The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan In Two Volumes. With a Portrait |
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| Songs of Empire. |
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 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
316
Songs of Empire.
‘Monstro, quod ipse tibi possis dare: semita certe
Tranquillæ per virtutem patet unica vitæ.
Nullum numen habes, si sit prudentia: nos te,
Nos facimus, Fortuna, Deam, cœloque locamus!’
Juv., Sat. x.
Tranquillæ per virtutem patet unica vitæ.
Nullum numen habes, si sit prudentia: nos te,
Nos facimus, Fortuna, Deam, cœloque locamus!’
Juv., Sat. x.
CARMEN DEIFIC.
I.
Awake, awake, ye Nations, now the Lord of Hosts goes by!
Sing ye His praise, O happy souls, who smile beneath the sky!
Join in the song, O martyr'd ones, where'er ye droop and die!
The Lord goes marching on!
Sing ye His praise, O happy souls, who smile beneath the sky!
Join in the song, O martyr'd ones, where'er ye droop and die!
The Lord goes marching on!
'Mid tramp and clangour of the winds and clash of clash of clouds that meet,
He passeth on His way and treads the Lost beneath His feet;
His legions are the winged Storms that follow fast and fleet
Their Master marching on!
He passeth on His way and treads the Lost beneath His feet;
His legions are the winged Storms that follow fast and fleet
Their Master marching on!
From battlefield to battlefield He wends in royal array,
Dead worlds are strewn like wither'd leaves on His triumphal way,
The new Suns blossom at His touch, the old spent Suns grow grey;
Their Lord goes marching on!
Dead worlds are strewn like wither'd leaves on His triumphal way,
The new Suns blossom at His touch, the old spent Suns grow grey;
Their Lord goes marching on!
His eyes are blind with their own Light, He knows not where He goes,
The Day before, the Night behind, with all its wails and woes,
And ever more on foul and fair His glory overflows
As He goes marching on!
The Day before, the Night behind, with all its wails and woes,
And ever more on foul and fair His glory overflows
As He goes marching on!
He is the Sea without a bound, for ever strong and free,
Lord of the worlds that break like waves, and every wave is He,
He is the foam that flies and falls and yet He is the Sea
For ever rolling on!
Lord of the worlds that break like waves, and every wave is He,
He is the foam that flies and falls and yet He is the Sea
For ever rolling on!
He could not if He would turn back and listen to thy prayer,
He could not if He would dispel the clouds of thy despair,—
Impotent in omnipotence He wends He knows not where,
For ever marching on!
He could not if He would dispel the clouds of thy despair,—
Impotent in omnipotence He wends He knows not where,
For ever marching on!
He hath no time to pause a space and look upon thy Dead,
How should He heed the living dust He crushes 'neath His tread?
Blind, deaf, and dumb, He heareth not when prayer or curse is said,
But still goes marching on!
How should He heed the living dust He crushes 'neath His tread?
Blind, deaf, and dumb, He heareth not when prayer or curse is said,
But still goes marching on!
Awake, awake, ye Nations, now the Lord of Hosts goes by!
Sing ye His praise, O happy ones, who round His chariot fly,
Join in the song, if so ye list, ye Lost, who droop and die,—
The Lord goes marching on!
Sing ye His praise, O happy ones, who round His chariot fly,
Join in the song, if so ye list, ye Lost, who droop and die,—
The Lord goes marching on!
II.
Out of the dust beneath His tread,
Ashes and dust beneath His train,
Dust and earth of the living-dead,
Rises this ant-heap of Rome again!
Tower and turret and palace-dome,
Mart and temple, arise once more . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels its Cæsars wore?
Ashes and dust beneath His train,
Dust and earth of the living-dead,
Rises this ant-heap of Rome again!
Tower and turret and palace-dome,
Mart and temple, arise once more . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels its Cæsars wore?
Quickens the dust to a human cry,
Ashes and dust take shape and form,
Once again as the Lord goes by
Ashes are living and dust is warm,
Crowds to our insect cities come,
Legions of ants increase their store . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels its Cæsars wore?
Ashes and dust take shape and form,
Once again as the Lord goes by
Ashes are living and dust is warm,
Crowds to our insect cities come,
Legions of ants increase their store . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels its Cæsars wore?
317
Empire fair as any of old,
Proud it stands in the rosy light!
For crumbs of bread and morsels of gold
Its people struggle from morn to night,
Seize their plunder and carry it home,
Slay each other like folks of yore,—
So they slew in that other Rome
Plucking the laurels the Cæsars wore!
Proud it stands in the rosy light!
For crumbs of bread and morsels of gold
Its people struggle from morn to night,
Seize their plunder and carry it home,
Slay each other like folks of yore,—
So they slew in that other Rome
Plucking the laurels the Cæsars wore!
A little while and a little life—
A little life and an endless rest—
An endless rest to the fever'd strife
Of atoms heedlessly ban'd or blest!
Others have made this clod their home,
Lived and vanished through Death's dark door . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels the Cæsars wore?
A little life and an endless rest—
An endless rest to the fever'd strife
Of atoms heedlessly ban'd or blest!
Others have made this clod their home,
Lived and vanished through Death's dark door . . .
Where is the glory that once was Rome?
Where are the laurels the Cæsars wore?
III.
‘How long, my love,’ she whisper'd,
‘How long shall it be,—
The light upon the mountain-tops,
The sunlight on the sea?
For ever and for ever,
Or only for a day?’
He drew her gently to him
And kiss'd her tears away—
‘Perchance, dear love, for ever,
Perchance for a day!’
‘How long shall it be,—
The light upon the mountain-tops,
The sunlight on the sea?
For ever and for ever,
Or only for a day?’
He drew her gently to him
And kiss'd her tears away—
‘Perchance, dear love, for ever,
Perchance for a day!’
‘How long, my love,’ she whisper'd,
‘How long shall it be,—
The joy that thrills across the earth
And mingles you and me?
For ever and for ever,
Too sweet to pass away?’
He sigh'd, ‘If not for ever,
At least for a day!
So heart to heart, my darling,
If only for a day!’
‘How long shall it be,—
The joy that thrills across the earth
And mingles you and me?
For ever and for ever,
Too sweet to pass away?’
He sigh'd, ‘If not for ever,
At least for a day!
So heart to heart, my darling,
If only for a day!’
IV.
Stand up, Ephemeron!
This hour at least is thine, though it must fly!
So waste it not by gazing at the sky
With eyes so woe-begone!
This hour at least is thine, though it must fly!
So waste it not by gazing at the sky
With eyes so woe-begone!
Thou shalt be dust anon,
Who now art rapture and a living thing!
Grasping what gifts the winged moments bring,
Rejoice, Ephemeron!
Who now art rapture and a living thing!
Grasping what gifts the winged moments bring,
Rejoice, Ephemeron!
Increase, Ephemeron!
Thou hast a time to quicken in delight,
And after thee shall others no less bright
Follow, when thou art gone!
Thou hast a time to quicken in delight,
And after thee shall others no less bright
Follow, when thou art gone!
Be proud and buckle on
Thy pigmy armour and thine insect mail!
Strive with thy kind, and, though a thousand fail,
Emerge, Ephemeron!
Thy pigmy armour and thine insect mail!
Strive with thy kind, and, though a thousand fail,
Emerge, Ephemeron!
V.
If I were a God like you, and you were a man like me,
If from a throne omnipotent I ruled all things that be,
Tidings of light and love I'd send as far as thought could fly,
And one great hymn of happiness should sound from sky to sky,—
And on your brow my gentle hand should shed the saving dew,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!
If from a throne omnipotent I ruled all things that be,
Tidings of light and love I'd send as far as thought could fly,
And one great hymn of happiness should sound from sky to sky,—
And on your brow my gentle hand should shed the saving dew,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!
If I were a God like you, and you were a man like me,
And in the dark you prayed and wept and I could hear and see,
The sorrow of your broken heart would darken all my day,
And never peace or pride were mine, till it was smiled away,—
I'd clear my Heaven above your head till all was bright and blue,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!
And in the dark you prayed and wept and I could hear and see,
The sorrow of your broken heart would darken all my day,
And never peace or pride were mine, till it was smiled away,—
I'd clear my Heaven above your head till all was bright and blue,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!
If I were a God like you, and you were a man like me,
Small need for those my might had made to bend the suppliant knee;
I'd light no lamp in yonder Heaven to fade and disappear,
I'd break no promise to the Soul, yet keep it to the ear!
High as my heart I'd lift my child till all his dreams came true,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!
Small need for those my might had made to bend the suppliant knee;
I'd light no lamp in yonder Heaven to fade and disappear,
I'd break no promise to the Soul, yet keep it to the ear!
High as my heart I'd lift my child till all his dreams came true,
If you were a man like me, and I were a God like you!
318
VI.
A Voice was heard in the night, and it haunts the night for ever,
And these are the words of the Voice that God shall silence never:
And these are the words of the Voice that God shall silence never:
‘How often, God of the Glad, and God of the Lost, shall I name Thee!
Cursing Thee under breath, too weak to stay Thee or shame Thee!
Cursing Thee under breath, too weak to stay Thee or shame Thee!
‘Blundering blindly on, with blood and tears for Thy token,
Thou tramplest down the Weak, yea the Strong by Thee are broken!
Thou tramplest down the Weak, yea the Strong by Thee are broken!
‘Yet still Thy praise is heard, the perishing pray unto Thee,—
And lo! I woke in the night, and smiled for methought I knew Thee!
And lo! I woke in the night, and smiled for methought I knew Thee!
‘I watch'd Thy sacrifice flame up, and I did not falter,
Though the lamb and the little child were offered up on the Altar!
Though the lamb and the little child were offered up on the Altar!
‘I praised Thy Day and Thy Night, Thy manifold works and wonders.
Thy purpose gladden'd my soul, O God of a million blunders!
Thy purpose gladden'd my soul, O God of a million blunders!
‘From failure on to failure I saw Thy Light progressing,
I felt the lash of Thy Law, yet knelt to entreat Thy blessing.
I felt the lash of Thy Law, yet knelt to entreat Thy blessing.
‘Thou hast not spared Thy dearest, Thy best beloved Thou art slaying,
Thine ears are shut to the prayers of Thy Saints, yet lo, I am praying!
Thine ears are shut to the prayers of Thy Saints, yet lo, I am praying!
‘I fear Thee, God of the Night, for Thy Silence hath overcome me.
I hear the wails of the souls Thy Night hath taken from me.
I hear the wails of the souls Thy Night hath taken from me.
‘Darkness shrouds Thy feet, and darkness Thy Face is veiling—
Shepherd, 'tis dark all round, and Thou comest not to our wailing!’
Shepherd, 'tis dark all round, and Thou comest not to our wailing!’
This Voice was heard in the Night, and the Lord shall still it never!
For those are the words of the Voice that cries in the Night for ever!
For those are the words of the Voice that cries in the Night for ever!
THE IMAGE IN THE FORUM.
Not Baal, but Christus-Jingo! Heir
Of Him who once was crucified!
The red stigmata still are there,
The crimson spear-wounds in the side;
But raised aloft as God and Lord,
He holds the Money-bag and Sword.
Of Him who once was crucified!
The red stigmata still are there,
The crimson spear-wounds in the side;
But raised aloft as God and Lord,
He holds the Money-bag and Sword.
See, underneath the Crown of Thorn,
The eyeballs fierce, the features grim!
And merrily from night to morn
We chaunt his praise and worship him,
Great Christus-Jingo, at whose feet
Christian and Jew and Atheist meet!
The eyeballs fierce, the features grim!
And merrily from night to morn
We chaunt his praise and worship him,
Great Christus-Jingo, at whose feet
Christian and Jew and Atheist meet!
