FORGET

This is the place, this house beside the sea;This was the setting where they played their parts.Two men, who knew them all, have talked to me:Beauty she had, and all had passionate hearts.I write this in the window where she sat.Two fields, all green with summer, lie below;Then the grey sea, at thought, cloud-coloured, flat,Wind-dappled from the glen, the tide at flow.Her portrait and her husband’s hang togetherOne on each side the fire; it is close;The tree-tops toss, it is a change of weather.They were most lovely and unhappy, those,That married pair and he who loved too well;This was the door by which they entered hell.This is a drawing of her as a child,This is she wed; the faces are the same,Only the beauty of the babe is wild,The woman’s beauty has been broken tame.Witty, bright, gentle, earnest, with great eyes,Dark hair in heaps, pure colour, lips that smile;Beauty that is more wisdom than the wiseLived in this woman for a little while.Dressed in that beauty that our mothers wore(So touching now), she looks out of the frameWith stag-like eyes, that wept till they were soreMany’s the time, till she was broken tame.Witty, bright, gentle, earnest, even so,Destiny calls and spirits come and go.This is her husband in his youth; and thisIs he in manhood; this is he in age.There is a devil in those eyes of his,A glittering devil, restless in his cage.A grand man, with a beauty and a pride,A manner and a power and a fire,With beaks of vultures eating at his side,The great brain mad with unfulfilled desire.“With grand ideas,” they say; tall, wicked, proud,Cold, cruel, bitter, clever, dainty, skilled;Splendid to see, a head above the crowd;Splendid with every strength, yet unfulfilled.Cutting himself (and all those near) with hateFrom that sharp mind which should have shaped a state.And many years ago I saw the thirdBowed in old age and mad with misery;Mad with the bright eyes of the eagle-bird,Burning his heart at fires of memory.He stood behind a chair, and bent and muttered;Grand still, grey, sunburnt, bright with mad eyes brown,Burning, though dying, like a torch that guttered,That once had lit Queen Helen through the town.I only saw him once: I saw him goLeaning uphill his body to the rain,Too good a man for life to punish so,Theirs were the pride and passion, his the pain.His old coat flapped; the little children turnedTo see him pass, that passionate age that burned.“I knew them well, all three,” the old man said;“He was an unused force, and she a child.She caught him with her beauty, being a maid.The thought that she had trapped him drove him wild.He would not work with others, could not rest,And nothing here could use him or engage him;Yet here he stayed, with devils in his breast,To blast the woman who had dared to cage him.Then, when the scholar came, it made the three:She turned to him, and he, he turned to her.They both were saints: elopement could not be;So here they stayed, and passion plied the spur.Then the men fought, and later she was foundIn that green pool beyond the headland, drowned.“They carried her drowned body up the grassHere to the house; they laid it on the bed(This very bed, where I have slept, it was).The scholar begged to see her, being dead.The husband walked downstairs, to see him thereBegging to see her as one asks an alms.He spat at him and cut his cheek-bone bare.‘There’s pay,’ he said, ‘my poet, for your psalms.’And then they fought together at the door,Biting each other, like two dogs, while sheLay dead, poor woman, dripping on the floorOut of her hair the death-drops of the sea.Later, they fought whenever they might meet,In church, or in the fields, or in the street.”Up on the hill another aged manRemembered them. He said: “They were afraid;They feared to end the passions they began.They held the cards, and yet they never played.He should have broken from her at all cost;She should have loved her lover and gone free.They all held winning cards, and yet they lost;So two were wrecked and one drowned in the sea.Some harshness or some law, or else some fearStifled their souls; God help us! when we knowCertainly, certain things, the way is clear.And yet they paid, and one respects them so.Perhaps they were too fine. I know not, I.Men must have mercy, being ripe to die.”So this old house of mourning was the stage(This house and those green fields) for all that woe.There are her books, her writing on the page;In those choked beds she made the flowers grow.Most desolate it is, the rain is pouring,The trees all toss and drip and scatter evil,The floods are out, the waterfall is roaring,The bar is mad with many a leaping devil.And in this house the wind goes whining wild,The door blows open, till I think to seeThat delicate sweet woman, like a child,Standing with great dark stag’s eyes watching me;Watching as though her sorrow might make plain(Had I but wit) the meaning of such pain.I wonder if she sang in this old room.Ah, never! No; they tell me that she stoodFor hours together staring into gloomOut of the prison bars of flesh and blood.So, when the ninth wave drowned her, haply sheWakened, with merging senses, till she blentInto the joy and colour of the sea,One with the purpose of the element.And there, perhaps, she cannot feel the woePassed in this rotting house, but runs like lightOver the billows where the clippers go,One with the blue sea’s pureness of delight;Laughing, perhaps, at that old woe of hersChained in the cage with fellow-prisoners.He died in that lone cottage near the sea.In the grey morning when the tide was turning,The wards of life slipt back and set him freeFrom cares of meat and dress, from joys and yearning.Then like an old man gathering strength, he strayedOver the beach, and strength came into him,Beauty that never threatened nor betrayedMade bright the eyes that sorrow had made dim;So that upon that stretch of barren sandHe knew his dreams; he saw her beauty runWith Sorrowful Beauty, laughing, hand in hand;He heard the trumpets blow in Avalon.He saw the golden statue stretching downThe wreath, for him, of roses, in a crown.They say that as her husband lay a-dyingHe clamoured for a chain to beat the hound.They say that all the garden rang with cryingThat came out of the air, out of the ground,Out of the waste that was his soul, may be,Out of the running wolf-hound of his soul,That had been kennelled in and now broke freeOut to the moors where stags go, past control.All through his life his will had kennelled him;Now he was free, and with a hackling fellHe snarled out of the body to the dim,To run the spirits with the hounds of hell;To run forever at the quarry gone,The uncaught thing a little further on.So, one by one, Time took them to his keeping,Those broken lanterns that had held his fire;Dust went to dust, and flesh had time for sleeping,And soul the stag escaped the hound desire.And now, perhaps, the memory of their hateHas passed from them, and they are friends again,Laughing at all the trouble of this stateWhere men and women work each other pain.And in the wind that runs along the glenBeating at cottage doors, they may go by,Exulting now, and helping sorrowing menTo do some little good before they die.For from these ploughed-up souls the spirit bringsHarvest at last, and sweet from bitter things.

