railed.
My labour only builded Me, but not the kingdom. So I failed.
Our Viscounts could but show their gums, while from Aleppo, Hama,
Homs,
The foe crept onward like the months, culling our conquests like
ripe plums.
For all response in Chastel Blanc and towering Markab-of-the-Sea
Some clerkly knight in red-crossed white recited magic formulæ;
Then darkly hinted science, hell and I were leagued, because their
spell
Would not or could not stave the blow that I foresaw. Edessa fell.
Curse our degenerate Poullains! The breed had need of spurs not
reins.
To stand an empty sack upright was easier than to warm their veins
Save with amours. One night I knelt to pray; but on the battlement
Hard by a lordling twanged a harp. I smelt the bastard's eastern
scent.
He thought his leman lay behind my casement, where the jasmin
twined
And almost jingled.... Oh the woods at home and whitethroats
calling blind!
_Suppose you left that window and came down
To meet me. Do not turn away.
Also you need not frown.
I only say:
"Suppose."_
_Suppose--you are a woman of resource--
The fastenings of your door undone.
No! They are not.... Of course!
But, just for fun,
Suppose._
_Suppose that--safe among the trees below
The terraces--you chanced to find ...
Impossible!... I know,
But never mind.
Suppose._
_Suppose that--being there--an eager arm
Drew you towards the little dell....
Why redden? Where's the harm?
You might as well
Suppose...._
_Suppose that, bending over you, a man
Breathed words of which you knew the gist.
Suppose it!... Yes, you can....
No, I insist....
Suppose!_
_Suppose you shut the window? Now? Pray do,
And take a lonely night to learn
This tune shut in with you.
Till I return,
Suppose...._
Then I peeped out. Some breath divine had made his face, compared
with mine,
An angel's. Love with all its faults had set there our Creator's
sign.
That shook me. One of us was wrong. Which? He or I? His soul was
vexed
Neither by this world nor the next, but floated in a bubble of
song.
It haunted me, as he had said; it chimed and rhymed about my bed.
It filled my head with Sunflower-tress; but she--I writhed--was old
or dead.
Was all my suffering a waste? Had superstition wed me chaste
To Its effect? Was this my Cause? My tutor in the dark grimaced.
I saw him snug at home, and how he would have chuckled at my vow!
Well, who laughs last.... I pictured him a dotard or in hell by
now.
I prayed for help all night; and, warned by lost Edessa, Baldwin
made
Great efforts to placate our God. The answer was a fresh crusade.
This was an answer none could doubt. We heard a preacher more
devout
Than ours was quartering the west, and pulling true believers out.
He hight Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, the home of light and
miracles.
The wives and mothers trembled so before his spirit's tentacles,
They hid their males--in vain. He swept the Emperor Conrad with
him, kept
The collar of his pale adept, emasculated Louis Sept.
He cured King's Evils, raised the dead, he cast out devils by the
gross.
'Twas said he promised us twelve legions of angels.... From the
darkest regions
Men flocked to Metz and Ratisbon. News came of more than half a
million,
Not counting those that rode apillion. Our battle was as good as
won.
Such glorious news might well inflame our hopes. We waited. Nothing
came,
Not even light Turcopuli nor Conrad's Golden-footed Dame.
Our Poullains first began to whine; the fainthearts said the fault
was mine.
Saint Bernard was the oracle of Europe, I of Palestine.
And nothing came ... no troops.... The Greek misled, starved,
poisoned, murdered them,
Betrayed them to the Turk, whose bleak deserts went over them. Week
by week
We waited. Nothing. Cadmus saw them cut to bits, Attalia's maw
Could not be sated with their ruck. King Louis' mind had just one
flaw:
He would not hear of strategy, staked all on supernatural help.
And nothing came, and nothing came. Our half-bred curs began to
yelp
"Good God, if truly God is good!" They kissed the Cross. Gems hid
the wood.
Had He forgotten? Was He deaf? Could such things be? Who
understood?
Not I, though I had kept my word to save the Lamb by fire and
sword.
And after twelve long lustra spent in service this was my reward.
Louis and Conrad struggled through one day with some small retinue.
I watched. Almost I could foretell what they and Providence would
do.
And I remember, as we fared, a Sufi--so the sect is named--
Sat by the road as though he cared no jot for us, while he
declaimed:
_Her home is in the heart of spaciousness,
In the mid-city of ideals. The site
Is harmony, the walls are made of light.
