The world is fair! The circling swellOf fresh tumultuous seaHolds life within its rhythmic riseAnd bursts of harmony;And storm-clouds chasing down the skyEmpty their hearts as they sweep by.The world is gay!—Such lilt and song,Such mellowness of tune,Such drifting airs from wave and shore,From rock and sand and dune.I did not know that clouds of spraySplashed as they fell, a roundelay.A magic day! A magic handHas raised a magic mood.Oh! years ago God made the worldAnd saw that it was good.And from His ecstasy divineI borrowed this sweet hour of mine.
The world is fair! The circling swellOf fresh tumultuous seaHolds life within its rhythmic riseAnd bursts of harmony;And storm-clouds chasing down the skyEmpty their hearts as they sweep by.
The world is gay!—Such lilt and song,Such mellowness of tune,Such drifting airs from wave and shore,From rock and sand and dune.I did not know that clouds of spraySplashed as they fell, a roundelay.
A magic day! A magic handHas raised a magic mood.Oh! years ago God made the worldAnd saw that it was good.And from His ecstasy divineI borrowed this sweet hour of mine.
So fair, so delicate the thoughts,He marvelled they could be his own;He did not dream that they were birdsFrom heaven flown.Birds with a message in their throats,Limpid and golden from the sky.Most wonderful his song. 'Twas strangeHe knew not why.They fluttered their white wings awhileThen soared again to paradise,Leaving a trail of limpid notesFor sacrifice.
So fair, so delicate the thoughts,He marvelled they could be his own;He did not dream that they were birdsFrom heaven flown.
Birds with a message in their throats,Limpid and golden from the sky.Most wonderful his song. 'Twas strangeHe knew not why.
They fluttered their white wings awhileThen soared again to paradise,Leaving a trail of limpid notesFor sacrifice.
You told me you had done with love,You showed me why;You said it often, just to proveInconstancy!I never heard—I only marked—theunsaidword.You told me you had thoughts beyondMy own poor love,A wider sphere, ambitions fond!'Fore God aboveIn rosy blissI only felt th' ungiven kiss!I knew one day that unsaid word would dressIn shining letters, spelling happiness!I knew that love would one day be mine own,A tender suppliant for forgiveness won.I had no fear,Tho' cold and clearYou gave your answer,—sweet, my dear,I never heard—your spoken word!
You told me you had done with love,You showed me why;You said it often, just to proveInconstancy!I never heard—I only marked—theunsaidword.
You told me you had thoughts beyondMy own poor love,A wider sphere, ambitions fond!'Fore God aboveIn rosy blissI only felt th' ungiven kiss!
I knew one day that unsaid word would dressIn shining letters, spelling happiness!I knew that love would one day be mine own,A tender suppliant for forgiveness won.I had no fear,Tho' cold and clearYou gave your answer,—sweet, my dear,I never heard—your spoken word!
Wraith of the out-lived years,Wandering too and fro,Floating to earth on the hallowed tonesOf a song of long ago.Shadows of those asleepSteal through the simple lay,Lifting the silvery veil asideOf a long lost yesterday.Beautiful silent days,Raised from the silent past,In the pregnant chords of a once loved songMemory speaks at last.Of the golden summer eves,Shrined in the mists of yearsAnd a world of hopes! Dear God, what hopes,Born to the soul in tears.But the youthful hopes creep by,Stealing with solemn chimeTo a finite grave. They will rise in faithWhen Eternity conquers Time.Dream-laden, tender song,Sacred and sweet and old,With the lingering touch of a bygone age,I have scanned again in thy down-turned page,A tale that was long since told.
Wraith of the out-lived years,Wandering too and fro,Floating to earth on the hallowed tonesOf a song of long ago.
Shadows of those asleepSteal through the simple lay,Lifting the silvery veil asideOf a long lost yesterday.
Beautiful silent days,Raised from the silent past,In the pregnant chords of a once loved songMemory speaks at last.
Of the golden summer eves,Shrined in the mists of yearsAnd a world of hopes! Dear God, what hopes,Born to the soul in tears.
But the youthful hopes creep by,Stealing with solemn chimeTo a finite grave. They will rise in faithWhen Eternity conquers Time.
Dream-laden, tender song,Sacred and sweet and old,With the lingering touch of a bygone age,I have scanned again in thy down-turned page,A tale that was long since told.
When the great sun flung bands of gold(Bands to the number of seven)On the limpid sea, we followed the goldAnd climbed on our way to Heaven.There to the portals of cloud and storm,Piled high in the regions of thunder,Till we reached the sky, in its columns of storm,And God's gates rolled asunder.Below, the world like a ball of mistWith us, pearl and jacinth and beryl,And it faded away, that pearl-grey mist,And we clung to the gates in peril.Myrrh and incense, and jacinth and pearl,How we cringed on the floor of Heaven!And the great sun drew its bands from the pearl.Bands to the number of seven.And now, as we gaze from our star-crowned sphereTo the shadows, where earth is seeming,We know that that hazy circling sphereWas only a sinner's dreaming!
When the great sun flung bands of gold(Bands to the number of seven)On the limpid sea, we followed the goldAnd climbed on our way to Heaven.
There to the portals of cloud and storm,Piled high in the regions of thunder,Till we reached the sky, in its columns of storm,And God's gates rolled asunder.
Below, the world like a ball of mistWith us, pearl and jacinth and beryl,And it faded away, that pearl-grey mist,And we clung to the gates in peril.
Myrrh and incense, and jacinth and pearl,How we cringed on the floor of Heaven!And the great sun drew its bands from the pearl.Bands to the number of seven.
And now, as we gaze from our star-crowned sphereTo the shadows, where earth is seeming,We know that that hazy circling sphereWas only a sinner's dreaming!
When God made womanFair He made her, as the rose;Her face upturned to catch His radiant smile;His sunbeams lurked the whileAbout her lips; with care He choseHer hair and glory, and her round white throat,The pillared keeper of her woman's note.God filled her eyes with innocence and love,And glimpsing lights from out His skies above.The Father knew that she was beautiful.And yet, to make her nobly dutifulTo Him, within her breastHe set a shrine, all holy and possessedIn shining mystery. And few who knowTo enter in. The evading flame aglowThat fills the shrine, is white as unshed snow.And deep within that casket of her breastAre secret joys, to God alone confessed.
When God made womanFair He made her, as the rose;Her face upturned to catch His radiant smile;His sunbeams lurked the whileAbout her lips; with care He choseHer hair and glory, and her round white throat,The pillared keeper of her woman's note.God filled her eyes with innocence and love,And glimpsing lights from out His skies above.The Father knew that she was beautiful.And yet, to make her nobly dutifulTo Him, within her breastHe set a shrine, all holy and possessedIn shining mystery. And few who knowTo enter in. The evading flame aglowThat fills the shrine, is white as unshed snow.And deep within that casket of her breastAre secret joys, to God alone confessed.
White the weather, white the weather!Stars and ice at one together,Shining frost on cracking branches,Snow in pale smooth avalanches.White the weather, wintry weather.Wan the way, where once the heatherBloomed in radiant summer weather,Sparkling icicles moon-lustredDroop, where once the green leaves clustered.Life is sleeping, held in tether.Once a Babe was born this weather,Three Wise Men set forth together;Once a Star of wondrous gloryTold the Christ's triumphant story.Wintry weather!—God's own weather!All the world washed white together!
White the weather, white the weather!Stars and ice at one together,Shining frost on cracking branches,Snow in pale smooth avalanches.White the weather, wintry weather.
Wan the way, where once the heatherBloomed in radiant summer weather,Sparkling icicles moon-lustredDroop, where once the green leaves clustered.Life is sleeping, held in tether.
Once a Babe was born this weather,Three Wise Men set forth together;Once a Star of wondrous gloryTold the Christ's triumphant story.Wintry weather!—God's own weather!All the world washed white together!
