The Temple Bell, in peace and war,Keeps the measure of sun and star.But sometimes, in the night it criesFaintly, and a voice replies:Mother, Oh, mother, the Bell rings true!—You were all that I had!—Oh, mother, my mother!—With the land and the Bell it is well. Is it well,Is it well with the heart that had you and none other?SLAVE AND EMPEROR"Our cavalry have rescued Nazareth from the enemy whose supermen described Christianity as a creed for slaves."THE Emperor mocked at NazarethIn his almighty hour.The Slave that bowed himself to deathAnd walked with slaves in Nazareth,What were his words but wasted breathBefore that "will to power"?Yet, in the darkest hour of all,When black defeat began,The Emperor heard the mountains quake,He felt the graves beneath him shake,He watched his legions rally and break,And he whimpered as they ran."I hear a shout that moves the earth,A cry that wakes the dead!Will no one tell me whence they come,For all my messengers are dumb?What power is this that comes to birthAnd breaks my power?" he said.Then, all around his foundering guns,Though dawn was now not far,The darkness filled with a living fearThat whispered at the Emperor's ear,"The armies of the dead draw nearBeneath an eastern star."The trumpet blows in Nazareth.The Slave is risen again.Across the bitter wastes of deathThe horsemen ride from Nazareth,And the Power we mocked as wasted breathReturns, in power, to reign;Rides on, in white, through Nazareth,To save His world again.ON A MOUNTAIN TOPON this high altar, fringed with fernsThat darken against the sky,The dawn in lonely beauty burnsAnd all our evils die.The struggling sea that roared belowIs quieter than the dew,Quieter than the clouds that flowAcross the stainless blue.On this bare crest, the angels kneelAnd breathe the sweets that riseFrom flowers too little to revealTheir beauty to our eyes.I have seen Edens on the earthWith queenly blooms arrayed;But here the fairest come to birth,The smallest flowers He made.O, high above the sounding pine,And richer, sweeter far,The wild thyme wakes. The celandineLooks at the morning star.They may not see the heavens unfold.They breathe no out-worn prayer;But, on a mountain, as of old,His glory fills the air.EARLY POEMS(Not Published Hitherto in America)THE PHANTOM FLEET(1904)THE sunset lingered in the pale green West:In rosy wastes the low soft evening starWoke; while the last white sea-mew sought for rest;And tawny sails came stealing o'er the bar.But, in the hillside cottage, through the panesThe light streamed like a thin far trumpet-call,And quickened, as with quivering battle-stains,The printed ships that decked the parlour wall.From oaken frames old admirals looked down:They saw the lonely slumberer at their feet:They saw the paper, headedTalk from Town;Our rusting trident, and our phantom fleet:And from a neighbouring tavern surged a songOf England laughing in the face of war,With eyes unconquerably proud and strong,And lips triumphant from her Trafalgar.But he, the slumberer in that glimmering room,Saw distant waters glide and heave and gleam;Around him in the softly coloured gloomThe pictures clustered slowly to a dream.He saw how England, resting on her past,Among the faded garlands of her dead,Woke; for a whisper reached her heart at last,And once again she raised her steel-clad head.Her eyes were filled with sudden strange alarms;She heard the westering waters change and chime;She heard the distant tumult of her armsDefeated, not by courage, but by Time.Knowledge had made a deadlier pact with death,Nor strength nor steel availed against that bond:Slowly approached—and Britain held her breath—The battle booming from the deeps beyond.O, then what darkness rolled upon the wind,Threatening the torch that Britain held on high?Where all her navies, baffled, broken, blind,Slunk backward, snarling in their agony!Who guards the gates of Freedom now?The cryStabbed heaven!England, the shattered ramparts fall!Then, like a trumpet shivering through the skyO, like white lightning rending the black pallOf heaven, an answer pealed:Her dead shall hear that call.Then came a distant light of great waves breakingThat brought the sunset on each crumbling crest,A rumour as of buried ages waking,And mighty spirits rising from their rest;Then ghostly clouds arose, with billowing breast,White clouds that turned to sails upon their way,Red clouds that burned like flags against the West,Till even the conquering fleet in silence layDazed with that strange old light, and night grew bright as day.We come to fight for Freedom!The great EastHeard, and was rent asunder like a veil.Host upon host out of the night increasedIts towering clouds and crowded zones of sail:England, our England, canst thou faint or fail?We come to fight for Freedom yet once more!This, this is ours at least! Count the great taleOf all these dead that rise to guard thy shoreBy right of the red life they never feared to pour.We come to fight for Freedom!On they came,One cloud of beauty sweeping the wild sea;And there, through all their thousands, flashed like flameThat star-born signal of the Victory:Duty, that deathless lantern of the free;Duty, that makes a god of every man.And there was Nelson, watching silentlyAs through the phantom fleet the message ran;And his tall frigate rushed before the stormy van.Nelson, our Nelson, frail and maimed and blind,Stretched out his dead cold face against the foe:And England's Raleigh followed hard behind,With all his eager fighting heart aglow;Glad, glad for England's sake once more to knowThe old joy of battle and contempt of pain;Glad, glad to die, if England willed it so,The traitor's and the coward's death again;But hurl the world back now as once he hurled back Spain.And there were all those others, Drake and Blake,Rodney and Howard, Byron, Collingwood;With deathless eyes aflame for England's sake,As on their ancient decks they proudly stood,—Decks washed of old with England's purplest blood;And there, once more, each rushing oaken sideBared its dark-throated, thirsty, gleaming broodOf cannon, watched by laughing lads who diedLong, long ago for England and her ancient pride.We come to fight for England!The great seaIn a wild light of song began to breakRound that tall phantom of the VictoryAnd all the foam was music in her wake:Ship after phantom ship, with guns a-rakeAnd shot-rent flags a-stream from every mastMoved in a deepening splendour, not to makeA shield for England of her own dead past;But, with a living dream to arm her soul at last.We come to die for England: through the hushOf gathered nations rose that regal cry,From naked oaken walls one word could crushIf those vast armoured throats dared to reply:But there the most implacable enemyFelt his eyes fill with gladder, prouder tears,As Nelson's calm eternal face went by,Gazing beyond all perishable fearsTo some diviner goal above the waste of years.Through the hushed fleets the vision streamed away,Then slowly turned once more to that deep West,While voices cried, O, England, the new dayIs dawning, but thy soul can take no rest.Thy freedom and thy peace are only thineBy right of toil on every land and seaAnd by that crimson sacrificial wineOf thine own heart and thine own agony.Peace is not slumber. Peace, in every hour,Throbs like the heart of music. This aloneCan save thy heritage and confirm that powerWhereof the past is but the cushioned throne.Look to the fleet! Again and yet again,Hear us who storm thy heart with this one cry.Hear us, who cannot help, though fair and fain,To hold thy seas before thee, and to die.Look to the fleet! Thy fleet, the first, last line:The sword of Liberty, her strength, her shield,Her food, her life-blood! Britain, it is thine,Here, now, to hold that birth-right, or to yield.So, through the dark, those phantom ships of oldFaded, it seemed, through mists of blood and tears.Sails turned to clouds, and slowly westward rolledThe sad returning pageant of the years.On tides of light, where all our tumults cease,Through that rich West, the Victory returned;And all the waves around her whispered "peace,"And from her mast no battle-message burned.Like clouds, like fragments of those fading skies,The pageant passed, with all its misty spars,While the hushed nations raised their dreaming eyesTo that great light which brings the end of wars.Ship after ship, in some strange glory drowned,Cloud after cloud, was lost in that deep lightEach with a sovran stillness haloed round.Then—that high fleet of stars led on the night.MICHAEL OAKTREEUNDER an arch of glorious leaves I passedOut of the wood and saw the sickle moonFloating in daylight o'er the pale green sea.It was the quiet hour before the sunGathers the clouds to prayer and silentlyUtters his benediction on the wavesThat whisper round the death-bed of the day.The labourers were returning from the farmsAnd children danced to meet them. From the doorsOf cottages there came a pleasant clinkWhere busy hands laid out the evening meal.From smouldering elms around the village spireThere soared and sank the caw of gathering rooks.The faint-flushed clouds were listening to the taleThe sea tells to the sunset with one sigh.The last white wistful sea-bird sought for peace,And the last fishing-boat stole o'er the bar,And fragrant grasses, murmuring a prayer,Bowed all together to the holy west,Bowed all together