Chapter I: Sonnets (2)

Don different from those regal Dons!
With hearts of gold and lungs of bronze,
Who shout and bang and roar and bawl
The Absolute across the hall,
Or sail in amply bellowing gown
Enormous through the Sacred Town,
Bearing from College to their homes
Deep cargoes of gigantic tomes;
Dons admirable! Dons of Might!
Uprising on my inward sight
Compact of ancient tales, and port
And sleep--and learning of a sort.
Dons English, worthy of the land;
Dons rooted; Dons that understand.
Good Dons perpetual that remain
A landmark, walling in the plain--
The horizon of my memories--
Like large and comfortable trees.

* * * * *

Don very much apart from these,
Thou scapegoat Don, thou Don devoted,
Don to thine own damnation quoted,
Perplexed to find thy trivial name
Reared in my verse to lasting shame.
Don dreadful, rasping Don and wearing,
Repulsive Don--Don past all bearing.
Don of the cold and doubtful breath,
Don despicable, Don of death;
Don nasty, skimpy, silent, level;
Don evil; Don that serves the devil.
Don ugly--that makes fifty lines.
There is a Canon which confines
A Rhymed Octosyllabic Curse
If written in Iambic Verse
To fifty lines. I never cut;
I far prefer to end it--but
Believe me I shall soon return.
My fires are banked, but still they burn
To write some more about the Don
That dared attack my Chesterton.

NEWDIGATE POEM

A PRIZE POEM SUBMITTED BY MR LAMBKIN, THEN SCHOLAR AND LATER FELLOW
OF BURFORD COLLEGE, TO THE EXAMINERS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD ON
THE PRESCRIBED POETIC THEME SET BY THEM IN 1893, “THE BENEFITS OF
THE ELECTRIC LIGHT”

Hail, Happy Muse, and touch the tuneful string!
The benefits conferred by Science[E] I sing.
Under the kind Examiners’ direction[F]
I only write about them in connection
With benefits which the Electric Light
Confers on us; especially at night.
These are my theme, of these my song shall rise.
My lofty head shall swell to strike the skies.[G]
And tears of hopeless love bedew the maiden’s eyes.
Descend, O Muse, from thy divine abode,
To Osney, on the Seven Bridges Road;
For under Osney’s solitary shade
The bulk of the Electric Light is made.
Here are the works;--from hence the current flows
Which (so the Company’s prospectus goes)
Can furnish to Subscribers hour by hour
No less than sixteen thousand candle power,[H]
All at a thousand volts. (It is essential
To keep the current at this high potential
In spite of the considerable expense.)
The Energy developed represents,
Expressed in foot-tons, the united forces
Of fifteen elephants and forty horses.
But shall my scientific detail thus
Clip the dear wings of Buoyant Pegasus?
Shall pure statistics jar upon the ear
That pants for Lyric accents loud and clear?
Shall I describe the complex Dynamo
Or write about its Commutator? No!
To happier fields I lead my wanton pen,
The proper study of mankind is men.
Awake, my Muse! Portray the pleasing sight
That meets us where they make Electric Light.
Behold the Electrician where he stands:
Soot, oil, and verdigris are on his hands;
Large spots of grease defile his dirty clothes,
The while his conversation drips with oaths.
Shall such a being perish in its youth?
Alas! it is indeed the fatal truth.
In that dull brain, beneath that hair unkempt,
Familiarity has bred contempt.
We warn him of the gesture all too late:
Oh, Heartless Jove! Oh, Adamantine Fate!
A random touch--a hand’s imprudent slip--
The Terminals--a flash--a sound like “Zip!”
A smell of burning fills the started Air--
The Electrician is no longer there!
But let us turn with true Artistic scorn
From facts funereal and from views forlorn
Of Erebus and Blackest midnight born.[I]
Arouse thee, Muse! and chaunt in accents rich
The interesting processes by which
The Electricity is passed along:
These are my theme: to these I bend my song.
It runs encased in wood or porous brick
Through copper wires two millimetres thick,
And insulated on their dangerous mission
By indiarubber, silk, or composition.
Here you may put with critical felicity
The following question: “What is Electricity?”
“Molecular Activity,” say some,
Others when asked say nothing, and are dumb.
Whatever be its nature, this is clear:
The rapid current checked in its career,
Baulked in its race and halted in its course[J]
Transforms to heat and light its latent force:
It needs no pedant in the lecturer’s chair
To prove that light and heat are present there.
The pear-shaped vacuum globe, I understand,
Is far too hot to fondle with the hand.
While, as is patent to the meanest sight,
The carbon filament is very bright.
As for the lights they hang about the town,
Some praise them highly, others run them down.
This system (technically called the Arc),
Makes some passages too light, others too dark.
But in the house the soft and constant rays
Have always met with universal praise.
For instance: if you want to read in bed
No candle burns beside your curtain’s head,
Far from some distant corner of the room
The incandescent lamp dispels the gloom,
And with the largest print need hardly try
The powers of any young and vigorous eye.
Aroint thee, Muse! Inspired the poet sings!
I cannot help observing future things!
Life is a vale, its paths are dark and rough
Only because we do not know enough:
When Science has discovered something more
We shall be happier than we were before.
Hail, Britain, Mistress of the Azure Main,
Ten thousand Fleets sweep over thee in vain!
Hail, Mighty Mother of the Brave and Free,
That beat Napoleon, and gave birth to me!
Thou that canst wrap in thine emblazoned robe
One quarter of the habitable globe.
Thy mountains, wafted by a favouring breeze,
Like mighty rocks withstand the stormy seas.
Thou art a Christian Commonwealth; and yet
Be thou not all unthankful--nor forget
As thou exultest in Imperial Might
The Benefits of the Electric Light.