A wondrous god! most fit for those
Who cheat on 'Change, then creep to prayer;
Blood on his heavenly altar flows,
Hell's burning incense fills the air,
And Death attests in street and lane
The hideous glory of his reign.
Who cheat on 'Change, then creep to prayer;
Blood on his heavenly altar flows,
Hell's burning incense fills the air,
And Death attests in street and lane
The hideous glory of his reign.
O gentle Jew, from age to age
Walking the waves Thou could'st not tame,
This god hath ta'en Thy heritage,
And stolen Thy sweet and stainless Name!
To him we crawl and bend the knee,
Naming Thy Name, but scorning Thee!
Walking the waves Thou could'st not tame,
This god hath ta'en Thy heritage,
And stolen Thy sweet and stainless Name!
To him we crawl and bend the knee,
Naming Thy Name, but scorning Thee!
THE AUGURS.
Darken the Temple from the light,
Shut out the sun and sky,—
In Darkness deep as Death and Night
Lead forth the Lamb to die!
We hold the golden knife aloft, and lo! we prophesy.
Shut out the sun and sky,—
In Darkness deep as Death and Night
Lead forth the Lamb to die!
We hold the golden knife aloft, and lo! we prophesy.
Augurs and priests in crimson stoled,
We ring the Altar round:
Above us, gaunt and grey and cold,
The Man-god hangs, thorn-crown'd—
Ragged and wretched waits the crowd, watching, without a sound.
We ring the Altar round:
Above us, gaunt and grey and cold,
The Man-god hangs, thorn-crown'd—
Ragged and wretched waits the crowd, watching, without a sound.
319
With blood their hunger we appease
(Else all our task were vain);
Trembling they watch on bended knees
The Man-god's sculptured pain;
Then wait in wonder while we search the entrails of the Slain!
(Else all our task were vain);
Trembling they watch on bended knees
The Man-god's sculptured pain;
Then wait in wonder while we search the entrails of the Slain!
THE JEW PASSES.
With slow monotonous tread,
A Phantom hoary and grey,
While Heaven was shining overhead,
He wandered on His way:
A Phantom hoary and grey,
While Heaven was shining overhead,
He wandered on His way:
And still His thin feet bled,
And His eyes were dim with tears—
‘Surely at last,’ He said,
‘My father in Heaven hears?
And His eyes were dim with tears—
‘Surely at last,’ He said,
‘My father in Heaven hears?
‘Surely now at last
My Cross is a blossoming tree,—
Evil and sorrow are past,
My Throne is ready for me?’
My Cross is a blossoming tree,—
Evil and sorrow are past,
My Throne is ready for me?’
Worn and wan and white,
He gazed to Heaven and smiled,
And the restless wind of the night
Slept, like a sleeping child.
He gazed to Heaven and smiled,
And the restless wind of the night
Slept, like a sleeping child.
Slowly along the dark
Unseen by Men crept He,
But the Earth lay silently down to mark
In the soft still arms of the Sea!
Unseen by Men crept He,
But the Earth lay silently down to mark
In the soft still arms of the Sea!
He came to a City great,
Silent under the sky,
And the watchmen at the gate
Beheld Him not go by.
Silent under the sky,
And the watchmen at the gate
Beheld Him not go by.
Passing the empty mart,
Creeping from shade to shade,
He found at last in the City's heart
A Temple that men had made.
Creeping from shade to shade,
He found at last in the City's heart
A Temple that men had made.
Dark at the Temple door
The ragged and outcast lay,
And Lazarus wail'd once more,
Weary and gaunt and grey.
The ragged and outcast lay,
And Lazarus wail'd once more,
Weary and gaunt and grey.
And an altar-light burn'd there,
And a litany sounded thence—
‘Rejoice! rejoice! for all gods that were
Are banish'd and vanish'd hence!
And a litany sounded thence—
‘Rejoice! rejoice! for all gods that were
Are banish'd and vanish'd hence!
‘And the only god we know
Is the ghost of our own despair;
Gaze in the glass, and lo!
Is he not mirror'd there?
Is the ghost of our own despair;
Gaze in the glass, and lo!
Is he not mirror'd there?
‘Strong as when time began,
Creature of dust and breath,
God our Lord, the Spirit of Man,
Crown'd with the crown of Death!’
Creature of dust and breath,
God our Lord, the Spirit of Man,
Crown'd with the crown of Death!’
And lo! from earth and sea,
And the skies now overcast,
A voice wail'd, ‘Woe is me!
Death is the first and last!’
And the skies now overcast,
A voice wail'd, ‘Woe is me!
Death is the first and last!’
He went with silent feet
Thro' loathsome alley and den;
He heard around Him from every street
The moan of the Magdalen.
Thro' loathsome alley and den;
He heard around Him from every street
The moan of the Magdalen.
‘How long, O Lord, how long,’
He heard the lone voice cry,
‘Shall they who wrought the wrong,
While we lie lost, go by?
He heard the lone voice cry,
‘Shall they who wrought the wrong,
While we lie lost, go by?
‘Reach down thy hand,’ it moaned,
‘To help the lost, and me,—
Rabbi, the Woman still is stoned,
The Man still wanders free!’
‘To help the lost, and me,—
Rabbi, the Woman still is stoned,
The Man still wanders free!’
Still and unseen crept He
Into the prison-square,
And He saw the Upas Tree
Of Man's Invention there . . .
Into the prison-square,
And He saw the Upas Tree
Of Man's Invention there . . .
High as the Cross it stood,
Cross-wise its shadows fell,
And the sap of the tree was tears and blood
And its roots sank deep as Hell.
Cross-wise its shadows fell,
And the sap of the tree was tears and blood
And its roots sank deep as Hell.
‘Rabbi!’ again that cry
Came from a lonely place—
And she who waited to die
Had a Woman's form and face.
Came from a lonely place—
And she who waited to die
Had a Woman's form and face.
‘Reach down thy hand,’ she moaned,
‘To help the lost, and me,—
Rabbi, the Woman still is stoned,
The Man still wanders free!
‘To help the lost, and me,—
Rabbi, the Woman still is stoned,
The Man still wanders free!
‘The lie, the blight, and the ban,
That doom me, men have cast—
By Man I fell, and my Judge, a man,
Threw the first stone, and last.
That doom me, men have cast—
By Man I fell, and my Judge, a man,
Threw the first stone, and last.
320
‘Master, master!’ she said,
‘Hither, come hither to me!’
He left His blessing upon her head,
His curse on the Upas Tree!
‘Hither, come hither to me!’
He left His blessing upon her head,
His curse on the Upas Tree!
And all His soul was stirr'd,
His tears like red blood ran,
While the light of the woeful Word
Flamed on the City of Man!
His tears like red blood ran,
While the light of the woeful Word
Flamed on the City of Man!
And the heavens grew black as night,
And the voice cried: ‘Wander on!’
And the cold Moon's arms clung wild and white
Round a World all woe-begone!
And the voice cried: ‘Wander on!’
And the cold Moon's arms clung wild and white
Round a World all woe-begone!
He walked upon the Sea,
And the lamb-like waves lay still,
And He came to Calvary
And the Crosses high on the hill.
And the lamb-like waves lay still,
And He came to Calvary
And the Crosses high on the hill.
Beneath His Cross He stood,
Between the thief and the thief;
And lo, the Cross dript blood, dript blood,
And never put forth a leaf!
Between the thief and the thief;
And lo, the Cross dript blood, dript blood,
And never put forth a leaf!
With slow monotonous tread
He passed from sea to sea.
‘So long, so long!’ He said,
‘And still no sleep for me!’
He passed from sea to sea.
‘So long, so long!’ He said,
‘And still no sleep for me!’
A SONG OF JUBILEE.
I
Ho, heirs of Saxon AlfredAnd Cœur de Lion bold!
Mix'd breed of churls and belted earls
Who worshipped God of old;
Who harried East and harried West
And gather'd land and gold,
While from the lips of white-wing'd ships
Our battle-thunder rolled!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
At the will of the Lord of the Cross and Sword
We swept from sea to sea!
II
And lo, our mighty EmpireRises like Rome of yore—
Another Rome, that feasts at home
And hugs its golden store;
Another and a mightier Rome!
That, growing more and more,
Now reaches from Saint Paul's great dome
To far Tasmania's shore!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
True strain and seed of the Ocean-breed,
We keep this Jubilee!
III
Liegemen of Bess the Virgin,Heirs of the harlot Nell!
Our once bright blood hath mix'd with mud
More oft than song need tell;
But through each hour of pride and power,
When free we fought and fell,
What gave us might to face the Fight
Was—faith in Heaven and Hell!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
Though the faith hath fled and our Lord lies dead,
We keep this Jubilee!
IV
Stay! By the Soul of Milton!By Cromwell's battle-cry!
The voice of the Lord of the Cross and Sword
Still rings beneath our sky!
Our faith lives still in the stubborn Will
No Priest or Pope could buy—
Ours is the crced of the doughty Deed,
The strength to do and die!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
Still sword in hand 'neath the Cross we stand
And keep this Jubilee!
V
Lady and Queen and Mother!Our long sea-race is run!
Let Love and Peace bless and increase
What Cross and Sword have won!
The nameless guilt, the red blood spilt,
The deeds in darkness done,
All these are past, and our souls at last
Stand shriven in the sun,
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
We Men of the Deep sheathe swords, and keep
Thy bloodless Jubilee!
321
VI
Queen of the many racesThat round thy footstool cling,
Take heed lest Cain o'erthrow again
His brother's offering!
Beyond the waves crawl butchering knaves,
Now crouching for the spring,
While stolen gold stains, as of old,
The gift thy legions bring!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
There are robbers still who are fain to spill
Blood, on thy Jubilee!
VII
Ghosts of sad Queens departedWatch thee from far away:
Not theirs the bliss and calm of this
Thy peaceful triumph-day!
A faith more fearless and serene,
A creed less swift to slay,
Are thine, if thou hast found, O Queen,
A gentler God for stay!
With a hey! and a ho!
And a British three times three!
We thy might proclaim in that one God's Name
On this thy Jubilee.
THE MERCENARIES.
I. Tommie Atkins.
Shrieking and swinging legs, astride
On his native fence, the Cockney cried:
‘Fee faw fum! beware of me!
I am the Lord of Land and Sea!’
On his native fence, the Cockney cried:
‘Fee faw fum! beware of me!
I am the Lord of Land and Sea!’
Out on the fields, where day and night
The weary warriors strove in fight,
They paused a space to gaze upon
The moat-surrounded fence,—his throne!
The weary warriors strove in fight,
They paused a space to gaze upon
The moat-surrounded fence,—his throne!
And while they heard that war-cry float
From the smug Cockney's raucous throat,
‘Come off the fence,’ they cried, ‘and share
The brunt of battle, if you dare!’
From the smug Cockney's raucous throat,
‘Come off the fence,’ they cried, ‘and share
The brunt of battle, if you dare!’
Yet still they heard him shriek and brag
Waving a little schoolboy's Flag,
And angry at his martial mien
They tried to hoot him from the scene!
Waving a little schoolboy's Flag,
And angry at his martial mien
They tried to hoot him from the scene!
‘Ho ho!’ he said, ‘if that's your plan,
I'll teach you I'm an Englishman!—
Here, Tommie Atkins,—take your fee,—
Go fight these knaves who flout at me!’
I'll teach you I'm an Englishman!—
Here, Tommie Atkins,—take your fee,—
Go fight these knaves who flout at me!’
Poor Tommie Atkins waiting stood,
And heard his master's cry for blood,
Then held out hand to take his pay,
And drew his sword, and sprang away!
And heard his master's cry for blood,
Then held out hand to take his pay,
And drew his sword, and sprang away!
All day the bloody strife was wrought,
The Cockney shriek'd, while Tommie fought.
Night came, the foe were driven away,—
But Tommie Atkins dying lay.