thro' the golden hush,The breathing hush, the solemn scented hush,The holy, holy hush of eventide.And, in among the ferns that crowned the hillWith waving green and whispers of the wind,A boy and girl, carelessly linking hands,Into their golden dream drifted away.On that rich afternoon of scent and songOld Michael Oaktree died. It was not muchHe wished for; but indeed I think he longedTo see the light of summer once againBlossoming o'er the far blue hills. I knowHe used to like his rough-hewn wooden benchPlaced in the sun outside the cottage doorWhere in the listening stillness he could hear,Across the waving gilly-flowers that crownedHis crumbling garden wall, the long low sighOf supreme peace that whispers to the hillsThe sacred consolation of the sea.He did not hope for much: he longed to liveUntil the winter came again, he said;But on the last sweet eve of May he died.I wandered sadly through the dreaming lanesDown to the cottage on that afternoon;For I had known old Michael Oaktree nowSo many years, so many happy years.When I was little he had carried meHigh on his back to see the harvest home,And given me many a ride upon his wagonAmong the dusty scents of sun and hay.He showed me how to snare the bulky troutThat lurked under the bank of yonder brook.Indeed, he taught me many a country craft,For I was apt to learn, and, as I learnt,I loved the teacher of that homely lore.Deep in my boyish heart he shared the gladInfluence of the suns and winds and waves,Giving my childhood what it hungered for—The rude earth-wisdom of the primal man.He had retained his childhood: Death for himHad no more terror than his bed. He walkedWith wind and sunlight like a brother, gladOf their companionship and mutual aid.We, toilers after truth, are weaned too soonFrom earth's dark arms and naked barbarous breast.Too soon, too soon, we leave the golden feast,Fetter the dancing limbs and pluck the crownOf roses from the dreaming brow. We passOur lives in most laborious idleness.For we have lost the meaning of the world;We have gone out into the night too soon;We have mistaken all the means of graceAnd over-rated our small power to learn.And the years move so swiftly over us:We have so little time to live in worldsUnrealised and unknown realms of joy,We are so old before we learn how vainOur effort was, how fruitlessly we castOur Bread upon the waters, and how weakOur hearts were, but our chance desires how strong!Then, in the dark, our sense of light decays;We cannot cry to God as once we cried!Lost in the gloom, our faith, perhaps our love,Lies dead with years that never can return.But Michael Oaktree was a man whose loveHad never waned through all his eighty years.His faith was hardly faith. He seemed a partOf all that he believed in. He had livedIn constant conversation with the sun,The wind, the silence and the heart of peace;In absolute communion with the PowerThat rules all action and all tides of thought,And all the secret courses of the stars;The Power that still establishes on earthDesire and worship, through the radiant lawsOf Duty, Love and Beauty; for through theseAs through three portals of the self-same gateThe soul of man attains infinity,And enters into Godhead. So he gainedOn earth a fore-taste of Nirvana, notThe void of eastern dream, but the desireAnd goal of all of us, whether thro' livesInnumerable, by slow degrees, we nearThe death divine, or from this breaking bodyOf earthly death we flash at once to God.Through simple love and simple faith, this manAttained a height above the hope of kings.Yet, as I softly shut the little gateAnd walked across the garden, all the scentsOf mingling blossom ached like inmost painDeep in my heart, I know not why. They seemedDistinct, distinct as distant evening bellsTolling, over the sea, a secret chimeThat breaks and breaks and breaks upon the heartIn sorrow rather than in sound, a chimeStrange as a streak of sunset to the moon,Strange as a rose upon a starlit grave,Strange as a smile upon a dead man's lips;A chime of melancholy, mute as deathBut strong as love, uttered in plangent tonesOf honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers,Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves,Lilac and lilies to the rose-wreathed porch.At last I tapped and entered and was drawnInto the bedroom of the dying man,Who lay, propped up with pillows, quietlyGazing; for through his open casement farBeyond the whispers of the gilly-flowersHe saw the mellow light of eventideHallow the west once more; and, as he gazed,I think I never saw so great a peaceOn any human face. There was no soundExcept the slumbrous pulsing of a clock,The whisper of the garden and, far off,The sacred consolation of the sea.His wife sat at his bed-side: she had passedHer eightieth year; her only child was dead.She had been wedded more than sixty years,And she sat gazing with the man she lovedQuietly, out into that unknown Deep.A butterfly floated into the roomAnd back again, pausing awhile to baskAnd wink its painted fans on the warm sill;A bird piped in the roses and there cameInto the childless mother's ears a soundOf happy laughing children, far away.Then Michael Oaktree took his wife's thin handBetween his big rough hands. His eyes grew dark,And, as he turned to her and died, he spokeTwo words of perfect faith and love—Come soon!O then in all the world there was no soundExcept the slumbrous pulsing of a clock,The whisper of the leaves and far away,The infinite compassion of the sea.But, as I softly passed out of the porchAnd walked across the garden, all the scentsOf mingling blossoms ached like inmost joy,Distinct no more, but like one heavenly choirPealing one mystic music, still and strangeAs voices of the holy Seraphim,One voice of adoration, mute as love,Stronger than death, and pure with wedded tonesOf honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers,Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves,Lilac and lilies to the garden gate.O then indeed I knew how closely knitTo stars and flowers we are, how many meansOf grace there are for those that never loseTheir sense of membership in this divineBody of God; for those that all their daysHave walked in quiet communion with the LifeThat keeps the common secret of the sun,The wind, the silence and the heart of man.There is one God, one Love, one everlastingMystery of Incarnation, one creativePassion behind the many-coloured veil.We have obscured God's face with partial truths,The cause of all our sorrow and sin, our warsOf force and thought, in this unheavened world.Yet, by the battle of our partial truths,The past against the present and the swiftMoment of passing joy against the deepEternal love, ever the weaker truthFalls to the stronger, till once more we nearThe enfolding splendour of the whole. Our GodHas been too long a partial God. We are allMade in His image, men and birds and beasts,Mountains and clouds and cataracts and suns,With those great Beings above our little world,A height beyond for every depth below,Those long-forgotten Princedoms, Virtues, Powers,Existences that live and move in realmsAs far beyond our thought as Europe liesWith all its little arts and sciencesBeyond the comprehension of the worm.We are all partial images, we needWhat lies beyond us to complete our souls;Therefore our souls are filled with a desireAnd love which lead us towards the InfinityOf Godhead that awaits us each and all.Peacefully through the dreaming lanes I went.The sun sank, and the birds were hushed. The starsTrembled like blossoms in the purple trees.But, as I paused upon the whispering hillThe mellow light still lingered in the west,And dark and soft against that rosy depthA boy and girl stood knee-deep in the ferns.Dreams of the dead man's youth were in my heart,Yet I was very glad; and as the moonBrightened, they kissed; and, linking hand in hand,Down to their lamp-lit home drifted away.Under an arch of leaves, into the gloomI went along the little woodland road,And through the breathless hedge of hawthorn heardOut of the deepening night, the long low sighOf supreme peace that whispers to the hillsThe sacrament and sabbath of the sea.TOUCHSTONE ON A BUSLAST night I rode with Touchstone on a busFrom Ludgate Hill to World's End. It was he!Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat,I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly,The whetstone of his age, the scourge of kings,The madcap morning star of elfin-land,Who used to wrap his legs around his neckFor warmth on winter nights. He had slipped back,To see what men were doing in a worldThat should be wiser. He had watched a play,Read several books, heard men discourse of artAnd life; and he sat bubbling like a springIn Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may,Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride.Lord, what a world! Lord, what a mad, mad world!Then, to the jolt and jingle of the engine,He burst into this bunch of madcap rhymes:—THE NEW DUCKLINGITHE NEW DUCKLING"IWANT to be new," said the duckling."O, ho!" said the wise old owl,While the guinea-hen cluttered off chucklingTo tell all the rest of the fowl."I should like a more elegant figure,"That child of a duck went on."I should like to grow bigger and bigger,Until I could swallow a swan."Iwon'tbe the bond slave of habit,Iwon'thave these webs on my toes.I want to run round like a rabbit,A rabbit as red as a rose."Idon'twant to waddle like mother,Or quack like my silly old dad.I want to be utterly other,Andfrightfullymodern and mad.""Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking!There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye;And, if you're not utterly lacking,You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!""I won't," said the duckling. "I'll lift himA beautiful song, like a sheep;And when I have—as it were—biffed him,I'll give him my feathers to keep."Now the curious end of this fable,So far as the rest ascertained,Though they searched from the barn to the stable,Was thatonly his feathers remained.So hewasn'tthe bond slave of habit,And hedidn'thave webs on his toes;Andperhapshe runs round like a rabbit,A rabbit as red as a rose.IITHE MAN WHO DISCOVERED THE USE OF A CHAIRTHE man who discovered the use of a chair,Odds—bobs—What a wonderful man!He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair,Till he thought of a highly original plan.For years he had sat on his chair, like you,Quite—still!But his looks were grimFor he wished to be famous (as great men do)And nobody ever would listen to him.Now he went one night to a dinner of stateHear! hear!In the proud Guildhall!And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate;But nobody heard his opinions at all;There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech(Grouse! Grouse!What a dreary bird!)With five fair minutes allotted to each,But never a moment forhimto be heard.But, each being ready to talk, I suppose,Order! Order!They cried,for the Chair!And, much to their wonder, our friend aroseAnd fastened his eye on the eye of the Mayor."We have come," he said, "to the fourteenth course!"High—time,for the Chair," he said.Then, with both of his hands, and with all of his force,He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor's head.It missed that head by the width of a hair.Gee—whizz!What a horrible squeak!But it crashed through the big bay-window thereAnd smashed a bus into Wednesday week.And the very next day, in the decorous Times(Great—Guns—How the headlines ran!)In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes,There were five full columns about that man.ENVOIOh, if you get dizzy when authors write(My stars!And you very well may!)That white is black and that black is white,You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:It is easy enough to be famous now,(Puff—Puff!How the trumpets blare!)Provided, of course, that you don't care how,Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.IIICOTTON-WOOLSHUN the brush and shun the pen,Shun the ways of clever men,When they prove that black is white,Whey they swear that wrong is right,When they roast the singing starsLike chestnuts, in between the bars,Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.When you see a clever manRun as quickly as you can.You must never, never, neverThink that Socrates was clever.The cleverest thing I ever knewNow cracks walnuts at the Zoo.Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.Homer could not scintillate.Milton, too, was merely great.That's a very different matterFrom talking like a frantic hatter.Keats and Shelley had no tricks.Wordsworth never climbed up sticks.Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.Lincoln would create a gloomIn many a London drawing-room;He'd be silent at their wit,He would never laugh at it.When they kissed Salome's toes,I think he'd snort and blow his nose.Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.They'd curse him for a silly clown,They'd drum him out of London town.Professor Flunkey, the historian,Would say he was a dull Victorian.Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John,Bless the bed I rest upon.Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.Amen.IVFASHIONSFASHION on fashion on fashion,(With only the truth growing old!)And here's the new purple of passion,(And love waiting out in the cold)Who'll buy?They are crying new lamps for Aladdin,New worlds for the old and the true;And no one remembers the storyThe magic was not in the new.They are crying a new rose for Eden,A rose of green glass. I supposeThe only thing wrong with their rose isThe fact that it isn't a rose.Who'll buy?And here is a song without metre;And, here again, nothing is wrong;(For nothing on earth could be neater)Except that—it isn't a song.Well. Walk on your hands. It's the latest!And feet are Victorian now;And even our best and our greatestBefore that dread epithet bow.Who'll buy?The furniture goes for a song, now.The sixties had horrible taste.But the trouble is this—they've includedSome better things, too, in their haste.Were they wrapped in the antimacassars,Or sunk in a sofa of plush?Did an Angelican bishop forget them,And leave them behind in the crush?Who'll buy?Here's a turnex. It's going quite cheaply.(It lived with stuffed birds in the hall!And, of course, to a mind that thinks deeplyThat settles it, once and for all.)Here'sitem, a ring (very plain, sirs!),Anditem, a God (but He's dead!);They say we shall need Him again, sirs,So—item, a cross for His head.Who'll buy?Yes, you'll need it again, though He's dead, sirs.It is only the fashions that fly.So here are the thorns for His head, sirs.They'll keep till you need 'em. Who'll buy?EPILOGUETHE REWARD OF SONGWHY do we make our music?Oh, blind dark strings reply:Because we dwell in a strange landAnd remember a lost sky.We ask no leaf of the laurel,We know what fame is worth;But our songs break out of our winterAs the flowers break out on the earth.And we dream of the unknown comrade,In the days when we lie dead,Who shall open our book in the sunlight,And read, as ourselves have read,On a lonely hill, by a firwood,With whispering seas below,And murmur a song we made himAges and ages ago.If making his may-time sweeterWith dews of our own dead may,One pulse of our own dead heart-stringsAwake in his heart that day,We would pray for no richer guerdon,No praise from the careless throng;For song is the cry of a loverIn quest of an answering song.As a child might run to his eldersWith news of an opening flowerWe should walk with our young companionAnd talk to his heart for an hour,As once by my own green firwood,And once by a Western sea,Thank God, my own good comradesHave walked and talked with me.Too mighty to make men sorrow,Too weak to heal their pain(Though they that remember the hawthornMay find their heaven again),We are moved by a deeper hunger;We are bound by a stronger cord;For love is the heart of our music,And love is its one reward.
The Temple Bell, in peace and war,Keeps the measure of sun and star.But sometimes, in the night it criesFaintly, and a voice replies:Mother, Oh, mother, the Bell rings true!—You were all that I had!—Oh, mother, my mother!—With the land and the Bell it is well. Is it well,Is it well with the heart that had you and none other?
The Temple Bell, in peace and war,
Keeps the measure of sun and star.
But sometimes, in the night it cries
Faintly, and a voice replies:
Mother, Oh, mother, the Bell rings true!—
You were all that I had!—Oh, mother, my mother!—
With the land and the Bell it is well. Is it well,
Is it well with the heart that had you and none other?
THE Emperor mocked at NazarethIn his almighty hour.The Slave that bowed himself to deathAnd walked with slaves in Nazareth,What were his words but wasted breathBefore that "will to power"?Yet, in the darkest hour of all,When black defeat began,The Emperor heard the mountains quake,He felt the graves beneath him shake,He watched his legions rally and break,And he whimpered as they ran."I hear a shout that moves the earth,A cry that wakes the dead!Will no one tell me whence they come,For all my messengers are dumb?What power is this that comes to birthAnd breaks my power?" he said.Then, all around his foundering guns,Though dawn was now not far,The darkness filled with a living fearThat whispered at the Emperor's ear,"The armies of the dead draw nearBeneath an eastern star."The trumpet blows in Nazareth.The Slave is risen again.Across the bitter wastes of deathThe horsemen ride from Nazareth,And the Power we mocked as wasted breathReturns, in power, to reign;Rides on, in white, through Nazareth,To save His world again.
THE Emperor mocked at Nazareth
In his almighty hour.
The Slave that bowed himself to death
And walked with slaves in Nazareth,
What were his words but wasted breath
Before that "will to power"?
Yet, in the darkest hour of all,
When black defeat began,
The Emperor heard the mountains quake,
He felt the graves beneath him shake,
He watched his legions rally and break,
And he whimpered as they ran.
"I hear a shout that moves the earth,
A cry that wakes the dead!
Will no one tell me whence they come,
For all my messengers are dumb?
What power is this that comes to birth
And breaks my power?" he said.
Then, all around his foundering guns,
Though dawn was now not far,
The darkness filled with a living fear
That whispered at the Emperor's ear,
"The armies of the dead draw near
Beneath an eastern star."
The trumpet blows in Nazareth.
The Slave is risen again.
Across the bitter wastes of death
The horsemen ride from Nazareth,
And the Power we mocked as wasted breath
Returns, in power, to reign;
Rides on, in white, through Nazareth,
To save His world again.