There with the mother-thoughts she stands to bless
The godlike sons sent forth with her caress
To make new worlds. I see them all unite
Into the whole that our most starry flight
Of worship knew far off, and strove to express.
What can we do for her? We run to ask
As restless children for a grown-up task,
While wisdom in the porch, their kind old host,
Smiles at nurse nature, and replies: The most,
The least that we can do for Beauty is
To love for love's sake and serve God for His._
But Conrad drove his lance in jest right through the ragamuffin's
chest,
Because his creed was not as ours; and on we rode. I lost my zest.
To take Damascus was our plan, relying on a talisman.
I knew that this would not suffice, for I was still a fighting man.
It ended in repulse and shame. Saint Bernard proved we were to
blame
For want of faith. Ah, some of us had had too much. We said the
same
Of him. At our return thick mobs of women filled the church with
bobs
And bows, poor puppets, trying hard to sing between their stifled
sobs:
_God, whose Son has fathomed sorrow,
Give a mother strength to say:
Mine has faced and found To-morrow.
I will try to face To-day._
They turned to me. They thought me wise because I had been led by
lies
To blind myself to them; and now I saw things through a woman's
eyes,
And I went out. Not yet the end. Since innocence alone could save,
Saints hit on infant infantry, and fifty thousand found the grave.
My gorge rose, yet I stopped my ears. I had no hope, but I was
tarred
With fame too much to show my fears. My duty lay in dying hard.
Oh irony! That fame increased the more its robes were patched and
pieced.
My whole ambition was fulfilled when power and confidence had
ceased.
The women kissed my feet, my horse; they clung to me like my
remorse.
I that set out to make the world had made myself believe by force.
Nay, I that knew we were reprieved at best, had I in truth
believed?
My youth came back. I seemed to meet my tutor's sneer in every
street.
Fate cursed us with three minor kings, a leper then. Against these
Things
Salah-ad-Din combined the entire orient. I wished our fate had
wings
Instead of feet to end our dumb, keen, futile questionings, to numb
The brain that binds us with the chain of kingdom go and kingdom
come.
One of our knights for plunder's sake undid us, roused the foe who
brake
In through the pass of Banias, cutting our lands in two like cake.
The hour was here, but not the man. That murderer Guy de Lusignan
Was sent to head our fight for life. The craven took for talisman
ME and my hundred years, alas, a relic of the man I was.
I toiled to still our private feuds. We marched upon Tiberias,
For none would listen when I urged our leaders to await attack.
We marched across the waterless inferno. Summer burnt us black.
The Moslems scorched us with Greek fire. As rain upon a funeral
pyre
Their arrows hissed in sheets upon the smoking scrub. "Go on!"
"Retire!"
Our rabble cried, starting aside like broken bows; they tried to
hide,
Split, fled for refuge to a hill, did nothing while the Templars
died.
When all was lost I cut my way out through the thicket of the fray,
And galloped for Jerusalem to adjure Guy's Queen to stand at bay.
In this last desperate passage each proud noble still opposed his
friend.
A little while and we were penned, and yet a little while a breach
Was made. Jehovah's chosen seat was tottering, but no Paraclete
Came down to comfort us. I made some sallies. Then the Queen would
treat.
Perhaps in our appeal for ruth my wording stumbled on the truth,
"One God that went by many names," or else I knew Him in my youth,
Or else that Sufi haunted me with something that I could not see,
Something that only had not been because we would not let it be.
And when the foe marched in, I own that I was thinking of the Rhone
Long, long ago, and wondering--a child once more--if it had grown.
Yet there remained the sharpest cup to drain: the moan of us went
up,
When from the topmost dome was hurled the Sign that should have
ruled the world.
Down, down it rumbled with our grand designs. All we had built or
planned,
Toiled, bled for, crumbled at a touch, was ruined like a house of
sand.
So soon we pass. The wind knows why. The efforts of a century,
Three generations' handiwork failed in the twinkling of an eye.
And I was sad to think that shadows occupy us all. I had
No hope of earth. What boots a toy that thinks its maker raving
mad?
My soul had passed through every phase and, counting forty thousand
days,
Was farther off than at the start from comprehending heaven's ways
Or bowing to them. I came nearest when I pressed my childish ear
Earthward through briar and bramble bowers to catch the singing of
the flowers.
The last remains of faith were shaken when I, the oracle, was
taken.
My pride was made to sleep in chains. I prayed that I might never
waken,
But woke. They gave me to a _rais_ who wanted cattle, not advice.
