He was lying in a bed,
Still and warm, in folds of linen white as snow,
And around him in the gloom was a quiet, cosy room,
Wid a clock a-ticking, peaceful, soft, and low;
And he drew a long deep breath, thinking, “Sakes, if this is death,
It's as comfy, sure, as any crib I've tried!”
Thin he tried to rise, in vain, for a quick, sharp stitch of pain
Ran through him, from the red wound in his side!
Still and warm, in folds of linen white as snow,
And around him in the gloom was a quiet, cosy room,
Wid a clock a-ticking, peaceful, soft, and low;
And he drew a long deep breath, thinking, “Sakes, if this is death,
It's as comfy, sure, as any crib I've tried!”
Thin he tried to rise, in vain, for a quick, sharp stitch of pain
Ran through him, from the red wound in his side!
‘Just thin, as he lookt round, he seem'd to hear a sound
Close beside him, like a soft and quiet tread—
And he saw to his surprise, thro' the mist that fill'd his eyes,
A shape that stood and listen'd by his bed.
'Twas a Woman, and thinks he (being fever-struck, d'ye see),
“Why, it's mother!—I'm at home, though sick and weak!”
And “Mother!” faint he cried, and the Woman by his side
Bent above him, and a tear fell on his cheek!
Close beside him, like a soft and quiet tread—
And he saw to his surprise, thro' the mist that fill'd his eyes,
A shape that stood and listen'd by his bed.
'Twas a Woman, and thinks he (being fever-struck, d'ye see),
“Why, it's mother!—I'm at home, though sick and weak!”
And “Mother!” faint he cried, and the Woman by his side
Bent above him, and a tear fell on his cheek!
‘Thin—the mist before his eyes seemed to clear away and rise,
And he saw she was a stranger, strong and tall,
Wid a cap on her white hair such as thim Boer women wear,
And not his own poor mother after all;
But the face he lookt upon, though 'twas sad and woe-begone,
Was kindly, and she took his little hand,
And smiling gintly now, while she stoopt and kissed his brow,
Said something that he could not understand!
And he saw she was a stranger, strong and tall,
Wid a cap on her white hair such as thim Boer women wear,
And not his own poor mother after all;
But the face he lookt upon, though 'twas sad and woe-begone,
Was kindly, and she took his little hand,
And smiling gintly now, while she stoopt and kissed his brow,
Said something that he could not understand!
‘Thin while, too weak to rise, he lookt up into her eyes,
He started, for he heard another tread,
And he saw, and sank back skeer'd, that big Giant wid the beard
Standing near him, blinking down upon the bed!
And thinks he, “My time is come,” for be thought of “Fee! faw! fum!”
And that Bloodybones was there at last to slay . . .
But the Giant's face meanwhile wore a cur'ous kind o' smile
And he nodded in a friendly sort o' way!
He started, for he heard another tread,
And he saw, and sank back skeer'd, that big Giant wid the beard
Standing near him, blinking down upon the bed!
417
And that Bloodybones was there at last to slay . . .
But the Giant's face meanwhile wore a cur'ous kind o' smile
And he nodded in a friendly sort o' way!
‘Boys, what need to tell you more? He'd been carried by the Boer
To his farm among the mountains, as you've guessed,
And the Giant and his wife they had nurst him back to life,
And kept him like a young bird in a nest!
For they'd lost an only boy, who had been their hope and joy,
Jack's own age, too, and his very size and make!
So when the Boer caught sight of young Jack amidst the fight,
He had saved him—for the little Dutchman's sake. . .
To his farm among the mountains, as you've guessed,
And the Giant and his wife they had nurst him back to life,
And kept him like a young bird in a nest!
For they'd lost an only boy, who had been their hope and joy,
Jack's own age, too, and his very size and make!
So when the Boer caught sight of young Jack amidst the fight,
He had saved him—for the little Dutchman's sake. . .
‘O the rest, and O the calm, in that quiet upland farm,
Where Jack was nurst through thim long summer hours!
To watch in a half-dream, while the sleepy old mill-stream
Lay sprawling its fat fingers through the flowers!
Thin to sit in the sweet air, propt up in his armchair,
And to see the happy light across the land,
While the Mother bent her head o'er the Holy Book and read
In the lingo that he didn't understand.
Where Jack was nurst through thim long summer hours!
To watch in a half-dream, while the sleepy old mill-stream
Lay sprawling its fat fingers through the flowers!
Thin to sit in the sweet air, propt up in his armchair,
And to see the happy light across the land,
While the Mother bent her head o'er the Holy Book and read
In the lingo that he didn't understand.
‘And the Giant? He'd come there, wid his shaggy beard and hair,
And grunt and grin and nod at Master Jack!
Or stretching out his paw, like a kindly grizzly bear,
He'd laugh and pat him gintly on the back!
O to feel the life increase, wid the sense of love and peace,
Forgetful of the world and all its care,
As Jack did! Little Jack! till they sent him smiling back!
Do I know it? Don't I know it! I was there!
And grunt and grin and nod at Master Jack!
Or stretching out his paw, like a kindly grizzly bear,
He'd laugh and pat him gintly on the back!
O to feel the life increase, wid the sense of love and peace,
Forgetful of the world and all its care,
As Jack did! Little Jack! till they sent him smiling back!
Do I know it? Don't I know it! I was there!
‘Yis, ye blooming Johnnie Raws, cease your lies and hold your jaws—
It's a noble foe you'll find across the Say!
Give the good old Boer his due—he's a man like me or you—
Not an Ogre, or a ragin' baste of prey!
Do I know it? Don't I know it! Sure I'm livin' here to show it!
Say I'm lyin', and I'll make ye change your tune;
For the name of that same boy wasn't Jack, nor yet Molloy,
'Twas me that's now Drum-Major Pat Muldoon!’
It's a noble foe you'll find across the Say!
Give the good old Boer his due—he's a man like me or you—
Not an Ogre, or a ragin' baste of prey!
Do I know it? Don't I know it! Sure I'm livin' here to show it!
Say I'm lyin', and I'll make ye change your tune;
For the name of that same boy wasn't Jack, nor yet Molloy,
'Twas me that's now Drum-Major Pat Muldoon!’
THE WIDOW: A WAR SONG.
‘I know that you will always do your duty to
your Sovereign and country, wherever that duty
may lead you, and I pray God to protect you and
bring you back safely home.’—The Queen to
her Soldiers.
‘Stand, Watchman, on the Castle height,
And southward gaze for me,
Beyond the day, across the night,
And say—What dost thou see?’
‘I see the clouds of battle lower,
Our hosts flock forth to slay! . . .’
The Widow, in her Palace bower,
Stood listening, old and gray.
And southward gaze for me,
Beyond the day, across the night,
And say—What dost thou see?’
‘I see the clouds of battle lower,
Our hosts flock forth to slay! . . .’
The Widow, in her Palace bower,
Stood listening, old and gray.
‘Oh, Watchman, is it well with those
Who 'neath my banners stand,
Whose swords are drawn to smite my foes
In yonder far-off Land?’
‘Lady, their camps are red with blood,
Their kinsmen's and their own . . .’
As pale as Death the Widow stood,
Sad-hearted and alone.
Who 'neath my banners stand,
Whose swords are drawn to smite my foes
In yonder far-off Land?’
‘Lady, their camps are red with blood,
Their kinsmen's and their own . . .’
As pale as Death the Widow stood,
Sad-hearted and alone.
‘Oh, Watchman, look again and hark,
What dost thou hear and see?’
‘I hear a sobbing in the dark
Of widow'd souls like thee,—
I hear a sound that drowns in tears
The War-cry far away!’
That sound of sorrow in her ears,
The Widow knelt to pray.
What dost thou hear and see?’
‘I hear a sobbing in the dark
Of widow'd souls like thee,—
418
The War-cry far away!’
That sound of sorrow in her ears,
The Widow knelt to pray.
‘Oh, Watchman, gaze across the night
And watch my hosts again,
For surely troops of Angels bright
Are hovering round the slain?’
‘Angels of Death in raiment red
Pass, but in wrath divine!’
The Widow moaned, ‘God help the Dead,
And loving hearts like mine!’
And watch my hosts again,
For surely troops of Angels bright
Are hovering round the slain?’
‘Angels of Death in raiment red
Pass, but in wrath divine!’
The Widow moaned, ‘God help the Dead,
And loving hearts like mine!’
‘Oh, Watchman, seek the night afar
For Him, our God and Lord,—
Among those thunder-clouds of War
Doth He not wield the sword?’
‘Lady, indeed I see Him there,
But bow'd in woe like thee!’
The Widow, moaning in despair,
Pray'd still on bended knee.
For Him, our God and Lord,—
Among those thunder-clouds of War
Doth He not wield the sword?’
‘Lady, indeed I see Him there,
But bow'd in woe like thee!’
The Widow, moaning in despair,
Pray'd still on bended knee.
‘Oh, look again! doth He not stay
To crown my glorious Dead?’
‘Lady, He rather turns away
To bless the widow's bread,
To dry the weeping children's eyes
Throughout the stricken Lands!’
Her gaze uplifted to the skies,
The Widow wrung her hands.
To crown my glorious Dead?’
‘Lady, He rather turns away
To bless the widow's bread,
To dry the weeping children's eyes
Throughout the stricken Lands!’
Her gaze uplifted to the skies,
The Widow wrung her hands.
‘Oh, Watchman, doth He speak no word,
To be our strength and guide?’
‘Nay!—for the hand that draws the Sword
Must cast the Sword aside!
Thy Master is the Prince of Peace,
But holds no soul in thrall,—
'Tis theirs to bid the tempest cease
Who prayed that it should fall!’
To be our strength and guide?’
‘Nay!—for the hand that draws the Sword
Must cast the Sword aside!
Thy Master is the Prince of Peace,
But holds no soul in thrall,—
'Tis theirs to bid the tempest cease
Who prayed that it should fall!’
‘Oh, Watchman, mark my sons once more!
Do they not pause and kneel?’
‘Lady, thy legions trample o'er
The necks beneath their heel;
They cry for Him, thy Lord, to bless
Their bloody loss and gain!’
