All the dim terrors dwelling far below,Interr'd by many thousand years of life,Arise to revel in this evil dark:The wail forlorn of dogs that mourn for men—A shuffling footfall on a creaking board,The handle of a door that shakes and turns—A door that opens slightly, not enough:The rustling sigh of silk along a floor,The knowledge of being watched by one long dead,By something that is outside Nature's pale.The unheard sounds that haunt an ancient house:The feel of one who listens in the dark,Listens to that which happened long ago,Or what will happen after we are dust.The awful waiting for a near event,Or for a crash to rend the silence deepEnveloping a house that always waits—A house that whispers to itself and weeps.The murmur of the yew, or woodland cries,A sombre note of music on the breeze;A shudder from the ivy that entwinesThe horror that is felt within its grip.The sound of prowling things that walk abroad,The nauseous flapping of Night's bat-like wings—These are the signs the gods have given usTo know the limit of our days and powers.
ToMARGARET GREVILLE
I
Now night,The sighing night,Descends to hide and healThe crimson woundsRipped in the sky,Where the high helmet-towers(With clouds as streaming feathers)Have torn the HeavensIn their incessant sunset battle.
Below,Upon the mound,Small golden flowersRelease their daylight slowlyAt the Night's behest,Till they become pale discsThat quiverWhen the evening windDraws his thin fingersDown the dew-drenched grass—As an old harper,Who awakesFrom drunken sunlit slumber,Blindly plucksHis silver-sounding strings,Making the soundThat, further, darker downThe trees make,When they draw backTheir upturned leavesIn fountain-foaming hurry.
II
The curling, hump-backed dolphins,Drunk with purple fumesOf wine-stained sunset,Plunge through the wider waters of the night—Waters that well down every narrow streetIn darkening billows,Till they become quiet, full—Canals that, mirror-like,Reflect each soundOf snarling songIn all the town.
And as the dolphins diveThere splashes backUpon their goat-eared riders,Dislodged in sudden fury,The foaming froth of summer-cooling winds—Issuing from where the northern treesBellow their resined breathAcross the seasTo ripple through far fieldsOf twilight flowers—Sweeping acrossTo where these old high towersOf CarcassonneStill stand to break their flow.
Neptune, from his high pedestal,Can watch the waters of the nightRise, further, further,And the faun-riders sink belowThe conquering, cool tide.
The city's heat is like a leaden pall—Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight airLike mammoth orange-moths that flit and flareThrough the dark tapestry of night. The tallBlack houses crush the creeping beggars down,Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool,Of silver bodies bathing in a pool,Or trees that whisper in some far, small townWhose quiet nursed them, when they thought that goldWas merely metal, not a grave of mouldIn which men bury all that's fine and fair.When they could chase the jewelled butterflyThrough the green bracken-scented lanes, or sighFor all the future held so rich and rare;When, though they knew it not, their baby criesWere lovely as the jewelled butterflies.
I lay awake in that dim room of fearWhich seemed to hold the essence of the night,Clutched in the grip of its tall sentient walls:Dark walls and high, that stretch for ever up—Up to the darkness, vague and menacing,As if no light could ever penetrateThat mist of shadows, only cast a gloomMore cavernous upon the atmosphereThat seems to thicken into cloudy shapes,Substantiate—then disappear and die.And all the room is full of whisperings;Of moving things that hope I do not heed;And sudden gusts of wind blow cold uponMy head, lifting the heavy mantle of the air,Revealing for an instant some vague thoughtSnatched from the haunting lumberland of dreams.Far in the distance, from the open night,Sounds an insistent hooting from the wood;The owl is calling to its kindred things.The bat emits its sinful piercing note—So high one cannot hear it, only feelThe rhythm beat within the shrinking ear.A faint breeze blows in from the countryside,Rustling the curtains with the forest's breath,Stirring the grass of many an unknown tomb,Some new—some immemorably old,Whose dwellers never heard an owl at night,Only the reptile sounds and beating wingsOf some forefather of that bird of night—Some flapping scaly monster with huge wings.Then, sudden, through the rustling of the roomSilence shrills out its startling trumpet callOf terror, and the house is frozen still.Despair dropp'd down like rain upon my heart,Catching my breath and clutching at my throat.Fear magnified my senses, and my brainCould hear beyond the threshold of this world.Then through the threatening silence of the house,The silent waiting for the coming play—There came that halting well-remembered tread,The dreadful limp, and dragging of the feet,That cruel sin-white face looked through the door!And in my scream—that rent the trembling air,Reaching the woods and tainting them with death,Filling the fountain with strange ripplingsThat make the moon's reflection but a maskLike to that face of shame—my soul passed out—Out of my ashen lips, to find its end.
