The Project Gutenberg eBook ofProvocationsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: ProvocationsAuthor: Sibyl BristoweAuthor of introduction, etc.: G. K. ChestertonRelease date: October 12, 2010 [eBook #33855]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Iris Schimandle and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROVOCATIONS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: ProvocationsAuthor: Sibyl BristoweAuthor of introduction, etc.: G. K. ChestertonRelease date: October 12, 2010 [eBook #33855]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Iris Schimandle and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
Title: Provocations
Author: Sibyl BristoweAuthor of introduction, etc.: G. K. Chesterton
Author: Sibyl Bristowe
Author of introduction, etc.: G. K. Chesterton
Release date: October 12, 2010 [eBook #33855]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Bryan Ness, Iris Schimandle and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PROVOCATIONS ***
TO THE MEMORY
OF
MY FATHERJOHN SYER BRISTOWE, M.D., F.R.S., LL.D.
THIS LITTLE BOOKOF VERSEIS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
G. K. CHESTERTON
LONDON, W.C. 1
ERSKINE MACDONALD, LTD.
All Rights Reserved.Copyright by Erskine MacDonald, Ltd.in the United States of America.First published October, 1918
The verses in this volume cover very many and various occasions; and are therefore the very contrary of what is commonly called occasional verse. The term is used with a meaning that is very mutable; or with a meaning that has been greatly distorted and degraded. Occasion should mean opportunity; and in the case of poetry it should rather mean provocation. And the trick of writing upon what are called public occasions, instead of upon what may truly be described as private provocations, has been responsible for much verse which is not only insufficient but insincere. It has produced not only many bad poems; but what is perhaps worse, many bad poems from many good poets. The sincerity of Miss Sibyl Bristowe's poetry is perhaps most clearly proved by the number of points at which it touches life; and the spontaneity, or even suddenness, with which they are touched. It is an occasional verse which arises out of real occasions, and not out of merely fictitious or even merely formal ones. Thus while the one or two poems on the great war are probably the best, they are by no means the biggest; they are not the most arresting in the sense of being the most ambitious. They are arresting because the great war really is great, and moves an imaginative spirit to great issues; it is public but it is very far from being official. The war, indeed, is necessarilymore important as a private event even than as a public event. And the few but fine lines, on a brother fallen in a fight amid wild river that sundered man from man, is a model of the manner in which such mighty events take their place among the impressions of the more sincere and spontaneous type of talent. The topic takes its pre-eminence by intensity and not by space, or even in a sense by design. Indeed it is best expressed in a metaphor used by the writer herself about the topic itself; the metaphor of the colour red in its relation to other colours. Red rivets the eye, not by quantity but by quality; and in any picture or pattern a spot or streak of it will make itself the feature or the key. Miss Sibyl Bristowe's poem conceives the Creator confronted as with a broken spectrum or a gap in coloured glass; feeling the whole range of vision to be dim and impoverished and adding, by the authority of His own mysterious art, the dreadful colour of martyrdom.
Indeed the point of the comparison might very well be conveyed by the two poems about a London garden; that on the garden in peace being comparatively long, and that about the garden in war exceedingly short; short but sharply pathetic with its notion of peering and probing for the microscope flowers that must be a part of the most utilitarian vegetables. Indeed the short poems are certainly the most successful; and there is the same brevity in the last line of the poem about the tragic passage of time; "If lips of children had not told me so." The same general impression, as in the comparison already noted, is conveyed, for instance, inthe fact that the poems about South Africa are private rather than public poems; are in that sense, if the phrase be properly comprehended, rather colonial than imperial. That is, they are individual glimpses of great torrid wastes, like similar individual glimpses of quiet northern woods; visions of crude and golden cities as personal as the parallel visions of normal northern cottages. Miss Sibyl Bristowe is perhaps an amateur, in the sense in which this is generally true of one who happens to be an artist in another art; but it is unfortunate that the world has so much missed the notion of that natural ardour that should belong to the word.
G. K. Chesterton.
The author has to acknowledge the courtesy of the Editors of "The Poetry Review" and "The Johannesburg Star" for permission to include poems that have appeared in their pages.
The author has to acknowledge the courtesy of the Editors of "The Poetry Review" and "The Johannesburg Star" for permission to include poems that have appeared in their pages.