She sobbed, ‘Christ, help the fatherless!’
And wrung her hands again.
Do they not pause and kneel?’
‘Lady, thy legions trample o'er
The necks beneath their heel;
They cry for Him, thy Lord, to bless
Their bloody loss and gain!’
She sobbed, ‘Christ, help the fatherless!’
And wrung her hands again.
‘Oh look and see, more near,’
The weeping Widow said,
‘How fare the men who loosen'd here
Those storms of wrath and dread,
Who swore to me that Christ our Lord
Would bless the Dream and Deed?’
‘Lady, around the laden board
They feast, while thousands bleed!’
The weeping Widow said,
‘How fare the men who loosen'd here
Those storms of wrath and dread,
Who swore to me that Christ our Lord
Would bless the Dream and Deed?’
‘Lady, around the laden board
They feast, while thousands bleed!’
‘My curse,’ she cried, ‘for evermore
On those false Chiefs and vain
Who drew by night across my door
The crimson cross of Cain!’
‘Lady, from land to land there runs
The sob of broken hearts,
While the brave life-blood of thy sons
Is priced in yonder marts!’
On those false Chiefs and vain
Who drew by night across my door
The crimson cross of Cain!’
‘Lady, from land to land there runs
The sob of broken hearts,
While the brave life-blood of thy sons
Is priced in yonder marts!’
The royal Widow rose her height.
‘My path is dark,’ she said,
‘I prayed the Lord to lend me Light,
He sends me Death instead!’
‘Lady, when men forsake their Lord
His Light is ne'er their guide;
Only the hand that draws the sword
Can cast the sword aside.’
‘My path is dark,’ she said,
‘I prayed the Lord to lend me Light,
He sends me Death instead!’
‘Lady, when men forsake their Lord
His Light is ne'er their guide;
Only the hand that draws the sword
Can cast the sword aside.’
THE BURIAL OF PARNELL.
(Spoken in the Person of one of his Followers.)
‘We come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.’
I
We come to bury Cæsar, notTo praise him!—yet our eyes
Grow dim above the holy spot
Where our dead Monarch lies.
The hungry millions, weeping too,
Mourn their lost Lord and Friend,
While here we stand, the faithful few
Who loved him till the end!
II
Cæsar lies dead!—yea, Cæsar! ThoHis brows were never crown'd,
He reigned, until the assassin's blow
First struck him to the ground;
He walk'd imperial in command,
While angry factions raved—
Sad Cæsar of the woeful Land
Which he redeemed and saved!
419
III
Cæsar is dead!—no golden throneOr purple robes sought he,
But led, in darkness and alone,
Legions that would be free;
His armies were the famish'd throng
That rose and march'd by night,
A living Host that swept along
To some great Land of Light!
IV
The dim Light grows, the Dawn is nigh,But he who led us on,
Who held the fiery Cross on high
Thro' the long night, is gone!
Full at his heart the cowards smote
With many a trait'rous thrust,
While Falsehood fasten'd on his throat
And dragg'd him to the dust! . . .
V
Ev'n as a Lion fixing eyesOn something far away,
He stood alone 'neath sunless skies
On his great triumph-day;
Then, while he march'd, the battle-place
His jackals gather'd in . . .
And now? The things which fear'd his face
Fight for the Lion's skin!
VI
What one of these shall put it on?Thou, weakest of the weak,
Who, when thy Lord lay woe-begone,
First kiss'd, then smote, his cheek?
Or thou, who mock'd him in his fall
With foul and impious jest?
Or thou, the basest of them all,
Who gnaw'd the bleeding breast?
VII
Jackals and cowards, mourn elsewhere!Not near the mighty Dead!
Your breath pollutes the holy air
Around a Martyr's bed.
Go! fatten with the Scribes and Pricsts
Who led your foul array,
Or crouch, with all the timorous beasts
Who follow'd him for prey!
VIII
Who slew this man? The cruel FoeThat stabb'd our Erin first;
Then Brutus, loth to strike the blow;
Then Casca, the accurst;
Then freedmen by his hands unbound,
And slaves his hands had fed,
Joining the throng that ring'd him round,
Stoned him till he was dead!
IX
Lo, where the English Brutus stands,With white and reverend hair,
Bloodstains upon the wrinkled hands
He calmly folds in prayer;
Facing all ways beneath the sky,
Strong still, tho' worn and wan,
This Brutus is (so all men cry)
‘An honourable man’!
X
Casca and Cassius haggard-eyed,Their gaze on Brutus' face,
Say, ‘Surely Cæsar had not died
If thou had given him grace!’
O thrice-bound Freeman, in whose name
They proved this dead Man base,
Still keep from unbelief and shame
Thy Marriage Market-place!
XI
There, where the White Slave, Woman, stands,Wearing her gyves of gold,
Soothe with the ointment of the creeds
The body ere 'tis sold;
Preach the high Law of Purity,
Find out all stains and slurs,
And keep the great Slave-market free
To righteous purchasers!
XII
But, Brutus, thou who conjurestIn Freedom's sacred name,
Back from this grave, mar not this rest,
Breathe not this Martyr's name!
Priests on thy left hand and thy right
Stand up and prate of God,
While he thou didst betray and smite
Lies dead beneath the sod!
420
XIII
Still, where thou standest, bending o'erThy head, and blessing thee,
Broods the pale Babylonian Whore
They name ‘Morality:’
Making a noble spirit blind
With her polluting breath,
She found the means Hate could not find,
And plann'd the deed of Death!
XIV
Who slew this man? Thou, Christian Land,Who sendest o'er the foam
Mammon and Murther hand in hand
To shame the Christ at home!
The Christ? His painted I mage, nurst
By knaves who cast on men
The curse of Priestcraft—last and worst,
The Priestcraft of the Pen!
XV
Not till our King lay bleeding there,Crept forth with cruel eyne
The venomed things which make their lair
Beneath the Seven-Hill'd Shrine:
Then, in the name of him they priced,
Degraded, and betrayed,
They poisoned, these false priests of Christ,
The wounds a Judas made!
XVI
We come to bury, not to praiseOur Cæsar—yet his knell
Joins with the cry of wrath we raise
Gainst those through whom he fell!
While Freemen pass from hand to hand
The Fiery Cross he waved,
His fame shall lighten thro' the Land
Which he redeemed and saved!
THE GOOD PROFESSOR'S CREED.
(INSCRIBED TO PROFESSOR HUXLEY.)
My creed, without circumlocution,
I thus deliver clear and pat:
I do believe in Evolution,
In Protoplasm, and all that!
I do believe in all the 'ologies,
(Except The-ology, of course!)
But common, cocksure, useful knowledge is
The compass which directs my course.
I thus deliver clear and pat:
I do believe in Evolution,
In Protoplasm, and all that!
I do believe in all the 'ologies,
(Except The-ology, of course!)
But common, cocksure, useful knowledge is
The compass which directs my course.
I don't believe in God or Gammon,
In powers above or priests below,
But I've some slight respect for Mammon
As representing status quo;
I hate all efforts revolutionary,
All systems that subvert the State,
For Law is slow and evolutionary,
And those low down have got to—wait.
In powers above or priests below,
But I've some slight respect for Mammon
As representing status quo;
I hate all efforts revolutionary,
All systems that subvert the State,
For Law is slow and evolutionary,
And those low down have got to—wait.
Unless (that fact I should have stated!)—
Unless they're led by Lights like me;
For Evolution, though 'tis fated,
By gentle Force may further'd be;
In fact, I hold like my existence,
Since nothing in the world is free,
That Force to which there's no resistance
Is always justified, per se!
Unless they're led by Lights like me;
For Evolution, though 'tis fated,
By gentle Force may further'd be;
In fact, I hold like my existence,
Since nothing in the world is free,
That Force to which there's no resistance
Is always justified, per se!
I turn from all insipid dishes
Cook'd by the fools of Laissez faire,
And much prefer the loaves and fishes,
So long as I can get my share;
I think the Land is not the Nation's,
But those who grab'd it in the past;
Statutes, therefore, of limitations,
Should make all thieves secure, at last!
Cook'd by the fools of Laissez faire,
And much prefer the loaves and fishes,
So long as I can get my share;
I think the Land is not the Nation's,
But those who grab'd it in the past;
Statutes, therefore, of limitations,
Should make all thieves secure, at last!
I don't believe men free and equal
(I think so? Feel my bumps, and tell!)
Of all such fads the sorry sequel
Is anarchy and social Hell;
I do believe in ‘facts’ prodigiously,
Class, label, place them on the shelf,
I do believe (almost religiously!)
In that most precious Fact, Myself!
(I think so? Feel my bumps, and tell!)
Of all such fads the sorry sequel
Is anarchy and social Hell;
I do believe in ‘facts’ prodigiously,
Class, label, place them on the shelf,
I do believe (almost religiously!)
In that most precious Fact, Myself!
I'm many-sided, many-coloured,
Socialist, Individualist;
I do believe that man a dullard
Who seeks philanthropies of mist:
I hold that General Booth's tyrannical,
And all his scheme of social aid
Is just Religion turn'd mechanical—
A Barrel-organ badly played!
Socialist, Individualist;
I do believe that man a dullard
Who seeks philanthropies of mist:
I hold that General Booth's tyrannical,
And all his scheme of social aid
Is just Religion turn'd mechanical—
A Barrel-organ badly played!
I think that Liberty's a swindle!
We look upon it with a smile—
I and my dear Professor Tyndall,
The Peter Parleys of Carlyle!
He knew the ‘nigger’ was a ‘servant’
By law of God, or (what's the same)
By laws proclaimed by prophets fervent
Of Nature's Tory end and aim!
We look upon it with a smile—
I and my dear Professor Tyndall,
The Peter Parleys of Carlyle!
He knew the ‘nigger’ was a ‘servant’
By law of God, or (what's the same)
By laws proclaimed by prophets fervent
Of Nature's Tory end and aim!
421
I turn from every sect and schism,
God and all gods I leave behind,
I sneer at even Positivism,
Because it deifies Mankind:
Such creeds are either false or flighty,
Since men are flesh and flesh is grass . . .
