I_Sonnets and Verse

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!

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!

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!

BALLADES

SHORT BALLADE AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS AND BOERS

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.

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

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”

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

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.

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’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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

EPIGRAMS

_On His Books_

When I am dead, I hope it may be said:

“His sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”

_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

_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.

_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.

_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.

_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.

_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.

_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.

_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.

_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.

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.]

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._

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.

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._

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.