I do not sing for youth and love,For passion and desire,I only sing because the sunIs gold like shining fire;I only sing because the dayIs blue, the grass is green,The birds are singing out their hearts,The waking twigs between!Because the chestnut branch is tippedWith buds of folded brown,Because the snowdrops look so white,The catkins feather down,Because the naked elms have bentTo whisper me this thing—The sap is stirring in their limbs—How can I choose, but sing!
I do not sing for youth and love,For passion and desire,I only sing because the sunIs gold like shining fire;I only sing because the dayIs blue, the grass is green,The birds are singing out their hearts,The waking twigs between!
Because the chestnut branch is tippedWith buds of folded brown,Because the snowdrops look so white,The catkins feather down,Because the naked elms have bentTo whisper me this thing—The sap is stirring in their limbs—How can I choose, but sing!
Come and idle in the sun,Come and idle, everyone,Flowering MayIs wholly gay,Come and idle in the sun.Come and smell the new-mown lawn,Fragrant grass, and dew-wet dawn.Buds unfold,And leaves grown boldSpread great shadows on the lawn.Come and hear the chaffinch trill,Hear the lark and thrushes thrill!Come along,Sucha song,Such a chorus bright and shrill.Won'tyou come?Hear the hum,Hear the hum of tireless bee.Come with me,Wilt not idle for a day?Wilt not shirkThy waste of work?Thisis life, this radiant playNature keeps for flowering May.Buds and bees and grass and flowerMake a sweeter, holier hourThan all drab years of labour dour.Come away,Come and play,Come and glory in the sun,Come and laugh! Come, everyone.Flowering MayIs fresh and gay,Come and greet the golden sun.Come away,Come and play,Come, oh! come out, everyone!
Come and idle in the sun,Come and idle, everyone,Flowering MayIs wholly gay,Come and idle in the sun.
Come and smell the new-mown lawn,Fragrant grass, and dew-wet dawn.Buds unfold,And leaves grown boldSpread great shadows on the lawn.
Come and hear the chaffinch trill,Hear the lark and thrushes thrill!Come along,Sucha song,Such a chorus bright and shrill.
Won'tyou come?Hear the hum,Hear the hum of tireless bee.Come with me,Wilt not idle for a day?Wilt not shirkThy waste of work?Thisis life, this radiant playNature keeps for flowering May.Buds and bees and grass and flowerMake a sweeter, holier hourThan all drab years of labour dour.Come away,Come and play,Come and glory in the sun,Come and laugh! Come, everyone.
Flowering MayIs fresh and gay,Come and greet the golden sun.Come away,Come and play,Come, oh! come out, everyone!
Wind, wind,Do you whisper eerie sonnets to the moonAs it rises white and sickled? Do you croonSilver-coloured ditties pale and lowAs you rock the cedar branches too and fro?Do you sing to woo the bat,Is it that, is it that?Have you tunes for such a sullen little wraith,Half dream, swooping high, scarcely seen, chiefly faith?Would you hold a phantom to your breastAs you murmur gently love-notes from the west?Wind, wind,Every tree is but a harp for your desire,Every leaf a mellow string to swell your choir,Every grass a cooing reedAt your need, for your need,Drums and clashing cymbals of the seaBoom a pæan, hurl a flood of melody.Wind, wind,Men have snatched an air or twoOf a fantasy from youAnd have prisoned them in books to make them stay,Scattered fragments that your lips have blown this way.Small and shy and thin and cramped and grave,They are caged and tied to paper in a stave.Do you mind,Oh Wind?But you laugh and troll out gaily on your way,"Keep the fragments, little earth-men, dance and play,'Tis a dainty roundelay,Hold it, pray; hold it, pray.For myself, my breath is fierce, myself am great,For my tiny fallen airs I dare not wait;Storms beneath my rushing wings unfurledRoll the symphonies which dominate the world."
Wind, wind,Do you whisper eerie sonnets to the moonAs it rises white and sickled? Do you croonSilver-coloured ditties pale and lowAs you rock the cedar branches too and fro?Do you sing to woo the bat,Is it that, is it that?Have you tunes for such a sullen little wraith,Half dream, swooping high, scarcely seen, chiefly faith?Would you hold a phantom to your breastAs you murmur gently love-notes from the west?
Wind, wind,Every tree is but a harp for your desire,Every leaf a mellow string to swell your choir,Every grass a cooing reedAt your need, for your need,Drums and clashing cymbals of the seaBoom a pæan, hurl a flood of melody.
Wind, wind,Men have snatched an air or twoOf a fantasy from youAnd have prisoned them in books to make them stay,Scattered fragments that your lips have blown this way.Small and shy and thin and cramped and grave,They are caged and tied to paper in a stave.Do you mind,Oh Wind?
But you laugh and troll out gaily on your way,"Keep the fragments, little earth-men, dance and play,'Tis a dainty roundelay,Hold it, pray; hold it, pray.For myself, my breath is fierce, myself am great,For my tiny fallen airs I dare not wait;Storms beneath my rushing wings unfurledRoll the symphonies which dominate the world."
I have been, where never man went,With the grey wind:Far from the gorse and the wet earth scentI have been.I have seen, what no man hath seenWith the grey wind:I have cowered down his knees between:I have seen.I have heard, what no man hath heardWith the grey wind:The dry leaves crackle and snap at his wordI have heard.I have heard, and I watched them flyAll the wild leavesIn a hustled crowd, to the stormy sky,At his word.And they swept in a whirlwind wan,Churned by his breath,Out to the windways, where never sun shone,Forth they swept.Whiles they leapt in a maddened dance,Swung scatterwise;Eddied and swirled to a swift advanceTill they creptSpent and worn, in their frenzied fear,Leaves of brown-goldChittering feebly in masses sere,Crazed and slow:And I know, what never man knew,Those poor dead leavesAre the souls of men the grey wind slew—This I know.
I have been, where never man went,With the grey wind:Far from the gorse and the wet earth scentI have been.
I have seen, what no man hath seenWith the grey wind:I have cowered down his knees between:I have seen.
I have heard, what no man hath heardWith the grey wind:The dry leaves crackle and snap at his wordI have heard.
I have heard, and I watched them flyAll the wild leavesIn a hustled crowd, to the stormy sky,At his word.
And they swept in a whirlwind wan,Churned by his breath,Out to the windways, where never sun shone,Forth they swept.
Whiles they leapt in a maddened dance,Swung scatterwise;Eddied and swirled to a swift advanceTill they crept
Spent and worn, in their frenzied fear,Leaves of brown-goldChittering feebly in masses sere,Crazed and slow:
And I know, what never man knew,Those poor dead leavesAre the souls of men the grey wind slew—This I know.
Tho' all mayn't know it,Rules only, never made a poet.
He thought to shape his writings into verse,He pruned them down to language fixed and terse,But finding that would give his tricks no play,Spurned his reserve, and tried another way.This time he dressed the naked words with care,Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair,And studying every law of form and rhyme,Pieced up his metre into studious time.But still, whatever medium he chose,His work remained poor, tortured, unsexed prose.One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the valeHe felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale—Stooping, he caught a whisper from the skyThat slipped from out the twilight whimsically.Its tender sorrow touched him as it fell,Quickened his fancies, stirred his heart as well,In reverent awe he heard its mystic call,A heaven-born glory permeating all.He did not dare to pin that whisper downTo words so peacocked in a flaunting gown,The forms of metre he had conned so wellWere all inadequate that sigh to tell.No further use that artificial code,Those simpered rhymes, his petty bandbox modeOf tight-packed trumpery. No need to paceThe solemn pavements of the commonplace.Each little trick, each fantasy of artWere stones that blocked th' outpourings of his heart.He looked beyond the great inrushing sea,Seeing at last the hidden things that be!And of the wave he learnt a cadence sweet,Strong as its life, a lilt of rippling feet,Whilst from the wind that swept the answering treesHe culled the moaning rhythm of the breeze.He weaved that whisper of the twilight skyInto a poem, soft with melody,It thrilled the soul in motion strong and free,Wild as the wave, a break of ecstasy.It kissed the borderland 'twixt heaven and earth,Sweet in its passion, holy in its mirth—And lo! a light gleamed through each noble line,The wind crooned softly, starways seemed to shine—That poem—was divine.