And yet . . . one knowing God Almighty
Regards me—from the looking-glass!
God and all gods I leave behind,
I sneer at even Positivism,
Because it deifies Mankind:
Such creeds are either false or flighty,
Since men are flesh and flesh is grass . . .
And yet . . . one knowing God Almighty
Regards me—from the looking-glass!
I do believe that Superstition,
And what they call ‘the larger Hope,’
Have fled before the new condition
Of self-reliance and of soap:
Free from the falsehoods of Divinity,
Breaking the bonds by preachers spun,
I leave the old creed of the Trinity
For the new creed of Number One!
And what they call ‘the larger Hope,’
Have fled before the new condition
Of self-reliance and of soap:
Free from the falsehoods of Divinity,
Breaking the bonds by preachers spun,
I leave the old creed of the Trinity
For the new creed of Number One!
Moral and physical diseases
May be effaced in course of time,
But, left to do whate'er he pleases,
Man leaps from folly into crime:
We've got to wash and comb and teach him,
Learn him the laws of self-control,
Wean him from doctrinaires who teach him
Rubbish about that gas, his soul!
May be effaced in course of time,
But, left to do whate'er he pleases,
Man leaps from folly into crime:
We've got to wash and comb and teach him,
Learn him the laws of self-control,
Wean him from doctrinaires who teach him
Rubbish about that gas, his soul!
Be clean, be calm, be thrifty! These are
My chief injunctions to the Poor,
Give Cæsar what belongs to Cæsar,
Don't even begrudge a little more!
Be very careful in your reading,
Avoid imaginative stuff;
Study the rules of cattle-breeding,
And when you pair, cry ‘quantum suff.’
My chief injunctions to the Poor,
Give Cæsar what belongs to Cæsar,
Don't even begrudge a little more!
Be very careful in your reading,
Avoid imaginative stuff;
Study the rules of cattle-breeding,
And when you pair, cry ‘quantum suff.’
To advance the human race I'm willing,
So long as it is shrewdly done,
But never will I give one shilling
To any ‘fad’ beneath the sun;
While the worst fad of all is ‘Piety,’
With all its cant of Heaven o'erhead,
Philanthropy's a bad variety
Of that same fad, when all is said!
So long as it is shrewdly done,
But never will I give one shilling
To any ‘fad’ beneath the sun;
While the worst fad of all is ‘Piety,’
With all its cant of Heaven o'erhead,
Philanthropy's a bad variety
Of that same fad, when all is said!
And so I sit with calm pulsations,
Watching the troubled human fry,
Examining their agitations
With careful microscopic eye!
I, Thomas, Omnium Scrutator,
Finding most creatures mean or base,
Despite your Hominum Salvator!
Man's duty is—to keep his place!
Watching the troubled human fry,
Examining their agitations
With careful microscopic eye!
I, Thomas, Omnium Scrutator,
Finding most creatures mean or base,
Despite your Hominum Salvator!
Man's duty is—to keep his place!
A DEDICATION.
I. To An Old Enemy.
I would have snatch'd a bay leaf from thy brow,
Wronging the chaplet on an honoured head;
In peace and tenderness I bring thee now
A lily-flower instead.
Wronging the chaplet on an honoured head;
In peace and tenderness I bring thee now
A lily-flower instead.
Pure as thy purpose, blameless as thy song,
Sweet as thy spirit may this offering be!
Forget the bitter blame that did thee wrong,
And take the gift from me!
Sweet as thy spirit may this offering be!
Forget the bitter blame that did thee wrong,
And take the gift from me!
October 1881.
II. To Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Calmly, thy royal robe of Death around thee,
Thou sleepest, and weeping Brethren round thee stand;
Gently they placed, ere yet God's angel crown'd thee,
My lily in thy hand!
Thou sleepest, and weeping Brethren round thee stand;
Gently they placed, ere yet God's angel crown'd thee,
My lily in thy hand!
I never knew thee living, O my brother!
But on thy breast my lily of love now lies;
And by that token we shall know each other,
When God's voice saith ‘Arise!’
But on thy breast my lily of love now lies;
And by that token we shall know each other,
When God's voice saith ‘Arise!’
August 1882.
COLONEL SHARK.
I was raised in the land where the sun don't set,
And the men ain't crook-neck squashes;
I can see as fur as most I've met,
And know what almighty bosh is.
I guess I rile when I see a snake,
And I jedge a dog by his bark,
I'm putty consid'rable wide-awake;
So I do admire at my own mistake
In the matter of Cunnle Shark.
And the men ain't crook-neck squashes;
I can see as fur as most I've met,
And know what almighty bosh is.
I guess I rile when I see a snake,
And I jedge a dog by his bark,
I'm putty consid'rable wide-awake;
So I do admire at my own mistake
In the matter of Cunnle Shark.
The Cunnle he was the pride of the place,
And his ways were most amazin';
The hair was singed from his cheeks and face
With etarnal powder blazin’;
His skin was covered with red tattoo
Like a tree with a streaked-up bark;
He'd been ripp'd and riddled till all was blue,—
You'd star' a spell if you heard a few
Of the ways of Cunnle Shark.
And his ways were most amazin';
The hair was singed from his cheeks and face
With etarnal powder blazin’;
422
Like a tree with a streaked-up bark;
He'd been ripp'd and riddled till all was blue,—
You'd star' a spell if you heard a few
Of the ways of Cunnle Shark.
One eye was glass, and the other real,
His cheeks were scarred and bony,
A bullet had blown away his heel,
So he limped on an iron pony;
For hands he'd only a thumb on his right,
And nothin' else to remark;
With his left, I guess, he used to fight,
And to see his style was a pleasant sight,
For a cur'ous man was Shark.
His cheeks were scarred and bony,
A bullet had blown away his heel,
So he limped on an iron pony;
For hands he'd only a thumb on his right,
And nothin' else to remark;
With his left, I guess, he used to fight,
And to see his style was a pleasant sight,
For a cur'ous man was Shark.
The Cunnle he had a hickory stick,
All notches you couldn't number,
For he took his knife and he made a nick
When he sent a man to slumber;
He notched it neat as an almanack,
Or a ledger kept by a clerk;
'Twas ‘Blood and thunder! stick slick! crick! crack!’
And he wiped his tools, and he turned his back
To nick the slain, did Shark.
All notches you couldn't number,
For he took his knife and he made a nick
When he sent a man to slumber;
He notched it neat as an almanack,
Or a ledger kept by a clerk;
'Twas ‘Blood and thunder! stick slick! crick! crack!’
And he wiped his tools, and he turned his back
To nick the slain, did Shark.
His style in the street was a sight to see,
And the way'd be cleared politely,
And he'd chaw and swagger and spit so free,
With his glass eye glaring brightly.
At the bar he'd stand and the paper read,
As ready to bite as bark,
And the folk would whisper, they would indeed,
‘Ah, there's a man who's no pumkin seed!’
The pride o' the place was Shark.
And the way'd be cleared politely,
And he'd chaw and swagger and spit so free,
With his glass eye glaring brightly.
At the bar he'd stand and the paper read,
As ready to bite as bark,
And the folk would whisper, they would indeed,
‘Ah, there's a man who's no pumkin seed!’
The pride o' the place was Shark.
What hed he done? Why, he'd fought and bled,
And was ready late and early;
He shot his own brother as dead as lead,
On a p'int of honour, fairly.
He'd never flinch and he paid his way,
And he never drew in the dark;
He'd been known to sarse six men in a day,—
And sure as ever there rose a fray,
Why, in went Cunnle Shark.
And was ready late and early;
He shot his own brother as dead as lead,
On a p'int of honour, fairly.
He'd never flinch and he paid his way,
And he never drew in the dark;
He'd been known to sarse six men in a day,—
And sure as ever there rose a fray,
Why, in went Cunnle Shark.
Though the bullets were thick as hail somehow
He'd keep as fresh as a tulip,
Then out he'd come and wipe his brow,
And call for a sherry-julep.
His life by a sort of charm was kept,
And the smartest missed their mark;
So when on the shady side he stept,
To the other side creation crept,
At the sight o' Cunnle Shark.
He'd keep as fresh as a tulip,
Then out he'd come and wipe his brow,
And call for a sherry-julep.
His life by a sort of charm was kept,
And the smartest missed their mark;
So when on the shady side he stept,
To the other side creation crept,
At the sight o' Cunnle Shark.
The Cunnle drank with his friends down here,
And let 'em pay for the liquor;
But his way with strangers was rayther queer,
Sharper, I guess, and quicker.
When a stranger entered he'd rile a few,
And his brow would wrinkle dark:
‘Stranger,’ he'd say, ‘I'll liquor with you!’
And if the poor cuss said, ‘I'm dern'd if you do,’
Why, in went Cunnle Shark.
And let 'em pay for the liquor;
But his way with strangers was rayther queer,
Sharper, I guess, and quicker.
When a stranger entered he'd rile a few,
And his brow would wrinkle dark:
‘Stranger,’ he'd say, ‘I'll liquor with you!’
And if the poor cuss said, ‘I'm dern'd if you do,’
Why, in went Cunnle Shark.
There was a man!—Jest the sort o' grit
You don't raise out of Ameriky,
Honest and ready, lickety-split,
For white man, nigger, or Cherokee;
And useful in bringin' of Cain to book
When thieves were beginnin' to lark;
And the Sheriff of Grizzly, R. S. Rooke,
Was the only party that dared to look
In the eye of Cunnle Shark.
You don't raise out of Ameriky,
Honest and ready, lickety-split,
For white man, nigger, or Cherokee;
And useful in bringin' of Cain to book
When thieves were beginnin' to lark;
And the Sheriff of Grizzly, R. S. Rooke,
Was the only party that dared to look
In the eye of Cunnle Shark.
Whenever the Sheriff had work on hand,
And a dern'd deep case to tunnel,
He'd load his persuaders and dress up grand,
And send up town for the Cunnle;
Then off they'd slip, and the thieves pursue,
And hunt 'em light and dark,
And livin' or dead they'd nail the crew;
And drunk for a week they'd be, them two,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.