The Cockney shriek'd, while Tommie fought.
Night came, the foe were driven away,—
But Tommie Atkins dying lay.
‘Tommie, what cheer?’ the Cockney said;
Poor Tommie raised his bleeding head,—
‘You've lick'd them, sir!’ poor Tommie cried,
And slowly droop'd his head, and died!
Poor Tommie raised his bleeding head,—
‘You've lick'd them, sir!’ poor Tommie cried,
And slowly droop'd his head, and died!
Still on his fence the Cockney swings,
Loud in the air the war-cry rings,
And still, in answer to his cries,
Poor Tommie Atkins bleeds and dies.
Loud in the air the war-cry rings,
And still, in answer to his cries,
Poor Tommie Atkins bleeds and dies.
II. Nelson's Day.
Here's to the health of Nelson! Hurrah and three times three!
Glory to him who gave us back our birth-right of the Sea!
He gave us back the wide wide Sea, and bade us rule the wave,
And how did we pay him back, dear boys, for that great gift he gave?
Glory to him who gave us back our birth-right of the Sea!
He gave us back the wide wide Sea, and bade us rule the wave,
And how did we pay him back, dear boys, for that great gift he gave?
Just as his life was ebbing ('Twas in Trafalgar's bay)
He craved one little thing from us for whom he fell that day;
For in that hour of glorious death his last thoughts landward ran,
Since, alas and alas, my Christian friends, he wasn't a moral man!
He craved one little thing from us for whom he fell that day;
For in that hour of glorious death his last thoughts landward ran,
Since, alas and alas, my Christian friends, he wasn't a moral man!
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‘Take care of Lady Hamilton!’ the dying hero cried,—
'Twas all he asked from Englishmen for whom he fought and died;
‘Now I have bought you with my blood the Sea and all thereon,
Take care of her I love,’ he said, ‘when I am dead and gone!’
'Twas all he asked from Englishmen for whom he fought and died;
‘Now I have bought you with my blood the Sea and all thereon,
Take care of her I love,’ he said, ‘when I am dead and gone!’
His health, the health of Nelson! health to the good, the brave!
But still we're moral men, dear boys, with moral souls to save . . .
We suffered her he loved to starve, to fill a pauper's grave,—
That's how we paid him back, dear boys, for the great gift he gave!
But still we're moral men, dear boys, with moral souls to save . . .
We suffered her he loved to starve, to fill a pauper's grave,—
That's how we paid him back, dear boys, for the great gift he gave!
Honour to Nelson's memory! his health with three times three!
If we are freemen 'twas his gift—he gave us back the Sea,—
Crow, west to east! but while we shout his name from wave to wave,
Think how we paid our Hero back for the great gift he gave!
If we are freemen 'twas his gift—he gave us back the Sea,—
Crow, west to east! but while we shout his name from wave to wave,
Think how we paid our Hero back for the great gift he gave!
SONG OF THE SLAIN.
This is the Song of the Weak
Trod 'neath the heel of the Strong!
This is the Song of the hearts that break
And bleed as we ride along,—
From sea to sea we singing sweep, but this is the slain man's Song!
Trod 'neath the heel of the Strong!
This is the Song of the hearts that break
And bleed as we ride along,—
From sea to sea we singing sweep, but this is the slain man's Song!
Southward, a shriek of pain,
As the martyr'd races fall!
The wild man's land and his herds we gain,
With the gold that's best of all,—
Because the leaves of the tree are black 'tis meet that they should fall!
As the martyr'd races fall!
The wild man's land and his herds we gain,
With the gold that's best of all,—
Because the leaves of the tree are black 'tis meet that they should fall!
Eastward, another cry,
Wrung from the black and red!
But merrily our hosts go by,
Trampling the quick and dead,—
'Tis meet that the heathen tribes should starve, and the Christian dogs be fed.
Wrung from the black and red!
But merrily our hosts go by,
Trampling the quick and dead,—
'Tis meet that the heathen tribes should starve, and the Christian dogs be fed.
Westward, close at the door,
A cry for bread and light!
But lo, we hug our golden store
And feast from morn to night:—
Our brother Esau must perish too, altho' his skin be white!
A cry for bread and light!
But lo, we hug our golden store
And feast from morn to night:—
Our brother Esau must perish too, altho' his skin be white!
In the name of the Jingo-Christ
We raise our savage song,
In gold the martyr's blood is priced
Wherever we march along,
How should we heed our brother's cry,—he is weak and we are strong!
We raise our savage song,
In gold the martyr's blood is priced
Wherever we march along,
How should we heed our brother's cry,—he is weak and we are strong!
We have sow'd, and lo! we reap,
We are strong, and lo! we slay;
We are lords of Earth and Deep,
And this is our triumph-day,—
The broken wave and the broken heart are spent, and vanish away!
We are strong, and lo! we slay;
We are lords of Earth and Deep,
And this is our triumph-day,—
The broken wave and the broken heart are spent, and vanish away!
Ever the Weak must fall
Under the strength of the Strong!
And God (they say), who is Lord of all,
Smiles as we sweep along;
Yet tho' we are strong and our song is loud, this is the slain man's Song!
Under the strength of the Strong!
And God (they say), who is Lord of all,
Smiles as we sweep along;
Yet tho' we are strong and our song is loud, this is the slain man's Song!
THE CHARTER'D COMPANIE.
I
The Devil's will is the Devil's still, whereever the Devil may be—He used to delight in the thick of the fight, whether on land or sea;
'Twas difficult for mortal men to know what side he took,
When the wrath of the Lord from heaven was poured and the whole Creation shook;
Yet for many a day the Devil's way was ever mighty and grand,
'Mid the swift sword's flash and the cannon's crash he boldly took his stand:
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Having turn'd himself for the love of pelf to a Charter'd Companie!
II
‘Ho! better far than the work of War, and the storm and stress of strife,Is to rest at home, while others roam,’ he murmurs to Sin, his wife!
‘Tho' the fiends my sons make Gatling guns, they're Christians to the core,
And they love the range of the Stock Exchange far better than battle-roar.
They are spared, in truth, much strife uncouth and trouble by field and flood,
Since the work of Hell is done so well by creatures of flesh and blood;
And I think on the whole,’ says the grim old Soul, ‘'tis better for you and me
That I've turned myself, ere laid on the shelf, to a Charter'd Companie!
III
‘The thin red line was doubtless fine as it crept across the plain,While the thick fire ran from the black Redan and broke it again and again,
But the hearts of men throbb'd bravely then, and their souls could do and dare,
'Mid the thick of the fight, in my despite, God found out Heroes there!
The Flag of England waved on high, and the thin red line crept on,
And I felt, as it flashed along to die, my occupation gone!
O'er a brave man's soul I had no control in those old days,’ said he,
‘So I've turned myself, ere laid on the shelf, to a Charter'd Companie!
IV
‘The Flag of England still doth blow and flings the sunlight back,But the line that creepeth now below is changed to a line of black!
Wherever the Flag of England blows, down go all other flags,
Wherever the line of black print goes, the British Bulldog brags!
The newspaper, my dear, is best to further such work as mine,—
My blessing rest, north, south, east, west, on the thin black penny-a-line!
For my work is done 'neath moon or sun, by men and not by me,
Now I've changed myself, in the reign of the Guelph, to a charter'd Companie!
V
‘Of Church and of State let others prate, let martyr'd thousands moan,—I m responsible, I beg to state, to my share-holders alone!
The Flag of England may rot and fall, both Church and State may end,
Whate'er befall, I laugh at it all, if I pay a dividend!
But O my dear, it is very clear that the thing is working well—
When they hunt the black man down like deer, we devils rejoice in Hell!
'Tis loot, loot, loot, as they slaughter and shoot out yonder across the sea,
Now I've turned myself, like a gamesome elf, to a Charter'd Companie!
VI
‘Just study, my dear, the record here, of the mighty deeds they've done—Hundreds, en masse, mowed down like grass, to an English loss of one!
Then loot, loot, loot, as they slaughter and shoot, to the shrieks of the naked foe,
While murder and greed on the fallen feed, right up my stock must go!
And the best of the lark, you'll be pleased to mark, is the counter-jumper's cry,
As he clutches his shares and mumbles his prayers to the Jingo-God on high!
With Bible and Gun the work is done both here and across the sea,
Now I've turned myself, in the reign of the Guelph, to a Charter'd Companie!’
VII
The Devil's will is the Devil's still, though wrought in a Christian land,He chuckles low and laughs his fill, with the latest news in hand;
Nor God nor man can mar his plan so long as the markets thrive,
Tho' the Flag be stained and the Creed profaned, he keepeth the game alive!
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Whatever befall, I laugh at it all, if I pay a dividend!
Right glad I dwell where I make my Hell, in the white man's heart,’ cries he,
‘Now I've turned myself, for the love of pelf, to a Charter'd Companie!’
Not the great Æon, whom I have vindicated,
Call'd falsely Devil by the blind and base,
But Belial, a creature execrated
Except in Church and in the market-place.
Call'd falsely Devil by the blind and base,
But Belial, a creature execrated
Except in Church and in the market-place.
—R. B.
THE BALLAD OF KIPLINGSON.
There came a knock at the Heavenly Gate, where the good St. Peter sat,—
‘Hi, open the door, you fellah there, to a British rat-tat-tat!’
‘Hi, open the door, you fellah there, to a British rat-tat-tat!’
The Saint sat up in his chair, rubb'd eyes, and prick'd his holy ears,
‘Who's there?’ he muttered, ‘a single man, or a regiment of Grenadiers?’
‘Who's there?’ he muttered, ‘a single man, or a regiment of Grenadiers?’
‘A single man,’ the voice replied, ‘but one of prodigious size,
Who claims by Jingo, his patron Saint, the entry to Paradise!’
Who claims by Jingo, his patron Saint, the entry to Paradise!’
The good St. Peter open'd the Gate, but blocking the entry scan'd
The spectacled ghost of a little man, with an infant's flag in his hand.
The spectacled ghost of a little man, with an infant's flag in his hand.
‘Your name? Before I let you pass, say who and what you were!
Describe your life on the earth, and prove your claim to a place in there!’
Describe your life on the earth, and prove your claim to a place in there!’
‘Wot! haven't you heard of Kiplingson? whose name and fame have spread
As far as the Flag of England waves, and the Tory prints are read?
As far as the Flag of England waves, and the Tory prints are read?
‘I was raised in the lap of Jingo, sir, till I grew to the height of man,
And a wonderful Literary Gent, I emerged upon Hindostan!
And a wonderful Literary Gent, I emerged upon Hindostan!
‘I sounded the praise of the Empire, sir, I pitch'd out piping hot
The new old stories of British bounce (see Lever and Michael Scott);
The new old stories of British bounce (see Lever and Michael Scott);
‘And rapid as light my glory spread, till thro' Cockaigne it flew,
And I grew the joy of the Cockney cliques, and the pet of the Jingo Jew!
And I grew the joy of the Cockney cliques, and the pet of the Jingo Jew!
‘For the Lord my God was a Cockney Gawd, whose voice was a savage yell,
A fust-rate Gawd who dropt, d'ye see, the “h” in Heaven and Hell!
A fust-rate Gawd who dropt, d'ye see, the “h” in Heaven and Hell!
‘O I was clever beyond compare, and not like most young muffs,
Tho' I died last night, at an early age, of a plethora of puffs.
Tho' I died last night, at an early age, of a plethora of puffs.
‘O lollipops are toothsome things, and sweet is the log-roll'd jam,
But the last big puff of the Log-rollers has choked me, and here I am!
But the last big puff of the Log-rollers has choked me, and here I am!
‘But I was a real Phenomenon,’ continued Kiplingson,
‘The only genius ever born who was Tory at twenty-one!’
‘The only genius ever born who was Tory at twenty-one!’