He thought to shape his writings into verse,He pruned them down to language fixed and terse,But finding that would give his tricks no play,Spurned his reserve, and tried another way.
This time he dressed the naked words with care,Trimmed them with adjectives and adverbs fair,And studying every law of form and rhyme,Pieced up his metre into studious time.
But still, whatever medium he chose,His work remained poor, tortured, unsexed prose.
One dew-drenched eve, whilst pondering in the valeHe felt the leaves a-quiver in the dale—Stooping, he caught a whisper from the skyThat slipped from out the twilight whimsically.
Its tender sorrow touched him as it fell,Quickened his fancies, stirred his heart as well,In reverent awe he heard its mystic call,A heaven-born glory permeating all.
He did not dare to pin that whisper downTo words so peacocked in a flaunting gown,The forms of metre he had conned so wellWere all inadequate that sigh to tell.
No further use that artificial code,Those simpered rhymes, his petty bandbox modeOf tight-packed trumpery. No need to paceThe solemn pavements of the commonplace.
Each little trick, each fantasy of artWere stones that blocked th' outpourings of his heart.He looked beyond the great inrushing sea,Seeing at last the hidden things that be!
And of the wave he learnt a cadence sweet,Strong as its life, a lilt of rippling feet,Whilst from the wind that swept the answering treesHe culled the moaning rhythm of the breeze.
He weaved that whisper of the twilight skyInto a poem, soft with melody,It thrilled the soul in motion strong and free,Wild as the wave, a break of ecstasy.
It kissed the borderland 'twixt heaven and earth,Sweet in its passion, holy in its mirth—And lo! a light gleamed through each noble line,The wind crooned softly, starways seemed to shine—That poem—was divine.
She would dance a Coranto, that the French Ambassador, hidden behind a curtain, might report her sprightliness to his master.—Greene.
She would dance a Coranto, that the French Ambassador, hidden behind a curtain, might report her sprightliness to his master.—Greene.
So Elizabeth dancedAnd the guest was entrancedAs she tripped the Coranto, and curtseyed and swayedIn a robe of rich stuff,Jewelled slashings and ruff,And a stomacher stiff, thick with pearlings and braid.Ho! he peeped round the curtain,'Tis perfectly certainEnraptured of mienAt the tiptoeing Queen,In a courtly way, in a Frenchy way,In a naughty way, in that Tudor day.Yes, he peeped round the screen,And he sniggered ("I ween,This is only a woman to flatter and kiss,A creature of vanity")—"Madam, what blissTo have witnessed such grace, such elegant——" hereHe could find no more words, and emotion 'twas clearChoked all further utterance,For never had such a danceEntered his thought.Such slippers! and oughtHe to mention the hose?All of silk to suppose?Had the muse from Olympus stepped down for a whileTerpsichore style?Then quite without guileHe bowed very low in his Frenchified way,In that courtly way, of a far-off day,And the laugh of the lady was merry and gay.And all throughout Europe the fame of her spread,Her frivolous tricks, and the foreigners saidIt was only a princess, a slave to her pride,True child of a mother a king had decried!—So she thwarted and twisted the world to her whimAs he misunderstood her—she outwitted him!Now one day it arose that King Philip of Spain,Incensed at her folly, essayed yet againTo bring her to reasonJust at his own season.So he sent his Ambassador, Spanish Mendoza,To this slippery Queen, with a message sub rosa."Nay, by mine honour," she simpered. "How now,Is it truce to my jest? 'Tis a pity I trow.It were best to be merry!" She yawned very wide,And the Spaniard furtively smiled at her side.'Twas only a woman to flatter and kiss,'Twould be easy to manage a creature like this!Hard-headed and wise, sat the gaunt English Queen,Her words were unyielding, her purse it was mean—The Spanish AmbassadorWrithed like a matador!Beaten and wounded, he played to her vanity.—It was tucked out of sight—and with Spanish profanityHe cursed all the Protestants under his breath,And committed them gently to burnings and death;But never an inch did Elizabeth yield,And the messenger saw that his mission was sealed,In that far-off day.And Elizabeth laughedIn a curious wayThat was subtle with craft:"Under favour, you mayTell your master in Spain, that my country comes first.I am England, and English, its best and its worst.Tell him my subjects I love as my children,Tell him they thirst but their mouths will be filled whenThey meet him at sea.Give that greeting from me."Back to Madrid went that Spanish Ambassador,Broken and bruised like a bull-beaten matador,And he bowed very low(It was etiquette so)And he cried, "Oh, that Queen is the devil in sooth.A fool, Sire, 'twas thought, for she danced so uncouth!But her bargains are hard as her heart and her hand,As her dreary dominions, her men and her land!And never be gulled by her feminine vanity,'Tis only a pose, all her vacant inanity!Let us man an armada to crush her and raid her,To send her to hell to the demons who made her!"And they came, as you know:Heavy ships big and slowIn a lumbering way, in a blundering wayIn that Tudor day.Proudly up channel their galleons swept,Swiftly our pinnaces hustled and leaptAt their rear. Dogs tracking their preyAnd biting and snappingAnd snarling and yapping,Delighted and fierce at the chance of a fray.God! How the Spaniards fled in a panicWhen our fire-ships had neared them,And blazed them, and seared them,Wrapping their hulks in red flamings Satanic!God, how they scattered,Slipped anchor, and shattered,Sails tattered,Masts battered,Up to the north whilst a mighty sou'-westerRose wildly and strong, to hinder and pesterTheir perilous flight; how they foundered and sankOn that treacherous bank,Lost, lost evermoreOn our alien shore.With their grim freight of deathAnd the poisonous breathOf scurvy and pestilence, hunger, despair,The struggling remainder of galleons bearThem back to the port of Corunna again,All, all that is left to the pride of proud Spain.Courageous and calm, with the valour of menElizabeth waited the chances; and then"My children are fedAnd their enemies dead,"Cried the frivolous Queen.Majestic of mienShe towered, her wisdom and high inspiration,The might of a people, the soul of a nation.L'Envoie(And even to-day I will wager that no manCan fathom the mind or the depths of a woman!)
So Elizabeth dancedAnd the guest was entrancedAs she tripped the Coranto, and curtseyed and swayedIn a robe of rich stuff,Jewelled slashings and ruff,And a stomacher stiff, thick with pearlings and braid.Ho! he peeped round the curtain,'Tis perfectly certainEnraptured of mienAt the tiptoeing Queen,In a courtly way, in a Frenchy way,In a naughty way, in that Tudor day.
Yes, he peeped round the screen,And he sniggered ("I ween,This is only a woman to flatter and kiss,A creature of vanity")—"Madam, what blissTo have witnessed such grace, such elegant——" hereHe could find no more words, and emotion 'twas clearChoked all further utterance,For never had such a danceEntered his thought.Such slippers! and oughtHe to mention the hose?All of silk to suppose?Had the muse from Olympus stepped down for a whileTerpsichore style?Then quite without guileHe bowed very low in his Frenchified way,In that courtly way, of a far-off day,And the laugh of the lady was merry and gay.
And all throughout Europe the fame of her spread,Her frivolous tricks, and the foreigners saidIt was only a princess, a slave to her pride,True child of a mother a king had decried!—So she thwarted and twisted the world to her whimAs he misunderstood her—she outwitted him!