And a dern'd deep case to tunnel,
He'd load his persuaders and dress up grand,
And send up town for the Cunnle;
Then off they'd slip, and the thieves pursue,
And hunt 'em light and dark,
And livin' or dead they'd nail the crew;
And drunk for a week they'd be, them two,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.
Now when two men are particklar great,
Of the same proud flesh and feather,
The same free airth, by a kind o' fate,
Won't hold them both together.
And it came about that these two fine cocks,
All flitter, flutter, and squark,
Began to fret in the same old box;
And each grew sarsier in his socks,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.
Of the same proud flesh and feather,
The same free airth, by a kind o' fate,
Won't hold them both together.
And it came about that these two fine cocks,
All flitter, flutter, and squark,
423
And each grew sarsier in his socks,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.
Friends they had been, and wal content!
But the best o' weather grows windy,
And they saw the chaps wherever they went
Lookt out by rights for the shindy;
To funk because they were bosom friends,
Would be to miss the mark,
And so, for to serve the public ends,
To Cheriss's Store each party wends,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.
But the best o' weather grows windy,
And they saw the chaps wherever they went
Lookt out by rights for the shindy;
To funk because they were bosom friends,
Would be to miss the mark,
And so, for to serve the public ends,
To Cheriss's Store each party wends,
The Sheriff and Cunnle Shark.
Wal, how it riz, and which side began,
I know no more 'n a nigger,
But the Cunnle he clean ript up his man
Before he could touch a trigger;
And R. S. Rooke, for a partin' spell,
Made this yer dyin' remark,
‘Cunnle, yur hand!’ (then he flopped and fell):
‘Of all the game critters that's out o' hell.
The gamest is Cunnle Shark!’
I know no more 'n a nigger,
But the Cunnle he clean ript up his man
Before he could touch a trigger;
And R. S. Rooke, for a partin' spell,
Made this yer dyin' remark,
‘Cunnle, yur hand!’ (then he flopped and fell):
‘Of all the game critters that's out o' hell.
The gamest is Cunnle Shark!’
So Cunnle Shark was left alone
For our particklar glory,
And he stalk'd about, and the place was his own,
And was praised in song and story:
And when the Sheriff had run his race,
And been snuff'd like any spark,
It soon was settled in all the place
That the Sheriff's post, as an act of grace,
Should go to Cunnle Shark.
For our particklar glory,
And he stalk'd about, and the place was his own,
And was praised in song and story:
And when the Sheriff had run his race,
And been snuff'd like any spark,
It soon was settled in all the place
That the Sheriff's post, as an act of grace,
Should go to Cunnle Shark.
So we wash'd our faces and fixed our clothes,
And got up a deputation,
And down to the end of the town we goes
For the Sheriff's consecration;
And cockin' under his Kansas hat
His old glass eye to mark,
With his legs in the air, as lean as a rat,
Squirting the juice around him, sat
The pride o' the people, Shark.
And got up a deputation,
And down to the end of the town we goes
For the Sheriff's consecration;
And cockin' under his Kansas hat
His old glass eye to mark,
With his legs in the air, as lean as a rat,
Squirting the juice around him, sat
The pride o' the people, Shark.
‘Cunnle!’ says I; and ‘Sir!’ he says,
And ‘Cunnle!’ again I utter'd,
‘You are the pride of the human race,
And your bread ain't yet half butter'd!
Hon'rable, chipper, bold, and free,
A man for the world to mark—
Grit of the earth and salt of the sea;’
And there I stopt, and the Cunnle he
Says, ‘My name is Cunnle Shark!’
And ‘Cunnle!’ again I utter'd,
‘You are the pride of the human race,
And your bread ain't yet half butter'd!
Hon'rable, chipper, bold, and free,
A man for the world to mark—
Grit of the earth and salt of the sea;’
And there I stopt, and the Cunnle he
Says, ‘My name is Cunnle Shark!’
‘Ongcore!’ cries one, and the Cunnle set
His eye in the chap's direction.
‘I was born in the sunny South, I bet!
And to sarse I've some objection;
My words is few, and my deeds is known—
I never kept 'em dark.
You want me to be your Sheriff? Done!’
And he rose and stretch'd his limbs in the sun;
‘Let's liquor!’ says Cunnle Shark.
His eye in the chap's direction.
‘I was born in the sunny South, I bet!
And to sarse I've some objection;
My words is few, and my deeds is known—
I never kept 'em dark.
You want me to be your Sheriff? Done!’
And he rose and stretch'd his limbs in the sun;
‘Let's liquor!’ says Cunnle Shark.
That very moment we hear a cry,
And in rush'd Abner Yoker
(Though Abner's small, he's fierce and spry,
And as hard as any poker).
His cheeks were hollow and all aghast,
And he spoke with a gulp and a jark;
‘Stop! stop!’ he shrieks, all fierce and fast:
‘I've found who stole my hosses at last—
Thet cuss of the airth, E. Shark!’
And in rush'd Abner Yoker
(Though Abner's small, he's fierce and spry,
And as hard as any poker).
His cheeks were hollow and all aghast,
And he spoke with a gulp and a jark;
‘Stop! stop!’ he shrieks, all fierce and fast:
‘I've found who stole my hosses at last—
Thet cuss of the airth, E. Shark!’
We stared and shiver'd, and gasped for breath,
And each was a panting funnel,
For we thought that Abner was in for death,
To talk so fierce to the Cunnle;
But the Cunnle he was pale a few,
And he seem'd all staring stark
‘He stole my hosses, and sold 'em too!’
Pale and shivering through and through,
‘It's a Lie!’ gasped Cunnle Shark.
And each was a panting funnel,
For we thought that Abner was in for death,
To talk so fierce to the Cunnle;
But the Cunnle he was pale a few,
And he seem'd all staring stark
‘He stole my hosses, and sold 'em too!’
Pale and shivering through and through,
‘It's a Lie!’ gasped Cunnle Shark.
He skew'd one eye, and he twitched his mouth,
And the glass eye glared and glisten'd;
‘O yes! I was riz in the sunny South,
And Ephraim Shark I was christen'd!’
‘What's this? The Cunnle a thief!’ we cried—
‘Thet man—of honour the spark!
Couldn't be true! What—creation's pride!’
‘Wal, here's my witnesses at my side,’
Cried Abner; ‘I charges Shark!’
And the glass eye glared and glisten'd;
‘O yes! I was riz in the sunny South,
And Ephraim Shark I was christen'd!’
‘What's this? The Cunnle a thief!’ we cried—
‘Thet man—of honour the spark!
Couldn't be true! What—creation's pride!’
‘Wal, here's my witnesses at my side,’
Cried Abner; ‘I charges Shark!’
424
Then before the Cunnle could draw or speak,
The little one sprang and tript him;
While we admired at his thunderin' cheek,
Slick hand and foot he clipt him:
And he drew his teeth (one big bowie,
And pistols) with no remark—
Then tied him fast with a grin o' glee!
‘I call for a Court to sit,’ says he,
‘In the case of Cunnle Shark!’
The little one sprang and tript him;
While we admired at his thunderin' cheek,
Slick hand and foot he clipt him:
And he drew his teeth (one big bowie,
And pistols) with no remark—
Then tied him fast with a grin o' glee!
‘I call for a Court to sit,’ says he,
‘In the case of Cunnle Shark!’
It's orful how guilt unnerves a cuss—
The Cunnle was clean dumfounded;
And now no longer he'd charms for us,
Though his dern'd old teeth he grounded,
But I confess I was full o' grief
To see a man o' mark,
Respected, happy, of all the chief,
Turn out that scum of the airth, a thief,
And I wept for Cunnle Shark.
The Cunnle was clean dumfounded;
And now no longer he'd charms for us,
Though his dern'd old teeth he grounded,
But I confess I was full o' grief
To see a man o' mark,
Respected, happy, of all the chief,
Turn out that scum of the airth, a thief,
And I wept for Cunnle Shark.
For a moral place was Grizzly Creek,
No spot to pilfer and pick in.
If a thief was caught, 'twas slickity squeak,
And up he was sent a-kickin’.
The preciousest thing in the Creek was a Hoss,
As dear as the dove to the Ark!
But a man or two was no grit loss,
And life, you guess, was a pitch and a toss
To more than Cunnle Shark.
No spot to pilfer and pick in.
If a thief was caught, 'twas slickity squeak,
And up he was sent a-kickin’.
The preciousest thing in the Creek was a Hoss,
As dear as the dove to the Ark!
But a man or two was no grit loss,
And life, you guess, was a pitch and a toss
To more than Cunnle Shark.
We form'd a court on the spot jest there,
With his geese around us sissin’,
Jedge and jury, and all things square,
And a Testament for kissin’.
The bob'link cried from the laylock spray
And answer'd the meadow-lark;
The corn was yellow upon thet day,
And the mornin' glories lookt bright and gay
Round the hut o' Cunnle Shark.
With his geese around us sissin’,
Jedge and jury, and all things square,
And a Testament for kissin’.
The bob'link cried from the laylock spray
And answer'd the meadow-lark;
The corn was yellow upon thet day,
And the mornin' glories lookt bright and gay
Round the hut o' Cunnle Shark.
Natur' is natur'! When Shark was bound,
And beyond more ruination,
No end o' witnesses were found
Who'd been part of the deputation!
And they said they'd allays long'd to speak
Of his doin's in the dark,
Only—they'd never found the cheek
T' accuse such a pop'lar man in the Creek
As the fightin' Cunnle Shark.
And beyond more ruination,
No end o' witnesses were found
Who'd been part of the deputation!
And they said they'd allays long'd to speak
Of his doin's in the dark,
Only—they'd never found the cheek
T' accuse such a pop'lar man in the Creek
As the fightin' Cunnle Shark.
‘Guilty!’—Guilty, and no mistake,
For the proofs were black as thunder.
I saw the Cunnle tremble and shake,
And his knees a-knocking under.
With a voice that shook, for the Cunnle he
Had been sech a man o' mark,
I spoke his sentence, and it should be
‘To be swung by the neck to the nearest tree!’
‘Euchred!’ shrieked Cunnle Shark.