PAGEThe Great War13My London Garden, 191414My Garden, 191817Over the Top!18To His Dear Memory20Sorrow21Alas!23A Sacrament24The Love-shed Tear25Madonna Granduca and Child29A Vision of a Day that is Past30Bitterness Casteth out Love33The Hour of Happiness34Thoughts35The Things Unsaid are the Things that Count!36The Song of the Long Ago37The Sinner's Dreaming39Woman40Christmas41February42Oh! 'Tis May43To the Wind45The Grey Wind47Poeta Nascitur49Queen Elizabeth51The Death of Queen Elizabeth56The Plea of the Antarctic58The Stranger in London59The Transvaal in June62Johannesburg63In the Land of the Silences65
Into His colour store God dipped His handAnd drew it forthFull of strange hues forgotten, contrabandOf War and Wrath.Time wove the pattern of the years, that soThe quick and deadMight knit their bleeding crosses in. And lo!A patch of red!
Into His colour store God dipped His handAnd drew it forthFull of strange hues forgotten, contrabandOf War and Wrath.
Time wove the pattern of the years, that soThe quick and deadMight knit their bleeding crosses in. And lo!A patch of red!
My Garden is a tiny squareOf bordered greenAnd gravel brownIn misty town,And chimneys smoky and uncleanSweep to the sky.—Youwould not careTo visit there.The Grass creeps up all in between the stonesAnd raises undisturbed its luscious greenAnd laughs for youth in shrill and ringing tones.I love it that it grows up so serene,Dauntless and brightAnd laughing me to scorn,So vivid and so slight,Glad for the night-shed dew and smoke-bred morn.My little patch of bordered green and brownSleeps in the bosom of a grim old town,I wish that you could seeIts beauty here with me;I'd tell you many things you never knew,For few, so fewKnow the romance of such a London strip,With ferny screenThat slants shy gleams of sunlight in betweenAnd weeds which flourish just inside the dip,Holding their tenure with a firm deep gripWhere prouder things all die.Small wonder ITend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem,Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stemWax strong and high—My weed plot lives in reckless luxury.But, in the Spring, before black grimeHas done its worst,And cruel TimeAnd dust accursedHave marred the innocence of each young leaf,Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief—Masses of tulips, pink and white,Rise from the earth in prim delight,And iris, king of pomp and state,In vesture fineAnd purple and pale goldIts buds unfold—A mighty potentate,And marshals nobly, proudly into line,Whilst lilacs sway in wind and rushing breeze,Bowing and nodding to some poplar trees.But stay!—Youwould not careTo visit thereMidst such surroundings grey.My Garden's but an oasis of hopeSet in the frownAnd dismal grandeur of a grim old town,A semblance merely of the lawnsyousee;A hint, an echo of the things that be!But he or she would be a misanthropeWho would not share my garden hope with me.
My Garden is a tiny squareOf bordered greenAnd gravel brownIn misty town,And chimneys smoky and uncleanSweep to the sky.—Youwould not careTo visit there.
The Grass creeps up all in between the stonesAnd raises undisturbed its luscious greenAnd laughs for youth in shrill and ringing tones.I love it that it grows up so serene,Dauntless and brightAnd laughing me to scorn,So vivid and so slight,Glad for the night-shed dew and smoke-bred morn.
My little patch of bordered green and brownSleeps in the bosom of a grim old town,I wish that you could seeIts beauty here with me;I'd tell you many things you never knew,For few, so fewKnow the romance of such a London strip,With ferny screenThat slants shy gleams of sunlight in betweenAnd weeds which flourish just inside the dip,Holding their tenure with a firm deep gripWhere prouder things all die.Small wonder ITend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem,Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stemWax strong and high—My weed plot lives in reckless luxury.
But, in the Spring, before black grimeHas done its worst,And cruel TimeAnd dust accursedHave marred the innocence of each young leaf,Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief—Masses of tulips, pink and white,Rise from the earth in prim delight,And iris, king of pomp and state,In vesture fineAnd purple and pale goldIts buds unfold—A mighty potentate,And marshals nobly, proudly into line,Whilst lilacs sway in wind and rushing breeze,Bowing and nodding to some poplar trees.
But stay!—Youwould not careTo visit thereMidst such surroundings grey.My Garden's but an oasis of hopeSet in the frownAnd dismal grandeur of a grim old town,A semblance merely of the lawnsyousee;A hint, an echo of the things that be!But he or she would be a misanthropeWho would not share my garden hope with me.