Now one day it arose that King Philip of Spain,Incensed at her folly, essayed yet againTo bring her to reasonJust at his own season.So he sent his Ambassador, Spanish Mendoza,To this slippery Queen, with a message sub rosa.
"Nay, by mine honour," she simpered. "How now,Is it truce to my jest? 'Tis a pity I trow.It were best to be merry!" She yawned very wide,And the Spaniard furtively smiled at her side.'Twas only a woman to flatter and kiss,'Twould be easy to manage a creature like this!
Hard-headed and wise, sat the gaunt English Queen,Her words were unyielding, her purse it was mean—The Spanish AmbassadorWrithed like a matador!Beaten and wounded, he played to her vanity.—It was tucked out of sight—and with Spanish profanityHe cursed all the Protestants under his breath,And committed them gently to burnings and death;But never an inch did Elizabeth yield,And the messenger saw that his mission was sealed,In that far-off day.And Elizabeth laughedIn a curious wayThat was subtle with craft:"Under favour, you mayTell your master in Spain, that my country comes first.I am England, and English, its best and its worst.Tell him my subjects I love as my children,Tell him they thirst but their mouths will be filled whenThey meet him at sea.Give that greeting from me."
Back to Madrid went that Spanish Ambassador,Broken and bruised like a bull-beaten matador,And he bowed very low(It was etiquette so)And he cried, "Oh, that Queen is the devil in sooth.A fool, Sire, 'twas thought, for she danced so uncouth!But her bargains are hard as her heart and her hand,As her dreary dominions, her men and her land!And never be gulled by her feminine vanity,'Tis only a pose, all her vacant inanity!Let us man an armada to crush her and raid her,To send her to hell to the demons who made her!"
And they came, as you know:Heavy ships big and slowIn a lumbering way, in a blundering wayIn that Tudor day.Proudly up channel their galleons swept,Swiftly our pinnaces hustled and leaptAt their rear. Dogs tracking their preyAnd biting and snappingAnd snarling and yapping,Delighted and fierce at the chance of a fray.
God! How the Spaniards fled in a panicWhen our fire-ships had neared them,And blazed them, and seared them,Wrapping their hulks in red flamings Satanic!God, how they scattered,Slipped anchor, and shattered,Sails tattered,Masts battered,Up to the north whilst a mighty sou'-westerRose wildly and strong, to hinder and pesterTheir perilous flight; how they foundered and sankOn that treacherous bank,Lost, lost evermoreOn our alien shore.
With their grim freight of deathAnd the poisonous breathOf scurvy and pestilence, hunger, despair,The struggling remainder of galleons bearThem back to the port of Corunna again,All, all that is left to the pride of proud Spain.
Courageous and calm, with the valour of menElizabeth waited the chances; and then"My children are fedAnd their enemies dead,"Cried the frivolous Queen.Majestic of mienShe towered, her wisdom and high inspiration,The might of a people, the soul of a nation.
L'Envoie(And even to-day I will wager that no manCan fathom the mind or the depths of a woman!)
OnlySo lonely,Was ever woman quite so lonely?Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchangedFor nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged,Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor,Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before—Elizabeth.Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrownThat gorgeous England, which was once her own.Those solemn courtiers pacing to and froOutside the palace, neither care nor knowThe dying Queen is lonely!Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate?And she, contemptuous victim once of hateAnd score of plots, plunges her naked swordThrice through the arras, which had never stirred—Afraid!—Elizabeth?Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old,She shivers, this gay daughter of a goldEntrancing age. The debonair gallantWho sang her, now the mocking sycophant.The ministers she trusted, gone. The throneShe loved with all her passion, left for oneOf stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, sheShrinks from the new and cold sobrietyOf chill advancing fashion. Only DeathTo woo this poor—this great Elizabeth!Was ever woman quite so lonely?
OnlySo lonely,Was ever woman quite so lonely?Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchangedFor nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged,Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor,Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before—Elizabeth.
Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrownThat gorgeous England, which was once her own.Those solemn courtiers pacing to and froOutside the palace, neither care nor knowThe dying Queen is lonely!
Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate?And she, contemptuous victim once of hateAnd score of plots, plunges her naked swordThrice through the arras, which had never stirred—Afraid!—Elizabeth?
Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old,She shivers, this gay daughter of a goldEntrancing age. The debonair gallantWho sang her, now the mocking sycophant.The ministers she trusted, gone. The throneShe loved with all her passion, left for oneOf stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, sheShrinks from the new and cold sobrietyOf chill advancing fashion. Only DeathTo woo this poor—this great Elizabeth!Was ever woman quite so lonely?
The best people to judge are those who served under Captain Scott. Had we been in the same place as the victims we should have wished our bodies to remain at rest where we had given our best efforts in the cause we earnestly believed in.—Commander Evans.
The best people to judge are those who served under Captain Scott. Had we been in the same place as the victims we should have wished our bodies to remain at rest where we had given our best efforts in the cause we earnestly believed in.—Commander Evans.
Out of the ice-bound realms a clear voice said,"Give me the right to bury my great dead.No green-girt lands can honour them as I,Nor wrap them round in such pale purity."Leave them with me, alone in my white world,Place England's flag above their cairns unfurled.I need great souls! Great Hero souls to blessAnd consecrate my snowy wilderness."
Out of the ice-bound realms a clear voice said,"Give me the right to bury my great dead.No green-girt lands can honour them as I,Nor wrap them round in such pale purity.
"Leave them with me, alone in my white world,Place England's flag above their cairns unfurled.I need great souls! Great Hero souls to blessAnd consecrate my snowy wilderness."
'Tis a big, big place!—And the clouds that gather the grey skies inAre frayed by chimneys black and old,Serried stacks of grime and sin.And every road and every streetHas a secret tale to guard and hold,Mid the echoing tones of passing feet.Oh weary place!Brimmed up with life, confused in sound,I have little part in your daily round,For I wander lonely—stranger bound.There are houses surely which open their doorTo those they know,For me they stand in a formal rowStory on story, floor upon floor,Shielding themselves from the crimson sun,From the on-rolling mutterOf traffic and wagon, of footstep and cry,With curtain and shutter.Mute houses which shunAll light, sound and meInexorably.Sometimes when I toss on my pillow at night,When the spluttering rainSpreads the smuts on the pane,I dream that those mansions relax their grim prideAnd opening wideTheir intimate hearts to me,Chill taciturnityMelts in the warmth of rich colour and fire.Vast halls are alightWith radiant desireTo show hospitality.Lavish regalitySquanders the staircase in flowers and green.And I wander unseenThrough the great pillared corridors, kiss the soft redOf the shimmering hangings; the sensuous glowAblaze in the hearth thrills me throughly, I knowThere is place for me there, in those homes I thought dead.But sleep's "Open, Sesame"Fails with the light,Forcing the hopes of meBack into night.Never to open, never to seeStern cold housesClosed to me!Gathering storms which smirch the sky,Burst your bonds, for up on highMay I come in?I have no part in this world, no home,No love to hold me. Bid me come,I would warm myself at your great round sun,I would open your windows one by one.Your little stars and your crescent moon.I am tired and thin,I think I shall come and see you soon.May I come in, may I come in?
'Tis a big, big place!—And the clouds that gather the grey skies inAre frayed by chimneys black and old,Serried stacks of grime and sin.And every road and every streetHas a secret tale to guard and hold,Mid the echoing tones of passing feet.Oh weary place!Brimmed up with life, confused in sound,I have little part in your daily round,For I wander lonely—stranger bound.
There are houses surely which open their doorTo those they know,For me they stand in a formal rowStory on story, floor upon floor,Shielding themselves from the crimson sun,From the on-rolling mutterOf traffic and wagon, of footstep and cry,With curtain and shutter.Mute houses which shunAll light, sound and meInexorably.
