Chapter II: "here and There."

IN THE PIT. "CHANT OF THE FIREMEN."

"This is the steamer's pit.
The ovens like dragons of fire
Glare thro' their close-lidded eyes
With restless hungry desire.

"Down from the tropic night
Rushes the funnelled air;
Our heads expand and fall in;
Our hearts thump huge as despair.

"'Tis we make the bright hot blood
Of this throbbing inanimate thing;
And our life is no less the fuel
Than the coal we shovel and fling.

"And lest of this we be proud
Or anything but meek,
We are well cursed and paid--
Ten shillings a week!"

_Round_, _round_, _round in its tunnel_
_The shaft turns pitiless strong_,
_While lost souls cry out in the darkness_:
"_How long_, _O Lord_, _how long_?"

A MAHOMMADAN SHIP FIREMAN.

Up from the oven pit,
The hell where poor men toil,
At the sunset hour he comes
Clean-clothed, washed from soil.

On the fo'c's'le head he kneels,
His face to the hallowed West.
He prays, and bows and prays.
Does he pray for death and rest?

TO INDIA.

O India, India, O my lovely land--
At whose sweet throat the greedy English snake,
With fangs and lips that suck and never slake,
Clings, while around thee, band by stifling band,
The loathsome shape twists, chaining foot and hand--
O from this death-swoon must thou never wake,
From limbs enfranchised these foul fetters to shake,
And, proud among the nations, to rise and stand?
Nay, but thine eyes, thine eyes wherein there stays
The patience of that august faith that scorns
The tinsel creed of Christ, dream still and gaze
Where, not within the timeless East and haze,
The haunt of that wan moon with fading horns,
There breaks the first of Himalayan morns!

TO ENGLAND.

I.

There was a time when all thy sons were proud
To speak thy name,
England, when Europe echoed back aloud
Thy fearless fame:

When Spain reeled shattered helpless from thy guns
And splendid ire,
When from Canadian snows to Indian suns
Pitt's soul was fire.

O that in days like these were, fair and free
From shame and scorn,
Fate had allowed, benignly, pityingly
That I was born!

O that, if struck, then struck with glorious wounds,
I bore apart
(Not torn with fangs of leprous coward hounds)
My bleeding heart!

II.

We hate you--not because of cruel deeds
Staining a glorious effort. They who live
Learn in this earth to give and to forgive,
Where heart and soul are noble and fate's needs
Imperious: No, nor yet that cruel seeds
Of power and wrong you've sown alternative,
We hate you, we your sons who yet believe
That truth and justice are not empty creeds!
No, but because of greed and golden pay,
Wages of sin and death: because you smother
Your conscience, making cursed all the day.
Bible in one hand, bludgeon in the other,
Cain-like you come upon and slay your brother,
And, kneeling down, thank God for it, and pray!

III.

I whom you fed with shame and starved with woe,
I wheel above you,
Your fatal vulture, for I hate you so,
I almost love you!

I smell your ruin out. I light and croak
My sombre lore,
As swaggering you go by, O heart of oak
Rotten to the core!

Look westward! Ireland's vengeful eyes are cast
On freedom won.
Look eastward! India stirs from sleep at last.
You are undone!

Look southward, where Australia hears your voice,
And turns away!
O brutal hypocrite, she makes her choice
With the rising day!

Foul Esau, you who sold your high birthright
For gilded mud,
Who did the wrong and, priestlike, called it right,
And swindled God!

_The hour is gone of insult_, _pain and patience_;
_The hour is come_
_When they arise_, _the faithful mightier nations_,
_To drag you down_!

IV.

England, the land I loved
With passionate pride,
For hate of whom I live
Who for love had died,

Can I, while shines the sun,
That hour regain
When I again may come to thee
And love again?

No, not while that flag
Of greed and lust
Flaunts in the air, untaught
To drag the dust!--

Never, till expiant,
I see you kneel,
And, brandished, gleams aloft
The foeman's steel!

Ah, then to speed, and laugh,
As my heart caught the knife:
"_Mother_, _I love you_! _Here_,
_Here is my life_!"

HONG-KONG LYRICS.

I.

At anchor in that harbour of the island,
The Chinese gate,
We lay where, terraced under green-clad highland,
The sea-town sate.

Ships, steamers, sailors, many a flag and nation,
A motley crew,
Junks, sampans, all East's swarming jubilation,
I watched and knew.

Then, as I stood, sweet sudden sounds out-swelling
On the boon breeze,
The church-bells' chiming echoes rang out, telling
Of inland peace.

O English chimes, your music rising and falling
I cannot praise,
Although to me it come sweet-sad recalling
Dear childish days.

Yet, English chimes,--last links of chains that sever,
Worn out and done,
That land and creed that I have left for ever,--
Ring on, ring on!

II.

There is much in this sea-way city
I have not met with before,
But one or two things I notice
That I seem to have known of yore.

In the lovely tropical verdure,
In the streets, behold I can
The hideous English buildings
And the brutal English man!

III.

I stand and watch the soldiers
Marching up and down,
Above the fresh green cricket-ground
Just outside the town.

I stand and watch and wonder
When in the English land
This poor fool Tommy Atkins
Will learn and understand?

Zulus, and Boers, and Arabs,
All fighting to be free,
Men and women and children,
Murdered and maimed has he.

In India and in Ireland
He's held the People down,
While the robber English gentleman
Took pound and penny and crown.

To make him false to his order,
What was it that they gave--
To make him his brother's oppressor?
The clothes and pay of a slave!

O thou poor fool, Tommy Atkins,
Thou wilt be wise that day
When, with eager eyes and clenched teeth,
Thou risest up to say:

"_This is our well-loved England_,
_And I'll free it_, _if I can_,
_From every rotten bourgeois_
_And played-out gentleman_!"

IV. "HAPPY VALLEY." {66}

There is a valley green that lies
'Mid hills, the summer's bower.
The many coloured butterflies
Flutter from flower to flower.

And round one lush green side of it,
In gardened homes are laid,
With grief and care compassionate,
The people of the dead.

There all the voicing summer day
They sing, the happy rills.
No noisy sound awakes away
The echo of the hills.

A GLIMPSE OF CHINA.

I. IN A SAMPAN. (_Min River_, _Fo Kien_.)

Up in the misty morning,
Up past the gardened hills,
With the rhythmic stroke of the rowers,
While the blue deep pales and thrills!

Past the rice-fields green low-lying,
Where the sea-gull's winging down
From the fleets of junks and sampans
And the ancient Chinese Town!