THE YELLOW MUSTARD

Oh! ye that prink it to and fro,
In pointed flounce and furbelow,
What have ye known, what can ye know
That have not seen the mustard grow?

The yellow mustard is no less
Than God’s good gift to loneliness;
And he was sent in gorgeous press
To jangle keys at my distress.

I heard the throstle call again,
Come hither, Pain! come hither, Pain!
Till all my shameless feet were fain
To wander through the summer rain.

And far apart from human place,
And flaming like a vast disgrace,
There struck me blinding in the face
The livery of the mustard race.

* * * * *

To see the yellow mustard grow
Beyond the town, above, below;
Beyond the purple houses, oh!
To see the yellow mustard grow!

THE POLITICIAN OR THE IRISH EARLDOM

A strong and striking Personality,
Worth several hundred thousand pounds--
Of strict political Morality--
Was walking in his park-like Grounds;
When, just as these began to pall on him
(I mean the Trees, and Things like that),
A Person who had come to call on him
Approached him, taking off his Hat.

He said, with singular veracity:
“I serve our Sea-girt Mother-Land
In no conspicuous capacity.
I am but an Attorney; and
I do a little elementary
Negotiation, now and then,
As Agent for a Parliamentary
Division of the Town of N....

“Merely as one of the Electorate--
A member of the Commonweal--
Before completing my Directorate,
I want to know the way you feel
On matters more or less debatable;
As--whether our Imperial Pride
Can treat as taxable or rateable
The Gardens of....” His host replied:

“The Ravages of Inebriety
(Alas! increasing day by day!)
Are undermining all Society.
I do not hesitate to say
My country squanders her abilities,
Observe how Montenegro treats
Her Educational Facilities....
... As to the African defeats,

“I bitterly deplored their frequency;
On Canada we are agreed,
The Laws protecting Public Decency
Are very, very lax indeed!
The Views of most of the Nobility
Are very much the same as mine,
On Thingumbob’s eligibility....
I trust that you remain to dine?”

His Lordship pressed with importunity,
As rarely he had pressed before.

* * * * *

It gave them both an opportunity
To know each other’s value more.

THE LOSER

He lost his money first of all
--And losing that is half the story--
And later on he tried a fall
With Fate, in things less transitory.

He lost his heart--and found it dead--
(His one and only true discovery),
And after that he lost his head,
And lost his chances of recovery.

He lost his honour bit by bit
Until the thing was out of question.
He worried so at losing it,
He lost his sleep and his digestion.

He lost his temper--and for good--
The remnants of his reputation,
His taste in wine, his choice of food,
And then, in rapid culmination,

His certitudes, his sense of truth,
His memory, his self-control,
The love that graced his early youth,
And lastly his immortal soul.

