Songs Of The Road

THE WANDERER1

     'Twas in the shadowy gloaming          Of a cold and wet March day,     That a wanderer came roaming          From countries far away.     Scant raiment had he round him,          Nor purse, nor worldly gear,     Hungry and faint we found him,          And bade him welcome here.     His weary frame bent double,          His eyes were old and dim,     His face was writhed with trouble          Which none might share with him.     His speech was strange and broken,          And none could understand,     Such words as might be spoken          In some far distant land.     We guessed not whence he hailed from,          Nor knew what far-off quay     His roving bark had sailed from          Before he came to me.     But there he was, so slender,          So helpless and so pale,     That my wife's heart grew tender          For one who seemed so frail.     She cried, "But you must bide here!          You shall no further roam.     Grow stronger by our side here,          Within our moorland home!"     She laid her best before him,          Homely and simple fare,     And to his couch she bore him          The raiment he should wear.     To mine he had been welcome,          My suit of russet brown,     But she had dressed our weary guest          In a loose and easy gown.     And long in peace he lay there,          Brooding and still and weak,     Smiling from day to day there          At thoughts he would not speak.     The months flowed on, but ever          Our guest would still remain,     Nor made the least endeavour          To leave our home again.     He heeded not for grammar,          Nor did we care to teach,     But soon he learned to stammer          Some words of English speech.     With these our guest would tell us          The things that he liked best,     And order and compel us          To follow his behest.     He ruled us without malice,          But as if he owned us all,     A sultan in his palace          With his servants at his call.     Those calls came fast and faster,          Our service still we gave,     Till I who had been master          Had grown to be his slave.     He claimed with grasping gestures          Each thing of price he saw,     Watches and rings and vestures,          His will the only law.     In vain had I commanded,          In vain I struggled still,     Servants and wife were banded          To do the stranger's will.     And then in deep dejection          It came to me one day,     That my own wife's affection          Had been beguiled away.     Our love had known no danger,          So certain had it been!     And now to think a stranger          Should dare to step between.     I saw him lie and harken          To the little songs she sung,     And when the shadows darken          I could hear his lisping tongue.     They would sit in chambers shady,          When the light was growing dim,     Ah, my fickle-hearted lady!          With your arm embracing him.     So, at last, lest he divide us,          I would put them to the test.     There was no one there beside us,          Save  this  interloping  guest.     So I took my stand before them,          Very silent and erect,     My accusing glance passed o'er them,          Though with no observed effect.     But the lamp light shone upon her,          And I saw each tell-tale feature,     As I cried, "Now, on your honour,          Do or don't you love the creature?"     But her answer seemed evasive,          It was "Ducky-doodle-doo!     If his mummy loves um babby,          Doesn't daddums love um too?"

BENDY'S SERMON

[Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]

