BALLADE OF HELL AND OF MRS ROEBECK

Steepare the seas and savaging and coldIn broken waters terrible to try;And vast against the winter night the wold,And harbourless for any sail to lie.But you shall lead me to the lights, and IShall hymn you in a harbour story told.This is the faith that I have held and hold,And this is that in which I mean to die.

Helpof the half-defeated, House of gold,Shrine of the Sword, and Tower of Ivory;Splendour apart, supreme and aureoled,The Battler’s vision and the World’s reply.You shall restore me, O my last Ally,To vengeance and the glories of the bold.This is the faith that I have held and hold,And this is that in which I mean to die.

Princeof the degradations, bought and sold,These verses, written in your crumbling sty,Proclaim the faith that I have held and holdAnd publish that in which I mean to die.

I’mgoing out to dine at Gray’sWith Bertie Morden, Charles and Kit,And Manderly who never pays,And Jane who wins in spite of it,And Algernon who won’t admitThe truth about his curious hairAnd teeth that very nearly fit:—And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

Andthen to-morrow someone saysThat someone else has made a hitIn one of Mister Twister’s plays.And off we go to yawn at it;And when it’s petered out we quitFor number 20, Taunton Square,And smoke, and drink, and dance a bit:—And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

Andso through each declining phaseOf emptied effort, jaded wit,And day by day of London daysObscurely, more obscurely, lit;Until the uncertain shadows flitAnnouncing to the shuddering airA Darkening, and the end of it:—And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

Prince, on their iron thrones they sit,Impassible to our despair,The dreadful Guardians of the Pit:—And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

Thecause of all the poor in ’93:The cause of all the world at Waterloo:The shouts of what was terrible and freeBehind the guns ofVengeanceand her crew:The Maid that rode so straightly and so trueAnd broke the line to pieces in her pride—They had to chuck it up; it wouldn’t do;The Devil didn’t like them, and they died.

Cæsarand Alexander shall agreeThat right athwart the world their bugles blew:And all the lads that marched in LombardyBehind the young Napoleon charging through:All that were easy swordsmen, all that slewThe Monsters, and that served our God and triedThe temper of this world—they lost the clue.The Devil didn’t like them, and they died.

You, the strong sons of anger and the sea,What darkness on the wings of battle flew?Then the great dead made answer: “Also weWith Nelson found oblivion: Nelson, whoWhen cheering out of port in spirit grewTo be one purpose with the wind and tide—Our nameless hulks are sunk and rotted through:The Devil didn’t like us and we died.”

Prince, may I venture (since it’s only you)To speak discreetly of The Crucified?He was extremely unsuccessful too:The Devil didn’t like Him, and He died.

JohnCalvin whose peculiar fadIt was to call God murderous,Which further led that feverish cadTo burn alive the Servetus.The horrible Bohemian Huss,The tedious Wycliffe, where are they?But where is old Nestorius?The wind has blown them all away.

TheKohen out of NovdogradWho argued from the Roman Jus“Privata fasta nihil adRem nisi sint de sacribus.”And Hume, who made a dreadful fussAbout the Resurrection DayAnd said it was ridiculous—The wind has blown them all away.

OfSmith the gallant Mormon ladThat took of wives an over-plus:Johanna Southcott who was madAnd nasty Nietzsche, who was worse.Of Tolstoy, the Eccentric Russ,Our strong Posterity shall say:“Lord Jesus! What are these to us?The wind has blown them all away!”

Prince, should you meet upon a busA man who makes a great displayOf Dr Haeckel, argue thus:—The wind has blown them all away.

On His Books

WhenI am dead, I hope it may be said:“His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”

On Noman, a Guest

DearMr Noman, does it ever strike you,The more we see of you, the less we like you?

A Trinity

Ofthree in One and One in threeMy narrow mind would doubting beTill Beauty, Grace and Kindness metAnd all at once were Juliet

On Torture, a Public Singer

Torturewill give a dozen pence or moreTo keep a drab from bawling at his door.The public taste is quite a different thing—Torture is positively paid to sing.

On Paunch, a Parasite

Paunchtalks against good liquor to excess,And then about his raving Patroness;And then he talks about himself. And thenWe turn the conversation on to men.

On Hygiene

Ofold when folk lay sick and sorely triedThe doctors gave them physic, and they died.But here’s a happier age: for now we knowBoth how to make men sick and keep them so.