‘Alas, and alas,’ the good Saint said, a tear in his eye serene,
‘A Tory at twenty-one! Good God! At fifty what would you have been?
‘A Tory at twenty-one! Good God! At fifty what would you have been?
‘There's not a spirit now here in Heaven who wouldn't at twenty-one
Have tried to upset the very Throne, and reform both Sire and Son!
Have tried to upset the very Throne, and reform both Sire and Son!
‘The saddest sight that my eyes have seen, down yonder on earth or here,
Is a brat that talks like a weary man, or a youth with a cynic's leer.
Is a brat that talks like a weary man, or a youth with a cynic's leer.
‘Try lower down, young man,’ he cried, and began to close the Gate—
‘Hi, here, old fellah,’ said Kiplingson, ‘by Jingo! just you wait—
‘Hi, here, old fellah,’ said Kiplingson, ‘by Jingo! just you wait—
‘I've heaps of Criticisms here, to show my claims are true,
That I'm 'cute in almost everything, and have probed Creation through!’
That I'm 'cute in almost everything, and have probed Creation through!’
‘And what have you found?’ the Saint inquired, a frown on his face benign—
‘The Flag of England!’ cried Kiplingson, ‘and the thin black penny-a-line!
‘The Flag of England!’ cried Kiplingson, ‘and the thin black penny-a-line!
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‘Wherever the Flag of England waves, down go all other flags;
Wherever the thin black line is spread, the Bulldog bites and brags!
Wherever the thin black line is spread, the Bulldog bites and brags!
‘And I warn you now, if you close that Gate, the moment it is done,
I'll summon an army of Cockney Gents, with a great big Gatling gun!
I'll summon an army of Cockney Gents, with a great big Gatling gun!
‘O Gawd, beware of the Jingo's wrath! the Journals of Earth are mine!
Across the plains of the earth still creeps the thin black penny-a-line!
Across the plains of the earth still creeps the thin black penny-a-line!
‘For wherever the Flag of England waves’— but here, we grieve to state,
His voice was drown'd in a thunder-crash, for the Saint bang'd-to the Gate!
His voice was drown'd in a thunder-crash, for the Saint bang'd-to the Gate!
TO OLIVE SCHREINER.
Pansies, for thoughts; and Rue, for gentle grief;
Roses,—for gladness given in large increase:
Add now to these one soft grey silvern leaf,
Olive,—for Peace!
Roses,—for gladness given in large increase:
Add now to these one soft grey silvern leaf,
Olive,—for Peace!
O life that put'st our noisier lives to shame,
Sign that the Bow shall shine, the Deluge cease!
Steadfast and true and holy like thy name:
Olive,—for Peace!
Sign that the Bow shall shine, the Deluge cease!
Steadfast and true and holy like thy name:
Olive,—for Peace!
THE DREAMER OF DREAMS.
I
‘We are men in a world of men, not gods!’ the Strong Man cried;‘Yea, men, but more than men,’ the Dreamer of Dreams replied;
‘'Tis not the mighty Arm (the Lion and Bear have that),
Tis not the Ear and the Eye (for those hath the Ounce and the Cat),
'Tis not the form of a Man upstanding erect and free,
For this hath the forest Ape, yea, the face of a Man hath he;
'Tis not by these alone, ye compass'd the mighty things,
Hew'd the log to a ship, till the ship swept out on wings,
Ye are men in a world of men, lord of the seas and streams,
But ye dreamed ye were more than men when ye heark'd to the Dreamers of Dreams!
And the Dream begat the Deed, and grew with the growth of the years,
So ye were the Builders of Earth, but we were the Pioneers!
II
‘By the Arm and the Ear and the Eye, and the upright Form divine’(Thus the Dreamer of Dreams), ‘thou hast conquered the world—’tis thine;
Wherefore rejoice, O Man, in the wonders thy might hath wrought,
But woe to thy pride the day thou forgettest the Dream we brought;
The Dream that made thee a Man (the beast was as swift in the fray),
The Dream that found thee a Soul, and lit thee along on thy way,
The Dream that guided thine Arm, and taught thee with sight and with sound,
The Dream that held thee erect when the beast was prone on the ground!
A man in a world of men, and strong as a man beseems,
Thou art indeed, but thy strength was drawn from the Dreamers of Dreams!
Wert thou no more than a man, the Fox and the Ape were thy peers,
We dream'd thou wast more than a man, when we led thee, thy Pioneers!
III
‘And now thy triumph hath come, the sceptre is set in thy hand,See’ (said the Dreamer of Dreams) ‘that thy spirit doth understand:
Not by the lust of the Ape, or the courage and strength of the Beast,
Thou risest to rule thy Realm, and sit at the head of the Feast—
We dream'd there was love in thy heart, the love that no beast doth gain,
We held thee just in our Dream, and therefore fitter to reign,
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We taught thee (still in our Dream) that Pity and Prayer were best:
Pity for all thy kind, and most for the undertrod,
Prayer to the Power unseen which stiffen'd thy soul 'gainst God,
Then out of the Dream the Deed, which grew with the growing years
And made thee Master of Earth, but we were thy Pioneers!’
IV
‘We are men in a world of men, not gods,’ the Strong Man cried.‘Then woe to thy race and thee,’ the Dreamer of Dreams replied;
‘The Tiger can fight and feed, the Serpent can hear and see,
The Ape can increase his kind, the Beaver can build, like thee.
Have I led thee on to find thee of all things last and least,
A Man who is only a Man and therefore less than a beast?
Who bareth a red right arm, and crieth “Lo! I am strong;”
Who shouts to an empty sky a savage triumphal song,
Who apes the cry of the woods, who crawls like a snake and lies,
Who loves not, neither is loved, but crawleth a space and dies?—
Ah, woe indeed to the Dream that guided thee all these years,
And woe to the Dreamers of Dreams who ran as thy Pioneers!’
BE PITIFUL.
Thou canst not right the ancient wrong,
Or mend the broken thread;
Thou canst not raise with spell or song
The countless martyrs dead,—
Yet one kind thought may sometimes bless
Lives which the dark gods ban;
Wherefore, since they are pitiless,
Be pitiful, O Man!
Or mend the broken thread;
Thou canst not raise with spell or song
The countless martyrs dead,—
Yet one kind thought may sometimes bless
Lives which the dark gods ban;
Wherefore, since they are pitiless,
Be pitiful, O Man!
Raised on the rock of endless woe,
Thy throne is built, O King!
Yet from that rock some dews may flow
To show the hidden spring;—
Lord in thy place of life and death,
Complete the cruel plan,
But gazing down on things of breath,
Be pitiful, O Man!
Thy throne is built, O King!
Yet from that rock some dews may flow
To show the hidden spring;—
Lord in thy place of life and death,
Complete the cruel plan,
But gazing down on things of breath,
Be pitiful, O Man!
Be pitiful! be pitiful!
More grace in Pity lies
Than in the gladdest flowers they cull
In Passion's Paradise!
Thron'd on the earth even as a god,
All creatures gently scan—
Thy sceptre then like Aaron's rod
Shall bud and bloom, O Man!
More grace in Pity lies
Than in the gladdest flowers they cull
In Passion's Paradise!
Thron'd on the earth even as a god,
All creatures gently scan—
Thy sceptre then like Aaron's rod
Shall bud and bloom, O Man!
Be pitiful to every thing
That creeps around thy throne,
Yea, with thy love as with a wing
Shelter the lost and lone;—
Tho' from the cradle to the tomb
Thy reign is but a span,
Still, in despite of Death and Doom,
Be pitiful, O Man!
That creeps around thy throne,
Yea, with thy love as with a wing
Shelter the lost and lone;—
Tho' from the cradle to the tomb
Thy reign is but a span,
Still, in despite of Death and Doom,
Be pitiful, O Man!
So shall thy soul arise in strength
Above the coward's dread,
So shall thy love avenge at length
The blood the gods have shed,
So shalt thou scorn the cruel Law
That is since Time began,
And, held by Heaven and Hell in awe,
Shame all the gods, O Man!
Above the coward's dread,
So shall thy love avenge at length
The blood the gods have shed,
So shalt thou scorn the cruel Law
That is since Time began,
And, held by Heaven and Hell in awe,
Shame all the gods, O Man!
MAN OF THE RED RIGHT HAND.
Man with the Red Right Hand knelt in the night and prayed:
‘Pity and spare, O God, the mortal whom thou hast made!
Strengthen the house he builds, adorn his glad roof-tree,
Blessing the bloody spoil he gathers on earth and sea!
The bird and the beast are blind, and they do not understand,
But lo! thy servant kneels!’ said Man with the Red Right Hand.
‘Pity and spare, O God, the mortal whom thou hast made!
Strengthen the house he builds, adorn his glad roof-tree,
Blessing the bloody spoil he gathers on earth and sea!
The bird and the beast are blind, and they do not understand,
But lo! thy servant kneels!’ said Man with the Red Right Hand.
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God went by in the Storm and answered never a word.
But the birds of the air shrieked loud and the beasts of the mountain heard,
And the dark sad flocks of the Sea and the Sea-lambs gentle-eyed
Wail'd from their oozy folds, and the mild Sea-kine replied,
And the pity of God fell down like darkness on sea and land,
But froze to ice in the heart of Man with the Red Right Hand.
But the birds of the air shrieked loud and the beasts of the mountain heard,
And the dark sad flocks of the Sea and the Sea-lambs gentle-eyed
Wail'd from their oozy folds, and the mild Sea-kine replied,
And the pity of God fell down like darkness on sea and land,
But froze to ice in the heart of Man with the Red Right Hand.
Then up he rose from his knee and brandish'd the crimson knife,
Saying: ‘I thank thee, God, for making me Lord of Life!
The beasts and the birds are mine, and the flesh and blood of the same,
Baptised in the blood of these, I gladden and praise thy name!
Laden with spoils of life thy servant shall smiling stand!’
And out on the Deep he hied, this Man with the Red Right Hand.
Saying: ‘I thank thee, God, for making me Lord of Life!
The beasts and the birds are mine, and the flesh and blood of the same,
Baptised in the blood of these, I gladden and praise thy name!
Laden with spoils of life thy servant shall smiling stand!’
And out on the Deep he hied, this Man with the Red Right Hand.
Afar on the lonely isles the cry of the slaughtered herds
Rose on the morning air, to the scream of the flying birds,
And the birds fell down and bled with pitiful human cries,
And the butcher'd Lambs of the Sea lookt up with pleading eyes,
And the blood of bird and beast was red on sea and land,
And drunk with the joy of Death was Man with the Red Right Hand.
Rose on the morning air, to the scream of the flying birds,
And the birds fell down and bled with pitiful human cries,
And the butcher'd Lambs of the Sea lookt up with pleading eyes,
And the blood of bird and beast was red on sea and land,
And drunk with the joy of Death was Man with the Red Right Hand.
And the fur of the slain sea-lamb was a cloak for his bride to wear,
And the broken wing of the bird was set in his leman's hair,
And the flesh of the ox and lamb were food for his brood to eat,
And the skin of the mild sea-kine was shoon on his daughter's feet!
And the cry of the slaughtered things was loud over sea and land
As he knelt once more and prayed, upraising his Red Right Hand.
And the broken wing of the bird was set in his leman's hair,
And the flesh of the ox and lamb were food for his brood to eat,
And the skin of the mild sea-kine was shoon on his daughter's feet!
And the cry of the slaughtered things was loud over sea and land
As he knelt once more and prayed, upraising his Red Right Hand.
‘Pity me, Master and Lord! spare me and pass me by,
Grant me Eternal Life, though the beast and the bird must die!
Behold I worship thy Law, and gladden in all thy ways,
The bird and the beast are dumb, but behold I sing thy praise,
The bird and the beast are blind, and they do not understand,
But lo, I see and know!’ said Man with the Red Right Hand.