Sometimes when I toss on my pillow at night,When the spluttering rainSpreads the smuts on the pane,I dream that those mansions relax their grim prideAnd opening wideTheir intimate hearts to me,Chill taciturnityMelts in the warmth of rich colour and fire.Vast halls are alightWith radiant desireTo show hospitality.Lavish regalitySquanders the staircase in flowers and green.And I wander unseenThrough the great pillared corridors, kiss the soft redOf the shimmering hangings; the sensuous glowAblaze in the hearth thrills me throughly, I knowThere is place for me there, in those homes I thought dead.
But sleep's "Open, Sesame"Fails with the light,Forcing the hopes of meBack into night.Never to open, never to seeStern cold housesClosed to me!
Gathering storms which smirch the sky,Burst your bonds, for up on highMay I come in?I have no part in this world, no home,No love to hold me. Bid me come,I would warm myself at your great round sun,I would open your windows one by one.Your little stars and your crescent moon.I am tired and thin,I think I shall come and see you soon.May I come in, may I come in?
Under the deep blue vaultOf a hot relentless sky,Burns the hot red deep, and the hot red road,And the choking dust like a rust corrodeSoars up in spirals high.Under the sun-gilt spanOf a hot and brazen sky,Cries the thirsty drift for a summer rain,Baring its naked stones in vainAnd its mud in misery.Under the cloudless curveOf a wide remorseless skySleeps the patchy scrub of the sweeping veldAnd the slim blue gums, and the wattle beltWhere the shrike broods watchfully.Under the sullen glareOf the grim unblinking skyThe hot dorp pants, the red roofs daze,The mule tracks scorch, the iron-stones blazeIn their sun-struck agony.
Under the deep blue vaultOf a hot relentless sky,Burns the hot red deep, and the hot red road,And the choking dust like a rust corrodeSoars up in spirals high.
Under the sun-gilt spanOf a hot and brazen sky,Cries the thirsty drift for a summer rain,Baring its naked stones in vainAnd its mud in misery.
Under the cloudless curveOf a wide remorseless skySleeps the patchy scrub of the sweeping veldAnd the slim blue gums, and the wattle beltWhere the shrike broods watchfully.
Under the sullen glareOf the grim unblinking skyThe hot dorp pants, the red roofs daze,The mule tracks scorch, the iron-stones blazeIn their sun-struck agony.
Miraculous city!Thoughts stupendous to crush the wise,Buildings monstrous which brush the skies!Raise your eyesIn awe. Yet pityThis marvellous, golden, mushroom city.Hear the roar!Like the moan of the sea, when the wave curls backFrom the granite rock which whirls it back,A great unceasingly grinding droneIn a heavy unyielding monotone.'Tis the frenzied wail of the lost in pain,The shriek of the damned raised in vain,Again! again!And the stamping machine with a brutal joyWrenches the gold from its quartz alloy,Crushing the tortured stone to dustAs it yields the oreTo the vast unquenchable thirst for lust.Feelthe south wind!As it sweeps the veld with its icy breath,Biting the scrub with its teeth of death,lifting the dust like a phantom shroudFrom the tailing heaps, in a veil of cloud.Scattering the belching smoke, which fliesFrom the chimney line that marks the riseOf the Main Reef ridge.Some devil's bridgeTo bind the town to the broad full plainWhich rolls beyond, like the boundless main.Precocious town!The forward child of a youthful stateSo young in years. So rich, so greatIn gilt renown,And glittering fate!Oh! ponder deep, all ye! Yet pityThis marvellous, golden, old-young city!
Miraculous city!Thoughts stupendous to crush the wise,Buildings monstrous which brush the skies!Raise your eyesIn awe. Yet pityThis marvellous, golden, mushroom city.
Hear the roar!Like the moan of the sea, when the wave curls backFrom the granite rock which whirls it back,A great unceasingly grinding droneIn a heavy unyielding monotone.'Tis the frenzied wail of the lost in pain,The shriek of the damned raised in vain,Again! again!And the stamping machine with a brutal joyWrenches the gold from its quartz alloy,Crushing the tortured stone to dustAs it yields the oreTo the vast unquenchable thirst for lust.
Feelthe south wind!As it sweeps the veld with its icy breath,Biting the scrub with its teeth of death,lifting the dust like a phantom shroudFrom the tailing heaps, in a veil of cloud.Scattering the belching smoke, which fliesFrom the chimney line that marks the riseOf the Main Reef ridge.Some devil's bridgeTo bind the town to the broad full plainWhich rolls beyond, like the boundless main.
Precocious town!The forward child of a youthful stateSo young in years. So rich, so greatIn gilt renown,And glittering fate!Oh! ponder deep, all ye! Yet pityThis marvellous, golden, old-young city!
She stood before the tent, a winging tentIn thicknesses of canvas, taut and strong,Burning beneath a sun unreticent,Raised upon planks, and lashed with rope and thong.And she was fair, a sprig of English May,Born for the kiss of merriment and day.Wide from the tent, like swell on swell of seaThe great veld swept and rolled in curves away,A shabby patch of God's eternityNeglected by the angels, bare and grey,Wind-swept and solitary. Dick and sheHad made this veld their home for seasons three.Wellshe remembered that first reckless ride,Their wedding journey over spruit and land,The barbed-wire straggling snares, the kopje side,The crumbling blockhouse dreaming of command,Holding a loot of empty pot and tin,Which once had held a soldier guard within.The mud-dogged drift, the dust all baked and redTwisting in spiral devils, raw as rust,Those lonely crosses leaning on their dead,Murmuring Africa was never just."She knows no pity," shrieked the fierce South wind,"She steals your youth and stultifies your mind."On, on they flew, past Kaffir boom and kraal,Thorn wacht-een-beetje, fleshy aloe clump,Through the charred stretches of the high Transvaal,By meerkat hole, and rounded white-ant humpOf tunnelled earth. She laughed; the air was wild,Strong with exhilaration, undefiled.At last they reined. Across the scrub and veldDick pointed with his sjambok to the whiteOutspreading tent, then to the wattle beltThat marshalled thinly in the shimmering light."There lies our home, dear love, for you and me."She looked up gladly, smiled him tenderly.Summer had followed winter, radiant, rich,Reckless with life, extravagant in bloom,Mad for the first wild draught of water, whichBurst from the thunder-clouds, whose massive gloomBlackened the skies, then splitting, ripped and toreDeep gorges through the tracks, with deafening roar.The storms swept by. A fairyland of greenMantled the waking plains; wide star-like flowersSprang to their feet; the streams ran strong and clean,The soft mimosa sprinkled into showersOf golden balls. The oleander hedgeSwayed to the line of gums with leaves on edge.And it was summer now. Beth crossed the sloot,Grown arrogant with rains, which lapped her squareOf gorgeous garden, swirling to the spruitBeyond, in childish hurry. Was he there?She scanned the far horizon. No, no sign—Of man or beast to break the distance line.Stay, was that he beyond the drift? Ah no,Only her wishes trembling in the airAnd mirage heat. A train sedate and slowWheeled round the kopje far away. The glareOf brazen sun beat in her eyes. Too late!—He would not come to-night! In lonely stateShe must endure these o'ercharged dragging hours,This th' unspoken horror of her life,The dread that sapped her strength, and drained her powers,The guarded secret of a brave man's wife!Dick would come back to-morrow with the lightOf morn. But fear would be her Lord to-night.Beth turned her to the stoep. With sensuous breathThe moonflower drenched the garden in its scent,Ardent, voluptuous, and white as deathIt hung long blossoms, heavy with intent.The morning glories folded into sleep.Lay purple in undress, and slumber deep.Behind the wattles rose the circled moon,Splashing her silver over poort and track.The boys went chattering to their kraals, and soonLong shadows ribbed the tent in white and black.Beth closed the entrance fast, then slowly sped,A lonely woman, to a lonely bed.* * * * *Come away,Come away,Come, come, come away,For the moon,For the moonWove a shroud in the day,All of white,All of white,Which she flings over allIn the night,In the nightLike a pall,In the night, in the night.Come away,Come away,Come, come, come away,For the moon,For the moonThrew my blossoms a ray,They are white,Deadly white,And their petals are pale,Wan and light.Do not fail,Come away—in the night.Come away,Come away,Come, come, come away,For the moon,For the moonWove a shroud in the day,And my scent,Oh my scentWhich I waft over all,Is of death!Feel its breath!And the moon made a pallWhich she lent to us all,To us all!Come away.... Come away,Come,Come,Come...."Come, come!"—The sleeper moved. An argent shroudWoven with silver cross-stitch into stars.Was that the moonflower singing from the cloud?Why were its petals bruised and veined with scars?"Come!"—It was not the moonflower. Wide awakeBeth started up. That voice!