Chapter C: H. Bretherton

Feb. 19, 1919.

"_Dulce Domum_"

By the Roman Road

The wind it sang in the pine-tops, it sang like a humming harp;
The smell of the sun on the bracken was wonderful sweet and sharp,
As sharp as the piney needles, as sweet as the gods were good,
For the wind it sung of the old gods, as I came through the wood!
It sung how long ago the Romans made a road,
And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode.

It sang of the wayside altars (the pine-tops sighed like the surf),
Of little shrines uplifted, of stone and scented turf,
Of youths divine and immortal, of maids as white as the snow
That glimmered among the thickets a mort of years ago!
All in the cool of dawn, all in the twilight grey,
The gods came up from Italy along the Roman way!

The altar smoke it has drifted and faded afar on the hill;
No wood-nymphs haunt the hollows; the reedy pipes are still;
No more the youth Apollo shall walk in his sunshine clear;
No more the maid Diana shall follow the fallow-deer
(The woodmen grew so wise, the woodmen grew so old,
The gods went back to Italy--or so the story's told!)

But the woods are full of voices and of shy and secret things--
The badger down by the brook-side, the flick of a woodcock's wings,
The plump of a falling fir-cone, the pop of the sun-ripe pods,
And the wind that sings in the pine-tops the song of the ancient gods--
The song of the wind that says the Romans made a road,
And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode!

P. R. CHALMERS.
July 31, 1912.

Little Cow Hay

Stephen Culpepper
Of Little Cow Hay
Farmed four hundred acres--
As Audit-book say;
An' he rode on a flea-bitten
Fiddle-faced grey;

There's the house--in the hollow,
With gable an' eave,
But they've altered it so
That you wouldn't believe;--
Wouldn't know the old place
If he saw it--old Steve;

His dads an' his gran'dads
Had lived there before;--
Born, married an' died there--
At least half a score;
Big men the Culpeppers--
As high as the door!

His wife was a Makepeace--
An' none likelier,
For she'd five hundred pounds
When he married o' her;
An' a grey eye as kindly
As grey lavender;

He'd sweetest o' roses,
He'd soundest o' wheat;
Six sons--an' a daughter
To make 'em complete,
An' he always said Grace
When they sat down to meat!

He'd the Blessin' o' Heaven
On barnyard an' byre,
For he made the best prices
Of all in the shire;
An' he always shook hands
With the Parson an' Squire!

An' whether his markets
Had downs or had ups,
He walked 'em three couple
O' blue-mottle pups--
As clumsy as ducklings--
As crazy as tups!

But that must be nigh
Sixty seasons away,
When things was all diff'rent
D'ye see--an' to-day
There ain't no Culpeppers
At Little Cow Hay!

P. R. CHALMERS.
Oct. 8, 1913.

On Simon's Stack

Hill shepherds, hard north-country men,
Bring down the baa'ing blackface droves
To market or to shearing-pen
From the high places and the groves--
High places of the fox and gled,
Groves of the stone-pine on the scree,
Lone sanctuaries where we have said,
"The gods have been; the gods may be!"

'Mid conifer and fern and whin
I sat; the turf was warm and dry;
A sailing speck, the peregrine
Wheeled in the waste of azure sky;
The blue-grey clouds of pinewoods clung,
Their vanguard climbed the heathery steep;
A terrier with lolling tongue
Blinked in my shadow, half asleep.

The Legion's Way shone far beneath;
A javelin white as Adria's foam,
It gleamed across dark leagues of heath
To Rome, to everlasting Rome;
Likewise from Rome to Simon's Stack
(That's logical, at least), and so
It may have brought a Huntress back
On trails She followed long ago!

I watched my drifting smoke-wreaths rise,
And pictured Pagans plumed and tense
Who climbed the hill to sacrifice
To great Diana's excellence;
And--"Just the sort of church for me,"
I said, and heard a fir-cone fall;
The puppy bristled at my knee--
And that was absolutely all.

A queer thing is a clump of fir;
But, if it's old and on a hill,
Free to that ancient trafficker,
The wind, it's ten times queerer still;
Sometimes it's filled with bag-pipe skirls,
Anon with heathen whispering;
Just then it seemed alive with girls
Who laughed, and let a bowstring sing!