III

SONGS

NOËL

I

On a winter’s night long time ago
(_The bells ring loud and the bells ring low_),
When high howled wind, and down fell snow
(Carillon, Carilla).
Saint Joseph he and Nostre Dame,
Riding on an ass, full weary came
From Nazareth into Bethlehem.
And the small child Jesus smile on you.

II

And Bethlehem inn they stood before
(_The bells ring less and the bells ring more_),
The landlord bade them begone from his door
(Carillon, Carilla).
“Poor folk” (says he), “must lie where they may,
For the Duke of Jewry comes this way,
With all his train on a Christmas Day.”
And the small child Jesus smile on you.

III

Poor folk that may my carol hear
(_The bells ring single and the bells ring clear_),
See! God’s one child had hardest cheer!
(Carillon, Carilla).
Men grown hard on a Christmas morn;
The dumb beast by and a babe forlorn.
It was very, very cold when our Lord was born.
And the small child Jesus smile on you.

IV

Now these were Jews as Jews must be
(_The bells ring merry and the bells ring free_).
But Christian men in a band are we
(Carillon, Carilla).
Empty we go, and ill be-dight,
Singing Noël on a Winter’s night.
Give us to sup by the warm firelight,
And the small child Jesus smile on you.

THE BIRDS

When Jesus Christ was four years old,
The angels brought Him toys of gold,
Which no man ever had bought or sold.

And yet with these He would not play.
He made Him small fowl out of clay,
And blessed them till they flew away:
_Tu creasti Domine_.

Jesus Christ, Thou child so wise,
Bless mine hands and fill mine eyes,
And bring my soul to Paradise.

IN A BOAT

Lady! Lady!
Upon Heaven-height,
Above the harsh morning
In the mere light.

Above the spindrift
And above the snow,
Where no seas tumble,
And no winds blow.

The twisting tides,
And the perilous sands
Upon all sides
Are in your holy hands.

The wind harries
And the cold kills;
But I see your chapel
Over far hills.

My body is frozen,
My soul is afraid:
Stretch out your hands to me,
Mother and maid.

Mother of Christ,
And Mother of me,
Save me alive
From the howl of the sea.

If you will Mother me
Till I grow old,
I will hang in your chapel
A ship of pure gold.

SONG

INVITING THE INFLUENCE OF A YOUNG LADY UPON THE OPENING YEAR

I

You wear the morning like your dress
And are with mastery crowned;
Whenas you walk your loveliness
Goes shining all around.
Upon your secret, smiling way
Such new contents were found,
The Dancing Loves made holiday
On that delightful ground.

II

Then summon April forth, and send
Commandment through the flowers;
About our woods your grace extend
A queen of careless hours.
For oh, not Vera veiled in rain,
Nor Dian’s sacred Ring,
With all her royal nymphs in train
Could so lead on the Spring.

THE RING

When I was flying before the King
In the wood of Valognes in my hiding,
Although I had not anything
I sent a woman a golden ring.

A Ring of the Moors beyond Leon
With emerald and with diamond stone,
And a writing no man ever had known,
And an opal standing all alone.

The shape of the ring the heart to bind:
The emerald turns from cold to kind:
The writing makes her sure to find:--
But the evil opal changed her mind.

Now when the King was dead, was he,
I came back hurriedly over the sea
From the long rocks in Normandy
To Bosham that is by Selsey.
And we clipt each other knee to knee.
But what I had was lost to me.

CUCKOO!

In woods so long time bare.
Cuckoo!
Up and in the wood, I know not where
Two notes fall.
Yet I do not envy him at all
His phantasy.
Cuckoo!
I too,
Somewhere,
I have sung as merrily as he
Who can dare,
Small and careless lover, so to laugh at care,
And who
Can call
Cuckoo!
In woods of winter weary,
In scented woods, of winter weary, call
Cuckoo!
In woods so long time bare.

THE LITTLE SERVING MAID

I

There was a Queen of England,
And a good Queen too.
She had a house in Powis Land
With the Severn running through;
And Men-folk and Women-folk
Apprenticed to a trade;
But the prettiest of all
Was a Little Serving Maid.

II

“Oh Madam, Queen of England!
Oh will you let me go!
For there’s a Lad in London
And he would have it so.
And I would have it too, Madam,
And with him would I bide;
And he will be the Groom, Madam,
And I shall be the Bride!”