ON this high altar, fringed with fernsThat darken against the sky,The dawn in lonely beauty burnsAnd all our evils die.The struggling sea that roared belowIs quieter than the dew,Quieter than the clouds that flowAcross the stainless blue.On this bare crest, the angels kneelAnd breathe the sweets that riseFrom flowers too little to revealTheir beauty to our eyes.I have seen Edens on the earthWith queenly blooms arrayed;But here the fairest come to birth,The smallest flowers He made.O, high above the sounding pine,And richer, sweeter far,The wild thyme wakes. The celandineLooks at the morning star.They may not see the heavens unfold.They breathe no out-worn prayer;But, on a mountain, as of old,His glory fills the air.
ON this high altar, fringed with ferns
That darken against the sky,
The dawn in lonely beauty burns
And all our evils die.
The struggling sea that roared below
Is quieter than the dew,
Quieter than the clouds that flow
Across the stainless blue.
On this bare crest, the angels kneel
And breathe the sweets that rise
From flowers too little to reveal
Their beauty to our eyes.
I have seen Edens on the earth
With queenly blooms arrayed;
But here the fairest come to birth,
The smallest flowers He made.
O, high above the sounding pine,
And richer, sweeter far,
The wild thyme wakes. The celandine
Looks at the morning star.
They may not see the heavens unfold.
They breathe no out-worn prayer;
But, on a mountain, as of old,
His glory fills the air.
THE sunset lingered in the pale green West:In rosy wastes the low soft evening starWoke; while the last white sea-mew sought for rest;And tawny sails came stealing o'er the bar.But, in the hillside cottage, through the panesThe light streamed like a thin far trumpet-call,And quickened, as with quivering battle-stains,The printed ships that decked the parlour wall.From oaken frames old admirals looked down:They saw the lonely slumberer at their feet:They saw the paper, headedTalk from Town;Our rusting trident, and our phantom fleet:And from a neighbouring tavern surged a songOf England laughing in the face of war,With eyes unconquerably proud and strong,And lips triumphant from her Trafalgar.But he, the slumberer in that glimmering room,Saw distant waters glide and heave and gleam;Around him in the softly coloured gloomThe pictures clustered slowly to a dream.He saw how England, resting on her past,Among the faded garlands of her dead,Woke; for a whisper reached her heart at last,And once again she raised her steel-clad head.Her eyes were filled with sudden strange alarms;She heard the westering waters change and chime;She heard the distant tumult of her armsDefeated, not by courage, but by Time.Knowledge had made a deadlier pact with death,Nor strength nor steel availed against that bond:Slowly approached—and Britain held her breath—The battle booming from the deeps beyond.O, then what darkness rolled upon the wind,Threatening the torch that Britain held on high?Where all her navies, baffled, broken, blind,Slunk backward, snarling in their agony!Who guards the gates of Freedom now?The cryStabbed heaven!England, the shattered ramparts fall!Then, like a trumpet shivering through the skyO, like white lightning rending the black pallOf heaven, an answer pealed:Her dead shall hear that call.Then came a distant light of great waves breakingThat brought the sunset on each crumbling crest,A rumour as of buried ages waking,And mighty spirits rising from their rest;Then ghostly clouds arose, with billowing breast,White clouds that turned to sails upon their way,Red clouds that burned like flags against the West,Till even the conquering fleet in silence layDazed with that strange old light, and night grew bright as day.We come to fight for Freedom!The great EastHeard, and was rent asunder like a veil.Host upon host out of the night increasedIts towering clouds and crowded zones of sail:England, our England, canst thou faint or fail?We come to fight for Freedom yet once more!This, this is ours at least! Count the great taleOf all these dead that rise to guard thy shoreBy right of the red life they never feared to pour.We come to fight for Freedom!On they came,One cloud of beauty sweeping the wild sea;And there, through all their thousands, flashed like flameThat star-born signal of the Victory:Duty, that deathless lantern of the free;Duty, that makes a god of every man.And there was Nelson, watching silentlyAs through the phantom fleet the message ran;And his tall frigate rushed before the stormy van.Nelson, our Nelson, frail and maimed and blind,Stretched out his dead cold face against the foe:And England's Raleigh followed hard behind,With all his eager fighting heart aglow;Glad, glad for England's sake once more to knowThe old joy of battle and contempt of pain;Glad, glad to die, if England willed it so,The traitor's and the coward's death again;But hurl the world back now as once he hurled back Spain.And there were all those others, Drake and Blake,Rodney and Howard, Byron, Collingwood;With deathless eyes aflame for England's sake,As on their ancient decks they proudly stood,—Decks washed of old with England's purplest blood;And there, once more, each rushing oaken sideBared its dark-throated, thirsty, gleaming broodOf cannon, watched by laughing lads who diedLong, long ago for England and her ancient pride.We come to fight for England!The great seaIn a wild light of song began to breakRound that tall phantom of the VictoryAnd all the foam was music in her wake:Ship after phantom ship, with guns a-rakeAnd shot-rent flags a-stream from every mastMoved in a deepening splendour, not to makeA shield for England of her own dead past;But, with a living dream to arm her soul at last.We come to die for England: through the hushOf gathered nations rose that regal cry,From naked oaken walls one word could crushIf those vast armoured throats dared to reply:But there the most implacable enemyFelt his eyes fill with gladder, prouder tears,As Nelson's calm eternal face went by,Gazing beyond all perishable fearsTo some diviner goal above the waste of years.Through the hushed fleets the vision streamed away,Then slowly turned once more to that deep West,While voices cried, O, England, the new dayIs dawning, but thy soul can take no rest.Thy freedom and thy peace are only thineBy right of toil on every land and seaAnd by that crimson sacrificial wineOf thine own heart and thine own agony.Peace is not slumber. Peace, in every hour,Throbs like the heart of music. This aloneCan save thy heritage and confirm that powerWhereof the past is but the cushioned throne.Look to the fleet! Again and yet again,Hear us who storm thy heart with this one cry.Hear us, who cannot help, though fair and fain,To hold thy seas before thee, and to die.Look to the fleet! Thy fleet, the first, last line:The sword of Liberty, her strength, her shield,Her food, her life-blood! Britain, it is thine,Here, now, to hold that birth-right, or to yield.So, through the dark, those phantom ships of oldFaded, it seemed, through mists of blood and tears.Sails turned to clouds, and slowly westward rolledThe sad returning pageant of the years.On tides of light, where all our tumults cease,Through that rich West, the Victory returned;And all the waves around her whispered "peace,"And from her mast no battle-message burned.Like clouds, like fragments of those fading skies,The pageant passed, with all its misty spars,While the hushed nations raised their dreaming eyesTo that great light which brings the end of wars.Ship after ship, in some strange glory drowned,Cloud after cloud, was lost in that deep lightEach with a sovran stillness haloed round.Then—that high fleet of stars led on the night.
THE sunset lingered in the pale green West:
In rosy wastes the low soft evening star
Woke; while the last white sea-mew sought for rest;
And tawny sails came stealing o'er the bar.
But, in the hillside cottage, through the panes
The light streamed like a thin far trumpet-call,
And quickened, as with quivering battle-stains,
The printed ships that decked the parlour wall.
From oaken frames old admirals looked down:
They saw the lonely slumberer at their feet:
They saw the paper, headedTalk from Town;
Our rusting trident, and our phantom fleet:
And from a neighbouring tavern surged a song
Of England laughing in the face of war,
With eyes unconquerably proud and strong,
And lips triumphant from her Trafalgar.
But he, the slumberer in that glimmering room,
Saw distant waters glide and heave and gleam;
Around him in the softly coloured gloom
The pictures clustered slowly to a dream.
He saw how England, resting on her past,
Among the faded garlands of her dead,
Woke; for a whisper reached her heart at last,
And once again she raised her steel-clad head.
Her eyes were filled with sudden strange alarms;
She heard the westering waters change and chime;
She heard the distant tumult of her arms
Defeated, not by courage, but by Time.
Knowledge had made a deadlier pact with death,
Nor strength nor steel availed against that bond:
Slowly approached—and Britain held her breath—
The battle booming from the deeps beyond.
O, then what darkness rolled upon the wind,
Threatening the torch that Britain held on high?
Where all her navies, baffled, broken, blind,
Slunk backward, snarling in their agony!
Who guards the gates of Freedom now?The cry
Stabbed heaven!England, the shattered ramparts fall!
Then, like a trumpet shivering through the sky
O, like white lightning rending the black pall
Of heaven, an answer pealed:Her dead shall hear that call.