     You didn't know of Bendigo!   Well, that          knocks me out!     Who's your board school teacher?   What's          he been about?     Chock-a-block with fairy-tales – full of          useless cram,     And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of          Nottingham!     Bendy's short for Bendigo.   You should          see him peel!     Half of him was whalebone, half of him          was steel,     Fightin' weight eleven ten, five foot nine          in height,     Always ready to  oblige if you  want a          fight.     I could talk of Bendigo from here to king-          dom come,     I guess before I ended you would wish your          dad was dumb.     I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and          how the deaf 'un fell,     But the game is done, and the men are          gone – and maybe it's as well.     Bendy he turned Methodist – he said he          felt a call,     He stumped the country preachin' and you          bet he filled the hall,     If you seed him in the pulpit, a-bleatin'          like a lamb,     You'd   never know   bold   Bendigo,   the          pride of Nottingham.     His hat was like a funeral, he'd got a          waiter's coat,     With a hallelujah collar and a choker round          his throat,     His pals would laugh and say in chaff that          Bendigo was right,     In takin' on the devil, since he'd no one          else to fight.     But he was very earnest, improvin' day by          day,     A-workin' and a-preachin' just as his duty          lay,     But the devil he was waitin', and in the          final bout,     He hit him hard below his guard and          knocked poor Bendy out.     Now I'll tell you how it happened. He          was preachin' down at Brum,     He was billed just like a circus, you should          see the people come,     The chapel it was crowded, and in the fore-          most row,     There was half a dozen bruisers who'd a          grudge at Bendigo.     There was Tommy Piatt of Bradford,          Solly Jones of Perry Bar,     Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the          same wot drew with Carr,     Jack Ball the fightin  gunsmith, Joe Mur-          phy from the Mews,     And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, the          Champion of the Jews.     A very pretty handful a-sittin' in a          string,     Full of beer and impudence, ripe for any-          thing,     Sittin' in a string there, right under          Bendy's nose,     If his message was for sinners, he could          make a start on those.     Soon he heard them chaflin'; "Hi, Bendy!          Here's a go!"     "How much are you coppin' by this Jump          to Glory show?"     "Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring!  Mighty          spry of you!     Didn't  everybody know  the  ring  was          leavin' you."     Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above          and prayed,     "Look down, O Lord, and grip me with          a strangle hold!" he said.     "Fix me with a strangle hold! Put a stop          on me!     I'm slippin', Lord, I'm slippin' and I'm          clingin' hard to Thee!"     But the roughs they kept on chaffin' and          the uproar it was such     That the preacher in the pulpit might be          talkin' double Dutch,     Till a workin' man he shouted out, a-          jumpin' to his feet,     "Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave          'em in the street."     Then  Bendy  said, "Good  Lord, since          first I left my sinful ways,     Thou knowest that to Thee alone I've          given up my days,     But now, dear Lord" – and here he laid his          Bible on the shelf —     "I'll take, with your permission, just five          minutes for myself."     He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger          from a den,     They say it was a lovely sight to see him          floor his men;     Right and left, and left and right, straight          and true and hard,     Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like          a knacker's yard.     Platt was standin' on his back and lookup          at his toes,     Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin' for          his nose,     Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he          could do     Rakin' for his ivories that lay about the          pew.     Jack Ball the fightin' gunsmith was in a          peaceful sleep,     Joe Murphy lay across him, all tied up          in a heap,     Five of them was twisted in a tangle on          the floor,     And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, had          sprinted for the door.     Five repentant fightin' men, sitting in a          row,     Listenin' to words of grace from Mister          Bendigo,     Listenin' to his reverence – all as good          as gold,     Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the          fold.     So that's the way that Bendy ran his          mission in the slum,     And preached the Holy Gospel to the          fightin' men of Brum,     "The Lord," said he, "has given me His          message from on high,     And if  you interrupt Him, I will know          the reason why."     But to think of all your schooling clean          wasted, thrown away,     Darned if I can make out what you're          learnin' all the day,     Grubbin' up old fairy-tales, fillin' up with          cram,     And didn't know of Bendigo, the pride          of Nottingham.

II. – PHILOSOPHIC VERSES

COMPENSATION

     The grime is on the window pane,          Pale the London sunbeams fall,     And show the smudge of mildew stain,          Which lies on the distempered wall.     I am a cripple, as you see,          And here I lie, a broken thing,     But God has given flight to me,          That mocks the swiftest eagle wing.     For if I will to see or hear,          Quick as the thought my spirit flies,     And lo! the picture flashes clear,          Through all the mist of centuries.     I can recall the Tigris' strand,          Where once the Turk and Tartar met,     When the great Lord of Samarcand          Struck down the Sultan Bajazet.     Under a ten-league swirl of dust          The roaring battle swings and sways,     Now reeling down, now upward thrust,          The crescent sparkles through  the haze.     I see the Janissaries fly,          I see the chain-mailed leader fall,     I hear the Tekbar clear and high,          The true believer's battle-call.     And tossing o'er the press I mark          The horse-tail banner over all,     Shaped like the smudge of mildew dark          That lies on the distempered wall.     And thus the meanest thing I see          Will set a scene within my brain,     And every sound that comes to me,          Will bring strange echoes back again.     Hark now!   In rhythmic monotone,          You hear the murmur of the mart,     The low, deep, unremitting moan,          That  comes  from  weary London's heart.     But I can change it to the hum          Of multitudinous acclaim,     When triple-walled Byzantium,          Re-echoes the Imperial name.     I hear the beat of armed feet,          The legions clanking on their way,     The long shout rims from street to street,          With rolling drum and trumpet bray.     So I hear it rising, falling,          Till it dies away once more,     And I hear the costers calling          Mid the weary London roar.     Who shall pity then the lameness,          Which still holds me from the ground?     Who commiserate the sameness          Of the scene that girds me round?     Though I lie a broken wreck,          Though I seem to want for all,     Still the world is at my beck          And the ages at my call.