For the proofs were black as thunder.
I saw the Cunnle tremble and shake,
And his knees a-knocking under.
With a voice that shook, for the Cunnle he
Had been sech a man o' mark,
I spoke his sentence, and it should be
‘To be swung by the neck to the nearest tree!’
‘Euchred!’ shrieked Cunnle Shark.
‘Pris'ner,’ says I, ‘it unnerves a man
To hev this ugly duty,
And to think how promisin' you began—
A character full of beauty.
In the ways of virtue you shot ahead,
War' honour'd both light and dark;
And you've come to this! To be jedged,’ I said,
‘To be hung by the neck till you air dead.’
‘O Lord!’ cried Cunnle Shark.
To hev this ugly duty,
And to think how promisin' you began—
A character full of beauty.
In the ways of virtue you shot ahead,
War' honour'd both light and dark;
And you've come to this! To be jedged,’ I said,
‘To be hung by the neck till you air dead.’
‘O Lord!’ cried Cunnle Shark.
Yes, he stared at fust like a skeery child,
And all his game departed.
I could have kick'd him—I felt so riled
To find him chicken-hearted.
But, you see, to be stript of his hard-eern'd fame
And life at one big jark,
To find his glory all brought to shame,
And to go from life with so bad a name,
Was dern'd hard lines on Shark.
And all his game departed.
I could have kick'd him—I felt so riled
To find him chicken-hearted.
But, you see, to be stript of his hard-eern'd fame
And life at one big jark,
To find his glory all brought to shame,
And to go from life with so bad a name,
Was dern'd hard lines on Shark.
But when he saw his last kerd was play'd,
The Cunnle show'd his mettle.
‘Wal, boys,’ says he, ‘it's a mess I've made,
And this durn'd old neck must settle.
Let this yer teach ye to mind the law,
And play no tricks in the dark.
Abner Yoker, jest shake my paw!
Neow, feel in my pants, and give me a chaw!’
Was the last words spoke by Shark.
The Cunnle show'd his mettle.
‘Wal, boys,’ says he, ‘it's a mess I've made,
And this durn'd old neck must settle.
Let this yer teach ye to mind the law,
And play no tricks in the dark.
Abner Yoker, jest shake my paw!
Neow, feel in my pants, and give me a chaw!’
Was the last words spoke by Shark.
He could see the men in the corn-patch nigh,
And could hear the lark a-singin’,
As we carried him to the wood jest by,
Where the hang-birds cried a-swingin’;
For Abner Yoker he found a cord
On the hitchin'-post in the park:
We gave him one minute to pray to the Lord,
And with glass eye glaring and cheeks scarscored,
Swish! up ran Cunnle Shark!
And could hear the lark a-singin’,
As we carried him to the wood jest by,
Where the hang-birds cried a-swingin’;
425
On the hitchin'-post in the park:
We gave him one minute to pray to the Lord,
And with glass eye glaring and cheeks scarscored,
Swish! up ran Cunnle Shark!
I was raised in the land where the sun don't set,
And the men ain't crook-neck squashes!
I can see as fur as most I've met,
And know what almighty bosh is;
But I never have seen a career to break
So bright, and to end so dark;
I'm putty consid'rable wide-awake,
So I do admire at my own mistake
In the matter of Cunnle Shark.
And the men ain't crook-neck squashes!
I can see as fur as most I've met,
And know what almighty bosh is;
But I never have seen a career to break
So bright, and to end so dark;
I'm putty consid'rable wide-awake,
So I do admire at my own mistake
In the matter of Cunnle Shark.
THE FISHER BOY: A SONG IN TIME OF WAR.
[_]
[On Saturday, October 28, 1890, the fishing-boat ‘Truelight,’ of Gordon, Kincardineshire, manned by a fisherman named Taylor and his four sons, foundered and sank. The old man saw three of his sons swept away, but managed to get hold of an oar; and by and by his second son, Alexander, appeared swimming by his side. Seeing that the oar would be unlikely to support more than one, the lad calmly said to his father, ‘Weel, father, it's time I was awa',’ and sank beneath the waves.]
Perchance 'tis well that lips should tell
The fallen Warrior's praise:
Life against life he staked, and fell,—
He loses, and he pays;
We hail him brave, and to his grave
We bring the meed of Fame,
But 'neath the sun some deeds are done
That put his pride to shame!
The fallen Warrior's praise:
Life against life he staked, and fell,—
He loses, and he pays;
We hail him brave, and to his grave
We bring the meed of Fame,
But 'neath the sun some deeds are done
That put his pride to shame!
Turn from the scene where dark and dread
The Storms of Battle grow,
Follow the Christ whose feet still tread
The Sea, as long ago;—
He leaves afar the strife of War
And o'er the waves walks He,—
Yea, through the night He bears a Light
For loving eyes to see!
The Storms of Battle grow,
Follow the Christ whose feet still tread
The Sea, as long ago;—
He leaves afar the strife of War
And o'er the waves walks He,—
Yea, through the night He bears a Light
For loving eyes to see!
There's Storm, too, here!—with shrieks of strife
The angry Ocean runs:
In their frail boat strive hard for life
A father and four sons;
An old Scots Fisher of the Deep,
Four lads, his flesh and blood,—
Around them fierce and angry leap
The waves of that fierce flood!
The angry Ocean runs:
In their frail boat strive hard for life
A father and four sons;
An old Scots Fisher of the Deep,
Four lads, his flesh and blood,—
Around them fierce and angry leap
The waves of that fierce flood!
A blast,—a crash,—the little boat
Hath sunk,—but look once more!
The old man on the flood doth float,
Clinging to one frail oar;
Three of his sons have sunk and died,
Their death-cry fills his ears,—
When, struggling by his father's side,
The fourth, and last, appears!
Hath sunk,—but look once more!
The old man on the flood doth float,
Clinging to one frail oar;
Three of his sons have sunk and died,
Their death-cry fills his ears,—
When, struggling by his father's side,
The fourth, and last, appears!
God help them! to their piteous cries
Deaf is the angry Deep,
Still darker grow the stormy skies,
Higher the white waves leap!—
The wild winds roar,—too frail the oar
That weight of two to bear,—
Then crieth one, the Fisher's son,
'Mid the black storm out there,—
Deaf is the angry Deep,
Still darker grow the stormy skies,
Higher the white waves leap!—
The wild winds roar,—too frail the oar
That weight of two to bear,—
Then crieth one, the Fisher's son,
'Mid the black storm out there,—
‘The oar's too weak to carry twa,—
And one must surely dee,—
Faither, 'tis time I was awa',
For God can best spare me!’
His hands just touch but do not clutch
The floating oar,—and then
‘Farewell!’ he saith, and down to Death
Sinks, ne'er to rise again!
And one must surely dee,—
Faither, 'tis time I was awa',
For God can best spare me!’
His hands just touch but do not clutch
The floating oar,—and then
‘Farewell!’ he saith, and down to Death
Sinks, ne'er to rise again!
On the wild waves the gray old wight
Now floateth safely on,—
He is saved from Death this woeful night
Though his brave son hath gone! . . .
O surely He who on the sea
Walks yet, looks down in joy
Flashing His light this woeful night
To bless that Fisher Boy!
Now floateth safely on,—
He is saved from Death this woeful night
Though his brave son hath gone! . . .
O surely He who on the sea
Walks yet, looks down in joy
Flashing His light this woeful night
To bless that Fisher Boy!
Doubtless 'tis well that lips should tell
The fallen Warrior's praise.
Life against life he staked, and fell,—
He loses, and he pays!
We hail him brave, and to his grave
We bring the meed of Fame,—
But 'neath the sun some deeds are done
That put his pride to shame!
The fallen Warrior's praise.
Life against life he staked, and fell,—
He loses, and he pays!
We hail him brave, and to his grave
We bring the meed of Fame,—
But 'neath the sun some deeds are done
That put his pride to shame!
426
THE DUMB BAIRN.
My tale is brief yet strange (the Elder said);
Altho' the days of miracles are fled,
Hear it and mark, all ye who smile at prayer!
Altho' the days of miracles are fled,
Hear it and mark, all ye who smile at prayer!
John Sutherland, a minister of Ayr,
Stern and unbending, yet a man of worth,
Had one weak child, who, deaf and dumb from birth,
Had never spoke a word or heard a sound.
The mother, with her wild arms folded round
The breathing babe, and eyes upraised to see
Her husband's face set hard in agony,
Had blest them both, the father and the child,
And sank to slumber, even as she smiled
That last farewell and tryst to meet again
Beyond earth's clouds of cruelty and pain.
Thus was the weary widower left alone
To keep sad watch o'er his afflicted son,
A tiny tender waif of feeble breath,
Wordless and still, a thing of life-in-death.
Stern and unbending, yet a man of worth,
Had one weak child, who, deaf and dumb from birth,
Had never spoke a word or heard a sound.
The mother, with her wild arms folded round
The breathing babe, and eyes upraised to see
Her husband's face set hard in agony,
Had blest them both, the father and the child,
And sank to slumber, even as she smiled
That last farewell and tryst to meet again
Beyond earth's clouds of cruelty and pain.
Thus was the weary widower left alone
To keep sad watch o'er his afflicted son,
A tiny tender waif of feeble breath,
Wordless and still, a thing of life-in-death.
Now God, who to this little child forbad
The pretty speech that makes a parent glad
Who shut the tender doorways of his head,
Closing his soul in silence deep and dread,
Had made him very beautiful and bright,
With golden hair and eyes of heavenly light,
As sweet and bright a bairn in sooth was he
As ever crowed upon a father's knee!
And lo! the father loved him with a love
Passing the love of women and above
All dreams of men more lonely and more blest,
Fondly he reared him, sleeping and at rest,
And ever as he grew more strong and fair
Watching him with a haggard eye of care.
And so, though in that lonely house was heard
No baby prattling and no half-lisp'd word
To show the little spirit was astir,
The child became a silent messenger
Of love and blessing to the afflicted man;
And after, when the little one began
To move upon its feet, and when it knew
The joy of life as happier children do,
The minister thanked God that it was sent
To be his loving comfort and content.