Grant me Eternal Life, though the beast and the bird must die!
Behold I worship thy Law, and gladden in all thy ways,
The bird and the beast are dumb, but behold I sing thy praise,
The bird and the beast are blind, and they do not understand,
But lo, I see and know!’ said Man with the Red Right Hand.
God went by in the Storm and answered never a word.
But deep in the soul of Man the cry of a God was heard:
‘Askest thou pity, thou, who ne'er drew pitying breath?
Askest thou fulness of life, whose life is built upon Death?
Even as thou metest to these, thy kin of the sea and land,
Shall it be meted to thee, O Man of the Red Right Hand!
But deep in the soul of Man the cry of a God was heard:
‘Askest thou pity, thou, who ne'er drew pitying breath?
Askest thou fulness of life, whose life is built upon Death?
Even as thou metest to these, thy kin of the sea and land,
Shall it be meted to thee, O Man of the Red Right Hand!
‘When thou namest bird and beast, and blessest them passing by,
When thy pleasure is built no more on the pain of things that die,
When thy bride no longer wears the spoil of thy butcher's knife,
Perchance thy prayer may reach the ears of the Lord of Life;
Meantime be slain with the things thou slayest on sea and land,—
Yea, pass in thy place like those, O Man with the Red Right Hand!’
When thy pleasure is built no more on the pain of things that die,
When thy bride no longer wears the spoil of thy butcher's knife,
Perchance thy prayer may reach the ears of the Lord of Life;
Meantime be slain with the things thou slayest on sea and land,—
Yea, pass in thy place like those, O Man with the Red Right Hand!’
SONG OF THE FUR-SEAL.
Who cometh out of the sea
Wrapt in His winding-sheet?
He who hung on the Tree
With blood on His hands and feet,—
On the frozen isles He leaps, and lo, the sea-lambs round Him bleat!
Wrapt in His winding-sheet?
He who hung on the Tree
With blood on His hands and feet,—
On the frozen isles He leaps, and lo, the sea-lambs round Him bleat!
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The cry of the flocks o' the Sea
Rings in the ears of the Man!
Gentle and mild is He,
Tho' worn and weak and wan;
The mild-eyed seals look up in joy, His pitiful face to scan.
Rings in the ears of the Man!
Gentle and mild is He,
Tho' worn and weak and wan;
The mild-eyed seals look up in joy, His pitiful face to scan.
They gather round Him there,
He blesses them one and all,—
On their eyes and tangled hair
His tears of blessing fall;—
But He starteth up and He listeneth, for He hears the hunter's call!
He blesses them one and all,—
On their eyes and tangled hair
His tears of blessing fall;—
But He starteth up and He listeneth, for He hears the hunter's call!
Moaning in fear He flies
Leading the wild sea-herds,
O'er Him, under the skies,
Follow the startled birds.
‘Father, look down!’ He moans aloud, and the Heavens fling back His words!
Leading the wild sea-herds,
O'er Him, under the skies,
Follow the startled birds.
‘Father, look down!’ He moans aloud, and the Heavens fling back His words!
The hunter's feet are swift,
The feet of the Christ are slow,
Nearer they come who lift
Red hands for the butcher's blow,—
Aye me, the bleeding lambs of the Sea, who struggle and wail in woe!
The feet of the Christ are slow,
Nearer they come who lift
Red hands for the butcher's blow,—
Aye me, the bleeding lambs of the Sea, who struggle and wail in woe!
Blind with the lust of death
Are the red hunter's eyes,
Around him blood like breath
Streams to the silent skies,—
Slain again 'mong the slain sea-lambs the white Christ moans and dies!
Are the red hunter's eyes,
Around him blood like breath
Streams to the silent skies,—
Slain again 'mong the slain sea-lambs the white Christ moans and dies!
‘Even as the least of these,
Butcher'd again, I fall!’
O gentle lambs of the Sea,
Who leapt to hear Him call,
Bleeding there in your midst He lies, who gladden'd and blest you all!
Butcher'd again, I fall!’
O gentle lambs of the Sea,
Who leapt to hear Him call,
Bleeding there in your midst He lies, who gladden'd and blest you all!
And the hunter striding by,
Blind, with no heart to feel,
Laughs at the anguish'd cry,
And crushes under his heel
The head of the Christ that looketh up with the eyes of a slaughter'd seal!
Blind, with no heart to feel,
Laughs at the anguish'd cry,
And crushes under his heel
The head of the Christ that looketh up with the eyes of a slaughter'd seal!
See, passim, the descriptions of Dr. Gordon Stables, R.N., Captain Borchgrevink, Professor Jukes, and others, of the devilries which accompany the slaughter of the Fur-Seal.
GOD EVOLVING.
Turn from that mirage of a God on high
Holding the sceptre of a creed outworn,
And hearken to the faint half-human cry
Of Nature quickening with the God unborn!
Holding the sceptre of a creed outworn,
And hearken to the faint half-human cry
Of Nature quickening with the God unborn!
The God unborn, the God that is to be,
The God that has not been since Time began,—
Hark,—that low sound of Nature's agony
Echoed thro' life and the hard heart of Man!
The God that has not been since Time began,—
Hark,—that low sound of Nature's agony
Echoed thro' life and the hard heart of Man!
Fed with the blood and tears of living things,
Nourish'd and strengthen'd by Creation's woes,
The God unborn, that shall be King of Kings,
Sown in the darkness, thro' the darkness grows.
Nourish'd and strengthen'd by Creation's woes,
The God unborn, that shall be King of Kings,
Sown in the darkness, thro' the darkness grows.
Alas, the long slow travail and the pain
Of her who bears him in her mighty womb!
How long ere he shall live and breathe and reign,
While yonder Phantom fades to give him room?
Of her who bears him in her mighty womb!
How long ere he shall live and breathe and reign,
While yonder Phantom fades to give him room?
Where'er great pity is and piteousness,
Where'er great Love and Love's strange sorrow stay,
Where'er men cease to curse, but bend to bless,
Frail brethren fashion'd like themselves of clay;
Where'er great Love and Love's strange sorrow stay,
Where'er men cease to curse, but bend to bless,
Frail brethren fashion'd like themselves of clay;
Where'er the lamb and lion side by side
Lie down in peace, where'er on land or sea
Infinite Love and Mercy heavenly-eyed
Emerge, there stirs the God that is to be!
Lie down in peace, where'er on land or sea
Infinite Love and Mercy heavenly-eyed
Emerge, there stirs the God that is to be!
His light is round the slaughter'd bird and beast
As round the forehead of Man crucified,—
All things that live, the greatest and the least,
Await the coming of this Lord and Guide;
As round the forehead of Man crucified,—
All things that live, the greatest and the least,
Await the coming of this Lord and Guide;
And every gentle deed by mortals done,
Yea, every holy thought and loving breath,
Lighten poor Nature's travail with this Son
Who shall be Lord and God of Life and Death!
Yea, every holy thought and loving breath,
Lighten poor Nature's travail with this Son
Who shall be Lord and God of Life and Death!
329
No God behind us in the empty Vast,
No God enthroned on yonder heights above,
But God emerging, and evolved at last
Out of the inmost heart of human Love!
No God enthroned on yonder heights above,
But God emerging, and evolved at last
Out of the inmost heart of human Love!
Wound Love, thou woundest, too, this God unborn!
Of Love and Love's compassion is he bred!
His strength the grace that holds no thing in scorn,
His very blood the tears by Pity shed!
Of Love and Love's compassion is he bred!
His strength the grace that holds no thing in scorn,
His very blood the tears by Pity shed!
And every cruel thought or deed on earth,
Yea, even blood-sacrifice on bended knee,
Lengthens the travail and delays the birth
Of this our God, the God that is to be!
Yea, even blood-sacrifice on bended knee,
Lengthens the travail and delays the birth
Of this our God, the God that is to be!
‘PATRIOTISM.’
‘Throughout all this period of Titanic
struggle, patriotism was the most potent factor
in the contest, and ultimately decided the issue.
Animated by patriotism, which gave to her armies
a superhuman strength, France was able to
confound all the efforts of her enemies. Then,
ignoring in all other nations a love of independence
and freedom as strenuous as her own, she
at last created and evoked in them this all-powerful
sentiment, and was in the end driven
back to her frontiers by an exhibition of the same
spirit as that which had enabled her to defend
them. . . . The fact is, that a vague attachment
to the whole human race is a poor substitute for
the performance of the duties of a citizen; and
professions of universal philanthropy afford no
excuse for neglecting the interests of one's own
country.’—
Joseph Chamberlain, in Glasgow.
I
Judas to Caiaphas,The Elders, and the Priests:
‘I, heir of him who sold the Man
Whose voice disturb'd your feasts,
My thirty pieces duly gained,
The Cross and Sword upraise,
And claim, for triumph thus attained,
The Patriot's palm and bays!
II
‘Who is the Patriot? HeWho, swift and keen to slay,
Spieth the helpless quarry out
For home-bred birds of prey;
Who heeds not hearts that ache and break,
But peers from sea to sea,
And ever, for his Country's sake,
Points Christ to Calvary!
III
‘The black Christs and the white,Lo, how they shriek and die,
While the great conquering Flag floats on
And merry hosts go by!
I price in our imperial Mart
Their land, their gold, their lives—
Ho, Priests, who heeds the broken heart,
So that the Market thrives?
IV
‘Who is the Patriot? HeWho strideth, sword in hand,
To reap the fields he never sowed,
For his own Fatherland!
Who, sweeping human rights aside,
Sets up the cross-shaped Tree,
And while the Christ is crucified,
Bids all the Thieves go free!
V
‘This for a sign I speak—Heed it and understand—
Who loves his neighbour as himself
Loves, too, his neighbour's land!
His neighbour's land, his wives, his gold,
All the good thief may seize,
And he's a Patriot twentyfold
Who garners all of these!
VI
‘All, for his Country's sake,His God, his Lord, his Home,
Ev'n so the Roman stalk'd abroad
And claimed the world for Rome,
Ev'n so the patriot Nations still
In emulation toil,
Confront each other, shrieking shrill,
And hungering for the spoil!
VII
‘Remember how the Patriot's fireSwept Europe west to east,
While on its trail devouring ran
The many-headed Beast;
Till dawn'd at last the glorious morn
When all the Earth was priced
By Patriotism's latest-born,
The Imperial Antichrist!
330
VII
‘Hark! still the Patriot's cryYonder in France is heard—
She slew her Kings, she found for men
The blood-compelling Word:
Arm'd to the teeth still croucheth she,
Waketh, and sleepeth not—
“Allons, enfants de la Patrie—
To cut our neighbour's throat!”
IX
‘Lo, how the same grand dreamOf God and Fatherland
Fills the brave Teuton's warrior-soul
And arms his mailed hand;
Beast-like for battle he prepares,
Bow'd down with helm and glaive,—
How proudly he, the Patriot, wears
The livery of the Slave!’
X
Judas to Caiaphas,The Elders, and the Priests:
‘I, heir of him who sold the Man
Whose voice disturb'd your feasts,
Bid ye, my brethren of the Blood,
March on from sea to sea,
Nor heed, 'mid Conquest's roaring flood,
The cries from Calvary!
XI
‘Patriots ye were and are,Yours is the Patriot's crown;
The Patriot is the strong man, he
Who strikes the weak man down!
Onward with Cross and Sword, still race
With all the world for prey,—
I price, in this your market-place,
The robes of Him ye slay!’
THE GRAND OLD MAN.
(Westminster, March 1898.)
I.
Now the long volume of his life,
As all in turn must be,
Is closed, and placed remote from strife
In Death's black library,
As all in turn must be,
Is closed, and placed remote from strife
In Death's black library,
Eternal honour to the name
Kept clean from youth to age,
With scarce a blot of sin or shame
Upon the splendid page!