III

“Oh fie to you and shame to you,
You Little Serving Maid!
And are you not astonied?
And are you not afraid?
For never was it known
Since Yngelonde began
That a Little Serving Maid
Should go a-meeting of a man!

IV

Then the Little Serving Maid
She went and laid her down,
With her cross and her bede,
In her new courting gown.
And she called in Mother Mary’s name
And heavily she sighed:
“I think that I have come to shame!”
And after that she died.

V

The good Queen of England
Her women came and ran:
“The Little Serving Maid is dead
From loving of a man!”
Said the good Queen of England
“That is ill news to hear!
Take her out and shroud her,
And lay her on a bier.”

VI

They laid her on a bier,
In the court-yard all;
Some came from Foresting,
And some came from Hall.
And Great Lords carried her,
And proud Priests prayed.
And that was the end
Of the Little Serving Maid.

AUVERGNAT

There was a man was half a clown
(It’s so my father tells of it).
He saw the church in Clermont town
And laughed to hear the bells of it.

He laughed to hear the bells that ring
In Clermont Church and round of it;
He heard the verger’s daughter sing,
And loved her for the sound of it.

The verger’s daughter said him nay;
She had the right of choice in it.
He left the town at break of day:
He hadn’t had a voice in it.

The road went up, the road went down,
And there the matter ended it.
He broke his heart in Clermont town,
At Pontgibaud they mended it.

DRINKING SONG

ON THE EXCELLENCE OF BURGUNDY WINE

My jolly fat host with your face all a-grin,
Come, open the door to us, let us come in.
A score of stout fellows who think it no sin
If they toast till they’re hoarse, and they drink till they spin,
Hoofed it amain,
Rain or no rain,
To crack your old jokes, and your bottles to drain.

Such a warmth in the belly that nectar begets
As soon as his guts with its humour he wets,
The miser his gold, and the student his debts,
And the beggar his rags and his hunger forgets.
For there’s never a wine
Like this tipple of thine
From the great hill of Nuits to the River of Rhine.

Outside you may hear the great gusts as they go
By Foy, by Duerne, and the hills of Lerraulx,
But the rain he may rain, and the wind he may blow,
If the Devil’s above there’s good liquor below.
So it abound,
Pass it around,
Burgundy’s Burgundy all the year round.

DRINKING DIRGE

A thousand years ago I used to dine
In houses where they gave me such regale
Of dear companionship and comrades fine
That out I went alone beyond the pale;
And riding, laughed and dared the skies malign
To show me all the undiscovered tale--
But my philosophy’s no more divine,
I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.

And you, my friends, oh! pleasant friends of mine,
Who leave me now alone, without avail,
On Californian hills you gave me wine,
You gave me cider-drink in Longuevaille;
If after many years you come to pine
For comradeship that is an ancient tale--
You’ll find me drinking beer in Dead Man’s Chine.
I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.

In many a briny boat I’ve tried the brine,
From many a hidden harbour I’ve set sail,
Steering towards the sunset where there shine
The distant amethystine islands pale.

There are no ports beyond the far sea-line,
Nor any halloa to meet the mariner’s hail;
I stand at home and slip the anchor-line.
I put my pleasure in a pint of ale.

ENVOI

Prince! Is it true when you go out to dine
You bring your bottle in a freezing pail?
Why then you cannot be a friend of mine.
_I_ put my pleasure in a pint of ale.

WEST SUSSEX DRINKING SONG

They sell good Beer at Haslemere
And under Guildford Hill.
At Little Cowfold as I’ve been told
A beggar may drink his fill:
There is a good brew in Amberley too,
And by the bridge also;
But the swipes they take in at Washington Inn
Is the very best Beer I know.

_Chorus._

With my here it goes, there it goes,
All the fun’s before us:
The Tipple’s Aboard and the night is young,
The door’s ajar and the Barrel is sprung,
I am singing the best song ever was sung
And it has a rousing chorus.

If I were what I never can be,
The master or the squire:
If you gave me the hundred from here to the sea,
Which is more than I desire:
Then all my crops should be barley and hops,
And did my harvest fail
I’d sell every rood of mine acres I would
For a belly-full of good Ale.

