October and Other Poems with Occasional Verses on the War

TO AUSTRALIA

WITH THE WOUNDED AND THE SURVIVORS OF 1914 RETURNING HOME IN AUTUMN, 1918A loving message at Christmastide,Sent round the world to the undersideA-sail in the ship that across the foamCarries the wounded Aussies home,Who rallied at War’s far-thundering call,When England stood with her back to the wall,To fight for Freedom, that ne’er shall dieSo long as on earth the old flag fly.O hearts so loving, eager and bold—Whose praise hath claim to be writ on the skyIn letters of gold, of fire and gold—Never shall prouder tale be told,Than how ye fought as the knights of old“Against the heathen in TurkyeIn Flanders Artois and Picardie:”But above all triumph that else ye have wonThis is the goodliest deed ye have done,To have seal’d with blood in a desperate dayThe love-bond that binds us for ever and aye.September, 1918.

THE EXCELLENT WAY

Man’s mind that hath this earth for homeHath too its far-spread starry domeWhere thought is lost in going free,Prison’d but by infinity.He first in slumbrous babyhoodTook conscience of his heavenly good;Then with his sins grown up to youthWept at the vision of God’s truth.Soon in his heart new hopes awokeAs poet sang or prophet spoke:Temples arose and stone he taughtTo stand agaze in trancèd thought:He won the trembling air to tellOf far passions ineffable,Feeding the hungry things of senseWith instincts of omniscience,Immortal modes that should abideCherish’d by love and pious pride,That unborn children might inheritThe triumph of his holy spirit,Outbidding Nature, to enticeHer soul from her own Paradise,Till her wild face had fallen to shameHad he not praised her in God’s name.Alas! poor man, what blockish curseWould violate thy universe,To enchain thy freedom and entombThy pleasance in devouring gloom?Behold thy savage foes of yoreWith woes of pestilence and war,Siva and Moloch, Odin and Thor,Rise from their graves to greet amainThe deeds that give them life again.Poor man, sunk deeper than thy slimeIn blood and hate, in terror and crime,Thou who wert lifted on the wingsOf thy desire, the king of kings,In promise beyond ken sublime:O thou man-soul, who mightest climbTo heavenly happiness, whereofThine easy path were Mirth and Love!October, 1918.

ENGLAND TO INDIA

Christmas, 1918Beautiful is man’s home: how fair,Wrapt in her robe of azurous air,The Earth thro’ stress of ice and fireCame on the path of God’s desire,Redeeming Chaos, to composeExquisite forms of lily and rose,With every creature a designOf loveliness or craft divineSearchable and unsearchable,And each insect a miracle!Truth is as Beauty unconfined:Various as Nature is man’s Mind:Each race and tribe is as a flowerSet in God’s garden with its dowerOf special instinct; and man’s graceCompact of all must all embrace.China and Ind, Hellas or France,Each hath its own inheritance;And each to Truth’s rich market bringsIts bright divine imaginings,In rival tribute to surpriseThe world with native merchandise.Nor least in worth nor last in yearsOf artists, poets, saints and seers,England, in her far northern sea,Fashion’d the jewel of Liberty,Fetch’d from the shore of Palestine(Land of the Lily and mystic Vine).Where once in the everlasting dawnChrist’s Love-star flamed, that heavenly signWhereto all nations shall be drawn,Unfabled Magi, and upliftEach to Love’s cradle his own gift.Thou who canst dream and understand,Dost thou not dream for thine own landThis dream of Truth, and contemplateThat happier world, Love’s free Estate?Say, didst thou dream, O Sister fair,How hand in hand we entered there?