Then came a distant light of great waves breaking
That brought the sunset on each crumbling crest,
A rumour as of buried ages waking,
And mighty spirits rising from their rest;
Then ghostly clouds arose, with billowing breast,
White clouds that turned to sails upon their way,
Red clouds that burned like flags against the West,
Till even the conquering fleet in silence lay
Dazed with that strange old light, and night grew bright as day.
We come to fight for Freedom!The great East
Heard, and was rent asunder like a veil.
Host upon host out of the night increased
Its towering clouds and crowded zones of sail:
England, our England, canst thou faint or fail?
We come to fight for Freedom yet once more!
This, this is ours at least! Count the great tale
Of all these dead that rise to guard thy shore
By right of the red life they never feared to pour.
We come to fight for Freedom!On they came,
One cloud of beauty sweeping the wild sea;
And there, through all their thousands, flashed like flame
That star-born signal of the Victory:
Duty, that deathless lantern of the free;
Duty, that makes a god of every man.
And there was Nelson, watching silently
As through the phantom fleet the message ran;
And his tall frigate rushed before the stormy van.
Nelson, our Nelson, frail and maimed and blind,
Stretched out his dead cold face against the foe:
And England's Raleigh followed hard behind,
With all his eager fighting heart aglow;
Glad, glad for England's sake once more to know
The old joy of battle and contempt of pain;
Glad, glad to die, if England willed it so,
The traitor's and the coward's death again;
But hurl the world back now as once he hurled back Spain.
And there were all those others, Drake and Blake,
Rodney and Howard, Byron, Collingwood;
With deathless eyes aflame for England's sake,
As on their ancient decks they proudly stood,—
Decks washed of old with England's purplest blood;
And there, once more, each rushing oaken side
Bared its dark-throated, thirsty, gleaming brood
Of cannon, watched by laughing lads who died
Long, long ago for England and her ancient pride.
We come to fight for England!The great sea
In a wild light of song began to break
Round that tall phantom of the Victory
And all the foam was music in her wake:
Ship after phantom ship, with guns a-rake
And shot-rent flags a-stream from every mast
Moved in a deepening splendour, not to make
A shield for England of her own dead past;
But, with a living dream to arm her soul at last.
We come to die for England: through the hush
Of gathered nations rose that regal cry,
From naked oaken walls one word could crush
If those vast armoured throats dared to reply:
But there the most implacable enemy
Felt his eyes fill with gladder, prouder tears,
As Nelson's calm eternal face went by,
Gazing beyond all perishable fears
To some diviner goal above the waste of years.
Through the hushed fleets the vision streamed away,
Then slowly turned once more to that deep West,
While voices cried, O, England, the new day
Is dawning, but thy soul can take no rest.
Thy freedom and thy peace are only thine
By right of toil on every land and sea
And by that crimson sacrificial wine
Of thine own heart and thine own agony.
Peace is not slumber. Peace, in every hour,
Throbs like the heart of music. This alone
Can save thy heritage and confirm that power
Whereof the past is but the cushioned throne.
Look to the fleet! Again and yet again,
Hear us who storm thy heart with this one cry.
Hear us, who cannot help, though fair and fain,
To hold thy seas before thee, and to die.
Look to the fleet! Thy fleet, the first, last line:
The sword of Liberty, her strength, her shield,
Her food, her life-blood! Britain, it is thine,
Here, now, to hold that birth-right, or to yield.
So, through the dark, those phantom ships of old
Faded, it seemed, through mists of blood and tears.
Sails turned to clouds, and slowly westward rolled
The sad returning pageant of the years.
On tides of light, where all our tumults cease,
Through that rich West, the Victory returned;
And all the waves around her whispered "peace,"
And from her mast no battle-message burned.
Like clouds, like fragments of those fading skies,
The pageant passed, with all its misty spars,
While the hushed nations raised their dreaming eyes
To that great light which brings the end of wars.
Ship after ship, in some strange glory drowned,
Cloud after cloud, was lost in that deep light
Each with a sovran stillness haloed round.
Then—that high fleet of stars led on the night.
UNDER an arch of glorious leaves I passedOut of the wood and saw the sickle moonFloating in daylight o'er the pale green sea.It was the quiet hour before the sunGathers the clouds to prayer and silentlyUtters his benediction on the wavesThat whisper round the death-bed of the day.The labourers were returning from the farmsAnd children danced to meet them. From the doorsOf cottages there came a pleasant clinkWhere busy hands laid out the evening meal.From smouldering elms around the village spireThere soared and sank the caw of gathering rooks.The faint-flushed clouds were listening to the taleThe sea tells to the sunset with one sigh.The last white wistful sea-bird sought for peace,And the last fishing-boat stole o'er the bar,And fragrant grasses, murmuring a prayer,Bowed all together to the holy west,Bowed all together thro' the golden hush,The breathing hush, the solemn scented hush,The holy, holy hush of eventide.And, in among the ferns that crowned the hillWith waving green and whispers of the wind,A boy and girl, carelessly linking hands,Into their golden dream drifted away.On that rich afternoon of scent and songOld Michael Oaktree died. It was not muchHe wished for; but indeed I think he longedTo see the light of summer once againBlossoming o'er the far blue hills. I knowHe used to like his rough-hewn wooden benchPlaced in the sun outside the cottage doorWhere in the listening stillness he could hear,Across the waving gilly-flowers that crownedHis crumbling garden wall, the long low sighOf supreme peace that whispers to the hillsThe sacred consolation of the sea.He did not hope for much: he longed to liveUntil the winter came again, he said;But on the last sweet eve of May he died.I wandered sadly through the dreaming lanesDown to the cottage on that afternoon;For I had known old Michael Oaktree nowSo many years, so many happy years.When I was little he had carried meHigh on his back to see the harvest home,And given me many a ride upon his wagonAmong the dusty scents of sun and hay.He showed me how to snare the bulky troutThat lurked under the bank of yonder brook.Indeed, he taught me many a country craft,For I was apt to learn, and, as I learnt,I loved the teacher of that homely lore.Deep in my boyish heart he shared the gladInfluence of the suns and winds and waves,Giving my childhood what it hungered for—The rude earth-wisdom of the primal man.He had retained his childhood: Death for himHad no more terror than his bed. He walkedWith wind and sunlight like a brother, gladOf their companionship and mutual aid.We, toilers after truth, are weaned too soonFrom earth's dark arms and naked barbarous breast.Too soon, too soon, we leave the golden feast,Fetter the dancing limbs and pluck the crownOf roses from the dreaming brow. We passOur lives in most laborious idleness.For we have lost the meaning of the world;We have gone out into the night too soon;We have mistaken all the means of graceAnd over-rated our small power to learn.And the years move so swiftly over us:We have so little time to live in worldsUnrealised and unknown realms of joy,We are so old before we learn how vainOur effort was, how fruitlessly we castOur Bread upon the waters, and how weakOur hearts were, but our chance desires how strong!Then, in the dark, our sense of light decays;We cannot cry to God as once we cried!Lost in the gloom, our faith, perhaps our love,Lies dead with years that never can return.But Michael Oaktree was a man whose loveHad never waned through all his eighty years.His faith was hardly faith. He seemed a partOf all that he believed in. He had livedIn constant conversation with the sun,The wind, the silence and the heart of peace;In absolute communion with the PowerThat rules all action and all tides of thought,And all the secret courses of the stars;The Power that still establishes on earthDesire and worship, through the radiant lawsOf Duty, Love and Beauty; for through theseAs through three portals of the self-same gateThe soul of man attains infinity,And enters into Godhead. So he gainedOn earth a fore-taste of Nirvana, notThe void of eastern dream, but the desireAnd goal of all of us, whether thro' livesInnumerable, by slow degrees, we nearThe death divine, or from this breaking bodyOf earthly death we flash at once to God.Through simple love and simple faith, this manAttained a height above the hope of kings.Yet, as I softly shut the little gateAnd walked across the garden, all the scentsOf mingling blossom ached like inmost painDeep in my heart, I know not why. They seemedDistinct, distinct as distant evening bellsTolling, over the sea, a secret chimeThat breaks and breaks and breaks upon the heartIn sorrow rather than in sound, a chimeStrange as a streak of sunset to the moon,Strange as a rose upon a starlit grave,Strange as a smile upon a dead man's lips;A