_Chorus._

With my here it goes, there it goes,
All the fun’s before us:
The Tipple’s aboard and the night is young,
The door’s ajar and the Barrel is sprung,
I am singing the best song ever was sung
And it has a rousing Chorus.

A BALLAD ON SOCIOLOGICAL ECONOMICS

A while ago it came to pass
(Merry we carol it all the day),
There sat a man on the top of an ass
(Heart be happy and carol be gay
In spite of the price of hay).

And over the down they hoofed it so
(Happy go lucky has best of fare),
The man up above and the brute below
(And singing we all forget to care
A man may laugh if he dare).

Over the stubble and round the crop
(Life is short and the world is round),
The donkey beneath and the man on the top
(Oh! let good ale be found, be found,
Merry good ale and sound).

It happened again as it happened before
(Tobacco’s a boon but ale is bliss),
The moke in the ditch and the man on the floor
(And that is the moral to this, to this
Remarkable artifice).

HERETICS ALL

Heretics all, whoever you be,
In Tarbes or Nimes, or over the sea,
You never shall have good words from me.
_Caritas non conturbat me._

But Catholic men that live upon wine
Are deep in the water, and frank, and fine;
Wherever I travel I find it so,
_Benedicamus Domino_.

On childing women that are forlorn,
And men that sweat in nothing but scorn:
That is on all that ever were born,
_Miserere Domine_.

To my poor self on my deathbed,
And all my dear companions dead,
Because of the love that I bore them,
_Dona Eis Requiem_.

HA’NACKER MILL

Sally is gone that was so kindly
Sally is gone from Ha’nacker Hill.
And the Briar grows ever since then so blindly
And ever since then the clapper is still,
And the sweeps have fallen from Ha’nacker Mill

Ha’nacker Hill is in Desolation:
Ruin a-top and a field unploughed.
And Spirits that call on a fallen nation
Spirits that loved her calling aloud:
Spirits abroad in a windy cloud.

Spirits that call and no one answers;
Ha’nacker’s down and England’s done.
Wind and Thistle for pipe and dancers
And never a ploughman under the Sun.
Never a ploughman. Never a one.

TARANTELLA

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of the tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn’t got a penny,
And who weren’t paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in----
And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the Guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?

Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

THE CHAUNTY OF THE “NONA”

I

Come list all ye Cullies and Doxies so dear,
You shall hearken to the tale of the Bold Marineer
That took ship out of Holyhead and drove her so hard
Past Bardsey, Pwlheli, Port Madoc, and Fishguard--
_Past Bardsey, Pwlheli, Port Madoc, and Fishguard_.

II

Then he dropped out of Fishguard on a calm Summer’s day,
By St David’s and Strumbles and across St Bride’s Bay;
Circumnavigating Skomer, that Island, around,
With the heart of a Lion he threaded Jack Sound--
_With the heart of a Lion he threaded Jack Sound_.

III

But from out the Main Ocean there rolled a great cloud,
So he clawed into Milford Haven by the Fog Blast so loud,
Until he dropped anchor in a deep-wooded bay,
Where all night with Old Sleep and Quiet Sadness he lay--
_Where all night with Old Sleep and Quiet Sadness he lay_.

IV

Next morning was a Doldrum, and he whistled for a breeze,
Which came from the N.N.W.’ard all across the high seas;
And in passing St Govan’s lightship he gave them good night,
But before it was morning he raised Lundy Light--
_Before it was morning he had raised Lundy Light_.

V

Then he tossed for twelve hours in that horrible place
Which is known to the Mariner as the Great White Horse Race,
Till with a slant about three bells, or maybe near four,
He saw white water breaking upon Loud Appledore--
_He saw white water breaking upon Loud Appledore_.

VI

The Pirates of Appledore, the Wines of Instow;
But her nose is for Bideford with the tide at the flow.
Rattle anchor, batten hatches, and leave your falls curled.
The Long Bridge of Bideford is the end of the World--
_The Long Bridge of Bideford is the end of the World_.

THE WINGED HORSE

I

It’s ten years ago to-day you turned me out o’ doors
To cut my feet on flinty lands and stumble down the shores,
And I thought about the all-in-all, oh more than I can tell!
But I caught a horse to ride upon and I rode him very well,
He had flame behind the eyes of him and wings upon his side.
And I ride, and I ride!