—For pity's sake!That dear loved voice. The midnight echoed clear,Rang with that urgent summons from the veld,That startling premonition. Far and nearCries shivered through her brain. Dick's voice. She feltIt vibrant in her ears. A call, for her.She sprang up quickly, every sense astir.Down past the shadowed garden, through the kloof,She knew the way, she followed to the cry.No stealthy footpad, sound of howl or hoofCould scare her in the awful mysteryOf God-begotten knowledge. Dick had called,Terrestrial things nor checked her, nor appalled."This is the shroud," she murmured. Over allThe moon had spread her splendour, cold and white."This is the shining drapery, the pall,This hoary sheet of clean pellucid light."Grasping a small revolver in her handShe hurried on, across the broken land.A mighty Silence wrapped the veld in dreams.The breath of night hung in the soundless air.A wilderness unknown, unconquered streamsLay with the Universe, at one, to dareIn majesty of nature, undisturbedThe flux of centuries, untrod, uncurbed.The white world grew before her. SilhouettesOf shadowed kopjes struck against the sky.The vlei gleamed fitfully. With sharp-edged fretsThe coarse grass cut the horizon lustily.The dancing moonway on the swollen driftBroke into patterns on the current swift.Thwarted. Beth stared in piteous dismay.A frantic river, wild with recent rains,Largened beyond all daring, barred her way.Flooding the plains, drunk with illicit gainsIt dashed with savage fury, tossing highIts waters over bank and boundary.The girl looked anxiously around. BelowThe river widened, shallowing its bed,Seeming to flow on leisurely and slow.Above, it narrowed to a ravine, fedBy the Fountains. Three bald-headed rocksStood solemnly midstream on thick-set hocks.Straightly she turned towards the upper reach.The portly rocks as old and grey as timeOffered a bridge. On past the sunken beachOf unclean ooze, the sea of gathered slime,Across the hunching boulders, where the courseOf huddled waters broke their angry force.Climbing from rock to rock, from crest to crest,She threw her weight upon the further bankInto a clod of mud, whose squelching breastReceived her greedily. She seized the rankWild clumps of herbage with her hands, then stroveUntil she reached the trusty ridge above.Over the drift! The whisperings of her soulSoothed every hindrance to a thing of naught.The billowing veld, its tawny ceaseless rollWas but the highway to the end she sought.Love was her pilot, and by love controlledIts radiance led her, like the Star of old.Far to the east a straggling knot of treesHinted a farm was nestling in their rear,The scent of flowers floated on the breeze,The cattle in their kraals, in safety nearDrowsed in the heavy slumber hours of night.But to the west she hurried, in her flight.On, on past trackless scrub, where all aroundLike shapeless monsters bulging heap on heap,Crouched the vast ant heaps on the virgin ground.And winding in and out them, pressed and deep,Two wheel spoors scarred the earth. She traced the curveThe cart had chiselled in a sudden swerve.With feverish haste she followed line on lineEach deep-hewn rut that carved itself in sand.Here by the grace of heaven was a sign,A way to realise her dream's command,Her instinct's prophecy. God! what was that?Rending the Silences with tear and scrat.Again! That shot! Then all the world lay still,Calm in the deep placidity of strengthThat recks for nothing human. Passive tillMan desecrates its hallowed peace at length.But to that sound she fled. For Dick lay west,His wide eyes staring, blood upon his breast.Dead, with his face against the cart-wheel. Dead.A scarlet river flowing, flowing—oh!His lips were red, his hands—the plains were red!She knelt beside him, spoke him loudly soHe needs must hear. She bound his wounds in vain,That nerveless heap would never speak again.Dawn came at last. No need to wail or cry,Dick was beyond all help, and none would hear.She clasped him in her full-souled agony,Feeling the young gold morning, fresh and clear,Yet seeing nothing. Stunned to outward things,She only knew the dullness sorrow brings.And in her numbness heeded not the redTall grasses swaying as they bowed and bentBeneath a crawling Kaffir, or his headRear up, a cringing caterpillar sentTo rob the great white Baas; for plenty slowSome white men take to die, as black men know.But if the Baas were dead, beyond all doubtSlink could be brave. His belly clave the ground.Had anybody heard the white man's shout,Caught by the kopjes, echoed in rebound?Ach! how he wriggled! Now the cart was Slink's,The scoff, the silver watch, the fiery drinks.And look, the mules outspanned were plenty good,So was the stolen gun. He reached the poolOf crimson where the two-wheeled Cape-cart stood.He slithered nearer, wet in dewdrops cool,His rough patched trousers soaked, then sneaking roundPeeped from his vantage to the bleeding ground.Spooks!—His eyes bulged, down dropped his brutal jaw.Rooted to where he clung, a-sweat with fright,The cramps of terror gripping at his maw.Spooks!—Pallid spooks! He shrieked away the sightTill the wide veld was reeling. Blurred and paleA spook arose, to follow on his trail.It glided nearer, nearer—nearer yet,Tall as the English mysi far away!His tongue stuck in his throat, and bleeding wetHe saw the master sitting up at bay!He heard his name, he heard the still air crack,Then dropped astonished, wondering, on his back,Till every spook had vanished. Slink had goneTo make a longer trek, where plains were dim.And haggard-eyed and worn, stern vengeance done,Beth huddled by the poor stiff clay of himShe loved, the smoking weapon in her handTo scare the scavenger of carrion brand.The hours crawled by. Soaked through with thunder rainsShe kept her vigil, loosening her hairIn shining masses o'er him. Wild refrainsOf piteous croonings and of vague despairCrept to her lips, then died away, unsung,Hiding their tunes, her shattered dreams among.* * * * *Jan Rissik trekked him homeward. Half a dayTo Cellier's farmstead more. The patient teamOf oxen, plodding slowly on their way,Bent to the nekstrop. Huick! a thin sharp gleamOf curling whip flicked at the leader, clean,Sure as a rapier thrust, and long and lean.The voorlooper strode on ahead. The boysMarched to the rhythm of a sing-song chauntTo ease their work. The wagon's lumbering noise,The cheering of the oxen, stormed the hauntOf nature. 'Neath the awning, broad and squareSat Rissik's vrouw, worn with maternal care.Her children nestled round her. Two hours yet!The Dutchman whistled as he jogged alongIn leisured haste. He licked his thick lips wetTo loose his tune. A heavy winging throngOf gorging vultures, black as devil's brood,Rose swearing on the air, with protests crude.Some rotting beast! Jan Rissik raised his eyesTo watch the swart aasvogel[B]in their flight,Cracking his whip to dissipate the fliesThat swarmed in thousands. Pestilential! RightWhere his oxen wended, straight in front!He clambered from his seat with angry grunt,And pious prayer politely blended, sureThe Powers above would note the quoted text,Nor heed the fact that while he prayed, he swore!His keen eyes swept the veld, grave and perplexed.Two mules strayed fettered by the reim, outspanned,A cart unhitched, stuck in the khaki sand.Jan pulled his slouch hat down, and stroked his beard.The harsh birds croaked, the dingy clotted brownThat stained the earth confirmed the tale he feared.A woman in the burning dust stooped downOver a crumpled figure; and a sheenOf golden tresses veiled it, like a screen.She rocked her too and fro, a little breathThat might be song, or might be strangled wordBroke from her now and then; but only deathLay in her arms and answered not, nor heard."Come away, come away,Come, come, come away,For the moon, for the moonMade a shroud in the day.Come away, come away, come,come, the moon,The flowers are calling, Dick—my love, come soon."Some hundred yards—Pah! Jan felt strangely sick—Shemust have dragged that fearful thing away,The devil's brood had claimed. The RooinekWas safe. Heaven knew how desperate the fray!The fierce shot spent, the havoc, showed too wellHer awful battle with those fiends from hell.He spoke her in the Taal; he touched her hand;She scarcely moved, but with a tear-stained smileBabbled in words he could not understand,Nodding her head towards the plains the while."The other one is dead. He was so black.He killed my husband, so I killed him back."I want to lay the moonflowers on Dick's breast,They told me he was calling, so I came;They kept on nodding, nodding to the west,I want to have those moonflowers, the sameThat told me. Dick is dead. So cold and deadI don't remember all the flowers said."But if we are not very quick, the shroudOf silver cross-stitch, woven star on star,Will be quite stolen by the thunder-cloud,It's creeping, creeping, growling from afar.""Ja, Ja," the old Boer nodded. "Both are dead.""One must be buried!" so the good vrouw said.They laboured hard to dig the white man's bed,Jan Rissik and his trusty man and boys,Then laid him gently down. With prayer unsaidBut beating at her throat, no word that cloysOr mars itself in speech—Beth flung the sodOver her love—and left him there—with God.Only a dusty mound to mark his grave,A dream out-dreamed, a tiny buried crossFrom off her neck. The Lord had called, who gaveHis rich Acceptance that the world deems loss!Father, forgive us! For our eyes that seeOnly our sorrows—when we should see Thee!* * * * *To Cellier's farm Jan Rissik trekked at morn.The English girl lay sleeping in his cartClasped to the Dutch vrouw's breast. No longer tornBy grief and passion, human fears, her heartWas now at rest; her Christ-soul lulled to peace,Her hands outstretched, to meet the Great Release.