To-night this city seems delirious. The airIs fever'd, hot and heavy—yet each street,Each tortuous lane and slumb'ring stone-bound squareSmells of the open woods, so wild and sweet.Through the dim spaces, where each town-bred treeSweeps out, mysterious and tall and still,The country's passionate spirit—old and free—Flings off the fetters of the calm and chill.
There in the garden, fauns leap out and sing—Chant those strange sun-born songs from far away!With joyous ecstasy in this new spring,They cast the coats and top-hats of the day.
There by the railings, where the women paceWith painted faces, passionless and dead,Out of the dark, Pan shows his leering face,Mocks their large hats and faces painted red.Then as they walk away, he mocks their lives,Racking each wearied soul with lost desires,And—cruelty more subtle—he contrivesWith aching memories of love's first firesTo tune their hearts up to a different key.
So, when they sleep, the withered years unfold—Again, as children round a mother's kneeThey listen to their future as foretold—A future rich and innocent and gay.
Then wake up to the agony of day!
Silence o'erwhelms the melody of Night,Then slowly drips on to the woods that sighFor their past vivid vernal ecstasy.The branches and the leaves let in the lightIn patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky—Create mysterious Gothic traceryBetween those high dark pillars, that affrightPoor weary mortals who are wand'ring by.
Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rainMaking each frail tired sigh a sob of pain;Each drop that falls, a hollow painted tearSuch as are shed by Pierrots when they fearBlack clouds may crush their silver lord to death.The world is waxen; and the wind's least breathWould make a hurricane of sound. The earthSmells of the hoarded sunlight that gave birthTo the gold-glowing radiance of that leafWhich falls to bury from our sight its grief.
ToVIOLET GORDON-WOODHOUSE
Its pure and dulcet toneSo clear and coolRings out—tho' muffled by the centuriesPassed by;Each noteA distant sighFrom some dead lovely throat.
A sad cascade of soundFloods the dim room with faded memoriesOf beauty that has goneLike the reflected rhythm in some dusk blue pool,Of dancing figures (long laid in the ground)—Like moonlit skiesOr some far song harmonious and sublime—Breaking the leaden slumber of the night.A perfume, faint yet fairAs of an old press'd blossom that's rebornSeeming to flower aloneWithin the arid wilderness of Time.
The music fills the airSoft as the outspread fluttering wingsOf flower-bright butterfliesThat dive and floatThrough the sweet rose-flushed hours of summer dawn.The rippling sound of silver stringsBreak o'er our senses as small foaming wavesBreak over rocks,And into hidden cavesOf silent waters—never to be found—Waters as clear and glistening as gems.
And in this ancient pool of melodies,So soothing, deep,We search for strange lost images and diademsAnd old drowned pleasures,—Each one shining brightAnd rescued from the crystal depths of sleep.
As the far sun-kissed sails of some full-rigged boat,Blown by a salt cool breeze,—Laden with age-old treasuresAnd rich merchandise—Fade into evening on the foam-flecked seas—So this last glowing noteHovers awhile—then dies.
Long promenades against the seaKaleidoscopic, chattering!Pavilions rising from the sea,On which a fawning, flattering,Hot crush of orientals move,And sell their cheap and tawdry wares,To other Jews, and aldermen,And rich, retired, provincial mayors.Oh! many colours in the sun;Copper and gold predominate!Parasols, held 'gainst the sunThrow down their shadows incohateOn leering faces looking sly—All shining with the heat of June.The shifting masses move and talkAnd whistle tunes all out of tune.
Long promenades against the sea,And oranges and mandolines!Pavilions rising from the seaAnd penny-in-the-slot machines!
When youth and strength had changed my blood to fireAnd every day passed long and glorious,Another link in the eternal chainOf life, I turned my love of luring and my senseFor all the unfathomable ways of God,My burning sense for laughter and my joyIn crowds, in tumult, and in blazing lights,To make my fellows see these qualities.Thus I became "Clown Pondi," and my fameGrew high in every theatre in the land.
I seem'd to draw fresh vigour from the crowds—Loving the sea of faces, eyes with tears,And gaping mouths wide open—loosely hung;The acrid, opalescent haze of smoke,Hanging above the auditorium.And over it the crowded galleriesThat float far up, like painted prows of ships—All overweighted and alive with men.I loved the limelight, hard and white and strong,The throbbing music and the theatre's scent,That artificial, paper, printed scentThat sweeps across the footlights to the stalls.
Then was I pleased to strut about the stage,With face dead white, and strangely purple nose—Flamboyant in the garb of foolery—To run about too quickly—and fall down;To make queer noises—inarticulateStrange sounds and oaths, the signal for my shareOf cackling laughter.Thus the years pass'd byAnd—all unheeding—swept away my youth,Till, one sad night, I heard a voice near-by:"Ah! Poor old man! It's shocking they should laugh;Mock his bent legs, and poor old toothless jaws!"
And then old-age rush'd down upon my head,Each sombre year roll'd past in solemn time;In true perspective—to the jingling tuneThat was my exit; and so near came death,Holding a mirror to my ridicule,That show'd each line beneath the smearing paint,Each wrinkle underneath the dab of rouge,
That in my sudden hopelessness I wept.But as I left the stage with dragging feet,With body bent with age, and crouching low,I heard the applauding people pause and say,"Who but Clown Pondi could amuse us so?"
SERAPION-THE-SINDONITEWore a cloth about his loins.This Christian ReconditeNever carried coins.
Never did he ask for bread;Revelled in his own distress.High of spirit, low of head,With no other dress
Than a loin-cloth, SerapionWas free from greed and gluttonyProgressed in the directionOf impassivity.
Serapion, though ascetic,Could not keep within his cell—Spiritual athletic,Who wrestled with Hell—
This Sindonitic holy manConverted, overcome by pity,Thais, the famous courtesan,To Christianity.
Thais was not thin or frailBut full of figure. Flesh and bloodRose up in riot—made her railAt a selfless God.
From Theban windows, far above,She plays and sings to a guitarWith low voice: the light of loveBeckons like a star.
Eagerly she welcomed inThe unexpected Sindonite;But he spoke to her of sin—Set her soul alight.
So they went together outTo the crowded, garish street,Where he taught her how to floutFumes of wine and meat.
To the Thebaid they go—Where she stands each Christian test,Plaiting palm-leaves to and fro,Sure of heaven's rest.
In the desert they both died,Thais and the holy man.They were buried side by side,Ascetic and courtesan.
The woods that ever love the moon, rest calm and whiteBeneath a mist-wrapp'd hill:An owl, horned wizard of the night,Flaps through the air so soft and still;Moaning, it wings its flightFar from the forest cool,To find the star-entangled surface of a pool,Where it may drink its fillOf stars; a blossom-laden breezeScatters its treasures—each a fallen moonAmong the waiting trees—Bears back the faded shadow-scents of noon.
The whispering wood is full of dim, vague fears.The rustling branches swayAnd listen for some sound from far away—A silver piping down the Pagan yearsSince Time's first joyous birth—The listening trees all sigh,The moment of their hornèd king is nigh.Then, peal on peal, there sounds the fierce wild mirthOf Pan their master, lord and king,And round him in a moonlit ringHis court, so wan and sly!
But then the trees closed round and hid from sightTheir deeds—the voices seemed to die.
An owl, horned wizard of the night,Flaps through the air so soft and still.Moans, as it wings its flightToward the mist-wrapp'd hill.
A ragged Gipsy walked the road,Her eyes blazed fierce and strong,But she gazed at me as on she strode,She fiercely gazed, and long.
"Give me a penny, sir," she said,"To buy me drink and buy me bread,For I've nothing had to eat or drink,And at night I never sleep a wink.Cold is the snow and wet the rain,But my soul died when my love was slain!"
"Fair Gipsy, in some southern clime,I've seen your face beforeIn some far other distant time,But whom are you weeping for?"
"'Twas Antony I loved," she said,"For him, in vain, I shed these tears,But my loved Antony is dead—Is dead these long two thousand years;
Then I was mighty Egypt's pride,Fear'd both by friend and foe—
Yet they believe Cleopatra diedTwo thousand years ago!"
The atmosphere is charged with hidden things—Thoughts that are waiting—wanting to revivePrimeval terrors from their present graves—Those half-thoughts hidden from the mind of man.
The fear of those bright, countless stars that shineCelestially serene on summer nights,—And those, too far for human eye to see—That make men feel as small and ill at easeAs do the thoughts of immortality;The fear of seas that stretch beyond our sightUnspoilt by any memory of a ship—Strange, silent seas that lap the unknown shoresOf some far-distant, undiscovered land;The curious fear of caves and horrid depthsWhere lurk those monsters that we hide awayAnd bury in our self-complacency.The dread of all that waits unseen, yet heard;The fear of moonlight falling on a face;The sound of sobs at night, the fear of laughter;The misty terror lurking in a woodWhich night has wrapped in her soft robe of sighs.
The horror that is felt where man is not,In lonely lands all dotted with squat treesThat seem to move in the grey twilight breeze—Or sit and watch you like malicious cripples,Intent on every movement, every thought—Where stones, like evil fungi, raise their bulkCover'd with lichen older than the hills—A warning for the ages yet to come;Stones that have seen the sun, and moon, and stars,Deflect their course for very weariness.These fears are gathered, press'd into a roomVibrating with the wish to damage man;To put a seal upon his mind and soul—These fears are fused into a living flame.
The room is filled with men of evil thoughts,And some poor timid ones, on evil bent.They stand in anxious, ghastly expectation.
The guttering light is low, and follows themWith subtle shadows tall beyond belief:Vast elemental shapes that make men feelLike dusty atoms blown by wayward windsAbout the world: shadows that sway and swing.And sigh and talk, as if themselves alive.Small shadows cringe about the room incredibly,Grotesque and dwarf-like in their attitudes;Malignant, mocking things that caper round—Triumphant heralds of an evil reign.
Secret and swift they flit about the wall;Noiseless, they drag their feet about the floor,And murmur subtle infamies of love,Sweet-sounding threats, and bribes, and baleful thoughts.
Yet all are waiting, evilly alert...Yet all are waiting—watching for events.
Silence has ceased to be a negative,Becomes a thing of substance—fills the roomAnd clings like ivy to the listening walls.The flickering light flares up—then gutters out.The shadows seem to shiver and expandTo active, evil things that breathe and live.
But now they whirl and dance in ecstasy.The highest moment of their mass is near.We only feel the swaying of the shades,—Rhythm of wicked music that escapesOur consciousness, tho' we have known it long—The music of the evil things of NightScarcely remembered from some dim, vast world—The things that haunted us when we were youngAnd nearer to our past realities.Like scaly snakes, the hymn to evil writhesThrough the sub-conscious basis of our mind.Eddies of icy breath, or hot as flame,Twist into all the corners of the room,Filling our veins with fire like red-hot iron,And wicked as the Prince of Evil Things.
Faintly his glowing presence is revealed to usAmid the chorus of his satellites.The consummation of our awful hopes.
The leaden years have dragged themselves away;The blossoms of the world lie all dash'd downAnd flattened by the hurricane of death:The roses fallen, and their fragrant breathHas passed beyond our senses—and we drownOur tragic thoughts: confine them to the day.
Pierrot was happy here two years ago,Singing through all the summer-scented hours,Dancing throughout the warm moon-haunted night.Swan-like his floating sleeves, so long and white,Sailed the blue waters of the dusk. Wan flowers,Like moons, perfumed the crystal valley far below.
But now these moonlit sleeves lie on the ground,Trampled and torn from many a deadly fight.With fingers clenched, and face a mask of stone,He gazes at the sky—left all alone—Grimacing under every rising light:His body waits the peace his soul has found.
April, 1917.
The air is silken—soft and dark—Calm as the waters of some blue, far sea;Sweet as a youthful dream,The trees stand cold and stark,Yet full of the new life which makes each treeTo tremble with delight; sets freeThe summer rapture of the stream.
But now the clouds disperse and drift away,Splashing the woods with patches of pale light,Sail off like silver ships, and then displayThe dazzling myriad blossoms of the night.
Ah! It is worth full many a sun-gilt hourTo see the heavens bursting into flower.
And still we stood and stared far downInto that ember-glowing town,Which every shaft and shock of fateHad shorn unto its base. Too lateCame carelessly Serenity.
Now torn and broken houses gazeOn to the rat-infested mazeThat once sent up rose-silver hazeTo mingle through eternity.
The outlines once so strongly wrought,Of city walls, are now a thoughtOr jest unto the dead who fought...Foundation for futurity.
The shimmering sands where once there playedChildren with painted pail and spadeAre dreary desolate—afraidTo meet night's dark humanity,
Whose silver cool remakes the dead,And lays no blame on any headFor all the havoc, fire, and lead,That fell upon us suddenly,
When all we came to know as goodGave way to Evil's fiery flood,And monstrous myths of iron and bloodSeem to obscure God's clarity.
Deep sunk in sin, this tragic starSinks deeper still, and wages warAgainst itself; strewn all the seasWith victims of a world disease—And we are left to drink the leesOf Babel's direful prophecy.
January, 1916.
Fate, malign dotard, weary from his days,Too old for memory, yet craving pleasure,Now finds the night too long and bitter cold—Reminding him of death—the sun too hot.The beauty of the universe he hates,Yet stands regarding earthly carnivals:The clatter and the clang of car and train,The hurrying throng of homeward-going men,The cries of children, colour of the streets,Their whistling and their shouting and their joy,The lights, the trees, the fanes and towers of churches,Thanksgiving for the sun, the moon, the earth,The labour, love, and laughter of our lives.
He thinks they mock his age with ribaldry.
From far within his æon-battered brainWell up those wanton wistful imagesThat first beguiled the folk of Bergamo.Now like himself, degraded and distress'd,They sink to ignominy; but the clownRemains, reminder of their former state,And still earns hurricanes of hoarse applause.
This dotard now decides to end the earth(Wrecked by its own and his futility).Recalls the formula of world-broad mirth—A senseless hitting of those unaware,Unnecessary breaking of their chattels.
The pantomime of life is near its close:The stage is strewn with ends and bits of things,With mortals maim'd or crucified, and leftTo gape at endless horror through eternity.
The face of Fate is wet with other paintThan that incarnadines the human clown:Yet still he waves a bladder, red as gold,And still he gaily hits about with it,And still the dread revealing limelight playsTill the whole sicken'd scene becomes afire.Antic himself falls on the funeral pyreOf twisted, tortured, mortifying men.
March, 1916.
ToHELEN
Their youth was fevered—passionate, quick to drainThe last few pleasures from the cup of lifeBefore they turn'd to suck the dregs of painAnd end their young-old lives in mortal strife.They paid the debts of many a hundred yearOf foolishness and riches in alloy.They went to death; nor did they shed a tearFor all they sacrificed of love and joy.Their tears ran dry when they were in the womb,For, entering life—they found it was their tomb.
1917.
ToFRANCIS MEYNELL
From within our pens,Stout built,We watch the sorrows of the world.ImperturbablyWe see the bloodDrip and ooze on to the walls.Without a sighWe watch our lambsStuffed and fattened for the slaughter....
In our liquid eyes lie hiddenThe mystery of empty spacesAll the secrets of the vacuum.
Yet we can be moved;When the head-sheep bleats,We bleat with him;When he stampedes—Heavy with foot-rot—We gallop after himUntilIn our frenzyWe trip him up—And a new sheep leads us.
We are the greatest sheep in the world;There are no sheep like us.We come of an imperial bleat;Our voices,Trembling with music,Call to our lambs oversea.With us they crash across continents.
We will not heed the herdsmen,For they warned us,"Do not stampede";Yet we were forced to do so.Never will we trust a herdsman again.
Then the black lamb asked,Saying, "Why did we start this glorious Gadarene descent?"And the herd bleated angrily,"We went in with clean feet,And we will come out with empty heads.We gain nothing by it,ThereforeIt is a noble thing to do.We are stampeding to end stampedes.We are fighting for lambsWho are never likely to be born.
When once a sheep gets its blood upThe goats will remember...."
But the herdsman swooped downShouting,"Get back to your pens there."
September, 1918.
Before the dawning of the death-dayMy mind was a confusion of beauty.Thoughts fell from it in riotOf colour,In wreaths and garlands of flowers and fruit...
Then the red dawn came—And no thought came to meExcept angerAnd bitter reproach.God filled my mouthWith the burning pebbles of hatred,And choked my soulWith a whirl-wind of fury.He made my tongueA flaming swordTo cut and witherThe white soft edgesOf their anæmic souls.I ridiculed them,I despised them,I loathed them... But they had stolen my soul away.
Yes, they had stolen my soul from me.My heart jumps up into my mouthIn fury;They have stolen my soul away.
But we will wait,And later words will come—Words that in their burning flightShall scorch and flay,Or flare like fireworksAbove their heads.In those days my soul shall be restored to meAnd they shall remember,They shall remember!
Judas descended to this lower HellTo meet his only friend—the profiteer—Who, looking fat and rubicund and well,Regarded him, and then said with a sneer,"Iscariot, they did you! Fool! to sellFor silver pence the body of God's Son,Whereas for maiming men with sword and shellI gain at least a golden million."
But Judas answered: "You deserve your gold;It's not His body but His soul you've sold!"
ToH. W. MASSINGHAM
Why should we sing to you of little things—You who lack all imagination?Why should we sing to you of your poor joys,That you may see beauty through a poet's mind—Beauty where there was none before?Why should we heed your miserable opinions,And your paltry fears?Why listen to your tales and narratives—Long lanes of boredom along which youAmble amiably all the dull daysOf your unnecessary lives?We know you now—and what you wish to be told:That the larks are singing in the trenches,That the fruit trees will again blossom in the spring,That Youth is always happy;But you know the misery that liesUnder the surface—And we will dig it up for you!We shall sing to youOf the men who have been trampledTo death in the circus of Flanders;Of the skeletons that gather the fruitFrom the ruined orchards of France;And of those left to rot under an Eastern sun—Whose dust mingles with the sandOf distant, strange deserts,And whose bones are crushed againstThe rocks of unknown seas;All dead—dead,Defending you and what you stand for.
You hope that we shall tell you that they found theirhappiness in fighting,Or that they died with a song on their lips,Or that we shall use the old familiar phrasesWith which your paid servants please you in the Press:But we are poets,And shall tell the truth.
You, my dear sir,You are so upsetAt being talked to in this wayThat when nightHas coffin'd this great cityBeneath the folds of the sun's funeral pall,You will have to drink a little more champagne,And visit a theatre or perhaps a music-hall.What you need (as you rightly say, my dear sir) is CHEERING-UP.There you will see vastly funny sketchesOf your fighting countrymen;And they will be representedAs those of whom you may be proud.For they cannot talk English properly,Or express themselves but by swearing;Or perhaps they may be shown as drunk.But they will all appear cheerful,And you will be pleased;And as you lurch amiably home, you will laugh,And at each laughAnother countryman will be dead!
When Christ was slowly dying on that tree—Hanging in agony upon that hideous Cross—Tortured, betrayed, and spat upon,Loud through the thunder and the earthquake's roarRang outThose blessed humble human words of doubt:"My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken Me?"But near by was a cheerfully chattering groupOf sects,Of Pharisees and Sadducees,And all were shocked—Pained beyond measure.And they said:"At least he might have died like a heroWith an oath on his lips,Or the refrain from a comic song—Or a cheerful comment of some kind.It was very unpleasant for all of us—But we had to see it through.I hope people will not think we have gone too far—Or behaved badly in any way."
There in the street below a drunken man reels home,And as he goesHe sings with sentiment:"Keep the home fires burning!"And the constable helps him on his way.But we—We should be thrown into prison,Or cast into an asylum,For we want—PEACE!
September, 1917.
ToSIEGFRIED SASSOON
His purple fingers clutch a large cigar—Plump, mottled fingers, with a ring or two.He rests back in his fat armchair. The warHas made this change in him. As he looks throughHis cheque-book with a tragic look he sighs:"Disabled Soldiers' Fund" he reads afresh,And through his meat-red face peer angry eyes—The spirit piercing through its mound of flesh.
They should not ask me to subscribe again!Consider me and all that I have done—I've fought for Britain with my might and main;I make explosives—and I gave a son.My factory, converted for the fight(I do not like to boast of what I've spent),Now manufactures gas and dynamite,Which only pays me seventy per cent.And if I had ten other sons to sendI'd make them serve my country to the end,So all the neighbours should flock round and say:"Oh! look what Mr. Abraham has done.He loves his country in the elder way;Poor gentleman, he's lost another son!"
1917.
The world is young and green.Its woods are golden beneath the May-time sun;But within its trap of steel the rabbit plungesMadly to and fro.It will bleed to deathSlowly,Slowly,Unless there is some escape.Why will not someone release it?
And presently a kindly passer-byStoops down.The rabbit's eye glints at him—Gleaming from the impenetrable obscurity of its prison.He stoops and lifts the catch(He cannot hold it long, for the spring is heavy).The rabbit could now be free,But it does not move;For from the darkness of its death-hutchThe world looks like another brightly baited trap.So, remaining within its steel prison,It argues thus:"Perhaps I may bleed to death,But it will probably take a long time,And, at any rate,I am secureFrom the clever people outside.Besides, if I did come out nowAll the people who thought I was a lionWould see, by the trap-mark on my leg,That I am only an unfortunate rabbit,And this might promote disloyalty among the children.When the clamp closed on my legIt was a ruseTo kill me.Probably the lifting of it betrays the same purpose!If I come out nowThey will think they can trap rabbitsWhenever they like.How do I know they will not snare meAgain next year?Besides, it looks to me from here..."
But the catch drops down,For the stranger is weary.From within the hutchA thin stream of bloodTrickles on to the grassOutside,And leaves a brown stain on its brightness.But the dying rabbit is happy,Saying:"I knew it was only a trap!"
April, 1918.
ToRODERICK MEIKLEJOHN
Warming their withered hands, the dotards say:"In our youth men were happy till they died.What is it ails the young men of to-day—To make them bitter and dissatisfied?"
Two thousand years ago it was the same:"Poor Joseph! How he'll feel about his son!I knew him as a child—his head aflameWith gold. He seemed so full of life and fun.And even as a young man he was fine,Converting tasteless water into wine.Then something altered him. He tried to chaseThe money-changers from the Temple door.White ringlets swung and tears shone in their poorAged eyes. He grew so bitter and found menFor friends as discontented—lost all countOf caste—denied his father, faith, and thenHe preached that dreadful Sermon on the Mount!But even then he would not let things be;For when they nailed him high up on the tree,And gave him vinegar and pierced his side,He asked God to forgive them—still dissatisfied!"
A theatre rises dark and mute and drearAmong those houses that stand clustering round.Passing this pleasure-house, I seem'd to hearThe distant rhythm of some lauding sound,The hot applause that greeted every nightThe favourite song, or girl, or joke, or fight.The laughter of the young and strong and gayWho greeted life—then laid their lives away.
Do they, then, watch the same old blatant show,Forgetting all death's wrench and all its painAnd all their courage shown against the foe?Is this the heaven that they died to gain?
I stand alone through each long dayUpon these pavers; cannot seeThe wares spread out upon this tray—For God has taken sight from me!
Many a time I've cursed the nightWhen I was born. My peering eyesHave sought for but one ray of lightTo pierce the darkness. When the skies
Rain down their first sweet April showersOn budding branches; when the mornIs sweet with breath of spring and flowers,I've cursed the night when I was born.
But now I thank God, and am gladFor what I cannot see this day—The young men crippled, old, and sad,With faces burnt and torn away;
Or those who, rich and old,Have battened on the slaughter,Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold,Are creased in purple laughter!
January, 1919.
Holy Moloch, blessed lord,Hatred to our souls impart.Put the heathen to the sword,Wound and pierce each contrite heart.Never more shall darkness fallBut it seems a funeral pall;Never shall the red sun riseBut to red and swollen eyes.In the centuries that roll,Slowly grinding out our tears,Often thou hast taken toll;Never till these latter yearsHave all nations lost the fray;Lead not thou our feet astray.Never till the present timeHave we offered all we hold,With one gesture, mad, sublime,Sons and lovers, lands and gold.Must we then still pray to thee,Moloch, for a victory?
Eternal Moloch, strong to slay,Do not seek to heal or save.Lord, it is the better waySwift to send them to the grave.Those of us too old to goSend our sons to face the foe,But, O lord! we must remainHere, to pray and sort the slain.In every land the widows weep,In every land the children cry.Other gods are lulled to sleep,All the starving peoples die.What is left to offer you?Thou, O Sacred King of Death!God of Blood and Lord of Guile,Do not let us waste our breath,Cast on us thy crimson smile.Moloch, lord, we pray to thee,Send at least one victory.
All the men in every landPray to thee through battle's din,Swiftly now to show thy hand,Pray that soon one side may win.Under sea and in the sky,Everywhere our children die;Laughter, happiness and lightPerished in a single night.In every land the heaving tidesWash the sands a dreadful red,In every land the tired sun hidesUnder heaps and hills of dead.In spite of all we've offered upMust we drink and drain the cup?Everywhere the dark floods rise,Everywhere our hearts are torn.Every day a new Christ dies,Every day a devil's born.Moloch, lord, we pray to thee,Send at least one victory.
1917.
If I were still of handsome middle-ageI should not govern yet, but still should hopeTo help the prosecution of this war.I'd talk and eat (though not eat wheaten bread),I'd send my sons, if old enough, to France,Or help to do my share in other ways.All through the long spring evenings, when the sunPursues its primrose path towards the hills,If fine, I'd plant potatoes on the lawn;If wet, write anxious letters to the Press.I'd give up wine and spirits, and with prideRefuse to eat meat more than once a day,And seek to rob the workers of their beer.The only way to win a hard-fought warIs to annoy the people in small ways,Bully or patronise them, as you will!I'd teach poor mothers, who have seven sons—All fighting men of clean and sober life—How to look after babies and to cook;Teach them to save their money and invest;Not to bring children up in luxury—But do without a nursemaid in the house!
If I were old, or only seventy,Then should I be a great man in his prime.I should rule army corps; at my commandMen would rise up, salute me, and attack—And die. Or I might also govern menBy making speeches with my toothless jaws,Chattering constantly; and men should say,"One grand old man is still worth half his pay!"That day I'd send my grandsons out to France—And wish I'd got ten other ones to send(One cannot sacrifice too much, I'd say).Then would I make a noble toothless speech,And all the listening Parliament would cheer."Gentlemen, we will never end this warTill all the younger men with martial mienHave entered capitals; never make peaceTill they are cripples, on one leg, or dead!"Then would the Bishops all go mad with joy,Cantuar, Ebor, and the other ones,Be overwhelmed with pious ecstasy.In thanking Him we'd got a Christian—An Englishman—still worth his salt—to talk,In every pulpit they would preach and prance;And our great Church would work, as heretofore,To bring this poor old nation to its knees.Then we'd forbid all liberty, and makeFree speech a relic of our impious past;And when this war is finished, when the worldIs torn and bleeding, cut and bruised to death,Then I'd pronounce my peace terms—to the poor!But as it is, I am not ninety yet,And so must pay my reverence to these men—These grand old men, who still can see and talk,Who sacrifice each other's sons each day.O Lord! let me be ninety yet, I pray.Methuselah was quite a youngster whenHe died. Now, vainly weeping, we should say:"Another great man perished in his prime!"O let me govern, Lord, at ninety-nine!"
August, 1917.
The lamps glow here and there, then echo downThe vast deserted vistas of the town—Each light the echo'd note of some refrainRepeated in the city's fevered brain.Yet all is still, save when there wanders past—Finding the silence of the night too long—Some tattered wretch, who, from the night outcast,Sings, with an aching heart, a comic song.The vapid parrot-words flaunt through the night—Silly and gay, yet terrible. We knowMen sang these words in many a deadly fight,And threw them—laughing—to a solemn foe;Sang them where tattered houses stand up tall and stark,And bullets whistle through the ruined street,Where live men tread on dead men in the dark,And skulls are sown in fields once sown with wheat.Across the sea, where night is dark with bloodAnd rockets flash, and guns roar hoarse and deep,They struggle through entanglements and mud,They suffer wounds—and die—But here they sleep.From far away the outcast's vacuous songRe-echoes like the singing of a throng;His dragging footfalls echo down the street,And turn into a myriad marching feet.
December, 1916.
Now we can say of those who died unsung,Unwept for, torn, "Thank God they were not blindOr mad! They've perished strong and young,Missing the misery we elders findIn missing them." With such a platitudeWe try to cheer ourselves. And for each lifeLaid down for us, with duty well-imbued,With song-on-lip, in splendid soldier strife—For sailors, too, who willingly were sunk—We'll shout "Hooray!"—And get a little drunk.
ToSACHEVERELL
The long war had ended.Its miseries had grown faded.Deaf men became difficult to talk to.Heroes became bores.
Those alchemistsWho had converted blood into gold,Had grown elderly.But they held a meeting,Saying,"We think perhaps we oughtTo put up tombsOr erect altarsTo those brave ladsWho were so willingly burnt,Or blinded,Or maimed,Who lost all likeness to a living thing,Or were blown to bleeding patches of fleshFor our sakes.It would look well.Or we might even educate the children."
But the richest of these wizardsCoughed gently;And he said,"I have always been to the front—In private enterprise—I yield in public spiritTo no man.I think yours is a very good idea—A capital idea—And not too costly.But it seems to meThat the cause for which we foughtIs again endangered.What more fitting memorial for the fallenThan that their childrenShould fall for the same cause?"Rushing eagerly into the street,The kindly old gentlemen criedTo the young:"Will you sacrificeThrough your lethargyWhat your fathers died to gain?Our cause is in peril.The world must be made safe for the young!"And the childrenWent....
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