But ever in his hour of happiness
One thought to this good man brought dire distress,
Exceeding pity, and a nameless fear,
'Twas that the little one could never hear
The living voice of prayer,—nor understand
The Book of blessing writ by God's own hand.
How, then, since our salvat on we must reach
Only by what the holy gospels teach
(Nay, smile not, for his faith was absolute!),
Could that afflicted stem bear heavenly fruit?
How, never having even heard Christ's name,
And how to atone for Adam's fall He came,
Could this poor child be saved?
The pretty speech that makes a parent glad
Who shut the tender doorways of his head,
Closing his soul in silence deep and dread,
Had made him very beautiful and bright,
With golden hair and eyes of heavenly light,
As sweet and bright a bairn in sooth was he
As ever crowed upon a father's knee!
And lo! the father loved him with a love
Passing the love of women and above
All dreams of men more lonely and more blest,
Fondly he reared him, sleeping and at rest,
And ever as he grew more strong and fair
Watching him with a haggard eye of care.
And so, though in that lonely house was heard
No baby prattling and no half-lisp'd word
To show the little spirit was astir,
The child became a silent messenger
Of love and blessing to the afflicted man;
And after, when the little one began
To move upon its feet, and when it knew
The joy of life as happier children do,
The minister thanked God that it was sent
To be his loving comfort and content.
But ever in his hour of happiness
One thought to this good man brought dire distress,
Exceeding pity, and a nameless fear,
'Twas that the little one could never hear
The living voice of prayer,—nor understand
The Book of blessing writ by God's own hand.
How, then, since our salvat on we must reach
Only by what the holy gospels teach
(Nay, smile not, for his faith was absolute!),
Could that afflicted stem bear heavenly fruit?
How, never having even heard Christ's name,
And how to atone for Adam's fall He came,
Could this poor child be saved?
In secret fear
He watched the child grow on from year to year,
Till it was four years old; and then at length,
Having in secret prayed with all his strength,
He said, ‘The bairn shall not forsaken be
Through any lack of fitting faith in me,
But daily in his presence I will read
A chapter of the Holy Book, and plead
That God, who works all wonders, may convey
The message to his soul in some strange way
I comprehend not.’
He watched the child grow on from year to year,
Till it was four years old; and then at length,
Having in secret prayed with all his strength,
He said, ‘The bairn shall not forsaken be
Through any lack of fitting faith in me,
But daily in his presence I will read
A chapter of the Holy Book, and plead
That God, who works all wonders, may convey
The message to his soul in some strange way
I comprehend not.’
Ever after that
Each day with book in hand the father sat,
Reading a portion of the Holy Word
To his beloved, who neither spoke nor heard,
But ever with a silent sweet distress,
Shut in his little cloud of silentness,
Seem'd trying prettily to understand;
And sometimes he would stretch his tiny hand
And lay it softly on the leaves, meanwhile
Uplooking with a bright and heavenly smile.
And presently this time to read and pray
Became so loved a duty of the day
Ev'n to the child, that oft the little one,
Eager to see the silent service done,
Would run and lift the great book merrily,
And setting it upon his father's knee,
Look up, and wait, with sweet expectant gaze.
Each day with book in hand the father sat,
Reading a portion of the Holy Word
To his beloved, who neither spoke nor heard,
But ever with a silent sweet distress,
Shut in his little cloud of silentness,
Seem'd trying prettily to understand;
And sometimes he would stretch his tiny hand
And lay it softly on the leaves, meanwhile
Uplooking with a bright and heavenly smile.
And presently this time to read and pray
Became so loved a duty of the day
427
Eager to see the silent service done,
Would run and lift the great book merrily,
And setting it upon his father's knee,
Look up, and wait, with sweet expectant gaze.
And ever after, on the Sabbath days
When in the church the father preached and taught,
Thither the little silent one was brought,
And while the deep hymn rose, or from above
The good man preached of God's great strength and love
(Nay, very often, if the truth be told,
Of God's avenging judgments manifold—
For the man's creed was gloomy enough and sad),
Below him, looking round with glances glad
Out of his cloud of silence, the pale boy
Beheld the service with mysterious joy,
Smiled, while the light on painted windows played,
Watch'd while the black-robed preacher preached and prayed,
Saw the folk rise and fall like waves of the sea,
Standing erect or kneeling on the knee,
And mimick'd dumbly what he saw them do,
Knelt when they knelt, and seemed to hearken too!
Ah, oftentimes the preacher from his place
Looking with blinding tears upon his face,
Seeing his darling listening as it were,
Quickened his cry of agony and despair,
And as he blest his congregation, blest
The little silent form o'er all the rest!
When in the church the father preached and taught,
Thither the little silent one was brought,
And while the deep hymn rose, or from above
The good man preached of God's great strength and love
(Nay, very often, if the truth be told,
Of God's avenging judgments manifold—
For the man's creed was gloomy enough and sad),
Below him, looking round with glances glad
Out of his cloud of silence, the pale boy
Beheld the service with mysterious joy,
Smiled, while the light on painted windows played,
Watch'd while the black-robed preacher preached and prayed,
Saw the folk rise and fall like waves of the sea,
Standing erect or kneeling on the knee,
And mimick'd dumbly what he saw them do,
Knelt when they knelt, and seemed to hearken too!
Ah, oftentimes the preacher from his place
Looking with blinding tears upon his face,
Seeing his darling listening as it were,
Quickened his cry of agony and despair,
And as he blest his congregation, blest
The little silent form o'er all the rest!
Thus over father and child the seasons rollèd
Until the little one was seven years old,
When suddenly, with some obscure disease
That wastes the tender blood by slow degrees,
The boy fell sick, and feebly, without pain,
The rosy light of life began to wane.
Doctors were called; they came with solemn tread
And coldly went. ‘He was not strong,’ they said.
‘Nay, 'twas a miracle that one so frail
Had lived so long and scarcely seemed to ail,
But now the end of all was surely nigh,
And in a little while the child must die.’
Until the little one was seven years old,
When suddenly, with some obscure disease
That wastes the tender blood by slow degrees,
The boy fell sick, and feebly, without pain,
The rosy light of life began to wane.
Doctors were called; they came with solemn tread
And coldly went. ‘He was not strong,’ they said.
‘Nay, 'twas a miracle that one so frail
Had lived so long and scarcely seemed to ail,
But now the end of all was surely nigh,
And in a little while the child must die.’
The father heard, and darkening in despair
Wrestled with God in agonies of prayer,
Then with the strength of loving faith moaned low,
‘My God knows best, maybe 'tis better so,
And in the air of heaven more sweet and clear
My bairn at last shall find a tongue, and hear
A music more divine than ours below!’
Thenceforward, grim as death, his hair like snow,
His body bent, with heavy hanging head,
He sat for hours beside the child and read
Out of the Holy Book! As the days passed
His hope grew stronger and less overcast,
And with a stronger voice of faith he poured
His soul forth, that his boy might know the Lord.
But ever when the seventh day came, alas!
Wearily to the pulpit would he pass,
And as he preached the news of heavenly grace
Look down and miss the upturn'd and smiling face,
The little kneeling form that once knelt there,
The tiny hands clasp'd tight in mimic prayer,
And oft his strong soul shook, his head was bowed,
And in the people's sight he sobbed aloud!
Wrestled with God in agonies of prayer,
Then with the strength of loving faith moaned low,
‘My God knows best, maybe 'tis better so,
And in the air of heaven more sweet and clear
My bairn at last shall find a tongue, and hear
A music more divine than ours below!’
Thenceforward, grim as death, his hair like snow,
His body bent, with heavy hanging head,
He sat for hours beside the child and read
Out of the Holy Book! As the days passed
His hope grew stronger and less overcast,
And with a stronger voice of faith he poured
His soul forth, that his boy might know the Lord.
But ever when the seventh day came, alas!
Wearily to the pulpit would he pass,
And as he preached the news of heavenly grace
Look down and miss the upturn'd and smiling face,
The little kneeling form that once knelt there,
The tiny hands clasp'd tight in mimic prayer,
And oft his strong soul shook, his head was bowed,
And in the people's sight he sobbed aloud!
At last one quiet Sabbath eventide,
When home he hastened to the bairn's bedside,
He found him lying very wan and white,
His face illumed by the red sunset light
That crept across the pane, and on the bed
Like roses bright was luminously shed.
His eyes were closed, and on his face there fell
The shadow of some peace ineffable,
And very softly, thinking that he slept,
The father by the bedside knelt, and wept.
But suddenly the piteous eyes of azure
Were opened with a heavenly look of pleasure,
The little arms up-reach'd, the pale face yearned,
The soft mouth pouting for a kiss upturned,
And while the strong man in his anguish shook,
The sick bairn smiled, and pointing to the Book,
Which lay by open, made a sign he knew
That he should read as he was wont to do.
He took the Book, and on it fixed his eyes,
And choking down the tears that still would rise,
Read in a broken voice that chapter blest
Which tells of ‘Quiet Waters,’ peace and rest,
Where all the weary shall have comforting.
When home he hastened to the bairn's bedside,
He found him lying very wan and white,
His face illumed by the red sunset light
428
Like roses bright was luminously shed.
His eyes were closed, and on his face there fell
The shadow of some peace ineffable,
And very softly, thinking that he slept,
The father by the bedside knelt, and wept.
But suddenly the piteous eyes of azure
Were opened with a heavenly look of pleasure,
The little arms up-reach'd, the pale face yearned,
The soft mouth pouting for a kiss upturned,
And while the strong man in his anguish shook,
The sick bairn smiled, and pointing to the Book,
Which lay by open, made a sign he knew
That he should read as he was wont to do.
He took the Book, and on it fixed his eyes,
And choking down the tears that still would rise,
Read in a broken voice that chapter blest
Which tells of ‘Quiet Waters,’ peace and rest,
Where all the weary shall have comforting.
Now, mark what followed:—I but tell this thing,
As it was told to me, by one who heard
The very man relate it word by word.