This is a drawing of her as a child,This is she wed; the faces are the same,Only the beauty of the babe is wild,The woman’s beauty has been broken tame.Witty, bright, gentle, earnest, with great eyes,Dark hair in heaps, pure colour, lips that smile;Beauty that is more wisdom than the wiseLived in this woman for a little while.Dressed in that beauty that our mothers wore(So touching now), she looks out of the frameWith stag-like eyes, that wept till they were soreMany’s the time, till she was broken tame.Witty, bright, gentle, earnest, even so,Destiny calls and spirits come and go.

This is her husband in his youth; and thisIs he in manhood; this is he in age.There is a devil in those eyes of his,A glittering devil, restless in his cage.A grand man, with a beauty and a pride,A manner and a power and a fire,With beaks of vultures eating at his side,The great brain mad with unfulfilled desire.“With grand ideas,” they say; tall, wicked, proud,Cold, cruel, bitter, clever, dainty, skilled;Splendid to see, a head above the crowd;Splendid with every strength, yet unfulfilled.Cutting himself (and all those near) with hateFrom that sharp mind which should have shaped a state.

And many years ago I saw the thirdBowed in old age and mad with misery;Mad with the bright eyes of the eagle-bird,Burning his heart at fires of memory.He stood behind a chair, and bent and muttered;Grand still, grey, sunburnt, bright with mad eyes brown,Burning, though dying, like a torch that guttered,That once had lit Queen Helen through the town.I only saw him once: I saw him goLeaning uphill his body to the rain,Too good a man for life to punish so,Theirs were the pride and passion, his the pain.His old coat flapped; the little children turnedTo see him pass, that passionate age that burned.

“I knew them well, all three,” the old man said;“He was an unused force, and she a child.She caught him with her beauty, being a maid.The thought that she had trapped him drove him wild.He would not work with others, could not rest,And nothing here could use him or engage him;Yet here he stayed, with devils in his breast,To blast the woman who had dared to cage him.Then, when the scholar came, it made the three:She turned to him, and he, he turned to her.They both were saints: elopement could not be;So here they stayed, and passion plied the spur.Then the men fought, and later she was foundIn that green pool beyond the headland, drowned.

“They carried her drowned body up the grassHere to the house; they laid it on the bed(This very bed, where I have slept, it was).The scholar begged to see her, being dead.The husband walked downstairs, to see him thereBegging to see her as one asks an alms.He spat at him and cut his cheek-bone bare.‘There’s pay,’ he said, ‘my poet, for your psalms.’And then they fought together at the door,Biting each other, like two dogs, while sheLay dead, poor woman, dripping on the floorOut of her hair the death-drops of the sea.Later, they fought whenever they might meet,In church, or in the fields, or in the street.”

Up on the hill another aged manRemembered them. He said: “They were afraid;They feared to end the passions they began.They held the cards, and yet they never played.He should have broken from her at all cost;She should have loved her lover and gone free.They all held winning cards, and yet they lost;So two were wrecked and one drowned in the sea.Some harshness or some law, or else some fearStifled their souls; God help us! when we knowCertainly, certain things, the way is clear.And yet they paid, and one respects them so.Perhaps they were too fine. I know not, I.Men must have mercy, being ripe to die.”

So this old house of mourning was the stage(This house and those green fields) for all that woe.There are her books, her writing on the page;In those choked beds she made the flowers grow.Most desolate it is, the rain is pouring,The trees all toss and drip and scatter evil,The floods are out, the waterfall is roaring,The bar is mad with many a leaping devil.And in this house the wind goes whining wild,The door blows open, till I think to seeThat delicate sweet woman, like a child,Standing with great dark stag’s eyes watching me;Watching as though her sorrow might make plain(Had I but wit) the meaning of such pain.

I wonder if she sang in this old room.Ah, never! No; they tell me that she stoodFor hours together staring into gloomOut of the prison bars of flesh and blood.So, when the ninth wave drowned her, haply sheWakened, with merging senses, till she blentInto the joy and colour of the sea,One with the purpose of the element.And there, perhaps, she cannot feel the woePassed in this rotting house, but runs like lightOver the billows where the clippers go,One with the blue sea’s pureness of delight;Laughing, perhaps, at that old woe of hersChained in the cage with fellow-prisoners.