Kept clean from youth to age,
With scarce a blot of sin or shame
Upon the splendid page!
The Grand Old Man! how few have writ
A scroll so clean and clear!—
Pilgrims shall come and ponder it
For many and many a year;
A scroll so clean and clear!—
Pilgrims shall come and ponder it
For many and many a year;
And ever as their eyes are cast
Upon it shall descry,
Yea, from the front page till the last,
The name of the Most High!
Upon it shall descry,
Yea, from the front page till the last,
The name of the Most High!
For in an age where strong men doubt
This strong man doubted nought,
But mail'd in faith, passed in and out
The wind-blown flames of Thought;
This strong man doubted nought,
But mail'd in faith, passed in and out
The wind-blown flames of Thought;
And ever from his lips there came
The words of happy prayer,
With which he, child-like, sought to shame
The pessimist's despair.
The words of happy prayer,
With which he, child-like, sought to shame
The pessimist's despair.
Ah, well, he was, when all is said,
A gracious soul and kind—
I do not weep that he is dead,
I weep that he was blind!
A gracious soul and kind—
I do not weep that he is dead,
I weep that he was blind!
Blind with the Light that sears the sight
With sheer excess of Day,—
So true, so eager for the Right,
And yet—so oft astray!
With sheer excess of Day,—
So true, so eager for the Right,
And yet—so oft astray!
A mighty leader and a guide,
He led men long and well,
First in the van, tho' blown aside
By breaths from Heaven or Hell!
He led men long and well,
First in the van, tho' blown aside
By breaths from Heaven or Hell!
Out of his very weakness strong,
His very blindness brave,
Serene and calm he march'd along
To no inglorious grave.
His very blindness brave,
Serene and calm he march'd along
To no inglorious grave.
And round him now the ribald throng
That mock'd his march is dumb,
And honouring what they fear'd so long
The rival factions come,—
That mock'd his march is dumb,
And honouring what they fear'd so long
The rival factions come,—
Nay, priests of every creed attest
Him King of Humankind,
Blessed 'mong men, but blessedest
Because his eyes were blind!
Him King of Humankind,
Blessed 'mong men, but blessedest
Because his eyes were blind!
331
II.
Battle and Storm? God screen'd his form
From all Life's fiercest airs;
His battle was of words, his storm
Was one to lay with prayers!
From all Life's fiercest airs;
His battle was of words, his storm
Was one to lay with prayers!
As true as steel, as pure as snow,
He lived his gentle life
Too shielded in his place to know
The stress of human strife,—
He lived his gentle life
Too shielded in his place to know
The stress of human strife,—
The woe, the anguish, the despair,
Of mortals tempest-toss'd;
In his soul's sails the wind blew fair
Even when he struggled most!
Of mortals tempest-toss'd;
In his soul's sails the wind blew fair
Even when he struggled most!
Easy it seems for such a man
To keep his soul's page white—
God never bow'd him with His ban
Or marr'd him with His blight!
To keep his soul's page white—
God never bow'd him with His ban
Or marr'd him with His blight!
His gentle hand ne'er lifted up
The load of human pain,
His lips not even touch'd the cup
The broken-hearted drain;
The load of human pain,
His lips not even touch'd the cup
The broken-hearted drain;
He thirsted not, nor lack'd for food,
Nor stricken earthward grieved,
But, sure that God was kind and good,
He gladden'd and believed!
Nor stricken earthward grieved,
But, sure that God was kind and good,
He gladden'd and believed!
His rose-crown'd cup ran o'er the brim
With wine, not tear-drops sad—
His God was very good to him,
And kept him blind and glad!
With wine, not tear-drops sad—
His God was very good to him,
And kept him blind and glad!
III.
Peace, he was pure,—let that suffice!
And brave in word and deed,—
Why envy, in these caves of ice,
The sunshine of his creed?
And brave in word and deed,—
Why envy, in these caves of ice,
The sunshine of his creed?
The wind we feel so chill blows fresh
On him, and such as he,—
Tho' God who fashioneth the flesh
Sendeth the Leprosy!
On him, and such as he,—
Tho' God who fashioneth the flesh
Sendeth the Leprosy!
Blest was his child-like faith and prayer,
If not afar, yet here,—
How dark and dull seems our despair
Beside a faith so clear!
If not afar, yet here,—
How dark and dull seems our despair
Beside a faith so clear!
He walked the broad and easy way
And died and lived a child,—
Yea, even on his stormiest day
Folded his hands and smiled,
And died and lived a child,—
Yea, even on his stormiest day
Folded his hands and smiled,
Believing all things, doubting not
That all was surely well,—
Upon his soul one only blot,
The death-stain of Parnell!
That all was surely well,—
Upon his soul one only blot,
The death-stain of Parnell!
Cleanse that one blot away, his fame
Was star-like 'mongst his kind,—
Yet even that from goodness came,
Because God kept him blind!
Was star-like 'mongst his kind,—
Yet even that from goodness came,
Because God kept him blind!
‘THE UNION.’
The speech our English freemen spoke
Still fills the plains afar,
Where branches of our English oak
Wave 'neath the Western star;
‘Be free!’ men cried in Shakespeare's tongue,
When smiting for the slave—
Thus Hampden's cry for freedom rung
As far as Lincoln's grave!
Still fills the plains afar,
Where branches of our English oak
Wave 'neath the Western star;
‘Be free!’ men cried in Shakespeare's tongue,
When smiting for the slave—
Thus Hampden's cry for freedom rung
As far as Lincoln's grave!
Back rings that cry from far away
To fill the Motherland,
Where 'neath the Union Jack this day
Both false and true men stand—
Hark to the foes of all things free,
Who, arm'd in hate, intone:
‘The Union! let our war-cry be
That word, and that alone!
To fill the Motherland,
Where 'neath the Union Jack this day
Both false and true men stand—
Hark to the foes of all things free,
Who, arm'd in hate, intone:
‘The Union! let our war-cry be
That word, and that alone!
‘The Union! Kiss the dead Christ's face
While brandishing the Sword,
Foster the scorn of race for race,
Exult, and praise the Lord!
Carry the rule of pride and hate
O'er earth, from pole to pole!
The Union! leave men desolate
But keep the Empire whole!’
While brandishing the Sword,
Foster the scorn of race for race,
Exult, and praise the Lord!
Carry the rule of pride and hate
O'er earth, from pole to pole!
The Union! leave men desolate
But keep the Empire whole!’
‘The Union? Yes, in God's name, still
The Union!’ we reply—
‘The Union of a Nation's will
Against each timbrel'd lie!
The Union beautiful and good
Of lands by Love made one!
One heart, one cause, one brotherhood,
One Empire 'neath the sun!
The Union!’ we reply—
‘The Union of a Nation's will
Against each timbrel'd lie!
The Union beautiful and good
Of lands by Love made one!
One heart, one cause, one brotherhood,
One Empire 'neath the sun!
332
‘That Union which hath been so long
Our boast from sea to sea,—
Justice, redressing human wrong,
Love, keeping all men free;
Not that which starves one hapless land
While others smile full-fed,
Not that which from another's hand
Would snatch the daily bread!
Our boast from sea to sea,—
Justice, redressing human wrong,
Love, keeping all men free;
Not that which starves one hapless land
While others smile full-fed,
Not that which from another's hand
Would snatch the daily bread!
‘Union in strength of Love, not Hate!
Union in Peace, not Strife!
Union to keep inviolate
The sacraments of Life!
Union is one great common aim,
Triumphant late or soon,
To share the freedom we proclaim
With all who beg the boon!
Union in Peace, not Strife!
Union to keep inviolate
The sacraments of Life!
Union is one great common aim,
Triumphant late or soon,
To share the freedom we proclaim
With all who beg the boon!
‘Not Union based on braggart's boasts
Or on the robber's creed,
Not Union thrust by armed hosts
On lives that would be freed!
Not Union fed by hate and wrath
Where'er the weak make moan,—
No, Union on the heavenward path
Where Justice hath her throne!
Or on the robber's creed,
Not Union thrust by armed hosts
On lives that would be freed!
Not Union fed by hate and wrath
Where'er the weak make moan,—
No, Union on the heavenward path
Where Justice hath her throne!
‘Justice to all, and first to those
Who speak our common speech—
Help to our brethren great or small,
Free thought, free laws, for each;
Who chains his brother to his side
Seeketh his help in vain,
And Might is impotent to guide
The souls that Love may gain.
Who speak our common speech—
Help to our brethren great or small,
Free thought, free laws, for each;
Who chains his brother to his side
Seeketh his help in vain,
And Might is impotent to guide
The souls that Love may gain.
‘This is the Union which is still
Our strength from sea to sea—
Freedom, whose mandates we fulfil
By leaving all men free
To sheathe the sword, to help man's lot,
To break each cruel chain . . .
The Union? Yes, by God!—but not
A pact 'tween Christ and Cain!’
Our strength from sea to sea—
Freedom, whose mandates we fulfil
By leaving all men free
To sheathe the sword, to help man's lot,
To break each cruel chain . . .
The Union? Yes, by God!—but not
A pact 'tween Christ and Cain!’
‘PEACE, NOT A SWORD.’
(The Arbitration Treaty, January 1897.)
I
Peace, not a Sword! She claims to-dayThe crown by Freedom wrought,—
Victorious Peace, with power to sway
Free Life, free Speech, free Thought;
The Lord who gave the blind Seer sight
Hath led us up and on,
And lo! our Milton's dream of Light
Fulfil'd, at Washington!
II
In this great hour of righteous pride,Be hush'd, ye Voices vain,
Which still invite the Crucified
To join the feasts of Cain;
Not by the hypocrite's despair
Shall Love's last gift be priced,
Nay! Cain is Cain, although he wear
The livery of the Christ!
III
Now, while ye greet your Jingo-god,Hounds of the mart and street,
We close the bloody winepress, trod
By fratricidal feet!
The strife which savage priests have sung
A thousand years shall cease,
For Glory's banner shall be hung
In the great Halls of Peace.
IV
Despair not, Men, though Time should bringBut part of all ye crave:
Did not the cry of Hampden ring
As far as Lincoln's grave?
The voice which saith, ‘No brother's hand
May shed a brother's blood,’
Shall grow till men in every land
Are one vast Brotherhood!
V
Lo, now the seed by martyrs sownSprings up, a goodly tree,
Let every Despot on his throne
Take heed, from sea to sea!
For he who still invokes the Sword
Shall by that same Sword fall,
While he whom Wisdom's Voice and Word
Redeem, must conquer all!
VI
Ring out, glad bells! now night hath fled,The rose of Dawn shall bloom!
The Light that halo'd Whitman's head
Shines back on Shelley's tomb!
333
Which martyr-bards unfurl'd,
Heart link'd to heart, hand join'd to hand,
The Freedmen of the World!
12th January 1897.
HARK NOW, WHAT FRETFUL VOICES.
Hark now, what fretful voices
Sound shrill from shore to shore!—
The home-bred curs of England
Barking at England's door,—
The weak wolf-hearted creatures
Who gather multiform
And out of quiet waters
Would fain shriek up the Storm!
Sound shrill from shore to shore!—
The home-bred curs of England
Barking at England's door,—
The weak wolf-hearted creatures
Who gather multiform
And out of quiet waters
Would fain shriek up the Storm!
Hark, how the half-breed answers
With strident harsh refrain,
Echoed by Windmill-Journals
That whirl yet grind no grain—
Out o'er the peaceful waters
The hideous notes are hurl'd,
While poets of the banjo
Defy the listening world!
With strident harsh refrain,
Echoed by Windmill-Journals
That whirl yet grind no grain—
Out o'er the peaceful waters
The hideous notes are hurl'd,
While poets of the banjo
Defy the listening world!
