LAST Post sounded
Across the mead
To where he loitered
With absent heed.
Five years before
In the evening there
Had flown that call
To him and his Dear.
“You’ll never come back;
Good-bye!” she had said;
“Here I’ll be living,
And my Love dead!”
Those closing minims
Had been as shafts darting
Through him and her pressed
In that last parting;
They thrilled him not now,
In the selfsame place
With the selfsame sun
On his war-seamed face.
“Lurks a god’s laughter
In this?” he said,
“That I am the living
And she the dead!”
“IF YOU HAD KNOWN”
IF you had known
When listening with her to the far-down moan
Of the white-selvaged and empurpled sea,
And rain came on that did not hinder talk,
Or damp your flashing facile gaiety
In turning home, despite the slow wet walk
By crooked ways, and over stiles of stone;
If you had known
You would lay roses,
Fifty years thence, on her monument, that discloses
Its graying shape upon the luxuriant green;
Fifty years thence to an hour, by chance led there,
What might have moved you?—yea, had you foreseen
That on the tomb of the selfsame one, gone where
The dawn of every day is as the close is,
You would lay roses!
1920.
THE CHAPEL-ORGANIST
(A.D. 185–)
I’VE been thinking it through, as I play here to-night, to play never
again,
By the light of that lowering sun peering in at the window-pane,
And over the back-street roofs, throwing shades from the boys of the
chore
In the gallery, right upon me, sitting up to these keys once more . . .
How I used to hear tongues ask, as I sat here when I was new:
“Who is she playing the organ? She touches it mightily true!”
“She travels from Havenpool Town,” the deacon would softly speak,
“The stipend can hardly cover her fare hither twice in the week.”
(It fell far short of doing, indeed; but I never told,
For I have craved minstrelsy more than lovers, or beauty, or gold.)
’Twas so he answered at first, but the story grew different later:
“It cannot go on much longer, from what we hear of her now!”
At the meaning wheeze in the words the inquirer would shift his place
Till he could see round the curtain that screened me from people
below.
“A handsome girl,” he would murmur, upstaring, (and so I am).
“But—too much sex in her build; fine eyes, but eyelids too heavy;
A bosom too full for her age; in her lips too voluptuous a look.”
(It may be. But who put it there? Assuredly it was not I.)
I went on playing and singing when this I had heard, and more,
Though tears half-blinded me; yes, I remained going on and on,
Just as I used me to chord and to sing at the selfsame time! . . .
For it’s a contralto—my voice is; they’ll hear it again here to-night
In the psalmody notes that I love more than world or than flesh or
than life.
Well, the deacon, in fact, that day had learnt new tidings about me;
They troubled his mind not a little, for he was a worthy man.
(He trades as a chemist in High Street, and during the week he had
sought
His fellow-deacon, who throve as a book-binder over the way.)
“These are strange rumours,” he said. “We must guard the good name of
the chapel.
If, sooth, she’s of evil report, what else can we do but dismiss her?”
“—But get such another to play here we cannot for double the price!”
It settled the point for the time, and I triumphed awhile in their
strait,
And my much-beloved grand semibreves went living on under my fingers.
At length in the congregation more head-shakes and murmurs were rife,
And my dismissal was ruled, though I was not warned of it then.
But a day came when they declared it. The news entered me as a sword;
I was broken; so pallid of face that they thought I should faint, they
said.
I rallied. “O, rather than go, I will play you for nothing!” said I.
’Twas in much desperation I spoke it, for bring me to forfeit I could
not
Those melodies chorded so richly for which I had laboured and lived.
They paused. And for nothing I played at the chapel through Sundays
anon,
Upheld by that art which I loved more than blandishments lavished of
men.
But it fell that murmurs again from the flock broke the pastor’s
peace.
Some member had seen me at Havenpool, comrading close a sea-captain.
(Yes; I was thereto constrained, lacking means for the fare to and
fro.)
Yet God knows, if aught He knows ever, I loved the Old-Hundredth,
Saint Stephen’s,
Mount Zion, New Sabbath, Miles-Lane, Holy Rest, and Arabia, and Eaton,
Above all embraces of body by wooers who sought me and won! . . .
Next week ’twas declared I was seen coming home with a lover at dawn.
The deacons insisted then, strong; and forgiveness I did not implore.
I saw all was lost for me, quite, but I made a last bid in my throbs.
High love had been beaten by lust; and the senses had conquered the
soul,
But the soul should die game, if I knew it! I turned to my masters
and said:
“I yield, Gentlemen, without parlance. But—let me just hymn you
_once_ more!
It’s a little thing, Sirs, that I ask; and a passion is music with
me!”
They saw that consent would cost nothing, and show as good grace, as
knew I,
Though tremble I did, and feel sick, as I paused thereat, dumb for
their words.
They gloomily nodded assent, saying, “Yes, if you care to. Once more,
And only once more, understand.” To that with a bend I agreed.
—“You’ve a fixed and a far-reaching look,” spoke one who had eyed me
awhile.
“I’ve a fixed and a far-reaching plan, and my look only showed it,”
said I.
This evening of Sunday is come—the last of my functioning here.
“She plays as if she were possessed!” they exclaim, glancing upward
and round.
“Such harmonies I never dreamt the old instrument capable of!”
Meantime the sun lowers and goes; shades deepen; the lights are turned
up,
And the people voice out the last singing: tune Tallis: the Evening
Hymn.
(I wonder Dissenters sing Ken: it shows them more liberal in spirit
At this little chapel down here than at certain new others I know.)
I sing as I play. Murmurs some one: “No woman’s throat richer than
hers!”
“True: in these parts, at least,” ponder I. “But, my man, you will
hear it no more.”
And I sing with them onward: “The grave dread as little do I as my
bed.”
I lift up my feet from the pedals; and then, while my eyes are still
wet
From the symphonies born of my fingers, I do that whereon I am set,
And draw from my “full round bosom,” (their words; how can _I_ help
its heave?)
A bottle blue-coloured and fluted—a vinaigrette, they may conceive—
And before the choir measures my meaning, reads aught in my moves to
and fro,
I drink from the phial at a draught, and they think it a pick-me-up;
so.
Then I gather my books as to leave, bend over the keys as to pray.
When they come to me motionless, stooping, quick death will have
whisked me away.
“Sure, nobody meant her to poison herself in her haste, after all!”
The deacons will say as they carry me down and the night shadows fall,
“Though the charges were true,” they will add. “It’s a case red as
scarlet withal!”
I have never once minced it. Lived chaste I have not. Heaven knows
it above! . . .
But past all the heavings of passion—it’s music has been my life-love! . . .
That tune did go well—this last playing! . . . I reckon they’ll bury
me here . . .
Not a soul from the seaport my birthplace—will come, or bestow me . . .
a tear.