He died in that lone cottage near the sea.In the grey morning when the tide was turning,The wards of life slipt back and set him freeFrom cares of meat and dress, from joys and yearning.Then like an old man gathering strength, he strayedOver the beach, and strength came into him,Beauty that never threatened nor betrayedMade bright the eyes that sorrow had made dim;So that upon that stretch of barren sandHe knew his dreams; he saw her beauty runWith Sorrowful Beauty, laughing, hand in hand;He heard the trumpets blow in Avalon.He saw the golden statue stretching downThe wreath, for him, of roses, in a crown.

They say that as her husband lay a-dyingHe clamoured for a chain to beat the hound.They say that all the garden rang with cryingThat came out of the air, out of the ground,Out of the waste that was his soul, may be,Out of the running wolf-hound of his soul,That had been kennelled in and now broke freeOut to the moors where stags go, past control.All through his life his will had kennelled him;Now he was free, and with a hackling fellHe snarled out of the body to the dim,To run the spirits with the hounds of hell;To run forever at the quarry gone,The uncaught thing a little further on.

So, one by one, Time took them to his keeping,Those broken lanterns that had held his fire;Dust went to dust, and flesh had time for sleeping,And soul the stag escaped the hound desire.And now, perhaps, the memory of their hateHas passed from them, and they are friends again,Laughing at all the trouble of this stateWhere men and women work each other pain.And in the wind that runs along the glenBeating at cottage doors, they may go by,Exulting now, and helping sorrowing menTo do some little good before they die.For from these ploughed-up souls the spirit bringsHarvest at last, and sweet from bitter things.

Forget all these, the barren fool in power,The madman in command, the jealous O,The bitter world biting its bitter hour,The cruel now, the happy long ago.Forget all these, for, though they truly hurt,Even to the soul, they are not lasting things:Men are no gods; we tread the city dirt,But in our souls we can be queens and kings.And I, O Beauty, O divine white wonder,On whom my dull eyes, blind to all else, peer,Have you for peace, that not the whole war’s thunder,Nor the world’s wreck, can threat or take from here.So you remain, though all man’s passionate seasRoar their blind tides, I can forget all these.

Forget all these, the barren fool in power,The madman in command, the jealous O,The bitter world biting its bitter hour,The cruel now, the happy long ago.

Forget all these, for, though they truly hurt,Even to the soul, they are not lasting things:Men are no gods; we tread the city dirt,But in our souls we can be queens and kings.

And I, O Beauty, O divine white wonder,On whom my dull eyes, blind to all else, peer,Have you for peace, that not the whole war’s thunder,Nor the world’s wreck, can threat or take from here.

So you remain, though all man’s passionate seasRoar their blind tides, I can forget all these.

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;My dog and I are old, too old for roving.Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.I take the book and gather to the fire,Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minuteThe clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wanderYour cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleysEver again, nor share the battle yonderWhere the young knight the broken squadron rallies.Only stay quiet while my mind remembersThe beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power,The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace,Summer of man its sunlight and its flower,Spring-time of man all April in a face.Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud,The beggar with the saucer in his handAsks only a penny from the passing crowd,So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch.Give me but these, and, though the darkness close,Even the night will blossom as the rose.