Such was my garden once, a Springtide hope of flowers,All rosy pink or violet or blueOr yellow gold, with sunflecks on the dew.Now in their place a Summer garden towersOf green-leaved artichokes and turnip tops,Of peas and parsnips, sundry useful crops.—But even vegetables must havelittleflowers.
Such was my garden once, a Springtide hope of flowers,All rosy pink or violet or blueOr yellow gold, with sunflecks on the dew.Now in their place a Summer garden towersOf green-leaved artichokes and turnip tops,Of peas and parsnips, sundry useful crops.—But even vegetables must havelittleflowers.
Tenmore minutes! Say yer prayers,Read yer Bibles,—pass the rum!Tenmore minutes! Strike me dumb,'Ow they creeps on unawaresThose blooming minutes.Nine. It's queer,I'm sorter stunned. It ain't with fear!Eight. It's like as if a frogWaddled round in your insideCold as ice-blocks, straddled wide,Tired o' waiting.—Where's the grog?Seven. I'll play you pitch and toss.Six. I wins, and tails your loss.'Nother minute sprinted by'Fore I knowed it; onlyfour(Break 'em into seconds) more'Twixt us and Eternity!Every word I've ever saidSeems a-shouting in my head!Three. Larst night a little starFairly shook up in the sky,Frightened by the lullabyRattled by the dogs of war.Funny thing—that star all whiteSaw old Blighty too, larst night!Two. I ain't ashamed o' prayers,They're only wishes sent ter God,Bits o' plants from bloody sodTrailing up His golden stairs.Ninety seconds. Well, who cares!—One.. . . . . .. . . . . .No pipe, no blare, no drum—Over the Top!—to Kingdom Come
Tenmore minutes! Say yer prayers,Read yer Bibles,—pass the rum!Tenmore minutes! Strike me dumb,'Ow they creeps on unawaresThose blooming minutes.Nine. It's queer,I'm sorter stunned. It ain't with fear!
Eight. It's like as if a frogWaddled round in your insideCold as ice-blocks, straddled wide,Tired o' waiting.—Where's the grog?Seven. I'll play you pitch and toss.Six. I wins, and tails your loss.
'Nother minute sprinted by'Fore I knowed it; onlyfour(Break 'em into seconds) more'Twixt us and Eternity!Every word I've ever saidSeems a-shouting in my head!
Three. Larst night a little starFairly shook up in the sky,Frightened by the lullabyRattled by the dogs of war.Funny thing—that star all whiteSaw old Blighty too, larst night!
Two. I ain't ashamed o' prayers,They're only wishes sent ter God,Bits o' plants from bloody sodTrailing up His golden stairs.Ninety seconds. Well, who cares!—One.. . . . . .. . . . . .No pipe, no blare, no drum—Over the Top!—to Kingdom Come
Beneath the humid skiesWhere green birds wing, and heavy burgeoned treesSway in the fevered breeze,My Brother lies.And rivers passionate[A]Tore through the mountain passes, swept the plains,O'erbrimmed with tears, o'erbrimmed with summer rains,All wild, all desolate.Whilst the deep Mother-breastOf drowsy-lidded Nature, drunk with dreams,Below Pangani, by Rufigi streams,Took him to rest.Beneath the sunlit skies,Where bright birds wing, and rich luxuriant treesSway in the fevered breeze,My Brother lies.The bending grasses wooHis hurried grave; a cross of oak to showThe drifting winds, a Soldier sleeps below.—Our Saviour's cross, I know,Was wooden, too.
Beneath the humid skiesWhere green birds wing, and heavy burgeoned treesSway in the fevered breeze,My Brother lies.
And rivers passionate[A]Tore through the mountain passes, swept the plains,O'erbrimmed with tears, o'erbrimmed with summer rains,All wild, all desolate.Whilst the deep Mother-breastOf drowsy-lidded Nature, drunk with dreams,Below Pangani, by Rufigi streams,Took him to rest.
Beneath the sunlit skies,Where bright birds wing, and rich luxuriant treesSway in the fevered breeze,My Brother lies.
The bending grasses wooHis hurried grave; a cross of oak to showThe drifting winds, a Soldier sleeps below.—Our Saviour's cross, I know,Was wooden, too.
[A]The river Rufigi rose so high the night he died, none of his own Battalion could cross it to attend his last honours.