Yes, funny things your firwoods do:
They fill with elemental sounds;
Hence, one has fancied feet that flew
And the high whimpering of hounds;
A wind from down the corrie's cup--
"Only the wind," said I to Tramp;
He heard--stern down and hackles up,
I--with a forehead strangely damp.

* * * *

Wind? or the Woodland Chastity
Passing, as once, upon Her way,
That left a little dog and me
Confounded in the light of day?
A rabbit hopped across the track;
The pup pursued with shrill ki-yi;
I asked him which, when he came back;
He couldn't tell--no more can I.

P. R. CHALMERS.
Sept. 24, 1913.

For Dartymoor

Now I be man ov Dartymoor,
Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor;
I come vrom wur there hain't no war,
An' Tavy be a-voaming;
I'd pigs an' sheep _an'_ lass--Aw my!
The beyootifullest maid 'er be!
An' one vine day 'er comes to I,
An' zays--"My Jan," 'er zays,--"lukee!
To France yu must be roaming!
Vur Devon needs her sons again;
Her du be rousing moor an' fen;
An' yu must fight wi' Devon men
Vur Dartymoor, your Dartymoor!"

I zays, zays I, "Leave Dartymoor?
Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor?
Dear life," I zays, "_whatever vor,_
While Tavy be a-voaming?
While pigs be pigs, an' 'earts be true;
An' market prices purty vair;
Why should 'un go an' _parley-voo_?"
'Er zays, "'Cuz yu be waanted there!
Thet's why yu must be roaming!
Vur Devon needs her sons again;
Her du be rousing moor an' fen;
An' yu must fight wi' Devon men
Vur Dartymoor; my Dartymoor!

"Ef yu woan't fight vur Dartymoor,
Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor,
Things shall be as they wur avore
Us courted in the gloaming!"
'Er zays an' left me arl alone,
A-thinking over what 'er zaid,
Till arl was plain as Dewar Stone--
I zays to Dad, "Mind pigs is fed,
While I be gone a-roaming!
Vur Devon needs her sons again;
Her du be rousing moor an' fen;
An' I must fight wi' Devon men
Vur Dartymoor, our Dartymoor!"

DUDLEY CLARK.
May 5, 1915.

The Golden Valley

[Herefordshire.]

Abbeydore, Abbeydore,
Land of apples and of gold,
Where the lavish field-gods pour
Song and cider manifold;
Gilded land of wheat and rye,
Land where laden branches cry,
"Apples for the young and old
Ripe at Abbeydore!"

Abbeydore, Abbeydore,
Where the shallow river spins
Elfin spells for evermore,
Where the mellow kilderkins
Hoard the winking apple-juice
For the laughing reapers' use;
All the joy of life begins
There at Abbeydore.

Abbeydore, Abbeydore,
In whose lap of wonder teems
Largess from a wizard store,
World of idle, crooning streams--
From a stricken land of pain
May I win to you again,
Garden of the God of Dreams,
Golden Abbeydore.

PERCY HAZELDEN.
Feb. 9, 1916.

Devon Men

From Bideford to Appledore the meadows lie aglow
With kingcup and buttercup that flout the summer snow;
And crooked-back and silver-head shall mow the grass to-day,
And lasses turn and toss it till it ripen into hay;
For gone are all the careless youth did reap the land of yore,
The lithe men and long men,
The brown men and strong men,
The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore they swept the sea of old
With cross-bow and falconet to tap the Spaniard's gold;
They sped away with dauntless DRAKE to traffic on the Main,
To trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train;
For fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweeping oar,
The strong men, the free men,
The bold men, the seamen,
The men that sailed from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle grey
Are strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day;
So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloom
And Summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom;
For ready are the tawny hands that guard the Devon shore,
The cool men, the bluff men,
The keen men, the tough men,
The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore!

PERCY HAZELDEN.
July 7, 1915.

Southampton

The sky is grey and the clouds are weeping;
Winter wails in the wind again;
Night with her eyes bedimmed comes creeping;
The sea is hidden in dusk and rain.