As a whirl of notes running in a fugue that men play,And the thundering follows as the pipe flits away,And the laughter comes after and the hautboys begin,So they ran at the hurdle and scattered the whin.As they leaped to the race-course the sun burst from cloud,And like tumult in dream came the roar of the crowd.For to right and to left, now, were crowded men yelling,And a great cry boomed backward like muffled bells knelling,And a surge of men running seemed to follow the race,The horses all trembled and quickened their pace.As the porpoise, grown weary of his rush through the dimOf the unlitten silence where the swiftnesses swim,Learns at sudden the tumult of a clipper bound homeAnd exults with this playmate and leaps in her foam,Or as nightingales coming into England in May,Coming songless at sunset, being worn with the way,Settle spent in the twilight, drooping head under wing,Yet are glad when the dark comes, while at moonrise they sing;Or as fire on a hillside, by happy boys kindled,That has burnt black a heath-tuft, scorcht a bramble, and dwindled,Blown by wind yet arises in a wave of flogged flame,So the souls of those horses to the testing time came.Now they closed on their leaders, and the running increased,They rushed down the arc curving round to the east;All the air rang with roaring, all the peopled loud standsRoared aloud from tense faces, shook with hats and waved hands.So they cleared the green gorse-bush by bursting it through,There was no time for thinking, there was scarce time to do.Charles gritted his spirit as he charged through the gorse:“You must just grin and suffer: sit still on your horse.”There in front was a hurdle and the Distance Post white,And the long, green, broad Straight washed with wind and blown bright;Now the roaring had screaming, bringing names to their ears:“Come, Soyland!” “Sir Lopez!” Then cat-calls; then cheers.“Sir Lopez! Sir Lopez!” then the jigging brass laughterFrom the yellow toss’t swing-boats swooping rafter to rafter.Then the blare of all organs, then the roar of all throats,And they shot past the side shows, the horses and boats.Now the Wants of the Watchers whirled into the raceLike flames in their fury, like men in the face,Mad-red from the Wanting that made them alive,They fought with those horses or helped them to strive.Like leaves blown on Hudson when maples turn gold,They whirled in their colour, they clutched to catch hold,They sang to the riders, they smote at their heartsLike flakes of live fire, like castings of darts.As a snow in Wisconsin when the darkness comes down,Running white on the prairie, making all the air brown,Blinding men with the hurry of its millions of feet,So the Wants pelted on them, so they blinded and beat.And like spirits calm shining upon horses of flame,Came the Friends of those riders to shield them from shame,White as fire white-burning, rushing each by his friend,Singing songs of the glory of the world without end;And as men in Wisconsin driving cars in the snowButt against its impulsion and face to the blow,Tossing snow from their bonnets as a ship tosses foam,So the Friends tossed the Wantings as they brought their friends home.Now they charged the last hurdle that led to the Straight,Charles longing to ride, though his spirit said “Wait.”He came to his horses as they came to the leap,Eight hard-driven horses, eight men breathing deep.On the left, as he leaped it, a flashing of brownKicking white on the grass, showed that Thankful was down;Then a glance, right and left, showed that, barring all flukes,It was Soyland’s, Sir Lopez’, or Peterkinooks’.He passed the Red Ember, he came to the flankOf Peterkinooks, whom he reached and then sank.There were only two others, going level alone,First the spotted cream jacket, then the blue, white and roan.Up the street of green race-course they strained for the prize,While the stands blurred with waving and the air shook with cries:“Now, Sir Lopez!” “Come, Soyland!” “Now, Sir Lopez! Now, now!”Then Charles judged his second, but he could not tell how.But a glory of sureness leaped from horse into man,And the man said, “Now, beauty,” and the horse said, “I can.”And the long weary Royal made an effort the more,Though his heart thumped like drum-beats as he went to the fore.Neck and neck went Sir Lopez and Soyland together,Soyland first, a short head, with his neck all in lather;Both were ridden their hardest, both were doing their best,Right Royal reached Soyland and came to his chest.There Soyland’s man saw him with the heel of his eye,A horse with an effort that could beat him or tie;Then he glanced at Sir Lopez, and he bit through his lip,And he drove in his spurs and he took up his whip.There he lashed the game Soyland who had given his all,And he gave three strides more, and then failed at the call,And he dropped behind Royal like a leaf in a tide:Then Sir Lopez and Royal ran on side by side.There they looked at each other, and they rode, and were grim;Charles thought, “That’s Sir Lopez. I shall never beat him.”All the yells for Sir Lopez seemed to darken the air,They were rushing past Emmy and the White Post was there.He drew to Sir Lopez; but Sir Lopez drew clear;Right Royal clung to him and crept to his ear.Then the man on Sir Lopez judged the moment had comeFor the last ounce of effort that would bring his horse home.So he picked up his whip for three swift slashing blows,And Sir Lopez drew clear, but Right Royal stuck close,Then he gained, past his withers, past his neck to his head.With Sir Lopez’ man lashing, Charles still, seeing red.So they rushed for one second, then Sir Lopez shot out:Charles thought, “There, he’s done me, without any doubt.Oh, come now, Right Royal!”And Sir Lopez changed feetAnd his ears went back level; Sir Lopez was beat.Right Royal went past him, half an inch, half a head,Half a neck, he was leading, for an instant he led;Then a hooped black and coral flew up like a shot,With a lightning-like effort from little Gavotte.The little bright mare, made of nerves and steel springs,Shot level beside him, shot ahead as with wings.Charles felt his horse quicken, felt the desperate beatOf the blood in his body from his knees to his feet.Three terrible strides brought him up to the mare,Then they rushed to wild shouting through a whirl of blow air;Then Gavotte died to nothing; Soyland came once againTill his muzzle just reached to the knot on his rein.Then a whirl of urged horses thundered up, whipped and blown,Soyland, Peterkinooks, and Red Ember the roan.For an instant they challenged, then they drooped and were done;Then the White Post shot backwards, Right Royal had won.Won a half length from Soyland, Red Ember close third;Fourth, Peterkinooks; fifth, Gavotte harshly spurred;Sixth, Sir Lopez, whose rider said, “Just at the StraightHe swerved at the hurdle and twisted a plate.”Then the numbers went up; then John Harding appearedTo lead in the Winner while the bookmakers cheered.Then the riders weighed-in, and the meeting was over,And bright Emmy Crowthorne could go with her lover.Charles married his lady, but he rode no more races;He lives on the Downland on the blown grassy places,Where he and Right Royal can canter for hoursOn the flock-bitten turf full of tiny blue flowers.There the Roman pitcht camp, there the Saxon kept sheep,There he lives out this Living that no man can keep,That is manful but a moment before it must pass,Like the stars sweeping westward, like the wind on the grass.

For to right and to left, now, were crowded men yelling,And a great cry boomed backward like muffled bells knelling,And a surge of men running seemed to follow the race,The horses all trembled and quickened their pace.

As the porpoise, grown weary of his rush through the dimOf the unlitten silence where the swiftnesses swim,Learns at sudden the tumult of a clipper bound homeAnd exults with this playmate and leaps in her foam,

Or as nightingales coming into England in May,Coming songless at sunset, being worn with the way,Settle spent in the twilight, drooping head under wing,Yet are glad when the dark comes, while at moonrise they sing;Or as fire on a hillside, by happy boys kindled,That has burnt black a heath-tuft, scorcht a bramble, and dwindled,Blown by wind yet arises in a wave of flogged flame,So the souls of those horses to the testing time came.

