[To a Chital Head on the Wall of a London Club.]
Light in the East, the dawn wind singing,
Solemn and grey and chill,
Rose in the sky, with Orion swinging
Down to the distant hill;
The grass dew-pearled and the _mohwa_ shaking
Her scented petals across the track,
And the herd astir to the new day breaking--
Gods! How it all comes back.
So it was, and on such a morning
Somebody's bullet sped,
And you, as you called to the herd a warning,
Dropped in the grasses dead;
And some stout hunter's heart was brimming
For joy that the gods of sport were good--
With a lump in his throat and his eyes a-dimming,
As the eyes of sportsmen should;--
As mine have done in the springtime running,
As mine in the halcyon days
Ere trigger-finger had lapsed from cunning
Or foot from the forest ways,
When I'd wake with the stars and the sunrise meeting
In the dewy fragrance of myrrh and musk,
Peacock and spurfowl sounding a greeting
And the jungle mine till dusk.
You take me back to the valleys of laughter,
The hills that hunters love,
The sudden rain and the sunshine after,
The cloud and the blue above,
The morning mist and creatures crying,
The beat in the drowsy afternoon,
Clear-washed eve with the sunset dying,
Night and the hunter's moon.
Not till all trees and jungles perish
Shall we go back that way
To those dear hills that the hunters cherish,
Where the hearts of the hunters stay;
So you dream on of the ancient glories,
Of water-meadows and hinds and stags,
While I and my like tell old, old stories...
Ah! but it drags--it drags.
C. HILTON BROWN.
April 14, 1920.
_School_
"Commem."
Fair ladies, why don't you direct us
What hour you are coming from Town
In the toilets that ravage the masculine pectus,
The bonnets that knock a man down?
Silky and summery flounces and flummery,
Gossamer muslins and lawns,
With the spring in your air and a rose in your hair
And a step that is light as a fawn's?
Our Fellows, both clergy and laity,
Leaving their sheltering oaks,
In a rapture of light irresponsible gaiety
Burst into flannels and jokes;
The Dean is canoeing, the Bursar is wooing,
The Junior Proctor you'll find
In a sumptuous punt with a damsel in front
And a Bull-dog to push from behind.
Ah, moist are our meadows, but moister
My lip at the thought of it all!
Soft ripple of dresses that flow in the cloister,
Girl laughter that rings on the wall!
But avaunt, trepidation! it's time for the station;
I'm glad that my trousers are pressed;
For I think you'll arrive by the 4.45,
And I want to be looking my best.
G. W. ARMITAGE.
June 28, 1911.