She stood before the tent, a winging tentIn thicknesses of canvas, taut and strong,Burning beneath a sun unreticent,Raised upon planks, and lashed with rope and thong.And she was fair, a sprig of English May,Born for the kiss of merriment and day.
Wide from the tent, like swell on swell of seaThe great veld swept and rolled in curves away,A shabby patch of God's eternityNeglected by the angels, bare and grey,Wind-swept and solitary. Dick and sheHad made this veld their home for seasons three.
Wellshe remembered that first reckless ride,Their wedding journey over spruit and land,The barbed-wire straggling snares, the kopje side,The crumbling blockhouse dreaming of command,Holding a loot of empty pot and tin,Which once had held a soldier guard within.
The mud-dogged drift, the dust all baked and redTwisting in spiral devils, raw as rust,Those lonely crosses leaning on their dead,Murmuring Africa was never just."She knows no pity," shrieked the fierce South wind,"She steals your youth and stultifies your mind."
On, on they flew, past Kaffir boom and kraal,Thorn wacht-een-beetje, fleshy aloe clump,Through the charred stretches of the high Transvaal,By meerkat hole, and rounded white-ant humpOf tunnelled earth. She laughed; the air was wild,Strong with exhilaration, undefiled.
At last they reined. Across the scrub and veldDick pointed with his sjambok to the whiteOutspreading tent, then to the wattle beltThat marshalled thinly in the shimmering light."There lies our home, dear love, for you and me."She looked up gladly, smiled him tenderly.
Summer had followed winter, radiant, rich,Reckless with life, extravagant in bloom,Mad for the first wild draught of water, whichBurst from the thunder-clouds, whose massive gloomBlackened the skies, then splitting, ripped and toreDeep gorges through the tracks, with deafening roar.
The storms swept by. A fairyland of greenMantled the waking plains; wide star-like flowersSprang to their feet; the streams ran strong and clean,The soft mimosa sprinkled into showersOf golden balls. The oleander hedgeSwayed to the line of gums with leaves on edge.
And it was summer now. Beth crossed the sloot,Grown arrogant with rains, which lapped her squareOf gorgeous garden, swirling to the spruitBeyond, in childish hurry. Was he there?She scanned the far horizon. No, no sign—Of man or beast to break the distance line.
Stay, was that he beyond the drift? Ah no,Only her wishes trembling in the airAnd mirage heat. A train sedate and slowWheeled round the kopje far away. The glareOf brazen sun beat in her eyes. Too late!—He would not come to-night! In lonely state
She must endure these o'ercharged dragging hours,This th' unspoken horror of her life,The dread that sapped her strength, and drained her powers,The guarded secret of a brave man's wife!Dick would come back to-morrow with the lightOf morn. But fear would be her Lord to-night.
Beth turned her to the stoep. With sensuous breathThe moonflower drenched the garden in its scent,Ardent, voluptuous, and white as deathIt hung long blossoms, heavy with intent.The morning glories folded into sleep.Lay purple in undress, and slumber deep.
Behind the wattles rose the circled moon,Splashing her silver over poort and track.The boys went chattering to their kraals, and soonLong shadows ribbed the tent in white and black.Beth closed the entrance fast, then slowly sped,A lonely woman, to a lonely bed.
* * * * *
Come away,Come away,Come, come, come away,For the moon,For the moonWove a shroud in the day,All of white,All of white,Which she flings over allIn the night,In the nightLike a pall,In the night, in the night.
Come away,Come away,Come, come, come away,For the moon,For the moonThrew my blossoms a ray,They are white,Deadly white,And their petals are pale,Wan and light.Do not fail,Come away—in the night.
Come away,Come away,Come, come, come away,For the moon,For the moonWove a shroud in the day,And my scent,Oh my scentWhich I waft over all,Is of death!Feel its breath!And the moon made a pallWhich she lent to us all,To us all!Come away.... Come away,Come,Come,Come....
"Come, come!"—The sleeper moved. An argent shroudWoven with silver cross-stitch into stars.Was that the moonflower singing from the cloud?Why were its petals bruised and veined with scars?"Come!"—It was not the moonflower. Wide awakeBeth started up. That voice!—For pity's sake!
That dear loved voice. The midnight echoed clear,Rang with that urgent summons from the veld,That startling premonition. Far and nearCries shivered through her brain. Dick's voice. She feltIt vibrant in her ears. A call, for her.She sprang up quickly, every sense astir.
Down past the shadowed garden, through the kloof,She knew the way, she followed to the cry.No stealthy footpad, sound of howl or hoofCould scare her in the awful mysteryOf God-begotten knowledge. Dick had called,Terrestrial things nor checked her, nor appalled.
"This is the shroud," she murmured. Over allThe moon had spread her splendour, cold and white."This is the shining drapery, the pall,This hoary sheet of clean pellucid light."Grasping a small revolver in her handShe hurried on, across the broken land.
A mighty Silence wrapped the veld in dreams.The breath of night hung in the soundless air.A wilderness unknown, unconquered streamsLay with the Universe, at one, to dareIn majesty of nature, undisturbedThe flux of centuries, untrod, uncurbed.
The white world grew before her. SilhouettesOf shadowed kopjes struck against the sky.The vlei gleamed fitfully. With sharp-edged fretsThe coarse grass cut the horizon lustily.The dancing moonway on the swollen driftBroke into patterns on the current swift.
Thwarted. Beth stared in piteous dismay.A frantic river, wild with recent rains,Largened beyond all daring, barred her way.Flooding the plains, drunk with illicit gainsIt dashed with savage fury, tossing highIts waters over bank and boundary.