II

I rode him out of Wantage and I rode him up the hill,
And there I saw the Beacon in the morning standing still,
Inkpen and Hackpen and southward and away
High through the middle airs in the strengthening of the day,
And there I saw the channel-glint and England in her pride.
And I ride, and I ride!

III

And once a-top of Lambourne down toward the hill of Clere
I saw the Host of Heaven in rank and Michael with his spear,
And Turpin out of Gascony and Charlemagne the Lord,
And Roland of the marches with his hand upon his sword
For the time he should have need of it, and forty more beside.
And I ride, and I ride!

IV

For you that took the all-in-all the things you left were three.
A loud voice for singing and keen eyes to see,
And a spouting well of joy within that never yet was dried!
And I ride.

STREPHON’S SONG

(FROM “THE CRUEL SHEPHERDESS”)

When I was not much older
Than Cupid, but bolder,
I asked of his Mother in passing her bower
What it was in their blindness
Men asked of her kindness
And she said it was nought but a delicate flower:
Such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!

This morning you kissed me,
By noon you dismissed me
As though such great things were the jest of one hour,
And you left me still wondering
If I were not too blundering
To deal with that delicate, delicate flower:
’Tis such a delicate, delicate, delicate flower!

For if that’s the complexion
Of Ladies’ affection
I must needs be a fool to remain in their power;
But there’s that in me burning
Which brings me returning
To beg for the delicate, delicate flower;
To implore for that delicate, delicate flower!

IV

BALLADES

SHORT BALLADE AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS AND BOERS

I

Gigantic daughter of the West
(The phrase is Tennysonian), who
From this unconquerable breast
The vigorous milk of Freedom drew
--We gave it freely--shall the crest
Of Empire in your keeping true,
Shall England--I forget the rest,
But Consols are at 82.

II

Now why should anyone invest,
As even City people do
(His Lordship did among the rest),
When stocks--but what is that to you?
And then, who ever could have guessed
About the guns--and horses too!--
Besides, they knew their business best,
And Consols are at 82.

III

It serves no purpose to protest,
It isn’t manners to halloo
About the way the thing was messed--
Or vaguely call a man a Jew.
A gentleman who cannot jest
Remarked that we should muddle through
(The continent was much impressed),
And Consols are at 82.

_Envoi._

And, Botha lay at Pilgrim’s Rest
And Myberg in the Great Karroo
(A desert to the south and west),
And Consols are at 82.

_Postscript._

Permit me--if you do not mind--
To add it would be screaming fun
If, after printing this, I find
Them after all at 81.

Or 70 or 63,
Or 55 or 44,
Or 39 and going free,
Or 28--or even more.

No matter--take no more advice
From doubtful and intriguing men.
Refuse the stuff at any price,
And slowly watch them fall to 10.

Meanwhile I feel a certain zest
In writing once again the new
Refrain that all is for the best,
And Consols are at 82.

_Last Envoi._

Prince, you and I were barely thirty-three,
And now I muse and wonder if it’s true,
That you were you and I myself was me,
And 3 per cents were really 82!

BALLADE OF THE UNANSWERED QUESTION

I

What dwelling hath Sir Harland Pott
That died of drinking in Bungay?
Nathaniel Goacher who was shot
Towards the end of Malplaquet?
The only thing that we can say,
(The only thing that has been said)
About these gentlemen is, “Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead”

II

Lord Bumplepuppy, too, that got
The knock from Messrs Dawkins’ dray?
And Jonas, whom the Cachalot
Begulphed in Esdraelon Bay?
The Calvinistic John McKay,
Who argued till his nostrils bled,
And dropped in apoplexy? Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead?

III

And Heliodorus too, that hot
Defender of the Roman sway;
And He, the author of the “_Tot
Mercedes dant Victoriæ_,”
And all the armoured squadrons gay
That ever glory nourishèd
In all the world’s high charges? Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead?

_Envoi_

Prince, have you ever learnt to pray
Upon your knees beside your bed?
You miserable waxwork? Nay!
But where are the unanswering dead?

BALLADE TO OUR LADY OF CZESTOCHOWA

I

Lady and Queen and Mystery manifold
And very Regent of the untroubled sky,
Whom in a dream St Hilda did behold
And heard a woodland music passing by:
You shall receive me when the clouds are high
With evening and the sheep attain the fold.
This is the faith that I have held and hold,
And this is that in which I mean to die.