[A]The river Rufigi rose so high the night he died, none of his own Battalion could cross it to attend his last honours.
Send Sorrow away,For Sorrow is dressed in grey,And her eyes are dimWith a weary rim.Send Sorrow away.Send Sorrow away.Maid of the sombre sway,Breathing woeIn a murmur low,And her lips are paleAnd her body frail.Send Sorrow away.Send Sorrow away,Foe of the dancing day.Oh! her cheeks fall in,And her hands are thin,But her grip is fastOn the changeless past;And they sere and clutchThe soul they touch.Send Sorrow away.Send Sorrow away,For she haunts me night and day.And Sorrow is dressed in grey,Yes, Sorrow is dressed in grey.And she looks so old,So drawn, so cold—Send Sorrow away.
Send Sorrow away,For Sorrow is dressed in grey,And her eyes are dimWith a weary rim.Send Sorrow away.
Send Sorrow away.Maid of the sombre sway,Breathing woeIn a murmur low,And her lips are paleAnd her body frail.Send Sorrow away.
Send Sorrow away,Foe of the dancing day.Oh! her cheeks fall in,And her hands are thin,But her grip is fastOn the changeless past;And they sere and clutchThe soul they touch.Send Sorrow away.
Send Sorrow away,For she haunts me night and day.And Sorrow is dressed in grey,Yes, Sorrow is dressed in grey.And she looks so old,So drawn, so cold—Send Sorrow away.
So softly Time trod with me, that I lostHis footsteps pacing mine. I stayed the whileTo wrest the luscious fruits from love and life;He strode on pauselessly, with thin cold smile.So surely Time trod with me; marred my bloom,Stole all my roses, spread his cobwebs grey,Wrung all my tresses in his silvering hand;So stealthily he lured my youth awayI only learned that I was old—to-day.I could have borne it bravely, this I know,Had not the lips of children told me so.
So softly Time trod with me, that I lostHis footsteps pacing mine. I stayed the whileTo wrest the luscious fruits from love and life;He strode on pauselessly, with thin cold smile.
So surely Time trod with me; marred my bloom,Stole all my roses, spread his cobwebs grey,Wrung all my tresses in his silvering hand;So stealthily he lured my youth awayI only learned that I was old—to-day.
I could have borne it bravely, this I know,Had not the lips of children told me so.
Tears!—And I brought them to the Lord, and said:"What are these crystal globes by nations shed?What is the crimson flood that stains the land?Where is Thy peace, and where Thy guiding hand?Why are those thousands daily sacrificed?Where is Thy might, and where the love of Christ?"And from the heavens methought I heard a voice—"Oh son of earth, I bid thee still rejoice!Those crystal tears by men and nations shedWater My harvest, sanctify My dead.That crimson flood which stains the hapless earthIs but the prelude to a nobler birth.Those thousands, who for home have gladly died,Sleep in the hope of Jesus crucified.Flesh, Blood, and Water, Little Child of Mine,Veil in their depths a Mystery divine."I bowed my head, and prayed for faith to seeThe inner visions of Calamity!
Tears!—And I brought them to the Lord, and said:"What are these crystal globes by nations shed?
What is the crimson flood that stains the land?Where is Thy peace, and where Thy guiding hand?
Why are those thousands daily sacrificed?Where is Thy might, and where the love of Christ?"
And from the heavens methought I heard a voice—"Oh son of earth, I bid thee still rejoice!
Those crystal tears by men and nations shedWater My harvest, sanctify My dead.
That crimson flood which stains the hapless earthIs but the prelude to a nobler birth.
Those thousands, who for home have gladly died,Sleep in the hope of Jesus crucified.
Flesh, Blood, and Water, Little Child of Mine,Veil in their depths a Mystery divine."
I bowed my head, and prayed for faith to seeThe inner visions of Calamity!