Even as he sat and read, and seem'd to hear
Those heavenly waters softly murmuring near,
There came a cry, and startled at the sound
He raised his eyes and saw with glory crowned
The child's seraphic face! and lo! he heard,
With all his being mystically stirred,
The dumb lips speak! Yea, on his ears there fell
A faint last cry of rapture and farewell;
The bairn stretched out his little arms and cried,
‘Yes, papa!—quiet waters!’—smiled, and died! . . .
As it was told to me, by one who heard
The very man relate it word by word.
Even as he sat and read, and seem'd to hear
Those heavenly waters softly murmuring near,
There came a cry, and startled at the sound
He raised his eyes and saw with glory crowned
The child's seraphic face! and lo! he heard,
With all his being mystically stirred,
The dumb lips speak! Yea, on his ears there fell
A faint last cry of rapture and farewell;
The bairn stretched out his little arms and cried,
‘Yes, papa!—quiet waters!’—smiled, and died! . . .
O faith divine of days ere faith was fled!
Light of a creed once quick that now is dead!
Was it reality or but a dream?
Did the voice call indeed, or only seem?
Who knows? and who can tell which most doth prove,—
A miracle of fact or one of Love?
Yet this is sure—could such deep faith have seat
Again in some few hearts of all that beat,
Mammon and Antichrist would cease to reign,
Doubts die, and miracles be wrought again!
Light of a creed once quick that now is dead!
Was it reality or but a dream?
Did the voice call indeed, or only seem?
Who knows? and who can tell which most doth prove,—
A miracle of fact or one of Love?
Yet this is sure—could such deep faith have seat
Again in some few hearts of all that beat,
Mammon and Antichrist would cease to reign,
Doubts die, and miracles be wrought again!
PROEM TO ‘THE SHADOW OF THE SWORD.’
Nineteen sad sleepless centuries
Had shed upon the dead Christ's eyes
Dark blood and dew, and o'er them still
The waxen lids were sealèd chill.
Drearily through the dreary years
The world had waited on in tears,
With heart clay-cold and eyelids wet,
But He had not arisen yet.
Nay, Christ was cold; and, colder still,
The lovely Shapes He came to kill
Slept by His side. Ah, sight of dread!
Dead Christ, and all the sweet gods dead!
He had not risen, tho' all the world
Was waiting; tho', with thin lips curl'd,
Pale Antichrist upon his prison
Gazed yet denying, He had not risen;
Tho' every hope was slain save Him,
Tho' all the eyes of Heaven were dim,
Despite the promise and the pain,
He slept—and had not risen again.
Had shed upon the dead Christ's eyes
Dark blood and dew, and o'er them still
The waxen lids were sealèd chill.
Drearily through the dreary years
The world had waited on in tears,
With heart clay-cold and eyelids wet,
But He had not arisen yet.
Nay, Christ was cold; and, colder still,
The lovely Shapes He came to kill
Slept by His side. Ah, sight of dread!
Dead Christ, and all the sweet gods dead!
He had not risen, tho' all the world
Was waiting; tho', with thin lips curl'd,
Pale Antichrist upon his prison
Gazed yet denying, He had not risen;
Tho' every hope was slain save Him,
Tho' all the eyes of Heaven were dim,
Despite the promise and the pain,
He slept—and had not risen again.
Meantime, from France's funeral pyre,
Rose, god-like, girt around with fire,
Napoleon!
Rose, god-like, girt around with fire,
Napoleon!
—On eyes and lips
Burnt the red hues of Love's eclipse;
Beneath his strong triumphal tread
All days the human winepress bled!
And in the silence of the nights
Pale Prophets stood upon the heights,
And, gazing thro' the blood-red gloom
Far eastward, to the dead Christ's tomb,
Wail'd to the winds. Yet Christ still slept:—
And o'er His white Tomb slowly crept
The fiery Shadow of a Sword!
Not Peace; a Sword.
Burnt the red hues of Love's eclipse;
Beneath his strong triumphal tread
All days the human winepress bled!
And in the silence of the nights
Pale Prophets stood upon the heights,
And, gazing thro' the blood-red gloom
Far eastward, to the dead Christ's tomb,
Wail'd to the winds. Yet Christ still slept:—
And o'er His white Tomb slowly crept
The fiery Shadow of a Sword!
Not Peace; a Sword.
And men adored
Not Christ, nor Antichrist, but Cain;
And where the bright blood ran like rain
He stood, and looking, men went wild:—
For lo! on whomsoe'er he smiled
Came an idolatry accurst,
But chief, Cain's hunger and Cain's thirst
For bloodshed and for tears; and when
He beckon'd, countless swarms of men
Flew thick as locusts to destroy
Hope's happy harvests, sown in joy;
Yea, verily; at each finger-wave
They swarm'd—and shared the crimson grave
Beneath his Throne.
429
And where the bright blood ran like rain
He stood, and looking, men went wild:—
For lo! on whomsoe'er he smiled
Came an idolatry accurst,
But chief, Cain's hunger and Cain's thirst
For bloodshed and for tears; and when
He beckon'd, countless swarms of men
Flew thick as locusts to destroy
Hope's happy harvests, sown in joy;
Yea, verily; at each finger-wave
They swarm'd—and shared the crimson grave
Beneath his Throne.
Then, 'neath the sun
One man of France—and he, indeed,
Lowest and least of all man's seed—
Shrank back, and stirr'd not!—heard Cain's cry,
But flew not!—mark'd across the sky
The Shadow of the Sword, but still
Despair'd not!—Nay, with steadfast will,
He sought Christ's Tomb, and lying low,
With cold limbs cushion'd on the snow,
He waited!—But when Cain's eye found
His hiding-place on holy ground,
And Cain's hand gript him by the hair,
Seeking to drag him forth from there,
He clutch'd the stones with all his strength,
Struggled in silence—and at length,
In the dire horror of his need,
Shrieked out on Christ!
One man of France—and he, indeed,
Lowest and least of all man's seed—
Shrank back, and stirr'd not!—heard Cain's cry,
But flew not!—mark'd across the sky
The Shadow of the Sword, but still
Despair'd not!—Nay, with steadfast will,
He sought Christ's Tomb, and lying low,
With cold limbs cushion'd on the snow,
He waited!—But when Cain's eye found
His hiding-place on holy ground,
And Cain's hand gript him by the hair,
Seeking to drag him forth from there,
He clutch'd the stones with all his strength,
Struggled in silence—and at length,
In the dire horror of his need,
Shrieked out on Christ!
Did Christ rise?
Read!
PROEM TO ‘GOD AND THE MAN.’
‘All men, each one, beneath the sun,
I hate, shall hate, till life is done,
But of all men one, till my race is run,
And all the rest for the sake of one!
I hate, shall hate, till life is done,
But of all men one, till my race is run,
And all the rest for the sake of one!
‘If God stood there, revealed full bare,
I would laugh to scorn His love or care,—
Nay, in despair, I would pray a prayer
Which He needs must grant—if a God He were!
I would laugh to scorn His love or care,—
Nay, in despair, I would pray a prayer
Which He needs must grant—if a God He were!
‘And the prayer would be, “Yield up to me
This man alone of all men that see!
Give him to me, and to misery!
Give me this man, if a God Thou be!”’
This man alone of all men that see!
Give him to me, and to misery!
Give me this man, if a God Thou be!”’
Shape on the headland in the night,
Gaunt, ghastly, kneeling on his knee
He prays; his baffled prayers take flight,
Like screaming sea-birds, thro' the light
That streams across the sleeping sea.
From the black depths of man's despair
Rose ever so accurst a prayer?
His hands clench and his eyeballs roll,
Hate's famine sickens in his soul.
Meantime the windless waves intone
Their peaceful answer to his moan,
The soft clouds one another chase,
The moon-rays flash upon his face,
The mighty deep is calm; but see!
This man is as a storm-swept tree.
Gaunt, ghastly, kneeling on his knee
He prays; his baffled prayers take flight,
Like screaming sea-birds, thro' the light
That streams across the sleeping sea.
From the black depths of man's despair
Rose ever so accurst a prayer?
His hands clench and his eyeballs roll,
Hate's famine sickens in his soul.
Meantime the windless waves intone
Their peaceful answer to his moan,
The soft clouds one another chase,
The moon-rays flash upon his face,
The mighty deep is calm; but see!
This man is as a storm-swept tree.
And, silvern-sandall'd, still as death,
The white moon in her own pure breath
Walks yonder. Doth he see her pass
Over the glimmering water-glass?
Sees he the stars that softly swing
Like lamps around her wandering,
Sown thick as early snowdrops now
In the dark furrows of the Plough?
Hears he the sad, still, rhythmic throb
Of the dark ocean where he stands,—
The great strong voice still'd to a sob,
Near darken'd capes and glimmering sands?
Nay, nay; but, even as a wight
Who on a mirror fixeth sight,
And screams at his own face of dread
Within the dimness picturèd,
He useth God's great sleeping sea
To image hate and agony.
He kneels, he prays,—nay, call it not
A prayer that riseth in his throat;
'Tis but a curse this mortal cries,
Like one who curses God and dies.
The white moon in her own pure breath
Walks yonder. Doth he see her pass
Over the glimmering water-glass?
Sees he the stars that softly swing
Like lamps around her wandering,
Sown thick as early snowdrops now
In the dark furrows of the Plough?
Hears he the sad, still, rhythmic throb
Of the dark ocean where he stands,—
The great strong voice still'd to a sob,
Near darken'd capes and glimmering sands?
Nay, nay; but, even as a wight
Who on a mirror fixeth sight,
And screams at his own face of dread
Within the dimness picturèd,
He useth God's great sleeping sea
To image hate and agony.
He kneels, he prays,—nay, call it not
A prayer that riseth in his throat;
'Tis but a curse this mortal cries,
Like one who curses God and dies.
‘Yield up to me, to hate and me,
One man alone of all men that see!
Give him to me, and to misery!
Give me this man if a God Thou be!
One man alone of all men that see!
Give him to me, and to misery!
Give me this man if a God Thou be!
‘But the cruel heavens all open lie,
No God doth reign o'er the sea or sky;
The earth is dark and the clouds go by
But there is no God, to hear me cry!
No God doth reign o'er the sea or sky;
The earth is dark and the clouds go by
But there is no God, to hear me cry!