On Lady Poltagrue, a Public Peril

TheDevil, having nothing else to do,Went off to tempt My Lady Poltagrue.My Lady, tempted by a private whim,To his extreme annoyance, tempted him.

The Mirror

Themirror held your fair, my Fair,A fickle moment’s space.You looked into mine eyes, and thereFor ever fixed your face.Keep rather to your looking-glassThan my more faithful eyes:It told the truth—Alas! my lass,My constant memory lies.

Themirror held your fair, my Fair,A fickle moment’s space.You looked into mine eyes, and thereFor ever fixed your face.

Keep rather to your looking-glassThan my more faithful eyes:It told the truth—Alas! my lass,My constant memory lies.

The Elm

Thisis the place where Dorothea smiled.I did not know the reason, nor did she.But there she stood, and turned, and smiled at me:A sudden glory had bewitched the child.The corn at harvest, and a single tree.This is the place where Dorothea smiled.

The Telephone

To-night in million-voicèd London IWas lonely as the million-pointed skyUntil your single voice. Ah! So the SunPeoples all heaven, although he be but one.

The Statue

Whenwe are dead, some Hunting-boy will passAnd find a stone half-hidden in tall grassAnd grey with age: but having seen that stone(Which was your image), ride more slowly on.

Epitaph on the Favourite Dog of a Politician

Herelies a Dog: may every Dog that diesLie in security—as this Dog lies.

Epitaph on the Politician Himself

Hererichly, with ridiculous display,The Politician’s corpse was laid away.While all of his acquaintance sneered and slangedI wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.

Another on the Same

This, the last ornament among the peers,Bribed, bullied, swindled and blackmailed for years:But Death’s what even Politicians failTo bribe or swindle, bully or blackmail.

On Mundane Acquaintances

Goodmorning, Algernon: Good morning, Percy.Good morning, Mrs Roebeck. Christ have mercy!

On a Rose for Her Bosom

Go, lovely rose, and tell the lovelier fairThat he which loved her most was never there.

On the Little God

Ofall the gods that gave me all their gloriesTo-day there deigns to walk with me but one.I lead him by the hand and tell him stories.It is the Queen of Cyprus’ little son.

On a Prophet

Ofold ’twas Samuel sought the Lord: to-dayThe Lord runs after Samuel—so they say.

On a Dead Hostess

Ofthis bad world the loveliest and the bestHas smiled and said “Good Night,” and gone to rest.

On a Great Election

Theaccursèd power which stands on Privilege(And goes with Women, and Champagne and Bridge)Broke—and Democracy resumed her reign:(Which goes with Bridge, and Women and Champagne).

On a Mistaken Mariner

Hewhistled thrice to pass the Morning Star,Thinking that near which was so very far.So I, whenas I meet my Dearest Dear,Still think that far which is so very near.

On a Sleeping Friend

Lady, when your lovely headDroops to sink among the Dead,And the quiet places keepYou that so divinely sleep;Then the dead shall blessèd beWith a new solemnity,For such Beauty, so descending,Pledges them that Death is ending.Sleep your fill—but when you wakeDawn shall over Lethe break.

Fatigued

I’mtired of Love: I’m still more tired of Rhyme.But Money gives me pleasure all the time.

On Benicia, who Wished Him Well

Beniciawished me well; I wished her well.And what I wished her more I may not tell.

The False Heart

I saidto Heart, “How goes it?” Heart replied:“Right as a Ribstone Pippin!” But it lied.

Partly from the Greek

Shewould be as the stars in your sightThat turn in the endless hollow;That tremble, and always followThe quiet wheels of the Night.

THE VICTORY OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR IN HIS YOUTH OVER THE REBELS AT VAL-ÈS-DUNES IN THE YEAR1047

[This piece of verse is grossly unhistorical. Val-ès-Dunes is not on the sea but inland. No Norman blazoned a shield or a church window in the middle eleventh century, still less would he frame one in silver, and I doubt gilt spurs. It was not the young Bastard of Falaise, but the men of the King in Paris that really won the battle. There was nothing Scandinavian left in Normandy, and whatever there had been five generations before was slight. The Colentin had no more Scandinavian blood than the rest. There is no such place as Longuevaile. There is a Hauteville, but it has no bay and had nothing to do with the Harcourts, and the Harcourts were not of Bloodroyal—and so forth.]