He flogged me down to Damietta. I was old and fetched no price.
Nathless my battling heart was brave enough to work me till I
dropped.
I passed for twopence to a Copt who sold me as a galley-slave
To Muscat. In the rhythmic stroke, old, undefeated, gnarled as oak
I creaked and strained against my fate, until that Sufi-something
broke.
'Twas not my heart. An inner morn put the dark age in me to scorn,
And in the light I found myself, a child at play with worlds
unborn,
For all that I had thought and read, and fought and watched the
world be led
By any who contrived to cut a knot with that blunt tool, the head.
I laughed to think how sparrows might look down upon our highest
flight,
While each succeeding age would have its oracle or stagyrite,
Would trace the good we never did, the evil that we never saw,
And out of our blind pyramid extract a stepping-stone to Law.
Here, where ambition had to cease in servitude, I tasted peace,
Free of illusion stretched and yawned. A fool would clamour for
release.
I make the rowers' bench a throne to think, and thought implies
Alone,
Of changing woods and endless streams. My happiness is all my own.
And often, when my mates deplore a brother who shall row no more,
I talk about my wolf-cub, Life. They think I speak in metaphor.
They gather round me all agog, they think a chronicle and log
Of Progress lies in withered hands. Their cry is for an epilogue.
Has aught been drafted yet? A blot, an echo void and polyglot.
Each century is written off as preface. Yes, most true.... Of what?
My gathered weight had held me bound to find for every fog a
ground,
For every riddle a reply, an end to Being that goes round.
Now I can say, I do not know if there will be a book at all,
Or if the deepest chapters go beyond some writing on the wall,
Though wiser worlds will yet embark, sworn to eclipse our sorry
trades,
Succeed, and leave their little mark: a dynasty of thought that
fades,
Fresh undergrowths of formulæ. Through these no _human_ eye can see
The open glade--the _last_ crusade, in which Jerusalem might be
The symbol of all peopled space, and Time an emblem of the day
On which the nations march as one to liberate and not to slay.
A story has no finish when it leads to nowhere out of ken?
O friend, the lack of knowledge brings wisdom within the reach of
men;
For whether hope can ever fit the future matters not a whit.
My duty is to tug my oar--so long as I am chained to it.
XIX
FUSION
It was fulfilled. The giant _dhow_ bestirred
Herself, burst from her slender moorings, ran
Exulting on her course beyond the green
Thin shallows to the deeper violet
Of that great gem wherein the continents
Are flaws. With creaking oars and fluttering sails
The wingèd ghost swept outward. On the prow
Unveiled the Queen stood whiter than the sails,
And save the revelation made no sign;
And all the sound of singing was brought low.
Then, as the vision vanished in the hushed
Twilight that painted out the caravan,
Leaving the pilgrims but a _burnûs_-blur
On the drab canvas of the shore, a wail
Rose, and to them the Dreamer's last reply:
"The aimless spindrift mingles with the scats
Where suddenly the desert is the beach.
A low wind whimpers up and down the flats
Seeking some obstacle to lend it speech.
"The sky bleeds pale as from a mortal wound,
Darkening the waters. To a treble E
Gulls stiffly wheel their nomad escort round
A white sail dwindling in the impassive sea.
"A last beam smites it with a benison.
The lantern twinkles fainter at its mast.
It bears the purpose in me that is gone,
The only thing that cannot be, the past.
"Let there be night. Shall evensong complain?
My love was utter. Now I seek no sign.
Mine eyes have seen, and shall not see again.
Out of the deep shall call no voice of mine.
"Yet I, whose happiness is hidden from view,
Have climbed the hill and touched eternity,
And Pisgah is a memory--of you,
A white sail sinking in the summer sea."
The ship drove spaceward to the skyline's crater,
The last of day flared vibrant as a cry,
And in the Dreamer Emptiness loomed greater
Than the unrifted pumice of the sky.
He turned to see the friends whose hope had ended
Like his beside the gulf. He was alone.
The singers and the glory that had blended
With meaner notes and lowly, all were gone
Into thin air. But, patient of his tether,
Enduring as the dream he would not break,
Only old Tous remained. As back together
They fared, once more it seemed the camel spake:
"Lo, these the fleeting and the true,
The keen to sacrifice and slow,
The plumed, the crawling, all were You
That started hither long ago.
For man is many when begun,
But Love can weave his ends to one.
"The new, the ancient, song and prose,
The lower road, the higher aim,
The clean, the draggled, dust and snows
Were you the striving, you the same.