Knocked a man at the shining Gate,Hard and bad and proud and old!Deep in years—for his call was late.The Gate was shut, and he had to wait,And he leaned awhile on his bag of gold.Roll'd the Heavenly portals back,Guarded close by a flaming sword!The old man opened out his sack,Saint Peter searched the sordid pack,"Is this thy passport to the Lord?"Saint Peter sighed, ill-gotten greedWas all therein to offer God,He vainly sought one kindly deed,One gentle word to those in need,One little step in mercy trod."And is this all?" Saint Peter said,"This fruitless hoard of worthless sin,This earthly gold, which weighs like lead?Oh, wretched man! thy soul isdead!Thou mayst—thou canst not enter in!"Could I have found one single signOf life within thy sordid soul,One kindling spark of Life Divine,The flames of hell had not been thine.Hence"—and he seal'd the Judgment scroll.Down to the fires whose lurid lightLick'd and blazoned the depths of hell,Mocking red in the pitchy night,Down, ever down, from out God's sight,Down to the damned the Miser fell.There in the haunts of deepest sinSatan watched with his sombre eye.The trembling Miser peered within,He thought to find his kith and kinWhose guilt condemned them too—to die.He wandered round from place to place,Then beat his breast with wondering moan,For lo! of all the human raceThe Miser stood in hell—Alone!For all had found some saving graceThat set them free to seek God's faceAnd could their vilest sins atone.He cowered low in abject fear,No single virtue could he plead,Satan's own—by self decreed!When sudden! 'neath a dastard deed,The devil cried, "What lieth here?"It was a single love-shed tearShed in an hour of direst need.Once he had wept in grief and pain,Once—when his child lay coldly dead,Once he had prayed. No prayer is vain.This prayer had lived to save againAnd bring remission on his head.Only a tear! The Heavenly ChoirPraised the Lord for the thing call'd love;But Satan shrieked in frenzied ire,"This foolish tear will quench my fire,This man must go above—above!"Back again where the flaming swordClosely guarded the jewelled door."I seek," he humbly sobbed, "our Lord.I brought Thee gold—a worthless hoard—Thou wouldst not let me in before."But now I come to Thee with this—A little thing, 'tis very small—I pray Thee take it not amiss,My gold is in the dark abyss,This little tear, oh Lord, is all!""Oh wondrous drop," Saint Peter cried,"That shows the sap of life withinAlivingSoul, with chance to winA place with God, immune from sin!Methought the fount of Life had dried"(He flung the Gates of Heaven wide),"Go,livingSoul, and enter in!"There in the lowest halls of grace,Through deep remorse and pains austereHe washed his soul from sin's dark trace,Then in his heart-felt awe and fearHe lowly sought his Saviour's face,Saved to life through a love-shed tear!
Knocked a man at the shining Gate,Hard and bad and proud and old!Deep in years—for his call was late.The Gate was shut, and he had to wait,And he leaned awhile on his bag of gold.
Roll'd the Heavenly portals back,Guarded close by a flaming sword!The old man opened out his sack,Saint Peter searched the sordid pack,"Is this thy passport to the Lord?"
Saint Peter sighed, ill-gotten greedWas all therein to offer God,He vainly sought one kindly deed,One gentle word to those in need,One little step in mercy trod.
"And is this all?" Saint Peter said,"This fruitless hoard of worthless sin,This earthly gold, which weighs like lead?Oh, wretched man! thy soul isdead!Thou mayst—thou canst not enter in!
"Could I have found one single signOf life within thy sordid soul,One kindling spark of Life Divine,The flames of hell had not been thine.Hence"—and he seal'd the Judgment scroll.
Down to the fires whose lurid lightLick'd and blazoned the depths of hell,Mocking red in the pitchy night,Down, ever down, from out God's sight,Down to the damned the Miser fell.
There in the haunts of deepest sinSatan watched with his sombre eye.The trembling Miser peered within,He thought to find his kith and kinWhose guilt condemned them too—to die.
He wandered round from place to place,Then beat his breast with wondering moan,For lo! of all the human raceThe Miser stood in hell—Alone!For all had found some saving graceThat set them free to seek God's faceAnd could their vilest sins atone.
He cowered low in abject fear,No single virtue could he plead,Satan's own—by self decreed!When sudden! 'neath a dastard deed,The devil cried, "What lieth here?"It was a single love-shed tearShed in an hour of direst need.
Once he had wept in grief and pain,Once—when his child lay coldly dead,Once he had prayed. No prayer is vain.This prayer had lived to save againAnd bring remission on his head.
Only a tear! The Heavenly ChoirPraised the Lord for the thing call'd love;But Satan shrieked in frenzied ire,"This foolish tear will quench my fire,This man must go above—above!"
Back again where the flaming swordClosely guarded the jewelled door."I seek," he humbly sobbed, "our Lord.I brought Thee gold—a worthless hoard—Thou wouldst not let me in before.