THE BANNER OF PROGRESS

     There's a banner in our van,     And we follow as we can,     For at times we scarce can see it,     And at times it flutters high.     But however it be flown,     Still we know it as our own,     And we follow, ever follow,     Where we see the banner fly.     In the struggle and the strife,     In the weariness of life,     The banner-man may stumble,     He may falter in the fight.     But if one should fail or slip,     There are other hands to grip,     And it's forward, ever forward,     From the darkness to the light.

HOPE

     Faith may break on reason,     Faith may prove a treason          To that highest gift          That is granted by Thy grace;     But Hope!   Ah, let us cherish     Some spark that may not perish,          Some tiny spark to cheer us,          As we wander through the waste!     A little lamp beside us,     A little lamp to guide us,          Where the path is rocky,          Where the road is steep.     That when the light falls dimmer,     Still some God-sent glimmer          May hold us steadfast ever,          To the track that we should keep.     Hope for the trending of it,     Hope for the ending of it,     Hope for all around us,          That it ripens in the sun.     Hope for what is waning,     Hope for what is gaining,     Hope for what is waiting          When the long day is done.     Hope that He, the nameless,     May still be best and blameless,          Nor ever end His highest          With the earthworm and the slime.     Hope that o'er the border,     There lies a land of order,     With higher law to reconcile          The lower laws of Time.     Hope that every vexed life,     Finds within that next life,          Something that may recompense,          Something that may cheer.     And that perchance the lowest one     Is truly but the slowest one,          Quickened by the sorrow          Which is waiting for him here.

RELIGIO MEDICI

1     God's own best will bide the test,          And God's own worst will fall;     But, best or worst or last or first,          He ordereth it all.2     For all is good, if understood,          (Ah,   could  we  understand!)     And right and ill are tools of skill          Held in His either hand.3     The harlot and the anchorite,          The martyr and the rake,     Deftly He fashions each aright,          Its vital part to take.4     Wisdom He makes to form the fruit          Where the high blossoms be;     And Lust to kill the weaker shoot,          And Drink to trim the tree.5     And Holiness that so the bole          Be solid at the core;     And Plague and Fever, that the whole          Be changing evermore.6     He strews the microbes in the lung,          The blood-clot in the brain;     With test and test He picks the best,          Then tests them once again.7     He tests the body and the mind,          He rings them o'er and o'er;     And if they crack, He throws them back,          And fashions them once more.8     He chokes the infant throat with slime,          He sets the ferment free;     He builds the tiny tube of lime          That blocks  the artery.9     He lets the youthful dreamer store          Great projects in his brain,     Until He drops the fungus spore          That smears them out again.10     He stores the milk that feeds the babe,          He dulls the tortured nerve;     He gives a hundred joys of sense          Where few or none might serve.11     And still He trains the branch of good          Where the high blossoms be,     And wieldeth still the shears of ill          To prune and prime His tree.

MAN'S LIMITATION

     Man says that He is jealous,          Man says that He is wise,     Man says that He is watching          From His throne beyond the skies.     But perchance the arch above us          Is one great mirror's span,     And the Figure seen so dimly          Is a vast reflected man.     If it is love that gave us          A thousand blossoms bright,     Why should that love not save us          From poisoned aconite?     If this man blesses sunshine          Which sets his fields aglow,     Shall that man curse the tempest          That lays his harvest low?     If you may sing His praises          For health He gave to you,     What of this spine-curved cripple,          Shall he sing praises too?     If you may justly thank Him          For strength in mind and limb,     Then what of yonder weakling —          Must he give thanks to Him?     Ah dark, too dark, the riddle!          The tiny brain too small!     We call, and fondly listen,          For answer to that call.     There comes no word to tell us          Why this and that should be,     Why you should live with sorrow,          And joy should live with me.