BRITANNIA VICTRIX

Careless wast thou in thy pride,Queen of seas and countries wide,Glorying on thy peaceful throne:—Can thy love thy sins atone?What shall dreams of glory serve,If thy sloth thy doom deserve,When the strong relentless foeStorm thy gates to lay thee low?Careless, ah! he saw thee leapMighty from thy startled sleep,Heard afar thy challenge ring:’Twas the world’s awakening.Welcome to thy children allRallying to thee without callOversea, the sportive sonsFrom thy vast dominions!Stern in onset or defence,Terrible in their confidence.Dauntless wast thou, fair goddess,’Neath the cloud of thy distress;Fierce and mirthful wast thou seenIn thy toil and in thy teen;While the nations looked to thee,Spent in worldwide agony.Oft, throughout that long ordealDark with horror-stricken duty,Nature on thy heart would stealBeckoning thee with heavenly beauty,Heightening ever on thine isleAll her seasons’ tranquil smile;Till thy soul anew converted,Roaming o’er the fields deserted,By thy sorrow sanctified,Found a place wherein to hide.Soon fresh beauty lit thy face,Then thou stood’st in Heaven’s high grace:Sudden in air on land and seaSwell’d the voice of victory.Now when jubilant bells resoundAnd thy sons come laurel-crown’d,After all thy years of woeThou no longer canst forgo,Now thy tears are loos’d to flow.Land, dear land, whose sea-built shoreNurseth warriors evermore,Land, whence Freedom far and loneRound the earth her speech has thrownLike a planet’s luminous zone,—In thy strength and calm defianceHold mankind in love’s alliance!Beauteous art thou, but the foesOf thy beauty are not thoseWho lie tangled and dismay’d;Fearless one, be yet afraidLest thyself thyself condemnIn the wrong that ruin’d them.God, who chose thee and upraised’Mong the folk (His name be praised!),Proved thee then by chastisementWorthy of His high intent,Who, because thou could’st endure,Saved thee free and purged thee pure,Won thee thus His grace to win,For thy love forgave thy sin,For thy truth forgave thy pride,Queen of seas and countries wide,—He who led thee still will guide.Hark! thy sons, those spirits freshDearly housed in dazzling flesh,Thy full brightening buds of strength,Ere their day had any lengthCrush’d, and fallen in torment sorest,Hark! the sons whom thou deplorestCall—I hear one call; he saith:“Mother, weep not for my death:’Twas to guard our home from hell,’Twas to make thy joy I fellPraising God, and all is well.What if now thy heart should quailAnd in peace our victory fail!If low greed in guise of rightShould consume thy gather’d might,And thy power mankind to saveFall and perish on our grave!On my grave, whose legend beFought with the brave and joyfullyDied in faith of victory.Follow on the way we won!Thou hast found, not lost thy son.”November 23, 1918.

DER TAG: NELSON AND BEATTY

A BROADSHEET1No doubt ’twas a truly Christian sightWhen the German ships came out of the Bight,But it can’t be said it was much of a fightThat grey November morning;The wonderful day, the great Der Tag,Which Prussians had vow’d with unmannerly bragShould see Old England lower her flagSome grey November morning.2The spirit of Nelson, that haunts the Fleet,Had come whereabouts the ships must meet,But he fear’d there was some decoy or cheatThat grey November morning,When the enemy led by a British scoutStole ’twixt our lines … and never a shoutOr a signal; and never a gun spoke outThat grey November morning.3So he shaped his course to the Admiral’s ship,Where Beatty stood with hand on hipImpassive, nor ever moved his lipThat grey November morning;And touching his shoulder he said: “My mate,Am I come too soon or am I too late?Is it friendly manœuvres or pageant of StateThis grey November morning?”4Then Beatty said: “As Admiral hereIn the name of the King I bid you good cheer:It’s not my fault that it looks so queerThis grey November morning;But there come the enemy all in queues;They can fight well enough if only they choose;Small blame to me if the fools refuse,This grey November morning.5“That’s Admiral Reuter, surrendering nineGreat Dreadnoughts, all first-rates of the line;Beyond, in the haze that veils the brineThis grey November morning,Loom five heavy Cruisers, and light ones four,With a tail of Destroyers, fifty or more,Each squadron under its Commodore,This grey November morning.6“The least of all those captive queensCould have knock’d your whole navy to smithereens,And nothing said of the other machines,On a grey November morning,The aeroplanes and the submarines,Bombs, torpedoes, and Zeppelins,Their floating mines and their smoky screens,Of a grey November morning.7“They’ll rage like bulls sans reason or rhyme,And next day, as if ’twere a pantomime,They walk in like cows at milking-time,On a grey November morning.We’re four years sick of the pestilent mob;—You’ve heard of our biblical Battle in Gob?—At times it was hardly a gentleman’s jobOf a grey November morning.”8Then Nelson said: “God bless my soul!How things are changed in this age of coal;For the spittle it isn’t with you I’d condoleThis grey November morning.By George! you’ve netted a monstrous catch:You’ll be able to pen the best dispatchThat ever an Admiral wrote under hatchOn a grey November morning.9“I like your looks and I like your name:My heart goes out to the old fleet’s fame,And I’m pleased to find you so spry at the gameThis grey November morning.Your ships, tho’ I don’t half understandTheir build, are stouter and better mann’dThan anything I ever had in commandOf a grey November morning.”10Then Beatty spoke: “Sir! none of my crew,All bravest of brave and truest of true,Is thinking of me so much as of youThis grey November morning.”And Nelson replied: “Well, thanks f’ your chat.Forgive my intrusion! I take off my hatAnd make you my bow … we’ll leave it at that,This grey November morning.”

“TO BURNS”

TOAST FOR THE GREENOCK CLUB DINNER, JANUARY, 1914To Burns! brave Scotia’s laurel’d sonWho drove his plough on Helicon—Who with his Doric rhyme erewhileTaught English bards to mend their style—And by the humour of his penFairly befool’d auld Nickie-ben …Blithe Robbie Burns! we love thee wellBecause thou wert so like thysel’,And in full cups with festive cheerWe toast thy fame from year to year.