"But now I come to Thee with this—A little thing, 'tis very small—I pray Thee take it not amiss,My gold is in the dark abyss,This little tear, oh Lord, is all!"
"Oh wondrous drop," Saint Peter cried,"That shows the sap of life withinAlivingSoul, with chance to winA place with God, immune from sin!Methought the fount of Life had dried"(He flung the Gates of Heaven wide),"Go,livingSoul, and enter in!"
There in the lowest halls of grace,Through deep remorse and pains austereHe washed his soul from sin's dark trace,Then in his heart-felt awe and fearHe lowly sought his Saviour's face,Saved to life through a love-shed tear!
Little Christ, little Christ,Sheltered there on Mary's breast,All Thy child-like purityLightens life's obscurity,So I thank TheeFor that ray of light confessed.Sweet Thy mother, Baby Christ,Sweet in woman's modesty;But to such an one as meI would choose to kneel to Thee,To Thy young simplicity,To Thy full divinity,Little Christ.Give me tears to keep me clean,Give me joyfulness serene,Steep me for futurityIn Thy white-souled purity.For Thine innocence sufficed,Little Christ, little Christ,Vagrants like myself to bless,So I thank TheeFor Thy perfect holiness,Little Christ.
Little Christ, little Christ,Sheltered there on Mary's breast,All Thy child-like purityLightens life's obscurity,So I thank TheeFor that ray of light confessed.
Sweet Thy mother, Baby Christ,Sweet in woman's modesty;But to such an one as meI would choose to kneel to Thee,To Thy young simplicity,To Thy full divinity,Little Christ.
Give me tears to keep me clean,Give me joyfulness serene,Steep me for futurityIn Thy white-souled purity.For Thine innocence sufficed,Little Christ, little Christ,Vagrants like myself to bless,So I thank TheeFor Thy perfect holiness,Little Christ.
The sky hung smooth o'er the line of hillThat shadowed the valley that seemed so still,And the blackbird whistled his love notes shrill.The church lay dreaming of God, and whenThe bodies should rise from her graveyard penWhere the high grass covered her poor dead men.The water meadows shone rich with gold,Gold that the buttercups had soldTo the nibbling sheep of the red ring-fold.And even the river murmured restAs the sun sank low in the tender west,And the earth flowers slept on their mother's breast.Over the valley that seemed so still,Where the blackbird whistled his love-notes shrillI gazed, and all against my willI saw a vision beneath the hill.Centuries passed like a mist awayAnd I stood in the glare of a burning dayWhilst the church-bells clamoured a call to pray.War and its brother raced hand in hand,That brother called Death; and they seared the landWith their fiery breath and the murder brand.And copses and dales were bleeding red,Naught was sacred, the living or dead,The old, old man, or the girl just wed.Men stormed the homestead, blazed the corn,Pillaged and sacked from night till morn,And spitted the babe that was newly born.Savage and brutal, like hell-hounds freed,They swarmed the hill, debauched with greed—Some slunk behind, their lust to feed.At last, when the streams ran human blood,Soaking the fields in a scarlet flood,A woman prayed with her child for food.All on their way those soldiers passedWith a fœtid jest at her hapless fast,And some men cut her down at last.They cut her down! Oh, woe is me,And they left her to rot in her misery,Naked and scorned for the world to see.They left her bare in the cold night air,Save only the comb in her coal-black hair,And they strangled the baby, helpless there.They did not trouble to wind them roundIn a sheet of earth in the dewy ground,They looted them both for the spoil they found.But the wind was kind. It wailed aloudAnd churned the dust, till it rose a cloudlike a pearly mist, to form a shroud.And the leaves swooned down to the wind's sweet callAnd covered the mother and babe and all,Till they lay at peace in a soft green pall.The church still ponders, and wonders whenThose bodies will rise from her graveyard pen,But she knows they are blessed, those poor dead men,For they sleep within her Christian foldUnder her consecrated mould,Where a verse was read, and a prayer was told.But under the hill, in the leaves somewhere,Lie a mother and child all stark and bare,Save only a comb in the coal-black hair—Yet God will remember they lie out there.
The sky hung smooth o'er the line of hillThat shadowed the valley that seemed so still,And the blackbird whistled his love notes shrill.
The church lay dreaming of God, and whenThe bodies should rise from her graveyard penWhere the high grass covered her poor dead men.