II

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

III

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

_Envoi_

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

BALLADE OF HELL AND OF MRS ROEBECK

I

I’m going out to dine at Gray’s
With Bertie Morden, Charles and Kit,
And Manderly who never pays,
And Jane who wins in spite of it,
And Algernon who won’t admit
The truth about his curious hair
And teeth that very nearly fit:--
And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

II

And then to-morrow someone says
That someone else has made a hit
In one of Mister Twister’s plays.
And off we go to yawn at it;
And when it’s petered out we quit
For number 20, Taunton Square,
And smoke, and drink, and dance a bit:--
And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

III

And so through each declining phase
Of emptied effort, jaded wit,
And day by day of London days
Obscurely, more obscurely, lit;
Until the uncertain shadows flit
Announcing to the shuddering air
A Darkening, and the end of it:--
And Mrs Roebeck will be there.

_Envoi_

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

BALLADE OF UNSUCCESSFUL MEN

I

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

II

Cæsar and Alexander shall agree
That right athwart the world their bugles blew:
And all the lads that marched in Lombardy
Behind the young Napoleon charging through:
All that were easy swordsmen, all that slew
The Monsters, and that served our God and tried
The temper of this world--they lost the clue.
The Devil didn’t like them, and they died.

III

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

_Envoi_

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

BALLADE OF THE HERESIARCHS

I

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

II

The Kohen out of Novdograd
Who argued from the Roman Jus
“_Privata fasta nihil ad
Rem nisi sint de sacribus_.”
And Hume, who made a dreadful fuss
About the Resurrection Day
And said it was ridiculous--
The wind has blown them all away.

III

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

_Envoi_

Prince, should you meet upon a bus
A man who makes a great display
Of Dr Haeckel, argue thus:--
The wind has blown them all away.

V

EPIGRAMS

I

_On His Books_

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

II

_On Noman, a Guest_

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

III

_A Trinity_

Of three in One and One in three
My narrow mind would doubting be
Till Beauty, Grace and Kindness met
And all at once were Juliet

IV

_On Torture, a Public Singer_

Torture will give a dozen pence or more
To keep a drab from bawling at his door.
The public taste is quite a different thing--
Torture is positively paid to sing.

V

_On Paunch, a Parasite_

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

VI

_On Hygiene_

Of old when folk lay sick and sorely tried
The doctors gave them physic, and they died.
But here’s a happier age: for now we know
Both how to make men sick and keep them so.

VII

_On Lady Poltagrue, a Public Peril_

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

VIII

_The Mirror_

The mirror held your fair, my Fair,
A fickle moment’s space.
You looked into mine eyes, and there
For ever fixed your face.

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

IX

_The Elm_

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

X

_The Telephone_

To-night in million-voicèd London I
Was lonely as the million-pointed sky
Until your single voice. Ah! So the Sun
Peoples all heaven, although he be but one.

XI

_The Statue_

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

XII

_Epitaph on the Favourite Dog of a Politician_

Here lies a Dog: may every Dog that dies
Lie in security--as this Dog lies.

XIII

_Epitaph on the Politician Himself_

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

XIV

_Another on the Same_

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

XV

_On Mundane Acquaintances_

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

XVI

_On a Rose for Her Bosom_

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

XVII

_On the Little God_

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

XVIII

_On a Prophet_

Of old ’twas Samuel sought the Lord: to-day
The Lord runs after Samuel--so they say.

XIX

_On a Dead Hostess_

Of this bad world the loveliest and the best
Has smiled and said “Good Night,” and gone to rest.

XX

_On a Great Election_

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

XXI

_On a Mistaken Mariner_

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

XXII

_On a Sleeping Friend_

Lady, when your lovely head
Droops to sink among the Dead,
And the quiet places keep
You that so divinely sleep;
Then the dead shall blessèd be
With a new solemnity,
For such Beauty, so descending,
Pledges them that Death is ending.
Sleep your fill--but when you wake
Dawn shall over Lethe break.

XXIII

_Fatigued_

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

XXIV

_On Benicia, who Wished Him Well_

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

XXV

_The False Heart_

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

XXVI

_Partly from the Greek_

She would be as the stars in your sight
That turn in the endless hollow;
That tremble, and always follow
The quiet wheels of the Night.