POOR CHILD

On a mournful dayWhen my heart was lonely,O’er and o’er my thoughtConned but one thing only,Thinking how I lostWand’ring in the wild-woodThe companion selfOf my careless childhood.How, poor child, it wasI shall ne’er discover,But ’twas just when heGrew to be thy lover,With thine eyes of trustAnd thy mirth, whereunderAll the world’s hope layIn thy heart of wonder.Now, beyond regretsAnd faint memories of thee.Saddest is, poor child,That I cannot love thee.

TO PERCY BUCK

Folk alien to the Muse have hemm’d us roundAnd fiends have suck’d our blood: our best delightIs poison’d, and the year’s infective blightHath made almost a silence of sweet sound.But you, what fortune, Percy, have you foundAt Harrow? doth fair hope your toil requite?Doth beauty win her praise and truth her right,Or hath the good seed fal’n on stony ground?Ply the art ever nobly, single-soul’dLike Brahms, or as you ruled in Wells erewhile,—Nor yet the memory of that zeal is cold—Where lately I, who love the purer style,Enter’d, and felt your spirit as of oldBeside me, listening in the chancel-aisle.1904.

TO HARRY ELLIS WOOLDRIDGE

Love and the Muse have left their home, now bareOf memorable beauty, all is gone,The dedicated charm of Yattendon,Which thou wert apt, dear Hal, to build and share.What noble shades are flitting, who while-ereHaunted the ivy’d walls, where time ran onIn sanctities of joy by reverence won,Music and choral grace and studies fair!These on some kindlier field may Fate restore,And may the old house prosper, dispossestOf her whose equal it can nevermoreHold till it crumble: O nay! and the doorWill moulder ere it open on a guestTo match thee in thy wisdom and thy jest.October, 1905.

FORTUNATUS NIMIUM

I have lain in the sunI have toil’d as I mightI have thought as I wouldAnd now it is night.My bed full of sleepMy heart of contentFor friends that I metThe way that I went.I welcome fatigueWhile frenzy and careLike thin summer cloudsGo melting in air.To dream as I mayAnd awake when I willWith the song of the birdsAnd the sun on the hill.Or death—were it death—To what should I wakeWho loved in my homeAll life for its sake?What good have I wrought?I laugh to have learnedThat joy cannot comeUnless it be earned;For a happier lotThan God giveth meIt never hath beenNor ever shall be.

DEMOCRITUS

Joy of your opulent atoms! wouldst thou dareSay that Thought also of atoms self-became,Waving to soul as light had the eye in aim;And so with things of bodily sense compareThose native notions that the heavens declare,Space and Time, Beauty and God—Praise we his name!—Real ideas, that on tongues of flameFrom out mind’s cooling paste leapt unaware?Thy spirit, Democritus, orb’d in the eterneIllimitable galaxy of nightShineth undimm’d where greater splendours burnOf sage and poet: by their influence brightWe are held; and pouring from his quenchless urnChrist with immortal love-beams laves the height.1919.

NOTES

Poem 3.—As the metre or scansion of this poem was publicly discussed and wrongly analysed by some who admired its effects, it may be well to explain that it and the three other poems in similar measure, “Flowering Tree,” “In der Fremde,” “The West Front,” are strictly syllabic verse on the model left by Milton in “Samson Agonistes”; except that his system, which depended on exclusion of extra-metrical syllables (that is, syllables which did not admit of resolution by “elision” into a disyllabic scheme) from all places but the last, still admitted them in that place, thereby forbidding inversion of the last foot. It is natural to conclude that, had he pursued his inventions, his next step would have been to get rid of this anomaly; and if that is done, the result is the new rhythms that these poems exhibit. In this sort of prosody rhyme is admitted, like alliteration, as an ornament at will; it is not needed. My four experiments are confined to the twelve-syllable verse. It is probably agreed that there are possibilities in that long six-foot line which English poetry has not fully explored.

Poem 12, “Hell and Hate.”—This poem was written December 16, 1913. It is the description of a little picture hanging in my bedroom; it had been painted for me as a New Year’s gift more than thirty years before, and I described it partly because I never exactly knew what it meant. When the war broke out I remembered my poem and sent it to The Times, where it appeared in the Literary Supplement September 24, 1914.

Poem 13, “Wake up, England!”—This motto is the King’s well-known call to the country in 1901 at the Guildhall.

The verses appeared in The Times on August 8, 1914. There were three other stanzas, which are better omitted; and the last two lines, which were printed in capitals and ran thus,

England stands for honour,May God defend the right,

were purposely set out of metre. In the second stanza the words “The fiend” are what I originally wrote, and I think that the friends who persuaded me to substitute “Thy foe” will no longer wish to protest.

1

See notes at end of volume.