The water meadows shone rich with gold,Gold that the buttercups had soldTo the nibbling sheep of the red ring-fold.
And even the river murmured restAs the sun sank low in the tender west,And the earth flowers slept on their mother's breast.
Over the valley that seemed so still,Where the blackbird whistled his love-notes shrillI gazed, and all against my willI saw a vision beneath the hill.
Centuries passed like a mist awayAnd I stood in the glare of a burning dayWhilst the church-bells clamoured a call to pray.
War and its brother raced hand in hand,That brother called Death; and they seared the landWith their fiery breath and the murder brand.
And copses and dales were bleeding red,Naught was sacred, the living or dead,The old, old man, or the girl just wed.
Men stormed the homestead, blazed the corn,Pillaged and sacked from night till morn,And spitted the babe that was newly born.
Savage and brutal, like hell-hounds freed,They swarmed the hill, debauched with greed—Some slunk behind, their lust to feed.
At last, when the streams ran human blood,Soaking the fields in a scarlet flood,A woman prayed with her child for food.
All on their way those soldiers passedWith a fœtid jest at her hapless fast,And some men cut her down at last.
They cut her down! Oh, woe is me,And they left her to rot in her misery,Naked and scorned for the world to see.
They left her bare in the cold night air,Save only the comb in her coal-black hair,And they strangled the baby, helpless there.
They did not trouble to wind them roundIn a sheet of earth in the dewy ground,They looted them both for the spoil they found.
But the wind was kind. It wailed aloudAnd churned the dust, till it rose a cloudlike a pearly mist, to form a shroud.
And the leaves swooned down to the wind's sweet callAnd covered the mother and babe and all,Till they lay at peace in a soft green pall.
The church still ponders, and wonders whenThose bodies will rise from her graveyard pen,But she knows they are blessed, those poor dead men,
For they sleep within her Christian foldUnder her consecrated mould,Where a verse was read, and a prayer was told.
But under the hill, in the leaves somewhere,Lie a mother and child all stark and bare,Save only a comb in the coal-black hair—Yet God will remember they lie out there.
Whilst digging up a hitherto uncultivated bit of garden near the Mendips, a gardener came across the mutilated skeletons of a woman and baby. A comb still decorated the woman's coal-black hair. At the inquest afterwards held upon the skeletons, it was suggested that the woman and her baby were probably refugees from the battle of Sedgemoor.
Whilst digging up a hitherto uncultivated bit of garden near the Mendips, a gardener came across the mutilated skeletons of a woman and baby. A comb still decorated the woman's coal-black hair. At the inquest afterwards held upon the skeletons, it was suggested that the woman and her baby were probably refugees from the battle of Sedgemoor.
Over the hill where the white road sweeps,And the dead fern holds the snow,Love flew by, and the black night skyShadowed the vales below.Down in the creek, where the ice-pools gleamAnd the trees stand gaunt and bare,I crouched me down, and the sullen frownOf earth entombed me there."Ah," mocked the ice-pool, hard and clear,"Man with the frozen soul;Love sailed by, on a cloud-bound sky,With the tears that sorrow stole.""Gone," said the fern, "from your frost-bound touch;Gone from your winter's heart.Love flew by, like the tattered sighBitterness tore apart."And the aching trees bowed branch and twigAnd a shrivelled leaf made cry,"If you are cold, and your heart be old,For certain, Love must die."Over the hill, where the white road sweeps,And the dead fern holds the snow,Sweet Love fled; and a spirit deadSpectres the slopes below.
Over the hill where the white road sweeps,And the dead fern holds the snow,Love flew by, and the black night skyShadowed the vales below.
Down in the creek, where the ice-pools gleamAnd the trees stand gaunt and bare,I crouched me down, and the sullen frownOf earth entombed me there.
"Ah," mocked the ice-pool, hard and clear,"Man with the frozen soul;Love sailed by, on a cloud-bound sky,With the tears that sorrow stole."
"Gone," said the fern, "from your frost-bound touch;Gone from your winter's heart.Love flew by, like the tattered sighBitterness tore apart."
And the aching trees bowed branch and twigAnd a shrivelled leaf made cry,"If you are cold, and your heart be old,For certain, Love must die."
Over the hill, where the white road sweeps,And the dead fern holds the snow,Sweet Love fled; and a spirit deadSpectres the slopes below.