chime of melancholy, mute as deathBut strong as love, uttered in plangent tonesOf honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers,Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves,Lilac and lilies to the rose-wreathed porch.At last I tapped and entered and was drawnInto the bedroom of the dying man,Who lay, propped up with pillows, quietlyGazing; for through his open casement farBeyond the whispers of the gilly-flowersHe saw the mellow light of eventideHallow the west once more; and, as he gazed,I think I never saw so great a peaceOn any human face. There was no soundExcept the slumbrous pulsing of a clock,The whisper of the garden and, far off,The sacred consolation of the sea.His wife sat at his bed-side: she had passedHer eightieth year; her only child was dead.She had been wedded more than sixty years,And she sat gazing with the man she lovedQuietly, out into that unknown Deep.A butterfly floated into the roomAnd back again, pausing awhile to baskAnd wink its painted fans on the warm sill;A bird piped in the roses and there cameInto the childless mother's ears a soundOf happy laughing children, far away.Then Michael Oaktree took his wife's thin handBetween his big rough hands. His eyes grew dark,And, as he turned to her and died, he spokeTwo words of perfect faith and love—Come soon!O then in all the world there was no soundExcept the slumbrous pulsing of a clock,The whisper of the leaves and far away,The infinite compassion of the sea.But, as I softly passed out of the porchAnd walked across the garden, all the scentsOf mingling blossoms ached like inmost joy,Distinct no more, but like one heavenly choirPealing one mystic music, still and strangeAs voices of the holy Seraphim,One voice of adoration, mute as love,Stronger than death, and pure with wedded tonesOf honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers,Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves,Lilac and lilies to the garden gate.O then indeed I knew how closely knitTo stars and flowers we are, how many meansOf grace there are for those that never loseTheir sense of membership in this divineBody of God; for those that all their daysHave walked in quiet communion with the LifeThat keeps the common secret of the sun,The wind, the silence and the heart of man.There is one God, one Love, one everlastingMystery of Incarnation, one creativePassion behind the many-coloured veil.We have obscured God's face with partial truths,The cause of all our sorrow and sin, our warsOf force and thought, in this unheavened world.Yet, by the battle of our partial truths,The past against the present and the swiftMoment of passing joy against the deepEternal love, ever the weaker truthFalls to the stronger, till once more we nearThe enfolding splendour of the whole. Our GodHas been too long a partial God. We are allMade in His image, men and birds and beasts,Mountains and clouds and cataracts and suns,With those great Beings above our little world,A height beyond for every depth below,Those long-forgotten Princedoms, Virtues, Powers,Existences that live and move in realmsAs far beyond our thought as Europe liesWith all its little arts and sciencesBeyond the comprehension of the worm.We are all partial images, we needWhat lies beyond us to complete our souls;Therefore our souls are filled with a desireAnd love which lead us towards the InfinityOf Godhead that awaits us each and all.Peacefully through the dreaming lanes I went.The sun sank, and the birds were hushed. The starsTrembled like blossoms in the purple trees.But, as I paused upon the whispering hillThe mellow light still lingered in the west,And dark and soft against that rosy depthA boy and girl stood knee-deep in the ferns.Dreams of the dead man's youth were in my heart,Yet I was very glad; and as the moonBrightened, they kissed; and, linking hand in hand,Down to their lamp-lit home drifted away.Under an arch of leaves, into the gloomI went along the little woodland road,And through the breathless hedge of hawthorn heardOut of the deepening night, the long low sighOf supreme peace that whispers to the hillsThe sacrament and sabbath of the sea.
UNDER an arch of glorious leaves I passed
Out of the wood and saw the sickle moon
Floating in daylight o'er the pale green sea.
It was the quiet hour before the sun
Gathers the clouds to prayer and silently
Utters his benediction on the waves
That whisper round the death-bed of the day.
The labourers were returning from the farms
And children danced to meet them. From the doors
Of cottages there came a pleasant clink
Where busy hands laid out the evening meal.
From smouldering elms around the village spire
There soared and sank the caw of gathering rooks.
The faint-flushed clouds were listening to the tale
The sea tells to the sunset with one sigh.
The last white wistful sea-bird sought for peace,
And the last fishing-boat stole o'er the bar,
And fragrant grasses, murmuring a prayer,
Bowed all together to the holy west,
Bowed all together thro' the golden hush,
The breathing hush, the solemn scented hush,
The holy, holy hush of eventide.
And, in among the ferns that crowned the hill
With waving green and whispers of the wind,
A boy and girl, carelessly linking hands,
Into their golden dream drifted away.
On that rich afternoon of scent and song
Old Michael Oaktree died. It was not much
He wished for; but indeed I think he longed
To see the light of summer once again
Blossoming o'er the far blue hills. I know
He used to like his rough-hewn wooden bench
Placed in the sun outside the cottage door
Where in the listening stillness he could hear,
Across the waving gilly-flowers that crowned
His crumbling garden wall, the long low sigh
Of supreme peace that whispers to the hills
The sacred consolation of the sea.
He did not hope for much: he longed to live
Until the winter came again, he said;
But on the last sweet eve of May he died.
I wandered sadly through the dreaming lanes
Down to the cottage on that afternoon;
For I had known old Michael Oaktree now
So many years, so many happy years.
When I was little he had carried me
High on his back to see the harvest home,
And given me many a ride upon his wagon
Among the dusty scents of sun and hay.
He showed me how to snare the bulky trout
That lurked under the bank of yonder brook.
Indeed, he taught me many a country craft,
For I was apt to learn, and, as I learnt,
I loved the teacher of that homely lore.
Deep in my boyish heart he shared the glad
Influence of the suns and winds and waves,
Giving my childhood what it hungered for—
The rude earth-wisdom of the primal man.
He had retained his childhood: Death for him
Had no more terror than his bed. He walked
With wind and sunlight like a brother, glad
Of their companionship and mutual aid.
We, toilers after truth, are weaned too soon
From earth's dark arms and naked barbarous breast.
Too soon, too soon, we leave the golden feast,
Fetter the dancing limbs and pluck the crown
Of roses from the dreaming brow. We pass
Our lives in most laborious idleness.
For we have lost the meaning of the world;
We have gone out into the night too soon;
We have mistaken all the means of grace
And over-rated our small power to learn.
And the years move so swiftly over us:
We have so little time to live in worlds
Unrealised and unknown realms of joy,
We are so old before we learn how vain
Our effort was, how fruitlessly we cast
Our Bread upon the waters, and how weak
Our hearts were, but our chance desires how strong!
Then, in the dark, our sense of light decays;
We cannot cry to God as once we cried!
Lost in the gloom, our faith, perhaps our love,
Lies dead with years that never can return.
But Michael Oaktree was a man whose love
Had never waned through all his eighty years.
His faith was hardly faith. He seemed a part
Of all that he believed in. He had lived
In constant conversation with the sun,
The wind, the silence and the heart of peace;
In absolute communion with the Power
That rules all action and all tides of thought,
And all the secret courses of the stars;
The Power that still establishes on earth
Desire and worship, through the radiant laws
Of Duty, Love and Beauty; for through these
As through three portals of the self-same gate
The soul of man attains infinity,
And enters into Godhead. So he gained
On earth a fore-taste of Nirvana, not
The void of eastern dream, but the desire
And goal of all of us, whether thro' lives
Innumerable, by slow degrees, we near
The death divine, or from this breaking body
Of earthly death we flash at once to God.
Through simple love and simple faith, this man
Attained a height above the hope of kings.
Yet, as I softly shut the little gate
And walked across the garden, all the scents
Of mingling blossom ached like inmost pain
Deep in my heart, I know not why. They seemed
Distinct, distinct as distant evening bells
Tolling, over the sea, a secret chime
That breaks and breaks and breaks upon the heart
In sorrow rather than in sound, a chime
Strange as a streak of sunset to the moon,
Strange as a rose upon a starlit grave,
Strange as a smile upon a dead man's lips;
A chime of melancholy, mute as death
But strong as love, uttered in plangent tones
Of honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers,
Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves,
Lilac and lilies to the rose-wreathed porch.