Now they closed on their leaders, and the running increased,They rushed down the arc curving round to the east;All the air rang with roaring, all the peopled loud standsRoared aloud from tense faces, shook with hats and waved hands.

So they cleared the green gorse-bush by bursting it through,There was no time for thinking, there was scarce time to do.Charles gritted his spirit as he charged through the gorse:“You must just grin and suffer: sit still on your horse.”

There in front was a hurdle and the Distance Post white,And the long, green, broad Straight washed with wind and blown bright;Now the roaring had screaming, bringing names to their ears:“Come, Soyland!” “Sir Lopez!” Then cat-calls; then cheers.

“Sir Lopez! Sir Lopez!” then the jigging brass laughterFrom the yellow toss’t swing-boats swooping rafter to rafter.Then the blare of all organs, then the roar of all throats,And they shot past the side shows, the horses and boats.

Now the Wants of the Watchers whirled into the raceLike flames in their fury, like men in the face,Mad-red from the Wanting that made them alive,They fought with those horses or helped them to strive.

Like leaves blown on Hudson when maples turn gold,They whirled in their colour, they clutched to catch hold,They sang to the riders, they smote at their heartsLike flakes of live fire, like castings of darts.

As a snow in Wisconsin when the darkness comes down,Running white on the prairie, making all the air brown,Blinding men with the hurry of its millions of feet,So the Wants pelted on them, so they blinded and beat.

And like spirits calm shining upon horses of flame,Came the Friends of those riders to shield them from shame,White as fire white-burning, rushing each by his friend,Singing songs of the glory of the world without end;

And as men in Wisconsin driving cars in the snowButt against its impulsion and face to the blow,Tossing snow from their bonnets as a ship tosses foam,So the Friends tossed the Wantings as they brought their friends home.

Now they charged the last hurdle that led to the Straight,Charles longing to ride, though his spirit said “Wait.”He came to his horses as they came to the leap,Eight hard-driven horses, eight men breathing deep.

On the left, as he leaped it, a flashing of brownKicking white on the grass, showed that Thankful was down;Then a glance, right and left, showed that, barring all flukes,It was Soyland’s, Sir Lopez’, or Peterkinooks’.

He passed the Red Ember, he came to the flankOf Peterkinooks, whom he reached and then sank.There were only two others, going level alone,First the spotted cream jacket, then the blue, white and roan.

Up the street of green race-course they strained for the prize,While the stands blurred with waving and the air shook with cries:“Now, Sir Lopez!” “Come, Soyland!” “Now, Sir Lopez! Now, now!”Then Charles judged his second, but he could not tell how.

But a glory of sureness leaped from horse into man,And the man said, “Now, beauty,” and the horse said, “I can.”And the long weary Royal made an effort the more,Though his heart thumped like drum-beats as he went to the fore.

Neck and neck went Sir Lopez and Soyland together,Soyland first, a short head, with his neck all in lather;Both were ridden their hardest, both were doing their best,Right Royal reached Soyland and came to his chest.

There Soyland’s man saw him with the heel of his eye,A horse with an effort that could beat him or tie;Then he glanced at Sir Lopez, and he bit through his lip,And he drove in his spurs and he took up his whip.

There he lashed the game Soyland who had given his all,And he gave three strides more, and then failed at the call,And he dropped behind Royal like a leaf in a tide:Then Sir Lopez and Royal ran on side by side.

There they looked at each other, and they rode, and were grim;Charles thought, “That’s Sir Lopez. I shall never beat him.”All the yells for Sir Lopez seemed to darken the air,They were rushing past Emmy and the White Post was there.

He drew to Sir Lopez; but Sir Lopez drew clear;Right Royal clung to him and crept to his ear.Then the man on Sir Lopez judged the moment had comeFor the last ounce of effort that would bring his horse home.

So he picked up his whip for three swift slashing blows,And Sir Lopez drew clear, but Right Royal stuck close,Then he gained, past his withers, past his neck to his head.With Sir Lopez’ man lashing, Charles still, seeing red.

So they rushed for one second, then Sir Lopez shot out:Charles thought, “There, he’s done me, without any doubt.Oh, come now, Right Royal!”And Sir Lopez changed feetAnd his ears went back level; Sir Lopez was beat.

Right Royal went past him, half an inch, half a head,Half a neck, he was leading, for an instant he led;Then a hooped black and coral flew up like a shot,With a lightning-like effort from little Gavotte.

The little bright mare, made of nerves and steel springs,Shot level beside him, shot ahead as with wings.Charles felt his horse quicken, felt the desperate beatOf the blood in his body from his knees to his feet.

Three terrible strides brought him up to the mare,Then they rushed to wild shouting through a whirl of blow air;Then Gavotte died to nothing; Soyland came once againTill his muzzle just reached to the knot on his rein.

Then a whirl of urged horses thundered up, whipped and blown,Soyland, Peterkinooks, and Red Ember the roan.For an instant they challenged, then they drooped and were done;Then the White Post shot backwards, Right Royal had won.