MIND AND MATTER

     Great was his soul and high his aim,     He viewed the world, and he could trace     A lofty plan to leave his name     Immortal  'mid the human race.     But as he planned, and as he worked,     The fungus spore within him lurked.     Though dark the present and the past,     The future seemed a sunlit thing.     Still ever deeper and more vast,     The changes that he hoped to bring.     His was the will to dare and do;     But still the stealthy fungus grew.     Alas the plans that came to nought!     Alas the soul that thrilled in vain!     The sunlit future that he sought     Was but a mirage of the brain.     Where now the wit?   Where now the will?     The fungus is the master still.

DARKNESS

     A gentleman of wit and charm,          A kindly heart, a cleanly mind,     One who was quick with hand or purse,          To lift the burden of his kind.     A brain well balanced and mature,          A soul that shrank from all things            base,     So rode he forth that winter day,          Complete in every mortal grace.     And then – the blunder of a horse,          The crash upon the frozen clods,     And – Death?   Ah! no such dignity,          But Life, all twisted and at odds!     At odds in body and in soul,          Degraded to some brutish state,     A being loathsome and malign,          Debased, obscene, degenerate.     Pathology?   The case is clear,          The diagnosis is exact;     A bone depressed, a haemorrhage,          The pressure on a nervous tract.     Theology?   Ah, there's the rub!          Since brain and soul together fade,     Then when the brain is dead – enough!          Lord help us, for we need Thine aid!

III – MISCELLANEOUS VERSES

A WOMAN'S LOVE

     I am not blind – I understand;          I see him loyal, good, and wise,     I feel decision in his hand,          I read his honour in his eyes.     Manliest among men is he          With every gift and grace to clothe            him;     He never loved a girl but me —          And I – I loathe him! – loathe him!     The other! Ah! I value him          Precisely at his proper rate,     A creature of caprice and whim,          Unstable, weak, importunate.     His thoughts are set on paltry gain —          You only tell me what I see —     I know him selfish, cold and vain;          But, oh! he's all the world to me!

BY THE NORTH SEA

     Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray,          We walked where tide and shingle            meet;     The long waves rolled from far away          To purr in ripples at our feet.     And as we walked it seemed to me          That three old friends had met that            day,     The old, old sky, the old, old sea,          And love, which is as old as they.     Out seaward hung the brooding mist          We saw it rolling, fold on fold,     And marked the great Sun alchemist          Turn all its leaden edge to gold,     Look well, look well, oh lady mine,          The gray below, the gold above,     For so the grayest life may shine          All golden in the light of love.

DECEMBER'S SNOW

     The bloom is on the May once more,          The chestnut buds have burst anew;     But, darling, all our springs are o'er,          'Tis winter still for me and you.     We plucked Life's blossoms long ago     What's left is but December's snow.     But winter has its joys as fair,          The gentler joys, aloof, apart;     The snow may lie upon our hair          But never, darling, in our heart.     Sweet were the springs of long ago     But sweeter still December's snow.     Yes, long ago, and yet to me          It seems a thing of yesterday;     The shade beneath the willow tree,          The word you looked but feared to say.     Ah! when I learned to love you so     What recked we of December's snow?     But swift the ruthless seasons sped          And swifter still they speed away.     What though they bow the dainty head          And fleck the raven hair with gray?     The boy and girl of long ago     Are laughing through the veil of snow.

SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION

          Masters, I sleep not quiet in my grave,     There where they laid me, by the Avon          shore,     In that some crazy wights have set it forth     By arguments most false and fanciful,     Analogy and far-drawn inference,     That Francis Bacon, Earl of Verulam     (A man whom I remember in old days,     A learned judge with sly adhesive palms,     To which the suitor's gold was wont to     stick) —     That this same Verulam had writ the plays     Which were the fancies of my frolic brain.     What can they urge to dispossess the crown     Which all my comrades and the whole loud          world     Did in my lifetime lay upon my brow?     Look straitly at these arguments and see     How witless and how fondly slight they be.          Imprimis, they have urged that, being            born     In the mean compass of a paltry town,     I could not in my youth have trimmed          my mind     To such an eagle pitch, but must be found,     Like the hedge sparrow, somewhere near            the ground.          Bethink you, sirs, that though I was            denied     The learning which in colleges is found,     Yet may a hungry brain still find its fo     Wherever books may lie or men may be;     And though perchance by Isis or by Cam     The meditative, philosophic plant     May best luxuriate; yet some would say     That in the task of limning mortal life     A fitter preparation might be made     Beside the banks of Thames.   And then            again,     If I be suspect, in that I was not     A fellow of a college, how, I pray,     Will Jonson pass, or Marlowe, or the rest,     Whose measured verse treads with as          proud a gait     As that which was my own? Whence did          they suck     This honey that they stored?   Can you          recite     The vantages which each of these has had     And I had not?   Or is the argument     That my Lord Verulam hath written all,     And covers in his wide-embracing self     The stolen fame of twenty smaller men?          You  prate  about  my  learning.   I            would urge     My want of learning rather as a proof     That I am still myself.   Have I not traced     A seaboard to Bohemia, and made     The cannons roar a whole wide century     Before the first was forged?   Think you,          then,     That he, the ever-learned Verulam,     Would have erred thus?   So may my very          faults     In their gross falseness prove that I am true,     And by that falseness gender truth in you.     And what is left?   They say that they          have found     A script, wherein the writer tells my Lord     He is a secret poet.   True enough!     But surely now that secret is o'er past.     Have you not read his poems?   Know          you not     That in our day a learned chancellor     Might better far dispense unjustest law     Than be suspect of such frivolity     As lies in verse?   Therefore his poetry     Was secret.   Now that he is gone     'Tis so no longer.   You may read his verse,     And judge if mine be better or be worse:     Read  and pronounce!   The  meed  of          praise is thine;     But still let his be his and mine be mine.          I say no more; but how can you for-            swear     Outspoken Jonson, he who knew me well;     So, too, the epitaph which still you read?     Think you they faced my sepulchre with          lies —     Gross lies, so evident and palpable     That every townsman must have wot of it,     And not a worshipper within the church     But must have smiled to see the marbled          fraud?     Surely this touches you?   But if by chance     My reasoning still leaves you obdurate,     I'll lay one final plea.   I pray you look     On my presentment, as it reaches you.     My features shall be sponsors for my fame;     My brow shall speak when Shakespeare's          voice is dumb,     And be his warrant in an age to come.

THE EMPIRE

1902     They said that it had feet of clay,          That its fall was sure and quick.     In the flames of yesterday          All the clay was burned to brick.     When they carved our epitaph          And marked us doomed beyond recall,     "We are," we answered, with a laugh,          "The Empire that declines to fall."

A VOYAGE

1909     Breathing the stale and stuffy air          Of office or consulting room,     Our thoughts will wander back to where          We heard the low Atlantic boom,     And, creaming underneath our screw,          We watched the swirling waters break,     Silver filagrees on blue          Spreading fan-wise in our wake.     Cribbed within the city's fold,          Fettered to our daily round,     We'll conjure up the haze of gold          Which ringed the wide horizon round.     And still we'll break the sordid day          By fleeting visions far and fair,     The silver shield of Vigo Bay,          The long brown cliff of Finisterre.     Where once the Roman galley sped,          Or Moorish corsair spread his sail,     By wooded shore, or sunlit head,          By barren hill or sea-washed vale     We took our way.   But we can swear,          That many countries we have scanned,     But never one that could compare          With our own island mother-land.     The dream is o'er.   No more we view          The shores of Christian or of Turk,     But turning to our tasks anew,          We bend us to our wonted work.     But there will come to you and me          Some glimpse of spacious days gone by,     The wide, wide stretches of the sea,          The mighty curtain of the sky,