Themen that lived in LonguevaileCame out to fight by bands.They jangled all in welded mail,Their shields were rimmed of silver paleAnd blazoned like a church-vitrail:Their swords were in their hands.But the harsh raven of the Old GodsWas on the rank sea-sands.There rose a wind on heath and den:The sky went racing grey.The Bastard and his wall of menWere a charger’s course away.

There rose a wind on heath and den:The sky went racing grey.The Bastard and his wall of menWere a charger’s course away.

TheOld Gods of the Northern HallAre in their narrow room.Their thrones are flanked of spearmen tall,The three that have them in their thrall,Sit silently before them all,They weave upon their loom;And round about them as they weaveThe Scalds sing doom.

TheBastard out of NormandyWas angry for his wrong.His eyes were virginal to see,For nothing in his heart had heBut a hunger for his great degree;And his back was broad and strongAs are the oxen of the field,That pull the ploughs along.

Hesaw that column of cavalry wheel,Split outward, and deploy.He heard, he heard the Oliphant peal.He crooked an angry knee to feelThe scabbard against his gilded heel.He had great joy:And he stood upright in the stirrup steel.Because he was a boy.. . . . . .We faced their ordering, all the force,And there was little sound;But Haribert-Le-Marshall’s horsePawed heavily the ground.

Asthe broad ships out of BarbaryCome driving from the large,With yards a-bend and courses free,And tumbling down their decks a-lee,The hurrahing of the exultant sea,So drave they to the charge.But the harsh raven of the Old GodsWas on the rank sea-marge.

TheOld Gods of the Northern HallAre crownéd for the tomb.Their biers are flanked of torches tall,And through the flames that leap and fallThere comes a droning and a callTo the night’s womb,As the tide beneath a castle wallGoes drumming through the gloom.

Theytonsured me but Easter year,I swore to Christ and Rome.My name is not mine older name....But ah! to see them as they came,With thundering and with points aflame,I smelt foam.And my heart was like a wandering man’s,Who piles his boat on Moorna sandsAnd serves a slave in alien lands,And then beneath a harper’s handsHears suddenly of home.. . . . . .For their cavalry came in a curling leaf,They shouted as they drave,And the Bastard’s line was like a reefBut theirs was like a wave.

Asthe broad ships out of BarbaryStrike rock.And the stem shatters, and the sail flaps;Streaming seaward; and the taut shroud snaps,And the blockClatters to the deck of the wreck.So did the men of LonguevaileTake the shock.

Ourlong line quivered but it did not break,It countered and was strong.The first bolt went through the wind with a wail,And another and a-many with a thudding on the mail;Pattered all the arrows in an April hail;Whistled the ball and thong:And I, the priest, with that beganThe singing of my song.

Pressinward, inward, Normandy;Press inward, Cleres and Vaux;Press inward, Mons and Valery;Press inward, Yvetot.Stand hard the men of the Beechen Ford(Oh! William of Falaise, my lord!)Battle is a net and a struggle in a cord.Battle is a wrestler’s throw.The middle holding as the wings made good,The far wings closing as the centre stood.Battle is a mist and battle is a wood,And battle is won so.

Thefishermen fish in the River of Seine,They haul the long nets in.They haul them in and they haul again,(The fishermen fish in the River of Seine)They haul them in and they haul again,A million glittering fin:With the hauling in of our straining endsThat Victory did begin.

Thetall son of the Seven WindsGalloped hot-foot from the Hither Hithe.So strongly went he down the press,Almost he did that day redressWith his holping and his hardiness,For his sword was like a scytheIn Arques when the grass is high,And all the swaithes in order lie,And there’s the bailiff standing by—A gathering of the tithe.

Andnow, go forward, Normandy,Go forward all in one.The press was caught and trampled and it brokeFrom the sword and its swinger and the axe’s stroke,Pouring through the gap in a whirl of smokeAs a blinded herd will run.And so fled many and a very fewWith mounts all spent would staggering pursue,But the race fell scattered as the evening grew:The battle was over and done.. . . . . .Like birds against the reddening dayThey dwindled one by one,And I heard a trumpet far awayAt the setting of the sun.. . . . . .