The girl looked anxiously around. BelowThe river widened, shallowing its bed,Seeming to flow on leisurely and slow.Above, it narrowed to a ravine, fedBy the Fountains. Three bald-headed rocksStood solemnly midstream on thick-set hocks.
Straightly she turned towards the upper reach.The portly rocks as old and grey as timeOffered a bridge. On past the sunken beachOf unclean ooze, the sea of gathered slime,Across the hunching boulders, where the courseOf huddled waters broke their angry force.
Climbing from rock to rock, from crest to crest,She threw her weight upon the further bankInto a clod of mud, whose squelching breastReceived her greedily. She seized the rankWild clumps of herbage with her hands, then stroveUntil she reached the trusty ridge above.
Over the drift! The whisperings of her soulSoothed every hindrance to a thing of naught.The billowing veld, its tawny ceaseless rollWas but the highway to the end she sought.Love was her pilot, and by love controlledIts radiance led her, like the Star of old.
Far to the east a straggling knot of treesHinted a farm was nestling in their rear,The scent of flowers floated on the breeze,The cattle in their kraals, in safety nearDrowsed in the heavy slumber hours of night.But to the west she hurried, in her flight.
On, on past trackless scrub, where all aroundLike shapeless monsters bulging heap on heap,Crouched the vast ant heaps on the virgin ground.And winding in and out them, pressed and deep,Two wheel spoors scarred the earth. She traced the curveThe cart had chiselled in a sudden swerve.
With feverish haste she followed line on lineEach deep-hewn rut that carved itself in sand.Here by the grace of heaven was a sign,A way to realise her dream's command,Her instinct's prophecy. God! what was that?Rending the Silences with tear and scrat.
Again! That shot! Then all the world lay still,Calm in the deep placidity of strengthThat recks for nothing human. Passive tillMan desecrates its hallowed peace at length.But to that sound she fled. For Dick lay west,His wide eyes staring, blood upon his breast.
Dead, with his face against the cart-wheel. Dead.A scarlet river flowing, flowing—oh!His lips were red, his hands—the plains were red!She knelt beside him, spoke him loudly soHe needs must hear. She bound his wounds in vain,That nerveless heap would never speak again.
Dawn came at last. No need to wail or cry,Dick was beyond all help, and none would hear.She clasped him in her full-souled agony,Feeling the young gold morning, fresh and clear,Yet seeing nothing. Stunned to outward things,She only knew the dullness sorrow brings.
And in her numbness heeded not the redTall grasses swaying as they bowed and bentBeneath a crawling Kaffir, or his headRear up, a cringing caterpillar sentTo rob the great white Baas; for plenty slowSome white men take to die, as black men know.
But if the Baas were dead, beyond all doubtSlink could be brave. His belly clave the ground.Had anybody heard the white man's shout,Caught by the kopjes, echoed in rebound?Ach! how he wriggled! Now the cart was Slink's,The scoff, the silver watch, the fiery drinks.
And look, the mules outspanned were plenty good,So was the stolen gun. He reached the poolOf crimson where the two-wheeled Cape-cart stood.He slithered nearer, wet in dewdrops cool,His rough patched trousers soaked, then sneaking roundPeeped from his vantage to the bleeding ground.
Spooks!—His eyes bulged, down dropped his brutal jaw.Rooted to where he clung, a-sweat with fright,The cramps of terror gripping at his maw.Spooks!—Pallid spooks! He shrieked away the sightTill the wide veld was reeling. Blurred and paleA spook arose, to follow on his trail.
It glided nearer, nearer—nearer yet,Tall as the English mysi far away!His tongue stuck in his throat, and bleeding wetHe saw the master sitting up at bay!He heard his name, he heard the still air crack,Then dropped astonished, wondering, on his back,
Till every spook had vanished. Slink had goneTo make a longer trek, where plains were dim.And haggard-eyed and worn, stern vengeance done,Beth huddled by the poor stiff clay of himShe loved, the smoking weapon in her handTo scare the scavenger of carrion brand.
The hours crawled by. Soaked through with thunder rainsShe kept her vigil, loosening her hairIn shining masses o'er him. Wild refrainsOf piteous croonings and of vague despairCrept to her lips, then died away, unsung,Hiding their tunes, her shattered dreams among.
* * * * *
Jan Rissik trekked him homeward. Half a dayTo Cellier's farmstead more. The patient teamOf oxen, plodding slowly on their way,Bent to the nekstrop. Huick! a thin sharp gleamOf curling whip flicked at the leader, clean,Sure as a rapier thrust, and long and lean.
The voorlooper strode on ahead. The boysMarched to the rhythm of a sing-song chauntTo ease their work. The wagon's lumbering noise,The cheering of the oxen, stormed the hauntOf nature. 'Neath the awning, broad and squareSat Rissik's vrouw, worn with maternal care.
Her children nestled round her. Two hours yet!The Dutchman whistled as he jogged alongIn leisured haste. He licked his thick lips wetTo loose his tune. A heavy winging throngOf gorging vultures, black as devil's brood,Rose swearing on the air, with protests crude.
Some rotting beast! Jan Rissik raised his eyesTo watch the swart aasvogel[B]in their flight,Cracking his whip to dissipate the fliesThat swarmed in thousands. Pestilential! RightWhere his oxen wended, straight in front!He clambered from his seat with angry grunt,
And pious prayer politely blended, sureThe Powers above would note the quoted text,Nor heed the fact that while he prayed, he swore!His keen eyes swept the veld, grave and perplexed.Two mules strayed fettered by the reim, outspanned,A cart unhitched, stuck in the khaki sand.
Jan pulled his slouch hat down, and stroked his beard.The harsh birds croaked, the dingy clotted brownThat stained the earth confirmed the tale he feared.A woman in the burning dust stooped downOver a crumpled figure; and a sheenOf golden tresses veiled it, like a screen.
She rocked her too and fro, a little breathThat might be song, or might be strangled wordBroke from her now and then; but only deathLay in her arms and answered not, nor heard.
"Come away, come away,Come, come, come away,For the moon, for the moonMade a shroud in the day.Come away, come away, come,come, the moon,The flowers are calling, Dick—my love, come soon."
Some hundred yards—Pah! Jan felt strangely sick—Shemust have dragged that fearful thing away,The devil's brood had claimed. The RooinekWas safe. Heaven knew how desperate the fray!The fierce shot spent, the havoc, showed too wellHer awful battle with those fiends from hell.
He spoke her in the Taal; he touched her hand;She scarcely moved, but with a tear-stained smileBabbled in words he could not understand,Nodding her head towards the plains the while."The other one is dead. He was so black.He killed my husband, so I killed him back.
"I want to lay the moonflowers on Dick's breast,They told me he was calling, so I came;They kept on nodding, nodding to the west,I want to have those moonflowers, the sameThat told me. Dick is dead. So cold and deadI don't remember all the flowers said.
"But if we are not very quick, the shroudOf silver cross-stitch, woven star on star,Will be quite stolen by the thunder-cloud,It's creeping, creeping, growling from afar.""Ja, Ja," the old Boer nodded. "Both are dead.""One must be buried!" so the good vrouw said.
They laboured hard to dig the white man's bed,Jan Rissik and his trusty man and boys,Then laid him gently down. With prayer unsaidBut beating at her throat, no word that cloysOr mars itself in speech—Beth flung the sodOver her love—and left him there—with God.
Only a dusty mound to mark his grave,A dream out-dreamed, a tiny buried crossFrom off her neck. The Lord had called, who gaveHis rich Acceptance that the world deems loss!Father, forgive us! For our eyes that seeOnly our sorrows—when we should see Thee!
* * * * *
To Cellier's farm Jan Rissik trekked at morn.The English girl lay sleeping in his cartClasped to the Dutch vrouw's breast. No longer tornBy grief and passion, human fears, her heartWas now at rest; her Christ-soul lulled to peace,Her hands outstretched, to meet the Great Release.