Pride and endeavour, love and loss,
The pattern is the threads that cross.
"Tilth, waste and water, sand and sap,
Tare, thorn and thistle, wine and oil,
Run through _your_ Nature like a map,
Are YOU. The ores that vein the soil
Of time and substance manifold
Await the hour that makes them gold,
"That found the force of you dispersed
On all adventure save a quest,
And part perhaps was on the worst.
It sent you all upon the best,
Wherein the journey is the goal.
Now leaving you they leave you whole.
"The rabble melts, but more remains:
The golden opportunity
By which the choir in us attains
Not unison but unity.
We feel the sunbeam, not the motes.
The Voice is made of many notes.
"Slave, merchant, scholar, fighting-man,
The gambling, stumbling, praying kith
We called the Singing Caravan,
Have made their song at least no myth
Not dawn to which yon skylark soared
But earth is his and your reward.
"The story ends, but not the book.
Sufi, the Queen that you ensued
Led and shall lead you still to look
On peace--it is not solitude.
Through her your warring kingdoms met,
And here is room for no regret."
So Dreamer-of-the-Age returned
With comfort, all his being fused
At last, and thus at night he mused
Beside the fire that in him burned:
"Heirs of the beauty yet to be,
Hail, from however far ahead
Or out of sight I hear you tread
The dust that made this tale and me.
"Each day shall raise me to rejoice
That lovers such as we must bear
The unbroken chain of life and share
Its thanksgiving. Perhaps my voice
"Shall be the servant of your mind,
Your linkman waiting in the arch
Of phantom city-gates to march
With you by secret ways. The wind
"Shall tell me of you, he and I
Be keenly with you, when you go
Forth in my footsteps and the glow
Of movement, steadfast to deny
"Only the frailer self. My grief
Shall answer your unspoken word
Through blithe interpreters, a bird
Waking, the sounds of rill and leaf.
"By many a caravanserai
I shall not fail to watch you come,
You of some far millennium,
Who, listening to the bird, will say:
"'I seem to know that tune of his;
He sings what all can understand.'
In the clear water dip your hand:
'His deepest note was only this.'
"You shall be glad of me, the shade,
Sighing 'O friend.' And I shall keep
The benediction of your sleep;
And, when the woods of darkness fade,
"Shall waken with you, I that had
Love to the full, and praised my lot,
Trusting in truth to be forgot
For worthier verse. Ah, make me glad,
"You that come after me, and call
From summits that outstrip my hopes.
Yet I shall linger on the slopes
And dwell with those who gave their all."
XX
LONG LEAVE
I bow my head, O brother, brother, brother,
But may not grudge you that were All to me.
Should any _one_ lament when this our Mother
Mourns for so many sons on land and sea.
God of the love that makes two lives as one
Give also strength to see that England's will be done.
Let it be done, yea, down to the last tittle,
Up to the fullness of all sacrifice.
Our dead feared this alone--to give too little.
Then shall the living murmur at the price?
The hands withdrawn from ours to grasp the plough
Would suffer only if the furrow faltered now.
Know, fellow-mourners--be our cross too grievous--
That One who sealed our symbol with His blood
Vouchsafed the vision that shall never leave us,
Those humble crosses in the Flanders mud;
And think there rests all-hallowed in each grave
A life given freely for the world He died to save.
And, ages hence, dim tramping generations
Who never knew and cannot guess our pain--
Though history count nothing less than nations,
And fame forget where grass has grown again--
Shall yet remember that the world is free.
It is enough. For this is immortality.
I raise my head, O brother, brother, brother.
The organ sobs for triumph to my heart.
What! Who will think that ransomed earth can smother
Her own great soul, of which you are a part!
The requiem music dies as if it _knew_
The inviolate peace where 'tis already well with you.
EPILOGUE
"It's not as easy as you think,"
The nettled poet sighed.
"It's not as good as I could wish,"
The publisher replied.
"It might," the kindly critic wrote,
"Have easily been _worse_."
"We will not read it anyhow,"
The public said, "it's verse."
PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS
WEST NORWOOD, LONDON
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
All unusual, archaic and inconsistent spellings and usage have been
maintained as in the original text. The only changes made were:
In the original text, the words "polymêtis" and "hoi polloi" were
written in Greek.
I added the entries for "In Memoriam" and "Acknowledgements" to the
Table of Contents.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Singing Caravan, by Robert Vansittart