Thestars were in the Eternal Sky,It was calm in Massared;Richard, Abbot of Leclair, and IAnd a Picard Priest that held on highA Torch above his head;We stumbled through the darkening landAssoiling with anointed handThe dying and the dead.

Howmany in the tufted grass,How many dead there lay.For there was found the FortenbrasAnd young Garain of Hault, alas!And the Wardens of the Breton passWho were lords of his array,And Hugh that trusted in his glassBut came not home the day.

I sawthe miller of Martindall,I saw that archer die.The blunt quarrel caught him at the low white wall,And he tossed up his arrow to the Lord God of all,But long before the first could fallHis soul was in the sky.

Thelast of all the lords that sprangFrom Harcourt of the Crown,He parried with the shield and the silver rang,But the axe fell heavy on the helm with a clangAnd the girths parted and the saddle swang,And he went down:He never more sang winter songsIn his high town.

Inhis high town that Faëry is,And stands on Harcourt bay,The fisher surging through the nightTakes bearing by that castle height,And moors him harboured in the bight,And watches for the day.But with the broadening of the light,It vanishes away.

Inhis high town that Faëry is,And stands on Harcourt Lea.To summon him up his arrier-ban,His writ beyond the mountains ran;My father was his serving man,Although the farm was free.Before the angry wars beganHe was a friend to me.

Thenight before the boy was bornThere came a Priest who saidThat he had seen red Aldeborn,The star of hate in Taurus’ horn,Which glared above a field of corn,And covered him with dread.I wish to God I had not heldThe cloth in which he bled.. . . . . .

TheHorse from Cleres and Valery,The foot from Yvetot,And all the men of the Harbour TownsThat live by fall and flow.And all the men of the Beechen Ford—Oh! William of Falaise, my lord!—And all the sails in Michael’s ward,And all the shields of Caux,Shall follow you out across the world,With sword and lance and bow,To Beachy and to Pevensey Bar,To Chester through the snow,With sack and pack and camping tent,A-grumbling as they go:My lord is William of Falaise.Haro!

FOOTNOTES:[A]Butdo not think I shall explainTo any great extent. Believe me,I partly write to give you pain,And if you do not like me, leave me.[B]Andleast of all can you complain,Reviewers, whose unholy trade is,To puff with all your might and mainBiographers of single ladies.[C]Never mind.[D]Theplan forgot (I know not how,Perhaps the Refectory filled it),To put a chapel in; and nowWe’re mortgaging the rest to build it.[E]To be pronounced as a monosyllable in the Imperial fashion.[F]Mr Punt, Mr Howl, and Mr Grewcock (now, alas, deceased).[G]A neat rendering of “Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.”[H]To the Examiners: These facts (of which I guarantee the accuracy) were given me by a Director.[I]A reminiscence of Milton: “Fas est et ab hoste docere.”[J]Lambkin told me he regretted this line, which was for the sake of Rhyme. He would willingly have replaced it, but to his last day could construct no substitute.

FOOTNOTES:

[A]Butdo not think I shall explainTo any great extent. Believe me,I partly write to give you pain,And if you do not like me, leave me.

[A]

Butdo not think I shall explainTo any great extent. Believe me,I partly write to give you pain,And if you do not like me, leave me.

[B]Andleast of all can you complain,Reviewers, whose unholy trade is,To puff with all your might and mainBiographers of single ladies.

[B]

Andleast of all can you complain,Reviewers, whose unholy trade is,To puff with all your might and mainBiographers of single ladies.

[C]Never mind.

[D]Theplan forgot (I know not how,Perhaps the Refectory filled it),To put a chapel in; and nowWe’re mortgaging the rest to build it.

[D]

Theplan forgot (I know not how,Perhaps the Refectory filled it),To put a chapel in; and nowWe’re mortgaging the rest to build it.

[E]To be pronounced as a monosyllable in the Imperial fashion.

[F]Mr Punt, Mr Howl, and Mr Grewcock (now, alas, deceased).

[G]A neat rendering of “Sublimi feriam sidera vertice.”

[H]To the Examiners: These facts (of which I guarantee the accuracy) were given me by a Director.

[I]A reminiscence of Milton: “Fas est et ab hoste docere.”

[J]Lambkin told me he regretted this line, which was for the sake of Rhyme. He would willingly have replaced it, but to his last day could construct no substitute.

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