This is the gate of the path that leads us
Whither our duty the goal has set;
This is the way Old England speeds us--
Darkness, dreariness, wind and wet!

This is the gate where battle sends us,
Gaunt and broken, in pain and pride;
This is the welcome Home extends us--
Weeping rain on the cold grey tide.

Would we have balmy sunshine glowing
Over the blue from the blue above?
Rather the rain and the night wind blowing,
Rather the way of the land we love!

W. K. HOLMES.
Dec. 22, 1915.

Cottage Garden Prayer

Little garden gods,
You of good bestowing,
You of kindly showing
Mid the potting and the pods,
Watchers of geranium beds,
Pinks and stocks and suchlike orders,
Rose, and sleepy poppy-heads,--
Bless us in our borders,
Little garden gods!

Little garden gods,
Bless the time of sowing,
Watering and growing;
Lastly, when our sunflower nods,
And our rambler's red array
Waits the honey-bee her labours,
Bless our garden that it may
Beat our next-door neighbour's,
Little garden gods!

P. R. CHALMERS.
May 8, 1912.

The Devil in Devon

The Devil walked about the land
And softly laughed behind his hand
To see how well men worked his will
And helped his darling projects still,
The while contentedly they said:
"There is no Devil; he is dead."

But when by chance one day in Spring
Through Devon he went wandering
And for an idle moment stood
Upon the edge of Daccombe wood,
Where bluebells almost hid the green,
With the last primroses between,
He bit his lip and turned away
And could do no more work that day.

MISS ROSE FYLEMAN.
May 26, 1920.

Dulce Domum

The air is full of rain and sleet,
A dingy fog obscures the street;
I watch the pane and wonder will
The sun be shining on Boar's Hill,
Rekindling on his western course
The dying splendour of the gorse
And kissing hands in joyous mood
To primroses in Bagley Wood.
I wish that when old Phœbus drops
Behind yon hedgehog-haunted copse
And high and bright the Northern Crown
Is standing over White Horse Down
I could be sitting by the fire
In that my Land of Heart's Desire--
A fire of fir-cones and a log
And at my feet a fubsy dog
In Robinwood! In Robinwood!
I think the angels, if they could,
Would trade their harps for railway tickets
Or hang their crowns upon the thickets
And walk the highways of the world
Through eves of gold and dawns empearled,
Could they be sure the road led on
Twixt Oxford spires and Abingdon
To where above twin valleys stands
Boar's Hill, the best of promised lands;
That at the journey's end there stood
A heaven on earth like Robinwood.

Heigho! The sleet still whips the pane
And I must turn to work again
Where the brown stout of Erin hums
Through Dublin's aromatic slums
And Sinn Fein youths with shifty faces
Hold "Parliaments" in public places
And, heaping curse on mountainous curse
In unintelligible Erse,
Harass with threats of war and arson
Base Briton and still baser CARSON.
But some day when the powers that be
Demobilise the likes of me
(Some seven years hence, as I infer,
My actual exit will occur)
Swift o'er the Irish Sea I'll fly,
Yea, though each wave be mountains high,
Nor pause till I descend to grab
Oxford's surviving taxicab.
Then "Home!" (Ah, HOME! my heart be still!)
I'll say, and, when we reach Boar's Hill,
I'll fill my lungs with heaven's own air
And pay the cabman twice his fare,
Then, looking far and looking nigh,
Bare-headed and with hand on high,
"Hear ye," I'll cry, "the vow I make,
Familiar sprites of byre and brake,
_J'y suis, j'y reste_. Let Bolshevicks
Sweep from the Volga to the Styx;
Let internecine carnage vex
The gathering hosts of Poles and Czechs,
And Jugo-Slavs and Tyrolese
Impair the swart Italian's ease--
Me for Boar's Hill! These war-worn ears
Are deaf to cries for volunteers;
No Samuel Browne or British warm
Shall drape this svelte Apolline form
Till over Cumnor's outraged top
The actual shells begin to drop;
Till below Youlberry's stately pines
Echo the whiskered Bolshy's lines
And General TROTSKY'S baggage blocks
The snug bar-parlour of 'The Fox.'"