VI

THE BALLAD OF VAL-ÈS-DUNES

THE VICTORY OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR IN HIS YOUTH OVER THE REBELS
AT VAL-ÈS-DUNES IN THE YEAR 1047

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

I

The men that lived in Longuevaile
Came out to fight by bands.
They jangled all in welded mail,
Their shields were rimmed of silver pale
And blazoned like a church-vitrail:
Their swords were in their hands.
But the harsh raven of the Old Gods
Was on the rank sea-sands.

_There rose a wind on heath and den:_
_The sky went racing grey._
_The Bastard and his wall of men_
_Were a charger’s course away._

II

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

III

The Bastard out of Normandy
Was angry for his wrong.
His eyes were virginal to see,
For nothing in his heart had he
But a hunger for his great degree;
And his back was broad and strong
As are the oxen of the field,
That pull the ploughs along.

IV

He saw that column of cavalry wheel,
Split outward, and deploy.
He heard, he heard the Oliphant peal.
He crooked an angry knee to feel
The scabbard against his gilded heel.
He had great joy:
And he stood upright in the stirrup steel.
Because he was a boy.

* * * * *

_We faced their ordering, all the force,_
_And there was little sound;_
_But Haribert-Le-Marshall’s horse_
_Pawed heavily the ground._

V

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

VI

The Old Gods of the Northern Hall
Are crownéd for the tomb.
Their biers are flanked of torches tall,
And through the flames that leap and fall
There comes a droning and a call
To the night’s womb,
As the tide beneath a castle wall
Goes drumming through the gloom.

VII

They tonsured me but Easter year,
I swore to Christ and Rome.
My name is not mine older name....
But ah! to see them as they came,
With thundering and with points aflame,
I smelt foam.
And my heart was like a wandering man’s,
Who piles his boat on Moorna sands
And serves a slave in alien lands,
And then beneath a harper’s hands
Hears suddenly of home.

* * * * *

_For their cavalry came in a curling leaf,_
_They shouted as they drave,_
_And the Bastard’s line was like a reef_
_But theirs was like a wave._

VIII

As the broad ships out of Barbary
Strike rock.
And the stem shatters, and the sail flaps;
Streaming seaward; and the taut shroud snaps,
And the block
Clatters to the deck of the wreck.
So did the men of Longuevaile
Take the shock.

IX

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

X

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

XI

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

XII

The tall son of the Seven Winds
Galloped hot-foot from the Hither Hithe.
So strongly went he down the press,
Almost he did that day redress
With his holping and his hardiness,
For his sword was like a scythe
In Arques when the grass is high,
And all the swaithes in order lie,
And there’s the bailiff standing by--
A gathering of the tithe.

XIII

And now, go forward, Normandy,
Go forward all in one.
The press was caught and trampled and it broke
From the sword and its swinger and the axe’s stroke,
Pouring through the gap in a whirl of smoke
As a blinded herd will run.
And so fled many and a very few
With mounts all spent would staggering pursue,
But the race fell scattered as the evening grew:
The battle was over and done.

* * * * *

_Like birds against the reddening day_
_They dwindled one by one,_
_And I heard a trumpet far away_
_At the setting of the sun._

* * * * *

XIV

The stars were in the Eternal Sky,
It was calm in Massared;
Richard, Abbot of Leclair, and I
And a Picard Priest that held on high
A Torch above his head;
We stumbled through the darkening land
Assoiling with anointed hand
The dying and the dead.

XV

How many in the tufted grass,
How many dead there lay.
For there was found the Fortenbras
And young Garain of Hault, alas!
And the Wardens of the Breton pass
Who were lords of his array,
And Hugh that trusted in his glass
But came not home the day.

XVI

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

XVII

The last of all the lords that sprang
From Harcourt of the Crown,
He parried with the shield and the silver rang,
But the axe fell heavy on the helm with a clang
And the girths parted and the saddle swang,
And he went down:
He never more sang winter songs
In his high town.

XVIII

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

XIX

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

XX

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

* * * * *

XXI

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

FOOTNOTES:

[A]

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

[B]

And least of all can you complain,
Reviewers, whose unholy trade is,
To puff with all your might and main
Biographers of single ladies.

[C] Never mind.

[D]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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