Won a half length from Soyland, Red Ember close third;Fourth, Peterkinooks; fifth, Gavotte harshly spurred;Sixth, Sir Lopez, whose rider said, “Just at the StraightHe swerved at the hurdle and twisted a plate.”

Then the numbers went up; then John Harding appearedTo lead in the Winner while the bookmakers cheered.Then the riders weighed-in, and the meeting was over,And bright Emmy Crowthorne could go with her lover.

Charles married his lady, but he rode no more races;He lives on the Downland on the blown grassy places,Where he and Right Royal can canter for hoursOn the flock-bitten turf full of tiny blue flowers.

There the Roman pitcht camp, there the Saxon kept sheep,There he lives out this Living that no man can keep,That is manful but a moment before it must pass,Like the stars sweeping westward, like the wind on the grass.

In the troubled dreams a slave has, ere I wakenI can see my city shining as of old,Roof and column of the Temple wreathed in gold;And the ramparts proud as erst, before the town was taken,And the well-loved living shapes that now are cold.Then I wake, a slave, and houseless and forsaken,Chained, an outcast, and a chattel, bought and sold.Now, for us, no future, but the corn-mill and the strangerIn the foeman’s house for ever.And the cold eyes of a master and the cruel eyes of danger,And the memory of joys returning never.We who once were dainty ones and splendid,Now are slaves who grind the mill beneath a master’s blows;Would that when our fathers ended, we had ended,That we lay in Zion’s soil, at peace with those.All.O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!Here, from our prison gate, we see againThe never-ending sand, the Persian plain,The long, long road, the stones that we should treadWere we but free, to our beloved dead.And in the Spring the birds fly to the westOver these deserts that the mountains hem,They fly to our dear land; they fly to nest;We cannot go with them.And in Springtime from the windows of the towerI can see the wild horses in the plain,Treading stately but so lightly that they never break the flower,And they fade at speed to westward and they never come again.And in Springtime at the quays the men of TyreSet their ships towards the west and hoist their sail,And our hearts cry “Take us with you to the land of our desire!”And they hear our cry but will not take the crier:The crying of a slave can be of no avail.Birds, horses, sailors, all are free to goTo seek their homes beyond the wilderness:But we, the homeless, only knowWeariful days of wearing-out distress.O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!Shall we be ever exiled, must it beThat we must pass our days as slaves for ever?Far from our pleasant land, and never seeOur sacred Hills and Jordan’s blessed river?Shall we not see again thy ramparts rise,O Zion, and thy splendid towers rebuilt,And God’s great Temple set for sacrificeBy this our race, atoning for our guilt?Or must our weary footsteps no more treadThe land we love, where those we loved are dead?No, we shall see that lovely land no more,Nor anything we loved there, place or friend,Nor do, nor know, the things we hungered for.Like darts out of God’s Hand our deaths descendTo make an end.Now we can crouch and pray and count the hoursUntil our murderers’ feet are on the stair,And bright steel spirts the blood upon our hairAnd lays us motionless among the flowers,White things that do not care.And afterwards, who knows what moths we’ll beFlying about the lamps of life at nightIn death’s great darkness, blindly, blunderingly?The brook that sings in the grass knows more delight,The ox that the men pole-axe has more peaceThan prisoners’ souls; but now there comes release;We shall go home, to death, to-morrow night.O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!Curtain.

Now, for us, no future, but the corn-mill and the strangerIn the foeman’s house for ever.And the cold eyes of a master and the cruel eyes of danger,And the memory of joys returning never.

We who once were dainty ones and splendid,Now are slaves who grind the mill beneath a master’s blows;Would that when our fathers ended, we had ended,That we lay in Zion’s soil, at peace with those.

All.

O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!

Here, from our prison gate, we see againThe never-ending sand, the Persian plain,The long, long road, the stones that we should treadWere we but free, to our beloved dead.And in the Spring the birds fly to the westOver these deserts that the mountains hem,They fly to our dear land; they fly to nest;We cannot go with them.

And in Springtime from the windows of the towerI can see the wild horses in the plain,Treading stately but so lightly that they never break the flower,And they fade at speed to westward and they never come again.

And in Springtime at the quays the men of TyreSet their ships towards the west and hoist their sail,And our hearts cry “Take us with you to the land of our desire!”And they hear our cry but will not take the crier:The crying of a slave can be of no avail.

Birds, horses, sailors, all are free to goTo seek their homes beyond the wilderness:But we, the homeless, only knowWeariful days of wearing-out distress.

O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!

Shall we be ever exiled, must it beThat we must pass our days as slaves for ever?Far from our pleasant land, and never seeOur sacred Hills and Jordan’s blessed river?

Shall we not see again thy ramparts rise,O Zion, and thy splendid towers rebuilt,And God’s great Temple set for sacrificeBy this our race, atoning for our guilt?Or must our weary footsteps no more treadThe land we love, where those we loved are dead?No, we shall see that lovely land no more,Nor anything we loved there, place or friend,Nor do, nor know, the things we hungered for.Like darts out of God’s Hand our deaths descendTo make an end.

Now we can crouch and pray and count the hoursUntil our murderers’ feet are on the stair,And bright steel spirts the blood upon our hairAnd lays us motionless among the flowers,White things that do not care.

And afterwards, who knows what moths we’ll beFlying about the lamps of life at nightIn death’s great darkness, blindly, blunderingly?

The brook that sings in the grass knows more delight,The ox that the men pole-axe has more peaceThan prisoners’ souls; but now there comes release;We shall go home, to death, to-morrow night.O lamentation, misery, woe, woe!

Curtain.

[Ahasueruson his couch.]

Ahasuerus.What is the time? I hear the water dripTelling the time; and all the Court is still,Still as the midnight; not a footstep stirsSave the slow sentry on the palace wall.No glow of light is in the eastern heaven;The barren, dwindled moon her ruddy hornHeaves o’er the tree-tops; it is midnight, sure.I see Orion falling, and the DogBright at his heels. Deep midnight. Not a soundSave the most patient mouse that gnaws the wainscot.[He rises and walks.]O weary Time, I cannot sleep to-night.All still, all sleep, save only I the King.And that great city at the palace footLies sleeping; yet a strange fear troubles meThat some there do not sleep, but prepare evil;Evil against myself, against the King.Those foreigners whom Haman told me of,The Jews, who are to die, as Haman urged.Excellent Haman, guardian of my throne.It may be that this warning comes too late.What if those Jews be coming even nowBy the black alleys of that sleeping cityInto my palace, up the guarded stairsFrom floor to floor, along the corridors,Stealthily, with masked eyes, with bated breath,On tiptoe to the threshold of my room.That captain of my guard has eyed me strangelyThese two nights now; he had an evil look.He smiled, but still, his eyes they did not smile.Where is my sword? It’s here. Look at that door.It moved. Was that the wind? Who stands without?I see you standing there. Come in there, you.Who is it?Guard[Off].The great King’s guard is here.God save the King! And may he live for ever!Ahasuerus.Give me a cup of drink. I thirst. I thank you.You men were sleeping when I called for you.Sing, that I know you watching till I sleep.

Ahasuerus.

What is the time? I hear the water dripTelling the time; and all the Court is still,Still as the midnight; not a footstep stirsSave the slow sentry on the palace wall.No glow of light is in the eastern heaven;The barren, dwindled moon her ruddy hornHeaves o’er the tree-tops; it is midnight, sure.I see Orion falling, and the DogBright at his heels. Deep midnight. Not a soundSave the most patient mouse that gnaws the wainscot.[He rises and walks.]O weary Time, I cannot sleep to-night.All still, all sleep, save only I the King.And that great city at the palace footLies sleeping; yet a strange fear troubles meThat some there do not sleep, but prepare evil;Evil against myself, against the King.Those foreigners whom Haman told me of,The Jews, who are to die, as Haman urged.Excellent Haman, guardian of my throne.It may be that this warning comes too late.What if those Jews be coming even nowBy the black alleys of that sleeping cityInto my palace, up the guarded stairsFrom floor to floor, along the corridors,Stealthily, with masked eyes, with bated breath,On tiptoe to the threshold of my room.That captain of my guard has eyed me strangelyThese two nights now; he had an evil look.He smiled, but still, his eyes they did not smile.Where is my sword? It’s here. Look at that door.It moved. Was that the wind? Who stands without?I see you standing there. Come in there, you.Who is it?

Guard[Off].

The great King’s guard is here.God save the King! And may he live for ever!

Ahasuerus.

Give me a cup of drink. I thirst. I thank you.You men were sleeping when I called for you.Sing, that I know you watching till I sleep.

[TheSoldiershum and sing together.Ahasuerussettles to his sleep again.He rouses up and walks again.]

There is a something evil in this room;I seem to give it power by lying down.It is as though the dark were full of soulsThat wait till I am helpless and then comeOut of the corners, out of the air itself,About my body; but, being up, they fly.See, there is nothing here. I pass my hand—

[He goes round feeling the walls.]

Here, here, and here. I do not like that corner:Is the thing there? The shadow on the wallIs like the black head of an AfricanThrown back in mockery, and it seems to move—To move a little forward. It is but shadow.Yes, you are only shadow on the wall,Not what you thought.And yet I know this roomIs living with the spirits of evil things;Spirits of evil things that I have done.It is so difficult to be a King,To wear the crown and to be ringed with death;To order “Thus,” with little time to think,No time to know, but to be just, far-seeing,Wise, generous, strict and yet most merciful,As though one knew.Now one by one they come,Those plotters who defied me, whom I killed,Crucified, burned, impaled, or tore with horses,Men who with white lips cursed me, going to death.

[He turns.]

Yes, you pale ghosts, I mastered you in life,And will in death. I hold an Empire up,A thing that IS; no glimmering dream of boysOr what might be, but will not till men change;No phantom Paradise of vengeance gluttedBy poor men upon rich men, but a worldRising and doing its work and lying downBecause my fierceness keeps the wolves at bay.And yet, those Jews, even at my palace door,So Haman said, have had my death contrived.What if that captain be in league with them?Guard! Is Hydaspes there?Guard.He is here, great King. Hydaspes, the King calls.

Guard.

He is here, great King. Hydaspes, the King calls.

[Hydaspesenters.]

Hydaspes.Lord! Do you call?Ahasuerus.Come in. Let fall the hanging. Come you thereInto the moonlight, that I see your face.

Hydaspes.

Lord! Do you call?

Ahasuerus.

Come in. Let fall the hanging. Come you thereInto the moonlight, that I see your face.

[Hydaspescomes down Left.]

Let me be sure that no one crawls behind you.Hold out your hands, so; let me see the fingers.Stay there. No nearer.You have travelled far?Hydaspes.I have been far, among the Indian lands.Ahasuerus.And saw strange peoples?Hydaspes.Some.Ahasuerus.Which were the strangest?Hydaspes.Those of Tibet, who made their pence of gold,And reckoned costly things by cups of water.Ahasuerus.What next seemed strange to you?Hydaspes.The Tartar horsemenWho live on cheese of mare’s milk and go onFor ever over never-ending grass,And have no home except the black felt tentAnd the great plain and the great sky and silence.Ahasuerus.A good life, that, for men. Who, next to those?Hydaspes.The race of Sittras by the sacred river;They are all men, grown grey; no women there.They have put by their wives and families,Their crowns, their swords, their households and their cares,And seek for wisdom there, until they die.Ahasuerus.Do they find wisdom?Hydaspes.No, but they find peace.Ahasuerus.Do they, by Heaven; as a dead man does.Wisdom is life upon the tickle edge,Not the blind staring of the stupefiedAt nothing out of nothing. I envy youFor travelling thus and seeing all these things,Which I shall only hear of.Tell me now,When you were wandering, did you meet the Jews?Hydaspes.No, never, Lord.Ahasuerus.Nor heard about their race?Hydaspes.Not in the East.Ahasuerus.But in the West you have?Hydaspes.Yes, here at home.Ahasuerus.What have you heard?Hydaspes.That they are heathen men,Brought from beyond the desert in the wars;Not desert savages, nor civilised,But enemies of both.Ahasuerus.Who told you this?Hydaspes.Prince Haman told me.Ahasuerus.They are now condemned;They have been plotting here. You do not knowAny of their rebellious stock, by chance?Hydaspes.No, Lord, not one.Ahasuerus.Go to that door, Hydaspes.Is someone listening to us, as we speak?Hydaspes[Going to door].No, Lord; the guard is at the door beyond.Ahasuerus.Come nearer me. That captain of the guard,Is he a Jew?Hydaspes.No, Lord, a Persian, surely,Pordánatha, from lovely Arisai,The city white like snow; Persian as you.Ahasuerus.Thank you, Hydaspes.These times are dangerous. Go now from here,See the guards doubled at Queen Esther’s doors.These Jews are secret like that desert tribeWhom none has seen, who walk the moonless nightAnd strike men dead, and go, and leave no traceSave the dead body.Hydaspes.I will place the guardsMyself, great King.

Let me be sure that no one crawls behind you.Hold out your hands, so; let me see the fingers.Stay there. No nearer.You have travelled far?

Hydaspes.

I have been far, among the Indian lands.

Ahasuerus.

And saw strange peoples?

Hydaspes.

Some.

Ahasuerus.

Which were the strangest?

Hydaspes.

Those of Tibet, who made their pence of gold,And reckoned costly things by cups of water.

Ahasuerus.

What next seemed strange to you?

Hydaspes.

The Tartar horsemenWho live on cheese of mare’s milk and go onFor ever over never-ending grass,And have no home except the black felt tentAnd the great plain and the great sky and silence.

Ahasuerus.

A good life, that, for men. Who, next to those?

Hydaspes.

The race of Sittras by the sacred river;They are all men, grown grey; no women there.They have put by their wives and families,Their crowns, their swords, their households and their cares,And seek for wisdom there, until they die.

Ahasuerus.

Do they find wisdom?

Hydaspes.

No, but they find peace.

Ahasuerus.

Do they, by Heaven; as a dead man does.Wisdom is life upon the tickle edge,Not the blind staring of the stupefiedAt nothing out of nothing. I envy youFor travelling thus and seeing all these things,Which I shall only hear of.Tell me now,When you were wandering, did you meet the Jews?

Hydaspes.

No, never, Lord.

Ahasuerus.

Nor heard about their race?

Hydaspes.

Not in the East.

Ahasuerus.

But in the West you have?

Hydaspes.

Yes, here at home.

Ahasuerus.

What have you heard?

Hydaspes.

That they are heathen men,Brought from beyond the desert in the wars;Not desert savages, nor civilised,But enemies of both.

Ahasuerus.

Who told you this?

Hydaspes.

Prince Haman told me.

Ahasuerus.

They are now condemned;They have been plotting here. You do not knowAny of their rebellious stock, by chance?

Hydaspes.

No, Lord, not one.

Ahasuerus.

Go to that door, Hydaspes.Is someone listening to us, as we speak?

Hydaspes[Going to door].

No, Lord; the guard is at the door beyond.

Ahasuerus.

Come nearer me. That captain of the guard,Is he a Jew?

Hydaspes.

No, Lord, a Persian, surely,Pordánatha, from lovely Arisai,The city white like snow; Persian as you.

Ahasuerus.

Thank you, Hydaspes.These times are dangerous. Go now from here,See the guards doubled at Queen Esther’s doors.These Jews are secret like that desert tribeWhom none has seen, who walk the moonless nightAnd strike men dead, and go, and leave no traceSave the dead body.

Hydaspes.

I will place the guardsMyself, great King.

[ExitHydaspes.]

Back to Index Next