Not thus in days departed
Did England's triumphs come—
The Hero then was silent,
The Martyr then was dumb!
Amid the roll of tempests
You heard no rowdy's song—
The Makers of our England
Were still as they were strong!
Did England's triumphs come—
The Hero then was silent,
The Martyr then was dumb!
Amid the roll of tempests
You heard no rowdy's song—
The Makers of our England
Were still as they were strong!
Not thus the sons of England
Grew strong and great and free,
Bridling the white sea-horses
That sweep from sea to sea,—
With stern lips set in silence
They paused and bent the knee,
And prayed the God of Silence
To give them victory!
Grew strong and great and free,
Bridling the white sea-horses
That sweep from sea to sea,—
With stern lips set in silence
They paused and bent the knee,
And prayed the God of Silence
To give them victory!
The mighty hand of England
Should be too strong to raise
The trumpet of the Braggart
That sounds her own self-praise!
Her glory (still she gains it
From sleepless year to year)
Is wrought through deeds of Heroes,
Not shrieks of Chanticleer!
Should be too strong to raise
The trumpet of the Braggart
That sounds her own self-praise!
Her glory (still she gains it
From sleepless year to year)
Is wrought through deeds of Heroes,
Not shrieks of Chanticleer!
Out there upon the waters
Heroes are living still,—
From land to land they wander
With firm and fearless will;
They plough the stormy billow,
But vaunt not what they do,—
The Mariners of England
Are calm as they are true!
Heroes are living still,—
From land to land they wander
With firm and fearless will;
They plough the stormy billow,
But vaunt not what they do,—
The Mariners of England
Are calm as they are true!
Yonder our legions gather
Beneath the battle-flag,
They march to Death in silence
And let the coward brag;
To urge their spirits onward
They need no savage song,—
The Warriors of England
Are still as they are strong!
Beneath the battle-flag,
They march to Death in silence
And let the coward brag;
To urge their spirits onward
They need no savage song,—
The Warriors of England
Are still as they are strong!
And still, erect and fearless,
Unarm'd or sword in hand,
Wherever Honour beckons
Our silent Heroes stand:
They scorn the shrieking remnant
Who gather multiform
And, safe from every danger,
Would fain shriek up the Storm!
Unarm'd or sword in hand,
Wherever Honour beckons
Our silent Heroes stand:
They scorn the shrieking remnant
Who gather multiform
And, safe from every danger,
Would fain shriek up the Storm!
THE IRISHMAN TO CROMWELL.
I
Cromwell, what soul denies thy claimTo honour in the Saxon's sight?
Thy spirit, like a stormy flame,
Still gleams through centuries of Night,
While Freedom's weeping eyes are bent
On deeds that are thy monument!
II
Thanks to thy ruthless sword and theeThy cruel creed is living yet,
And Christians still from sea to sea
Owe thee and thine a deathless debt;
With thee to light them through the land,
Famine and Faith walk'd hand in hand.
334
III
Think not we scorn thee,—thou wast strong!Think not we wrong thee,—thou wast great!
Thou sharest with the kingly throng
The aftermath of human Hate:
Among the thrones thy lightnings rent
Should surely be thy monument?
IV
Hot gospeller of bloody War,Thy Cross became a slaughtering sword;
Thy Biblic thunders roll'd afar
The message of thy King and Lord,—
The wondering Nations heard thy cry—
‘Worship my God of Wrath, or die!’
V
Before thee, Tyrant, tyrants fell,By thee, O King, a King was slain,—
Honest as Cain and true as Hell,
Scorner of mercy, thou didst reign;
With blood and tears thou didst cement
This Union, thy monument!
VI
Thy Throne was on a million graves,O Christian monarch of the free;
The curse of sixty thousand slaves,
Torn from their homes and chain'd by thee,
From the plantations of the west
Arose, thy might to manifest!
VII
Even thus on History's bloodiest pageThy name is written, King of men,—
And evermore from age to age
Thy seed of bigots springs again;
What needst thou further to content
Thy ghost, by way of monument?
VIII
The bigot's strength and faith were thine,The bigot's creed that hates the sun,
And yet in Freedom's name divine
Thy bloody victories were won:
'Mong Monarchs keep thy place of pride,
With Charles's Spectre at thy side!
IX
Ask not the love our souls deny,But take our homage if thou wilt,—
Thy gospel was a living lie,
Our blood was on thine altars spilt,—
Scourge by the God of Slaughter sent,
Be Drogheda thy monument!
THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.
(NEW STYLE.)
‘O what's the news from England?’ the grey old Mother said,
‘And what's the news about my sons, and are they quick or dead?
I've waited on for many a year and prayed beside the sea,
Remembering how they drew the sword and swore to set me free!’
‘O Mother, sure thy sons survive, tho' better they had died,
They palter with the faith they learn'd before they left thy side;
Among the camp fires of thy foes the Fratricides are seen,
They hang upon the Tyrant's nod, and blush to wear the Green!’
‘And what's the news about my sons, and are they quick or dead?
I've waited on for many a year and prayed beside the sea,
Remembering how they drew the sword and swore to set me free!’
‘O Mother, sure thy sons survive, tho' better they had died,
They palter with the faith they learn'd before they left thy side;
Among the camp fires of thy foes the Fratricides are seen,
They hang upon the Tyrant's nod, and blush to wear the Green!’
‘My eyes are dim with weeping,’ the grey old Mother said,
‘The chains are still upon my hands, the sackcloth on my head;
I blest my sons before they went and deem'd them leal and true,
And eagerly with leaping hearts across the seas they flew.’
‘O Mother, what was sown in pride thy sons now reap in scorn,
They help'd the pandars and the priests to slay thine Eldest-born,
Then for his raiment casting lots they reached out hands obscene,
Dishonouring the noble dead who best had loved the Green!’
‘The chains are still upon my hands, the sackcloth on my head;
I blest my sons before they went and deem'd them leal and true,
And eagerly with leaping hearts across the seas they flew.’
‘O Mother, what was sown in pride thy sons now reap in scorn,
They help'd the pandars and the priests to slay thine Eldest-born,
Then for his raiment casting lots they reached out hands obscene,
Dishonouring the noble dead who best had loved the Green!’
‘Green be his grave in England, who loved me long and well,
May never freemen welcome back the butchers of Parnell!
I deem them sons of mine no more, I brand them sons of Cain,
Who slew their brother over there, the bigot's smile to gain!’
‘O Mother, sure not all thy sons are false and base like those,
Not all have traded truth and faith to win the English rose;
Among thy children over there are some whose hands are clean,
And these shall yet unbind thy chains, and glorify the Green!’
May never freemen welcome back the butchers of Parnell!
335
Who slew their brother over there, the bigot's smile to gain!’
‘O Mother, sure not all thy sons are false and base like those,
Not all have traded truth and faith to win the English rose;
Among thy children over there are some whose hands are clean,
And these shall yet unbind thy chains, and glorify the Green!’
‘O what's the news from England?’ the grey old Mother cried,
‘Now he is slain, my Eldest-born, who stands as chief and guide?
What souls are false, what souls are true of all that bear my name,
What son of mine shall lift me up and save me out of shame?’
‘O Mother, sure they follow now the feeblest of thy clan,
A peddler with a woman's heart, and not an Irish man!
And in his train the turncoat and the sycophant are seen,
And day by day dishonour comes to those who wear the Green!
‘Now he is slain, my Eldest-born, who stands as chief and guide?
What souls are false, what souls are true of all that bear my name,
What son of mine shall lift me up and save me out of shame?’
‘O Mother, sure they follow now the feeblest of thy clan,
A peddler with a woman's heart, and not an Irish man!
And in his train the turncoat and the sycophant are seen,
And day by day dishonour comes to those who wear the Green!
‘And over there in England, the Saxon who had sworn
To break thy bonds and set thee free has laughed thy woes to scorn;
For in the City's Square they raise a likeness hewn in stone
To honour him who broke thy heart and left thee here alone!
Mother, remember Drogheda, and all thy woes of old,
And curse the butcher Cromwell's name a thousand thousandfold,
Trust not the slaves that honour him who thy worst scourge has been,
But turn again from friends so false to those who wear the Green!
To break thy bonds and set thee free has laughed thy woes to scorn;
For in the City's Square they raise a likeness hewn in stone
To honour him who broke thy heart and left thee here alone!
Mother, remember Drogheda, and all thy woes of old,
And curse the butcher Cromwell's name a thousand thousandfold,
Trust not the slaves that honour him who thy worst scourge has been,
But turn again from friends so false to those who wear the Green!
‘We are the sons who love thee, O Erin, Mother dear!
We've borne thy Cross and blest thy name from weary year to year!
We've shamed the fratricidal crew who take thy name in vain,
We've fought for Ireland foot by foot although our Chief lay slain;
There's hope for thee and Freedom yet, so long as we are true,
Our birthright still remains to us although our ranks are few,—
Please God we'll save our country yet, and keep its record clean,
And preach from Cork to Donegar the wearing of the Green!’
We've borne thy Cross and blest thy name from weary year to year!
We've shamed the fratricidal crew who take thy name in vain,
We've fought for Ireland foot by foot although our Chief lay slain;
There's hope for thee and Freedom yet, so long as we are true,
Our birthright still remains to us although our ranks are few,—
Please God we'll save our country yet, and keep its record clean,
And preach from Cork to Donegar the wearing of the Green!’
VICTORY.
Old Flag, that floatest fair and proud
Where'er our swift fleets fly,
Do they who shriek thy praise aloud
Honour thee more than I,—
Who yield to none beneath the sun
In love for thine and thee,
Altho' I raise no song of praise
Or hymn of victory?
Where'er our swift fleets fly,
Do they who shriek thy praise aloud
Honour thee more than I,—
Who yield to none beneath the sun
In love for thine and thee,
Altho' I raise no song of praise
Or hymn of victory?
Not love thee, dear old Flag? not bless
This England, sea and shore?
O England, if I loved thee less
My song might praise thee more,—
I'd have thee strong to right the wrong
And wise as thou art free;
For thee I'd claim a stainless fame,
A bloodless victory!
This England, sea and shore?
O England, if I loved thee less
My song might praise thee more,—
I'd have thee strong to right the wrong
And wise as thou art free;
For thee I'd claim a stainless fame,
A bloodless victory!
Conquer'd thou hast! from west to east,
Thy fleets float on in pride,—
Thy glory, England, hath not ceased
Since Nelson bled and died;
Peace to the brave, who to thee gave
This Empire of the Sea,—
Yet would thy son from God had won
A mightier victory!
Thy fleets float on in pride,—
Thy glory, England, hath not ceased
Since Nelson bled and died;
Peace to the brave, who to thee gave
This Empire of the Sea,—
Yet would thy son from God had won
A mightier victory!
The trumpets of thy rule are blown
Where'er thy hosts go by;
Blent with their sound I hear the moan
Of martyr'd men who die;
Crush'd 'neath their tread lie quick and dead,
And far away I see
The white Christ rise with weeping eyes
To mourn thy victory!
Where'er thy hosts go by;
Blent with their sound I hear the moan
Of martyr'd men who die;
Crush'd 'neath their tread lie quick and dead,
And far away I see
The white Christ rise with weeping eyes
To mourn thy victory!
336
Nay, is it victory at all
The blood-red wreath to gain?
The hosts who curse thee as they fall
But prove thy glory vain;
Thy legions strong still march along
And reap the world for thee,
But nobler is the Sower's song
Than their best victory!
The blood-red wreath to gain?
The hosts who curse thee as they fall
But prove thy glory vain;
Thy legions strong still march along
And reap the world for thee,
But nobler is the Sower's song
Than their best victory!