At last I tapped and entered and was drawn
Into the bedroom of the dying man,
Who lay, propped up with pillows, quietly
Gazing; for through his open casement far
Beyond the whispers of the gilly-flowers
He saw the mellow light of eventide
Hallow the west once more; and, as he gazed,
I think I never saw so great a peace
On any human face. There was no sound
Except the slumbrous pulsing of a clock,
The whisper of the garden and, far off,
The sacred consolation of the sea.
His wife sat at his bed-side: she had passed
Her eightieth year; her only child was dead.
She had been wedded more than sixty years,
And she sat gazing with the man she loved
Quietly, out into that unknown Deep.
A butterfly floated into the room
And back again, pausing awhile to bask
And wink its painted fans on the warm sill;
A bird piped in the roses and there came
Into the childless mother's ears a sound
Of happy laughing children, far away.
Then Michael Oaktree took his wife's thin hand
Between his big rough hands. His eyes grew dark,
And, as he turned to her and died, he spoke
Two words of perfect faith and love—Come soon!
O then in all the world there was no sound
Except the slumbrous pulsing of a clock,
The whisper of the leaves and far away,
The infinite compassion of the sea.
But, as I softly passed out of the porch
And walked across the garden, all the scents
Of mingling blossoms ached like inmost joy,
Distinct no more, but like one heavenly choir
Pealing one mystic music, still and strange
As voices of the holy Seraphim,
One voice of adoration, mute as love,
Stronger than death, and pure with wedded tones
Of honeysuckle, jasmine, gilly-flowers,
Jonquils and aromatic musky leaves,
Lilac and lilies to the garden gate.
O then indeed I knew how closely knit
To stars and flowers we are, how many means
Of grace there are for those that never lose
Their sense of membership in this divine
Body of God; for those that all their days
Have walked in quiet communion with the Life
That keeps the common secret of the sun,
The wind, the silence and the heart of man.
There is one God, one Love, one everlasting
Mystery of Incarnation, one creative
Passion behind the many-coloured veil.
We have obscured God's face with partial truths,
The cause of all our sorrow and sin, our wars
Of force and thought, in this unheavened world.
Yet, by the battle of our partial truths,
The past against the present and the swift
Moment of passing joy against the deep
Eternal love, ever the weaker truth
Falls to the stronger, till once more we near
The enfolding splendour of the whole. Our God
Has been too long a partial God. We are all
Made in His image, men and birds and beasts,
Mountains and clouds and cataracts and suns,
With those great Beings above our little world,
A height beyond for every depth below,
Those long-forgotten Princedoms, Virtues, Powers,
Existences that live and move in realms
As far beyond our thought as Europe lies
With all its little arts and sciences
Beyond the comprehension of the worm.
We are all partial images, we need
What lies beyond us to complete our souls;
Therefore our souls are filled with a desire
And love which lead us towards the Infinity
Of Godhead that awaits us each and all.
Peacefully through the dreaming lanes I went.
The sun sank, and the birds were hushed. The stars
Trembled like blossoms in the purple trees.
But, as I paused upon the whispering hill
The mellow light still lingered in the west,
And dark and soft against that rosy depth
A boy and girl stood knee-deep in the ferns.
Dreams of the dead man's youth were in my heart,
Yet I was very glad; and as the moon
Brightened, they kissed; and, linking hand in hand,
Down to their lamp-lit home drifted away.
Under an arch of leaves, into the gloom
I went along the little woodland road,
And through the breathless hedge of hawthorn heard
Out of the deepening night, the long low sigh
Of supreme peace that whispers to the hills
The sacrament and sabbath of the sea.
LAST night I rode with Touchstone on a busFrom Ludgate Hill to World's End. It was he!Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat,I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly,The whetstone of his age, the scourge of kings,The madcap morning star of elfin-land,Who used to wrap his legs around his neckFor warmth on winter nights. He had slipped back,To see what men were doing in a worldThat should be wiser. He had watched a play,Read several books, heard men discourse of artAnd life; and he sat bubbling like a springIn Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may,Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride.Lord, what a world! Lord, what a mad, mad world!Then, to the jolt and jingle of the engine,He burst into this bunch of madcap rhymes:—
LAST night I rode with Touchstone on a bus
From Ludgate Hill to World's End. It was he!
Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat,
I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly,
The whetstone of his age, the scourge of kings,
The madcap morning star of elfin-land,
Who used to wrap his legs around his neck
For warmth on winter nights. He had slipped back,
To see what men were doing in a world
That should be wiser. He had watched a play,
Read several books, heard men discourse of art
And life; and he sat bubbling like a spring
In Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may,
Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride.
Lord, what a world! Lord, what a mad, mad world!
Then, to the jolt and jingle of the engine,
He burst into this bunch of madcap rhymes:—
"IWANT to be new," said the duckling."O, ho!" said the wise old owl,While the guinea-hen cluttered off chucklingTo tell all the rest of the fowl."I should like a more elegant figure,"That child of a duck went on."I should like to grow bigger and bigger,Until I could swallow a swan."Iwon'tbe the bond slave of habit,Iwon'thave these webs on my toes.I want to run round like a rabbit,A rabbit as red as a rose."Idon'twant to waddle like mother,Or quack like my silly old dad.I want to be utterly other,Andfrightfullymodern and mad.""Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking!There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye;And, if you're not utterly lacking,You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!""I won't," said the duckling. "I'll lift himA beautiful song, like a sheep;And when I have—as it were—biffed him,I'll give him my feathers to keep."Now the curious end of this fable,So far as the rest ascertained,Though they searched from the barn to the stable,Was thatonly his feathers remained.So hewasn'tthe bond slave of habit,And hedidn'thave webs on his toes;Andperhapshe runs round like a rabbit,A rabbit as red as a rose.
"IWANT to be new," said the duckling.
"O, ho!" said the wise old owl,
While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling
To tell all the rest of the fowl.
"I should like a more elegant figure,"
That child of a duck went on.
"I should like to grow bigger and bigger,
Until I could swallow a swan.
"Iwon'tbe the bond slave of habit,
Iwon'thave these webs on my toes.
I want to run round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.
"Idon'twant to waddle like mother,
Or quack like my silly old dad.
I want to be utterly other,
Andfrightfullymodern and mad."
"Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking!
There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye;
And, if you're not utterly lacking,
You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!"
"I won't," said the duckling. "I'll lift him
A beautiful song, like a sheep;
And when I have—as it were—biffed him,
I'll give him my feathers to keep."
Now the curious end of this fable,
So far as the rest ascertained,
Though they searched from the barn to the stable,
Was thatonly his feathers remained.
So hewasn'tthe bond slave of habit,
And hedidn'thave webs on his toes;
Andperhapshe runs round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.
THE man who discovered the use of a chair,Odds—bobs—What a wonderful man!He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair,Till he thought of a highly original plan.For years he had sat on his chair, like you,Quite—still!But his looks were grimFor he wished to be famous (as great men do)And nobody ever would listen to him.Now he went one night to a dinner of stateHear! hear!In the proud Guildhall!And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate;But nobody heard his opinions at all;There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech(Grouse! Grouse!What a dreary bird!)With five fair minutes allotted to each,But never a moment forhimto be heard.But, each being ready to talk, I suppose,Order! Order!They cried,for the Chair!And, much to their wonder, our friend aroseAnd fastened his eye on the eye of the Mayor."We have come," he said, "to the fourteenth course!"High—time,for the Chair," he said.Then, with both of his hands, and with all of his force,He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor's head.It missed that head by the width of a hair.Gee—whizz!What a horrible squeak!But it crashed through the big bay-window thereAnd smashed a bus into Wednesday week.And the very next day, in the decorous Times(Great—Guns—How the headlines ran!)In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes,There were five full columns about that man.
THE man who discovered the use of a chair,
Odds—bobs—
What a wonderful man!
He used to sit down on it, tearing his hair,
Till he thought of a highly original plan.
For years he had sat on his chair, like you,
Quite—still!
But his looks were grim
For he wished to be famous (as great men do)
And nobody ever would listen to him.
Now he went one night to a dinner of state
Hear! hear!
In the proud Guildhall!
And he sat on his chair, and he ate from a plate;
But nobody heard his opinions at all;
There were ten fat aldermen down for a speech
(Grouse! Grouse!
What a dreary bird!)
With five fair minutes allotted to each,
But never a moment forhimto be heard.