430
‘There is no God, none, to abolish one
Of the foul things thought and dreamed and done!
Wherefore I hate, till my race is run,
All living men beneath the sun!’
Of the foul things thought and dreamed and done!
Wherefore I hate, till my race is run,
All living men beneath the sun!’
To-night he rose when all was still,
Left like a thief his darkened door,
And down the dale and o'er the hill
He flew till here upon the shore
Shivering he came; and here he trod
Hour after hour the glooms of God,
Nursing his hate in fierce unrest,
Like an elfin babe upon the breast!
And all his hunger and his thirst
Was vengeance on the man he cursed!
‘O Lord my God, if a God there be,
Give up the man I hate to me!
On his living heart let my vengeance feed,
And I shall know Thou art God indeed!’
Left like a thief his darkened door,
And down the dale and o'er the hill
He flew till here upon the shore
Shivering he came; and here he trod
Hour after hour the glooms of God,
Nursing his hate in fierce unrest,
Like an elfin babe upon the breast!
And all his hunger and his thirst
Was vengeance on the man he cursed!
‘O Lord my God, if a God there be,
Give up the man I hate to me!
On his living heart let my vengeance feed,
And I shall know Thou art God indeed!’
Again rings out that bitter cry
Between the dark seas and the sky—
Then all is hushed, while quivering,
With teeth and claws, prepared to spring,
He crouches beast-like . . . Hark, O hark
What solemn murmur fills the dark?
What shadows come and go up there,
Through the azure voids of the starry air?
Between the dark seas and the sky—
Then all is hushed, while quivering,
With teeth and claws, prepared to spring,
He crouches beast-like . . . Hark, O hark
What solemn murmur fills the dark?
What shadows come and go up there,
Through the azure voids of the starry air?
The night is still; the waters sleep; the skies
Gaze down with bright innumerable eyes:
A voice comes out of heaven and o'er the sea:
‘I am; and I will give this man to thee!’
Gaze down with bright innumerable eyes:
A voice comes out of heaven and o'er the sea:
‘I am; and I will give this man to thee!’
PROEM TO ‘THE NEW ABELARD.’
Shipwreck . . . What succour?—
On the gnawing rocks
The ship grinds to and fro with thundershocks,
And thro' her riven sides with ceaseless rush
The foam-fleck'd waters gush:
Above, the soot-black sky; around, the roar
Of surges smiting on some unseen shore;
Beneath, the burial-place of rolling waves—
Flowerless, for ever shifting, wind-dug graves!
A moment on the riven deck he stands,
Praying to Heaven with wild uplifted hands,
Then sees across the liquid wall afar
A glimmer like a star;
The lighthouse gleam! Upon the headland black
The beacon burns and fronts the stormy wrack—
Sole speck of light on gulfs of darkness, where
Thunder the sullen breakers of despair . . .
The ship grinds to and fro with thundershocks,
And thro' her riven sides with ceaseless rush
The foam-fleck'd waters gush:
Above, the soot-black sky; around, the roar
Of surges smiting on some unseen shore;
Beneath, the burial-place of rolling waves—
Flowerless, for ever shifting, wind-dug graves!
A moment on the riven deck he stands,
Praying to Heaven with wild uplifted hands,
Then sees across the liquid wall afar
A glimmer like a star;
The lighthouse gleam! Upon the headland black
The beacon burns and fronts the stormy wrack—
Sole speck of light on gulfs of darkness, where
Thunder the sullen breakers of despair . . .
The ship is gone . . . Now in that gulf of death
He swims and struggles on with failing breath:
He grasps a plank—it sinks—too frail to upbear
His leaden load of care;
Another and another—straws!—they are gone!
He crles aloud, stifles, and struggles on;
For still thro' voids of gloom his straining sight
Sees the sad glimmer of a steadfast light!
He swims and struggles on with failing breath:
He grasps a plank—it sinks—too frail to upbear
His leaden load of care;
Another and another—straws!—they are gone!
He crles aloud, stifles, and struggles on;
For still thro' voids of gloom his straining sight
Sees the sad glimmer of a steadfast light!
He gains the rocks . . . What shining hands are these
Reached out to pluck him from the cruel seas?
What shape is this, that clad in raiment blest
Now draws him to its breast? . . .
Ah, Blessèd One, still keeping, day and night,
The lamp well trimmed, the heavenly beacon bright,
He knows Thee now!—he feels the sheltering gleam—
And lo! the night of storm dissolves in dream!
Reached out to pluck him from the cruel seas?
What shape is this, that clad in raiment blest
Now draws him to its breast? . . .
Ah, Blessèd One, still keeping, day and night,
The lamp well trimmed, the heavenly beacon bright,
He knows Thee now!—he feels the sheltering gleam—
And lo! the night of storm dissolves in dream!
PROEM TO ‘THE MOMENT AFTER.’
I.
Between the Dead and the living the veil of the glamour lies,
But softly it melts asunder, just as the Spirit flies.
But softly it melts asunder, just as the Spirit flies.
Wait by the bed of the Dying, wait till the last sharp breath,
Then sit in the silence watching the eyes that are closed in Death.
Then sit in the silence watching the eyes that are closed in Death.
431
Thinkest thou all is o'er, now thy heart stands still for fear?
Nay, something stirs in the silence!—listen, and thou mayst hear!
Nay, something stirs in the silence!—listen, and thou mayst hear!
Thou art closed around by the glamour, its darkness covers thy head,—
But something walks in the chamber, and looks in the face of the Dead!
But something walks in the chamber, and looks in the face of the Dead!
Wait for a little season—be patient yet for a day—
Before the breath of thy going, the veil shall dissolve away;
Before the breath of thy going, the veil shall dissolve away;
Thou too shalt stir in the darkness, no man dreaming thee nigh,
And look on thy worn white raiment, before they put it by!
And look on thy worn white raiment, before they put it by!
II.
Hast thou counted the stars? hast thou measured the mastodon's bed in the stone?
Rejoice, thou art wise who wast foolish! the days of thy dreaming are done!
Rejoice, thou art wise who wast foolish! the days of thy dreaming are done!
Hast thou taken the Cross from thy spirit, and lifted the veil from thine eyes!
Hast thou emptied the heavens of their god-head?—Rejoice, for, O Fool, thou art wise!
Hast thou emptied the heavens of their god-head?—Rejoice, for, O Fool, thou art wise!
And now that thou knowest the heavens and the Earth, the Beginning and End,
I will tell thee the last great Secret. . . Lie down on thy bed and attend!
I will tell thee the last great Secret. . . Lie down on thy bed and attend!
Thou lookest, but dost not listen—thou seest but dost not rejoice—
Thou pickest the coverlit moaning, and shuttest thine ears to my voice.
Thou pickest the coverlit moaning, and shuttest thine ears to my voice.
I bend to thine car and whisper—thou turnest away with a tear. . .
'Tis but a childish Secret, yet all thou hast yet to hear!
'Tis but a childish Secret, yet all thou hast yet to hear!
Gather thy senses a moment and listen, low on thy bed. . .
Now, Hearken!—Alas, thou hast fallen asleep, ere the Secret is said!
Now, Hearken!—Alas, thou hast fallen asleep, ere the Secret is said!
L'ENVOI.
I END AS I BEGAN.
I end as I began,
I think as first I thought;
Woe worth the world, if Man
Only of dust is wrought,
Only to dust must go
After his life's brief span;—
I think so still, and so
I end as I began.
I think as first I thought;
Woe worth the world, if Man
Only of dust is wrought,
Only to dust must go
After his life's brief span;—
I think so still, and so
I end as I began.
When first I learnt to know
The common strife of all,
My boy's heart shared the woe
Of those who fail and fall,
For all the weak and poor
My tears of pity ran,—
And still they flow, ev'n more
Than when my life began!
The common strife of all,
My boy's heart shared the woe
Of those who fail and fall,
For all the weak and poor
My tears of pity ran,—
And still they flow, ev'n more
Than when my life began!
I reverenced from the first
The Woman-Soul divine
(Mother, that faith was nurst
On that brave breast of thine!)
Pointing the heavenward way,
The angel-guide of man,
She seems to me to-day
As when my faith began!
The Woman-Soul divine
(Mother, that faith was nurst
On that brave breast of thine!)
Pointing the heavenward way,
The angel-guide of man,
She seems to me to-day
As when my faith began!
Revolter, sword in hand,
Friend of the weak and worn,
A boy, I took my stand
Among the Knights forlorn;
Eager against the Strong
To lead the martyr'd van.
I strive 'gainst Lust and Wrong
As when the fight began!
Friend of the weak and worn,
A boy, I took my stand
Among the Knights forlorn;
Eager against the Strong
To lead the martyr'd van.
I strive 'gainst Lust and Wrong
As when the fight began!
Never to bow and kneel
To any brazen Lic,—
To love the worst, to feel
The least is ev'n as I,—
To hold all fame unblest
That helps no struggling man,—
In this, as in the rest,
I end as I began!
To any brazen Lic,—
To love the worst, to feel
The least is ev'n as I,—
To hold all fame unblest
That helps no struggling man,—
In this, as in the rest,
I end as I began!
432
The creeds I've cast away
Like husks of garner'd grain,
And of them all this day
Does never a creed remain;
Save this, blind faith that God
Evolves thro' martyr'd Man;
Thus, the long journey trod,
I end as I began!
Like husks of garner'd grain,
And of them all this day
Does never a creed remain;
Save this, blind faith that God
Evolves thro' martyr'd Man;
Thus, the long journey trod,
I end as I began!
I dreamed when I began
I was not born to die,
And in my dreams I ran
From shining sky to sky;—
And still, now life grows cold
And I am grey and wan,
That infant's Dream I hold,
And end as I began!
I was not born to die,
And in my dreams I ran
From shining sky to sky;—
And still, now life grows cold
And I am grey and wan,
That infant's Dream I hold,
And end as I began!
THE LAST CRY.
Forget me not, but come, O King,And find me softly slumbering
In dark and troubled dreams of Thee,
Then, with one waft of Thy bright wing,
Awaken me!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |