The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart,But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to meAnd the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,And there is glory in it; and terror on the wind:But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal;But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.
The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea,And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart,But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to meAnd the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.
A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,And there is glory in it; and terror on the wind:But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still,And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.
The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way,Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal;But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray,And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.
Free to all souls the hidden beauty calls,The sea thrift dwelling on her spray-swept height,The lofty rose, the low-grown aconite,The gliding river and the stream that brawlsDown the sharp cliffs with constant breaks and falls—All these are equal in the equal light—All waters mirror the one Infinite.God made a garden, it was men built walls;But the wide sea from men is wholly freed;Freely the great waves rise and storm and break,Nor softlier go for any landlord's need,Where rhythmic tides flow for no miser's sakeAnd none hath profit of the brown sea-weed,But all things give themselves, yet none may take.
Free to all souls the hidden beauty calls,The sea thrift dwelling on her spray-swept height,The lofty rose, the low-grown aconite,The gliding river and the stream that brawlsDown the sharp cliffs with constant breaks and falls—All these are equal in the equal light—All waters mirror the one Infinite.
God made a garden, it was men built walls;But the wide sea from men is wholly freed;Freely the great waves rise and storm and break,Nor softlier go for any landlord's need,Where rhythmic tides flow for no miser's sakeAnd none hath profit of the brown sea-weed,But all things give themselves, yet none may take.
Moira O'Neill is known chiefly by a remarkable little collection of only twenty-five lyrics,Songs from the Glens of Antrim(1900), simple tunes as unaffected as the peasants of whom she sings. The best of her poetry is dramatic without being theatrical; melodious without falling into the tinkle of most "popular" sentimental verse.
'Where am I from?' From the green hills of Erin.'Have I no song then?' My songs are all sung.'What o' my love?' 'Tis alone I am farin'.Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.'If she was tall?' Like a king's own daughter.'If she was fair?' Like a mornin' o' May.When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather,When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.'Where did she dwell?' Where one'st I had my dwellin'.'Who loved her best?' There's no one now will know.'Where is she gone?' Och, why would I be tellin'!Where she is gone there I can never go.
'Where am I from?' From the green hills of Erin.'Have I no song then?' My songs are all sung.'What o' my love?' 'Tis alone I am farin'.Old grows my heart, an' my voice yet is young.
'If she was tall?' Like a king's own daughter.'If she was fair?' Like a mornin' o' May.When she'd come laughin' 'twas the runnin' wather,When she'd come blushin' 'twas the break o' day.
'Where did she dwell?' Where one'st I had my dwellin'.'Who loved her best?' There's no one now will know.'Where is she gone?' Och, why would I be tellin'!Where she is gone there I can never go.
Youth's for an hour,Beauty's a flower,But love is the jewel that wins the world.Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet,Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet;In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she,I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long,There's little knowin' who may live to sing another song;For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife,An' Mary—God be good to her!—is all I love in life.Youth's for an hour,Beauty's a flower,But love is the jewel that wins the world.
Youth's for an hour,Beauty's a flower,But love is the jewel that wins the world.
Youth's for an hour, an' the taste o' life is sweet,Ailes was a girl that stepped on two bare feet;In all my days I never seen the one as fair as she,I'd have lost my life for Ailes, an' she never cared for me.
Beauty's a flower, an' the days o' life are long,There's little knowin' who may live to sing another song;For Ailes was the fairest, but another is my wife,An' Mary—God be good to her!—is all I love in life.
Youth's for an hour,Beauty's a flower,But love is the jewel that wins the world.
John McCrae was born in Guelph, Ontario, Canada, in 1872. He was graduated in arts in 1894 and in medicine in 1898. He finished his studies at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore and returned to Canada, joining the staff of the Medical School of McGill University. He was a lieutenant of artillery in South Africa (1899-1900) and was in charge of the Medical Division of the McGill Canadian General Hospital during the World War. After serving two years, he died of pneumonia, January, 1918, his volumeIn Flanders Fields(1919) appearing posthumously.
Few who read the title poem of his book, possibly the most widely-read poem produced by the war, realize that it is a perfect rondeau, one of the loveliest (and strictest) of the French forms.
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,Loved and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders fields.Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,Loved and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.
Ford Madox Hueffer was born in 1873 and is best known as the author of many novels, two of which,RomanceandThe Inheritors, were written in collaboration with Joseph Conrad. He has written also several critical studies, those on Rossetti and Henry James being the most notable. HisOn Heaven and Other Poemsappeared in 1916.
I should like to imagineA moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!For, it is possibleTo come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins:To see the black perspective of long avenuesAll silent.The white strips of skyAt the sides, cut by the poplar trunks:The white strips of skyAbove, diminishing—The silence and blackness of the avenueEnclosed by immensities of spaceSpreading awayOver No Man's Land....For a minute ...For ten ...There will be no star shellsBut the untroubled stars,There will be noVerylightBut the light of the quiet moonLike a swan.And silence....Then, far away to the right thro' the moonbeams"Wukka Wukka" will go the machine-guns,And, far away to the leftWukka Wukka.And sharply,Wuk...Wuk... and then silenceFor a space in the clear of the moon.
I should like to imagineA moonlight in which there would be no machine-guns!
For, it is possibleTo come out of a trench or a hut or a tent or a church all in ruins:To see the black perspective of long avenuesAll silent.The white strips of skyAt the sides, cut by the poplar trunks:The white strips of skyAbove, diminishing—The silence and blackness of the avenueEnclosed by immensities of spaceSpreading awayOver No Man's Land....
For a minute ...For ten ...There will be no star shellsBut the untroubled stars,There will be noVerylightBut the light of the quiet moonLike a swan.And silence....
Then, far away to the right thro' the moonbeams"Wukka Wukka" will go the machine-guns,And, far away to the leftWukka Wukka.And sharply,Wuk...Wuk... and then silenceFor a space in the clear of the moon.
I should like to imagineA moonlight in which the machine-guns of troubleWill be silent....Do you remember, my dear,Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight,Looking over to FlatholmeWe sat ... Long ago!...And the things that you told me ...Little things in the clear of the moon,The little, sad things of a life....We shall do it againFull surely,Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme.Then, far away to the rightShall sound the Machine Guns of troubleWukka-wukka!And, far away to the left, under Flatholme,Wukka-wuk!...I wonder, my dear, can you stick it?As we should say: "Stick it, the Welch!"In the dark of the moon,Going over....
I should like to imagineA moonlight in which the machine-guns of troubleWill be silent....
Do you remember, my dear,Long ago, on the cliffs, in the moonlight,Looking over to FlatholmeWe sat ... Long ago!...And the things that you told me ...Little things in the clear of the moon,The little, sad things of a life....
We shall do it againFull surely,Sitting still, looking over at Flatholme.Then, far away to the rightShall sound the Machine Guns of troubleWukka-wukka!And, far away to the left, under Flatholme,Wukka-wuk!...
I wonder, my dear, can you stick it?As we should say: "Stick it, the Welch!"In the dark of the moon,Going over....
The little angels of HeavenEach wear a long white dress,And in the tall arcadingsPlay ball and play at chess;With never a soil on their garments,Not a sigh the whole day long,Not a bitter note in their pleasure,Not a bitter note in their song.But they shall know keener pleasure,And they shall know joy more rare—Keener, keener pleasureWhen you, my dear, come there.The little angels of HeavenEach wear a long white gown,And they lean over the rampartsWaiting and looking down.
The little angels of HeavenEach wear a long white dress,And in the tall arcadingsPlay ball and play at chess;
With never a soil on their garments,Not a sigh the whole day long,Not a bitter note in their pleasure,Not a bitter note in their song.
But they shall know keener pleasure,And they shall know joy more rare—Keener, keener pleasureWhen you, my dear, come there.
The little angels of HeavenEach wear a long white gown,And they lean over the rampartsWaiting and looking down.
The author of some of the most haunting lyrics in contemporary poetry, Walter De la Mare, was born in 1873. Although he did not begin to bring out his work in book form until he was over 30, he is, as Harold Williams has written, "the singer of a young and romantic world, a singer even for children, understanding and perceiving as a child." De la Mare paints simple scenes of miniature loveliness; he uses thin-spun fragments of fairy-like delicacy and achieves a grace that is remarkable in its universality. "In a few words, seemingly artless and unsought" (to quote Williams again), "he can express a pathos or a hope as wide as man's life."
De la Mare is an astonishing joiner of words; inPeacock Pie(1913) he surprises us again and again by transforming what began as a child's nonsense-rhyme into a suddenly thrilling snatch of music. A score of times he takes things as casual as the feeding of chickens or the swallowing of physic, berry-picking, eating, hair-cutting—and turns them into magic. These poems read like lyrics of William Shakespeare rendered by Mother Goose. The trick of revealing the ordinary in whimsical colors, of catching the commonplace off its guard, is the first of De la Mare's two magics.
This poet's second gift is his sense of the supernatural, of the fantastic other-world that lies on the edges of our consciousness.The Listeners(1912) is a book that, like all the best of De la Mare, is full of half-heard whispers; moonlight and mystery seem soaked in the lines, and a cool wind from Nowhere blows over them. That most magical of modern verses, "The Listeners," and the brief music of "An Epitaph" are two fine examples among many. In the first of these poemsthere is an uncanny splendor. What we have here is the effect, the thrill, the overtones of a ghost story rather than the narrative itself—the less than half-told adventure of some new Childe Roland heroically challenging a heedless universe. Never have silence and black night been reproduced more creepily, nor has the symbolism of man's courage facing the cryptic riddle of life been more memorably expressed.
De la Mare's chief distinction, however, lies not so much in what he says as in how he says it; he can even take outworn words like "thridding," "athwart," "amaranthine" and make them live again in a poetry that is of no time and of all time. He writes, it has been said, as much for antiquity as for posterity; he is a poet who is distinctively in the world and yet not wholly of it.
'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,Knocking on the moonlit door;And his horse in the silence champed the grassesOf the forest's ferny floor.And a bird flew up out of the turret,Above the Traveller's head:And he smote upon the door again a second time;'Is there anybody there?' he said.But no one descended to the Traveller;No head from the leaf-fringed sillLeaned over and looked into his grey eyes,Where he stood perplexed and still.But only a host of phantom listenersThat dwelt in the lone house thenStood listening in the quiet of the moonlightTo that voice from the world of men:Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,That goes down to the empty hall,Hearkening in an air stirred and shakenBy the lonely Traveller's call.And he felt in his heart their strangeness,Their stillness answering his cry,While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,'Neath the starred and leafy sky;For he suddenly smote on the door, evenLouder, and lifted his head:—'Tell them I came, and no one answered,That I kept my word,' he said.Never the least stir made the listeners,Though every word he spakeFell echoing through the shadowiness of the still houseFrom the one man left awake:Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,And the sound of iron on stone,And how the silence surged softly backward,When the plunging hoofs were gone.
'Is there anybody there?' said the Traveller,Knocking on the moonlit door;And his horse in the silence champed the grassesOf the forest's ferny floor.And a bird flew up out of the turret,Above the Traveller's head:And he smote upon the door again a second time;'Is there anybody there?' he said.But no one descended to the Traveller;No head from the leaf-fringed sillLeaned over and looked into his grey eyes,Where he stood perplexed and still.But only a host of phantom listenersThat dwelt in the lone house thenStood listening in the quiet of the moonlightTo that voice from the world of men:Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,That goes down to the empty hall,Hearkening in an air stirred and shakenBy the lonely Traveller's call.And he felt in his heart their strangeness,Their stillness answering his cry,While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,'Neath the starred and leafy sky;For he suddenly smote on the door, evenLouder, and lifted his head:—'Tell them I came, and no one answered,That I kept my word,' he said.Never the least stir made the listeners,Though every word he spakeFell echoing through the shadowiness of the still houseFrom the one man left awake:Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,And the sound of iron on stone,And how the silence surged softly backward,When the plunging hoofs were gone.
Here lies a most beautiful lady,Light of step and heart was she;I think she was the most beautiful ladyThat ever was in the West Country.But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;However rare—rare it be;And when I crumble, who will rememberThis lady of the West Country?
Here lies a most beautiful lady,Light of step and heart was she;I think she was the most beautiful ladyThat ever was in the West Country.
But beauty vanishes; beauty passes;However rare—rare it be;And when I crumble, who will rememberThis lady of the West Country?
Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.He lags the long bright morning through,Ever so tired of nothing to do;He moons and mopes the livelong day,Nothing to think about, nothing to say;Up to bed with his candle to creep,Too tired to yawn; too tired to sleep:Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.
Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.He lags the long bright morning through,Ever so tired of nothing to do;He moons and mopes the livelong day,Nothing to think about, nothing to say;Up to bed with his candle to creep,Too tired to yawn; too tired to sleep:Poor tired Tim! It's sad for him.
When Susan's work was done, she'd sitWith one fat guttering candle lit,And window opened wide to winThe sweet night air to enter in;There, with a thumb to keep her placeShe'd read, with stern and wrinkled face.Her mild eyes gliding very slowAcross the letters to and fro,While wagged the guttering candle flameIn the wind that through the window came.And sometimes in the silence sheWould mumble a sentence audibly,Or shake her head as if to say,'You silly souls, to act this way!'And never a sound from night I'd hear,Unless some far-off cock crowed clear;Or her old shuffling thumb should turnAnother page; and rapt and stern,Through her great glasses bent on meShe'd glance into reality;And shake her round old silvery head,With—'You!—I thought you was in bed!'—Only to tilt her book again,And rooted in Romance remain.
When Susan's work was done, she'd sitWith one fat guttering candle lit,And window opened wide to winThe sweet night air to enter in;There, with a thumb to keep her placeShe'd read, with stern and wrinkled face.Her mild eyes gliding very slowAcross the letters to and fro,While wagged the guttering candle flameIn the wind that through the window came.And sometimes in the silence sheWould mumble a sentence audibly,Or shake her head as if to say,'You silly souls, to act this way!'And never a sound from night I'd hear,Unless some far-off cock crowed clear;Or her old shuffling thumb should turnAnother page; and rapt and stern,Through her great glasses bent on meShe'd glance into reality;And shake her round old silvery head,With—'You!—I thought you was in bed!'—Only to tilt her book again,And rooted in Romance remain.
Softly along the road of evening,In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dewOld Nod, the shepherd, goes.His drowsy flock streams on before him,Their fleeces charged with gold,To where the sun's last beam leans lowOn Nod the shepherd's fold.The hedge is quick and green with briar,From their sand the conies creep;And all the birds that fly in heavenFlock singing home to sleep.His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,Yet, when night's shadows fall,His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,Misses not one of all.His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,The waters of no-more-pain;His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,"Rest, rest, and rest again."
Softly along the road of evening,In a twilight dim with rose,Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dewOld Nod, the shepherd, goes.
His drowsy flock streams on before him,Their fleeces charged with gold,To where the sun's last beam leans lowOn Nod the shepherd's fold.
The hedge is quick and green with briar,From their sand the conies creep;And all the birds that fly in heavenFlock singing home to sleep.
His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,Yet, when night's shadows fall,His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,Misses not one of all.
His are the quiet steeps of dreamland,The waters of no-more-pain;His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,"Rest, rest, and rest again."
This brilliant journalist, novelist, essayist, publicist and lyricist, Gilbert Keith Chesterton, was born at Campden Hill, Kensington, in 1874, and began his literary life by reviewing books on art for various magazines. He is best known as a writer of flashing, paradoxical essays on anything and everything, likeTremendous Trifles(1909),Varied Types(1905), andAll Things Considered(1910). But he is also a stimulating critic; a keen appraiser, as in his volumeHeretics(1905) and his analytical studies of Robert Browning, Charles Dickens, and George Bernard Shaw; a writer of strange and grotesque romances likeThe Napoleon of Notting Hill(1906),The Man Who Was Thursday(1908), which Chesterton himself has subtitled "A Nightmare," andThe Flying Inn(1914); the author of several books of fantastic short stories, ranging from the wildly whimsical narratives inThe Club of Queer Trades(1905) to that amazing sequenceThe Innocence of Father Brown(1911)—which is a series of religious detective stories!
Besides being the creator of all of these, Chesterton finds time to be a prolific if sometimes too acrobatic newspaperman, a lay preacher in disguise (witnessOrthodoxy[1908],What's Wrong with the World?[1910],The Ball and the Cross[1909]), a pamphleteer, and a poet. His first volume of verse,The Wild Knight and Other Poems(1900), a collection of quaintly-flavored and affirmative verses, was followed byThe Ballad of the White Horse(1911), one long poem which, in spite of Chesterton's ever-present didactic sermonizing, is possibly the most stirring creation he has achieved. This poem has the swing, the vigor, the spontaneity, and, above all, the ageless simplicity of the true narrative ballad.
Scarcely less notable is the ringing "Lepanto" from his laterPoems(1915) which, anticipating the banging, clanging verses of Vachel Lindsay's "The Congo," is one of the finest of modern chants. It is interesting to see how the syllables beat, as though on brass; it is thrilling to feel how, in one's pulses, the armies sing, the feet tramp, the drums snarl, and all the tides of marching crusaders roll out of lines like:
"Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,Don John of Austria is going to the war;Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts coldIn the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold;Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes...."
"Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,Don John of Austria is going to the war;Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts coldIn the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold;Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes...."
Chesterton, the prose-paradoxer, is a delightful product of a skeptical age. But it is Chesterton the poet who is more likely to outlive it.
White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,That once went singing southward when all the world was young.In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,Don John of Austria is going to the war,Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts coldIn the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.Love-light of Spain—hurrah!Death-light of Africa!Don John of AustriaIs riding to the sea.Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bringBlack Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.Giants and the Genii,Multiplex of wing and eye,Whose strong obedience broke the skyWhen Solomon was king.They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the seaWhere fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,—They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I knowThe voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)Sudden and still—hurrah!Bolt from Iberia!Don John of AustriaIs gone by Alcalar.St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shiftAnd the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,—But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.Don John calling through the blast and the eclipseCrying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,Trumpet that sayethha!Domino gloria!Don John of AustriaIs shouting to the ships.King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and greyLike plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed—Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.Gun upon gun, ha! ha!Gun upon gun, hurrah!Don John of AustriaHas loosed the cannonade.The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight seaThe crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repinesLike a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hungThe stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing onBefore the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hellWhere a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign—(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,Thronging of the thousands up that labour under seaWhite for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.Vivat Hispania!Domino Gloria!Don John of AustriaHas set his people free!Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)
White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,That once went singing southward when all the world was young.In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,Don John of Austria is going to the war,Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts coldIn the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.Love-light of Spain—hurrah!Death-light of Africa!Don John of AustriaIs riding to the sea.
Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bringBlack Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.Giants and the Genii,Multiplex of wing and eye,Whose strong obedience broke the skyWhen Solomon was king.
They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the seaWhere fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,—They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I knowThe voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)Sudden and still—hurrah!Bolt from Iberia!Don John of AustriaIs gone by Alcalar.
St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shiftAnd the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,—But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.Don John calling through the blast and the eclipseCrying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,Trumpet that sayethha!Domino gloria!Don John of AustriaIs shouting to the ships.
King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and greyLike plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed—Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.Gun upon gun, ha! ha!Gun upon gun, hurrah!Don John of AustriaHas loosed the cannonade.
The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year,The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight seaThe crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repinesLike a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hungThe stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing onBefore the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hellWhere a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign—(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,Thronging of the thousands up that labour under seaWhite for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.Vivat Hispania!Domino Gloria!Don John of AustriaHas set his people free!
Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)
This much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave,Pity me not; but let the world be fed,Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,The shining silence of the scorn of God.Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,If I must travail in a night of wrath,Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.Men say the sun was darkened: yet I hadThought it beat brightly, even on—Calvary:And He that hung upon the Torturing TreeHeard all the crickets singing, and was glad.
This much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave,Pity me not; but let the world be fed,Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.
If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,The shining silence of the scorn of God.
Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,If I must travail in a night of wrath,Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.
Men say the sun was darkened: yet I hadThought it beat brightly, even on—Calvary:And He that hung upon the Torturing TreeHeard all the crickets singing, and was glad.
"The tattered outlaw of the earth,Of ancient crooked will;Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,I keep my secret still."Fools! For I also had my hour;One far fierce hour and sweet:There was a shout about my ears,And palms before my feet."
"The tattered outlaw of the earth,Of ancient crooked will;Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,I keep my secret still.
"Fools! For I also had my hour;One far fierce hour and sweet:There was a shout about my ears,And palms before my feet."
FOOTNOTES:[14]FromPoemsby G. K. Chesterton. Copyright by the John Lane Co. and reprinted by permission of the publishers.
[14]FromPoemsby G. K. Chesterton. Copyright by the John Lane Co. and reprinted by permission of the publishers.
[14]FromPoemsby G. K. Chesterton. Copyright by the John Lane Co. and reprinted by permission of the publishers.
Born at Hexam in 1878, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson has published almost a dozen books of verse—the first four or five (see Preface) being imitative in manner and sentimentally romantic in tone. WithThe Stonefolds(1907) andDaily Bread(1910), Gibson executed a complete right-about-face and, with dramatic brevity, wrote a series of poems mirroring the dreams, pursuits and fears of common humanity.Fires(1912) marks an advance in technique and power. And though inLivelihood(1917) Gibson seems to be theatricalizing and merely exploiting his working-people, his later lyrics recapture the veracity of such memorable poems as "The Old Man," "TheBlind Rower," and "The Machine."Hill-Tracks(1918) attempts to capture the beauty of village-names and the glamour of the English countryside.
As one, at midnight, wakened by the callOf golden-plovers in their seaward flight,Who lies and listens, as the clear notes fallThrough tingling silence of the frosty night—Who lies and listens, till the last note fails,And then, in fancy, faring with the flockFar over slumbering hills and dreaming dales,Soon hears the surges break on reef and rock;And, hearkening, till all sense of self is drownedWithin the mightier music of the deep,No more remembers the sweet piping soundThat startled him from dull, undreaming sleep;So I, first waking from oblivion, heard,With heart that kindled to the call of song,The voice of young life, fluting like a bird,And echoed that light lilting; till, ere long,Lured onward by that happy, singing-flight,I caught the stormy summons of the sea,And dared the restless deeps that, day and night,Surge with the life-song of humanity.
As one, at midnight, wakened by the callOf golden-plovers in their seaward flight,Who lies and listens, as the clear notes fallThrough tingling silence of the frosty night—Who lies and listens, till the last note fails,And then, in fancy, faring with the flockFar over slumbering hills and dreaming dales,Soon hears the surges break on reef and rock;And, hearkening, till all sense of self is drownedWithin the mightier music of the deep,No more remembers the sweet piping soundThat startled him from dull, undreaming sleep;So I, first waking from oblivion, heard,With heart that kindled to the call of song,The voice of young life, fluting like a bird,And echoed that light lilting; till, ere long,Lured onward by that happy, singing-flight,I caught the stormy summons of the sea,And dared the restless deeps that, day and night,Surge with the life-song of humanity.
"And will you cut a stone for him,To set above his head?And will you cut a stone for him—A stone for him?" she said.Three days before, a splintered rockHad struck her lover dead—Had struck him in the quarry dead,Where, careless of the warning call,He loitered, while the shot was fired—A lively stripling, brave and tall,And sure of all his heart desired ...A flash, a shock,A rumbling fall ...And, broken 'neath the broken rock,A lifeless heap, with face of clay;And still as any stone he lay,With eyes that saw the end of all.I went to break the news to her;And I could hear my own heart beatWith dread of what my lips might sayBut, some poor fool had sped before;And flinging wide her father's door,Had blurted out the news to her,Had struck her lover dead for her,Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,And dropped it at her feet:Then hurried on his witless way,Scarce knowing she had heard.And when I came, she stood, aloneA woman, turned to stone:And, though no word at all she said,I knew that all was known.Because her heart was dead,She did not sigh nor moan,His mother wept:She could not weep.Her lover slept:She could not sleep.Three days, three nights,She did not stir:Three days, three nights,Were one to her,Who never closed her eyesFrom sunset to sunrise,From dawn to evenfall:Her tearless, staring eyes,That seeing naught, saw all.The fourth night when I came from work,I found her at my door."And will you cut a stone for him?"She said: and spoke no more:But followed me, as I went in,And sank upon a chair;And fixed her grey eyes on my face,With still, unseeing stare.And, as she waited patiently,I could not bear to feelThose still, grey eyes that followed me,Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,Those eyes that sucked the breath from meAnd curdled the warm blood in me,Those eyes that cut me to the bone,And pierced my marrow like cold steel.And so I rose, and sought a stone;And cut it, smooth and square:And, as I worked, she sat and watched,Beside me, in her chair.Night after night, by candlelight,I cut her lover's name:Night after night, so still and white,And like a ghost she came;And sat beside me in her chair;And watched with eyes aflame.She eyed each stroke;And hardly stirred:She never spokeA single word:And not a sound or murmur brokeThe quiet, save the mallet-stroke.With still eyes ever on my hands,With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,My wincing, overwearied hands,She watched, with bloodless lips apart,And silent, indrawn breath:And every stroke my chisel cut,Death cut still deeper in her heart:The two of us were chiselling,Together, I and death.And when at length the job was done,And I had laid the mallet by,As if, at last, her peace were won,She breathed his name; and, with a sigh,Passed slowly through the open door:And never crossed my threshold more.Next night I laboured late, alone,To cut her name upon the stone.
"And will you cut a stone for him,To set above his head?And will you cut a stone for him—A stone for him?" she said.
Three days before, a splintered rockHad struck her lover dead—Had struck him in the quarry dead,Where, careless of the warning call,He loitered, while the shot was fired—A lively stripling, brave and tall,And sure of all his heart desired ...A flash, a shock,A rumbling fall ...And, broken 'neath the broken rock,A lifeless heap, with face of clay;And still as any stone he lay,With eyes that saw the end of all.
I went to break the news to her;And I could hear my own heart beatWith dread of what my lips might sayBut, some poor fool had sped before;And flinging wide her father's door,Had blurted out the news to her,Had struck her lover dead for her,Had struck the girl's heart dead in her,Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,And dropped it at her feet:Then hurried on his witless way,Scarce knowing she had heard.
And when I came, she stood, aloneA woman, turned to stone:And, though no word at all she said,I knew that all was known.
Because her heart was dead,She did not sigh nor moan,His mother wept:She could not weep.Her lover slept:She could not sleep.Three days, three nights,She did not stir:Three days, three nights,Were one to her,Who never closed her eyesFrom sunset to sunrise,From dawn to evenfall:Her tearless, staring eyes,That seeing naught, saw all.
The fourth night when I came from work,I found her at my door."And will you cut a stone for him?"She said: and spoke no more:But followed me, as I went in,And sank upon a chair;And fixed her grey eyes on my face,With still, unseeing stare.And, as she waited patiently,I could not bear to feelThose still, grey eyes that followed me,Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,Those eyes that sucked the breath from meAnd curdled the warm blood in me,Those eyes that cut me to the bone,And pierced my marrow like cold steel.
And so I rose, and sought a stone;And cut it, smooth and square:And, as I worked, she sat and watched,Beside me, in her chair.Night after night, by candlelight,I cut her lover's name:Night after night, so still and white,And like a ghost she came;And sat beside me in her chair;And watched with eyes aflame.
She eyed each stroke;And hardly stirred:She never spokeA single word:And not a sound or murmur brokeThe quiet, save the mallet-stroke.
With still eyes ever on my hands,With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,My wincing, overwearied hands,She watched, with bloodless lips apart,And silent, indrawn breath:And every stroke my chisel cut,Death cut still deeper in her heart:The two of us were chiselling,Together, I and death.
And when at length the job was done,And I had laid the mallet by,As if, at last, her peace were won,She breathed his name; and, with a sigh,Passed slowly through the open door:And never crossed my threshold more.
Next night I laboured late, alone,To cut her name upon the stone.