But, each being ready to talk, I suppose,
Order! Order!
They cried,for the Chair!
And, much to their wonder, our friend arose
And fastened his eye on the eye of the Mayor.
"We have come," he said, "to the fourteenth course!
"High—time,
for the Chair," he said.
Then, with both of his hands, and with all of his force,
He hurled his chair at the Lord Mayor's head.
It missed that head by the width of a hair.
Gee—whizz!
What a horrible squeak!
But it crashed through the big bay-window there
And smashed a bus into Wednesday week.
And the very next day, in the decorous Times
(Great—Guns—
How the headlines ran!)
In spite of the kings and the wars and the crimes,
There were five full columns about that man.
Oh, if you get dizzy when authors write(My stars!And you very well may!)That white is black and that black is white,You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:It is easy enough to be famous now,(Puff—Puff!How the trumpets blare!)Provided, of course, that you don't care how,Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.
Oh, if you get dizzy when authors write
(My stars!
And you very well may!)
That white is black and that black is white,
You should sit, quite still, in your chair and say:
It is easy enough to be famous now,
(Puff—Puff!
How the trumpets blare!)
Provided, of course, that you don't care how,
Like the man who discovered the use of a chair.
SHUN the brush and shun the pen,Shun the ways of clever men,When they prove that black is white,Whey they swear that wrong is right,When they roast the singing starsLike chestnuts, in between the bars,Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.When you see a clever manRun as quickly as you can.You must never, never, neverThink that Socrates was clever.The cleverest thing I ever knewNow cracks walnuts at the Zoo.Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.Homer could not scintillate.Milton, too, was merely great.That's a very different matterFrom talking like a frantic hatter.Keats and Shelley had no tricks.Wordsworth never climbed up sticks.Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.Lincoln would create a gloomIn many a London drawing-room;He'd be silent at their wit,He would never laugh at it.When they kissed Salome's toes,I think he'd snort and blow his nose.Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.They'd curse him for a silly clown,They'd drum him out of London town.Professor Flunkey, the historian,Would say he was a dull Victorian.Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John,Bless the bed I rest upon.Children, let a wandering foolStuff your ears with cotton-wool.Amen.
SHUN the brush and shun the pen,
Shun the ways of clever men,
When they prove that black is white,
Whey they swear that wrong is right,
When they roast the singing stars
Like chestnuts, in between the bars,
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.
When you see a clever man
Run as quickly as you can.
You must never, never, never
Think that Socrates was clever.
The cleverest thing I ever knew
Now cracks walnuts at the Zoo.
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.
Homer could not scintillate.
Milton, too, was merely great.
That's a very different matter
From talking like a frantic hatter.
Keats and Shelley had no tricks.
Wordsworth never climbed up sticks.
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.
Lincoln would create a gloom
In many a London drawing-room;
He'd be silent at their wit,
He would never laugh at it.
When they kissed Salome's toes,
I think he'd snort and blow his nose.
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.
They'd curse him for a silly clown,
They'd drum him out of London town.
Professor Flunkey, the historian,
Would say he was a dull Victorian.
Matthew, Mark, and Luke and John,
Bless the bed I rest upon.
Children, let a wandering fool
Stuff your ears with cotton-wool.
Amen.
FASHION on fashion on fashion,(With only the truth growing old!)And here's the new purple of passion,(And love waiting out in the cold)Who'll buy?They are crying new lamps for Aladdin,New worlds for the old and the true;And no one remembers the storyThe magic was not in the new.They are crying a new rose for Eden,A rose of green glass. I supposeThe only thing wrong with their rose isThe fact that it isn't a rose.Who'll buy?And here is a song without metre;And, here again, nothing is wrong;(For nothing on earth could be neater)Except that—it isn't a song.Well. Walk on your hands. It's the latest!And feet are Victorian now;And even our best and our greatestBefore that dread epithet bow.Who'll buy?The furniture goes for a song, now.The sixties had horrible taste.But the trouble is this—they've includedSome better things, too, in their haste.Were they wrapped in the antimacassars,Or sunk in a sofa of plush?Did an Angelican bishop forget them,And leave them behind in the crush?Who'll buy?Here's a turnex. It's going quite cheaply.(It lived with stuffed birds in the hall!And, of course, to a mind that thinks deeplyThat settles it, once and for all.)Here'sitem, a ring (very plain, sirs!),Anditem, a God (but He's dead!);They say we shall need Him again, sirs,So—item, a cross for His head.Who'll buy?Yes, you'll need it again, though He's dead, sirs.It is only the fashions that fly.So here are the thorns for His head, sirs.They'll keep till you need 'em. Who'll buy?
FASHION on fashion on fashion,
(With only the truth growing old!)
And here's the new purple of passion,
(And love waiting out in the cold)
Who'll buy?
They are crying new lamps for Aladdin,
New worlds for the old and the true;
And no one remembers the story
The magic was not in the new.
They are crying a new rose for Eden,
A rose of green glass. I suppose
The only thing wrong with their rose is
The fact that it isn't a rose.
Who'll buy?
And here is a song without metre;
And, here again, nothing is wrong;
(For nothing on earth could be neater)
Except that—it isn't a song.
Well. Walk on your hands. It's the latest!
And feet are Victorian now;
And even our best and our greatest
Before that dread epithet bow.
Who'll buy?
The furniture goes for a song, now.
The sixties had horrible taste.
But the trouble is this—they've included
Some better things, too, in their haste.
Were they wrapped in the antimacassars,
Or sunk in a sofa of plush?
Did an Angelican bishop forget them,
And leave them behind in the crush?
Who'll buy?
Here's a turnex. It's going quite cheaply.
(It lived with stuffed birds in the hall!
And, of course, to a mind that thinks deeply
That settles it, once and for all.)
Here'sitem, a ring (very plain, sirs!),
Anditem, a God (but He's dead!);
They say we shall need Him again, sirs,
So—item, a cross for His head.
Who'll buy?
Yes, you'll need it again, though He's dead, sirs.
It is only the fashions that fly.
So here are the thorns for His head, sirs.
They'll keep till you need 'em. Who'll buy?
WHY do we make our music?Oh, blind dark strings reply:Because we dwell in a strange landAnd remember a lost sky.We ask no leaf of the laurel,We know what fame is worth;But our songs break out of our winterAs the flowers break out on the earth.And we dream of the unknown comrade,In the days when we lie dead,Who shall open our book in the sunlight,And read, as ourselves have read,On a lonely hill, by a firwood,With whispering seas below,And murmur a song we made himAges and ages ago.If making his may-time sweeterWith dews of our own dead may,One pulse of our own dead heart-stringsAwake in his heart that day,We would pray for no richer guerdon,No praise from the careless throng;For song is the cry of a loverIn quest of an answering song.As a child might run to his eldersWith news of an opening flowerWe should walk with our young companionAnd talk to his heart for an hour,As once by my own green firwood,And once by a Western sea,Thank God, my own good comradesHave walked and talked with me.Too mighty to make men sorrow,Too weak to heal their pain(Though they that remember the hawthornMay find their heaven again),We are moved by a deeper hunger;We are bound by a stronger cord;For love is the heart of our music,And love is its one reward.
WHY do we make our music?
Oh, blind dark strings reply:
Because we dwell in a strange land
And remember a lost sky.
We ask no leaf of the laurel,
We know what fame is worth;
But our songs break out of our winter
As the flowers break out on the earth.
And we dream of the unknown comrade,
In the days when we lie dead,
Who shall open our book in the sunlight,
And read, as ourselves have read,
On a lonely hill, by a firwood,
With whispering seas below,
And murmur a song we made him
Ages and ages ago.
If making his may-time sweeter
With dews of our own dead may,
One pulse of our own dead heart-strings
Awake in his heart that day,
We would pray for no richer guerdon,
No praise from the careless throng;
For song is the cry of a lover
In quest of an answering song.
As a child might run to his elders
With news of an opening flower
We should walk with our young companion
And talk to his heart for an hour,
As once by my own green firwood,
And once by a Western sea,
Thank God, my own good comrades
Have walked and talked with me.
Too mighty to make men sorrow,
Too weak to heal their pain
(Though they that remember the hawthorn
May find their heaven again),
We are moved by a deeper hunger;
We are bound by a stronger cord;
For love is the heart of our music,
And love is its one reward.