Not through thy legions arm'd to slay
Hast thou survived and reigned,—
Through men who threw the sword away
Thy glory hath been gained;
Strong, stubborn-kneed, they stood and freed
The slave from sea to sea,
And Wilberforce's bloodless deed
Was England's victory!
Hast thou survived and reigned,—
Through men who threw the sword away
Thy glory hath been gained;
Strong, stubborn-kneed, they stood and freed
The slave from sea to sea,
And Wilberforce's bloodless deed
Was England's victory!
The men whose hands have raised thy throne,
And guard it evermore,
Are such as lit the Eddystone
And built the Skerryvore!
By blood unstain'd their hands maintain'd
This Empire of the Sea,—
The white wreath won by Stephenson
Crown'd Nelson's victory!
And guard it evermore,
Are such as lit the Eddystone
And built the Skerryvore!
By blood unstain'd their hands maintain'd
This Empire of the Sea,—
The white wreath won by Stephenson
Crown'd Nelson's victory!
To such as these, O Motherland,
Let thy red hosts give room—
To those who wrought with patient hand
The engine and the loom;
Thy gifts increase through acts of Peace,
Not deeds men weep to see,
And Shakespeare's page from age to age
Is thy best victory!
Let thy red hosts give room—
To those who wrought with patient hand
The engine and the loom;
Thy gifts increase through acts of Peace,
Not deeds men weep to see,
And Shakespeare's page from age to age
Is thy best victory!
Not love the dear old Flag? not bless
Our England, sea and shore?
O England, those who love thee less
May stoop to praise thee more.
To keep thy fame from taint of shame
I pray on bended knee,
But where the braggart mouths thy name
I hail no victory!
Our England, sea and shore?
O England, those who love thee less
May stoop to praise thee more.
To keep thy fame from taint of shame
I pray on bended knee,
But where the braggart mouths thy name
I hail no victory!
Thy place is yonder on the Deep
That blows thy fleets abroad,
Thy strength is in the men who keep
Their bloodless pact with God;
They love thee best who will not rest
Until, from sea to sea,
Justice and Love, by all men blest,
Complete thy victory!
That blows thy fleets abroad,
Thy strength is in the men who keep
Their bloodless pact with God;
They love thee best who will not rest
Until, from sea to sea,
Justice and Love, by all men blest,
Complete thy victory!
VOX POPULI.
I
How long, O God, how long shall we,The chosen of Thy race,
Wail in the night for Light to see
The glory of Thy Face?
How long shall Death usurp Thy throne,
While clouds of sorrow gather?
Hearken, O God! Thy children moan
In darkness for their Father!
II
How long shall this foul Upas-tree,Hung with the butcher'd dead,
Cast on Thy Cross of Calvary
Its shadow dark and dread?
As high as Heaven its branches rise
While those black fruits swing under,
And yet no Hand from yonder skies
Tears the black boughs asunder!
III
How long into our lives shall eatThe leprosy of Lust,
While all things pure and fair and sweet
Turn into strumous dust?
Crush'd 'neath the Leper's conquering feet
Crouches the white Slave, Woman,
While silently from street to street
Glide hucksters of the Human!
IV
Under Thy Cross the Throne still stands,A Woman sits thereon;
Beneath her cling with feeble hands
Her brethren, woe-begone;
No help, no succour from on high,
To bless their souls bereaven . . .
My God! they drag them thence to die,
While Thou art dumb in Heaven!
V
The Atheist and the Priest, O Lord,Unite to forge our chains!
Under Thy Cross, arm'd with Thy Sword,
Judge Ananias reigns!
337
Thy Church lies mute and broken,
And that they know no Light Divine
Thy Gallows stands for token!
VI
Reach out Thy Hand, snatch back Thy Sword!God of the quick and dead!
Crush down these Upas-trees, O Lord,
To dust beneath Thy tread!
Each leaf of life that trembles there,
Withering broken-hearted,
Attests, despite a Nation's prayer,
Thy glory hath departed!
VII
How long shall Man's dark law abideAnd Thine be closely seal'd,
How long shall Truth and Mercy hide
Forgotten, unreveal'd?
See, o'er this Flood whereon we move
Burns War's red Bow of Slaughter!
And still no sign of Thy White Dove
Upon the crimson water!
VIII
Come from the darkness of the Deep,Open the Heavens up there,
We charge Thee, by these tears we weep,
And by these chains we bear!
Death rules Thine earth despite our cries,
Heaven's Throne, too, is assailèd,—
While from His stricken children's eves
The Father's Face is veilèd . . .
How long, O Lord, how long?
VOX DEI.
I
Cowards and Slaves, who ne'er will learnYour own deep strength and might,
Who shut those eyes which should discern
The Truth, the Right, the Light!
God helps not Man, who might control
Ev'n God to his endeavour!—
The Titan with a Pigmy's Soul
Remains a Pigmy ever!
II
So long as those who might be freeCrouch down and hug their chains,
In vain is their appeal to Me
Or any God that reigns;
So long as mortal men despair,
Self-martyr'd, self-polluted,
Those Upas-trees shall cloud the air
With branches human-fruited!
III
So long as freemen yield the ThiefTheir birthright of the soil,
And let my earth remain in fief
To Knaves who will not toil;
So long as Knaves by Slaves are sent
To rule my fair creation,
Wail on, ye Mortals, and lament
Your own self-immolation!
IV
Awake! arise! upraise your eyes,Ye Titans of mankind,—
One touch would break the chain of Lies
Which ye yourselves have twined!
'Tis you alone who are the Strong,
Not ev'n your God is stronger!—
Long as ye will, be Slaves,—so long!
But not one heart's-beat longer!
V
I made you free, I gave you mightTo lose or conquer all;
I help no coward in the fight,
But calmly watch him fall!
So long as ye forget your dower,
By your own wills bereaven,
Wail on, in impotence of power,
But hope no help from Heaven! . . .
So long, O Men, so long!
OLD ROME.
Old Rome, whose thunderbolts were hurl'd
So long across a wondering world,
Whose legions swarmed from east to west,
Whose eagles kept the storms at bay,
Now Time hath lull'd thy heart to rest,
Where is thy pride, O Rome, today? . . .
Thy heart is still, Old Rome, thy pride hath pass'd away!
So long across a wondering world,
Whose legions swarmed from east to west,
Whose eagles kept the storms at bay,
338
Where is thy pride, O Rome, today? . . .
Thy heart is still, Old Rome, thy pride hath pass'd away!
Mount Atlas rises as of yore;
All round upon the Afric shore
The vast and solitary stones
Of thine imperial Cities stand—
The mighty Monster's bleaching bones
Half-buried in the desert sand! . . .
Where are thy conquering eyes, O Rome, thy red right hand?
All round upon the Afric shore
The vast and solitary stones
Of thine imperial Cities stand—
The mighty Monster's bleaching bones
Half-buried in the desert sand! . . .
Where are thy conquering eyes, O Rome, thy red right hand?
The sleepless Eagle's eyes at last
Are closed, its sunward flight hath pass'd!
But lo, afar across the sea
This new imperial Rome doth rise,
As strong, as fearless, and as free,
It feels the sun and fronts the skies . . .
Thine ears are dust, Old Rome, and cannot hear its cries!
Are closed, its sunward flight hath pass'd!
But lo, afar across the sea
This new imperial Rome doth rise,
As strong, as fearless, and as free,
It feels the sun and fronts the skies . . .
Thine ears are dust, Old Rome, and cannot hear its cries!
Dust! and we too, who now adjust
Our pomp and pride, shall be as dust!
And this, our Empire, too, shall share
The same inevitable doom,—
Thy death, Old Rome, and thy despair,
With all the weary world for tomb;—
The new race comes, the old and worn-out race gives room!
Our pomp and pride, shall be as dust!
And this, our Empire, too, shall share
The same inevitable doom,—
Thy death, Old Rome, and thy despair,
With all the weary world for tomb;—
The new race comes, the old and worn-out race gives room!
With bread and pageants we appease
The home-bred mob, while o'er the seas,
Snatching the spoil of many lands,
Conquering we sweep with sword and fire,
Nay, building up with bloody hands
The glory of our heart's desire,—
Raising (like thee, Old Rome!) our own proud funeral pyre!
The home-bred mob, while o'er the seas,
Snatching the spoil of many lands,
Conquering we sweep with sword and fire,
Nay, building up with bloody hands
The glory of our heart's desire,—
Raising (like thee, Old Rome!) our own proud funeral pyre!
Thy pride hath pass'd, and ours shall pass!
Over our graves shall grow the grass,
Within the cities we upraise
Jackal and wolf shall make their home,
A younger brow shall bear the bays,
A fairer fleet shall face the foam,—
When this our Rome is dust and laid with thine, Old Rome!
Over our graves shall grow the grass,
Within the cities we upraise
Jackal and wolf shall make their home,
A younger brow shall bear the bays,
A fairer fleet shall face the foam,—
When this our Rome is dust and laid with thine, Old Rome!
THE LAST BIVOUAC.
At hush of night, when all things seem
To sleep, I waken and look forth,
And lo! I hear, or else I dream,
The tramp of Legions o'er the earth!
And in the dark
Hush'd heavens I mark
Sentinel lights that flash o'erhead
From lonely bivouacs of the Dead!
To sleep, I waken and look forth,
And lo! I hear, or else I dream,
The tramp of Legions o'er the earth!
And in the dark
Hush'd heavens I mark
Sentinel lights that flash o'erhead
From lonely bivouacs of the Dead!
Then, while the spectral Hosts sweep by,
Unseen yet heard in the under gloom,
I see against the dim blue sky
A Skeleton in cloak and plume;
Beneath him crowd,
Like cloud on cloud,
Sleeping on that great plain of dread,
Dark countless legions of the Dead.
Unseen yet heard in the under gloom,
I see against the dim blue sky
A Skeleton in cloak and plume;
Beneath him crowd,
Like cloud on cloud,
Sleeping on that great plain of dread,
Dark countless legions of the Dead.
No sound disturbs those camps so chill,
No banner waves, no clarions ring,—
Imperial Death sits cloaked and still
With eyes turned earthward, listening
To that great throng
Which sweeps along
With battle-cry and thunder-tread,
To join the bivouacs of the Dead!
No banner waves, no clarions ring,—
Imperial Death sits cloaked and still
With eyes turned earthward, listening
To that great throng
Which sweeps along
With battle-cry and thunder-tread,
To join the bivouacs of the Dead!
Sentinel-stars their vigil keep!
The hooded Spectre sitteth dumb,
While still to join the Hosts asleep
The Legions of the Living come:
'Neath Heáven's blue arch
They march and march,
Ever more silent as they tread
More near the bivouacs of the Dead.
The hooded Spectre sitteth dumb,
While still to join the Hosts asleep
The Legions of the Living come:
'Neath Heáven's blue arch
They march and march,
Ever more silent as they tread
More near the bivouacs of the Dead.
But when they reach those bivouacs chill
Their cries are hush'd, their heads are bow'd,
And with their comrades, slumbering still,
Silent they blend, like cloud with cloud:
Light answers light
Across the night,—
While quietly they seek their bed
Among the watch-fires of the Dead!
Their cries are hush'd, their heads are bow'd,
And with their comrades, slumbering still,
Silent they blend, like cloud with cloud:
Light answers light
Across the night,—
While quietly they seek their bed
Among the watch-fires of the Dead!
339
And night by night the Leader's form
Looms black' gainst heavens cold and dim,
While evermore in silence swarm
The human Hosts to rest with him;
Hush'd grow their cries,
Closèd their eyes,
Silent until some trumpet dread
Shall wake the Legions of the Dead!
Looms black' gainst heavens cold and dim,
While evermore in silence swarm
The human Hosts to rest with him;
Hush'd grow their cries,
Closèd their eyes,
Silent until some trumpet dread
Shall wake the Legions of the Dead!
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |