THREE DEDICATIONS

  TO EDMUND CLERIHEW BENTLEY

  THE DEDICATION OF THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

  A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather,

  Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together.

  Science announced nonentity and art admired decay;

  The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay.

  Round us in antic order their crippled vices came —

  Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame.

  Like the white lock of Whistler, that lit our aimless gloom,

  Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume.

  Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung;

  The world was very old indeed when you and I were young.

  They twisted even decent sin to shapes not to be named:

  Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed.

  Weak if we were and foolish, not thus we failed, not thus;

  When that black Baal blocked the heavens he had no hymns from us.

  Children we were — our forts of sand were even as weak as we,

  High as they went we piled them up to break that bitter sea.

  Fools as we were in motley, all jangling and absurd,

  When all church bells were silent our cap and bells were heard.

  Not all unhelped we held the fort, our tiny flags unfurled;

  Some giants laboured in that cloud to lift it from the world.

  I find again the book we found, I feel the hour that flings

  Far out of fish-shaped Paumanok some cry of cleaner things;

  And the Green Carnation withered, as in forest fires that pass,

  Roared in the wind of all the world ten million leaves of grass;

  Or sane and sweet and sudden as a bird sings in the rain

  Truth out of Tusitala spoke and pleasure out of pain.

  Yea, cool and clear and sudden as a bird sings in the grey,

  Dunedin to Samoa spoke, and darkness unto day,

  But we were young; we lived to see God break their bitter charms,

  God and the good Republic come riding back in arms:

  We have seen the city of Mansoul, even as it rocked, relieved — Blessed

  are they who did not see, but being blind, believed.

  This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells,

  And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells —

  Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash,

  Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash.

  The doubts that were so plain to chase, so dreadful to withstand —

  Oh, who shall understand but you; yea, who shall understand?

  The doubts that drove us through the night as we two talked amain,

  And day had broken on the streets e’er it broke upon the brain.

  Between us, by the peace of God, such truth can now be told;

  Yea, there is strength in striking root, and good in growing old.

  We have found common things at last, and marriage and a creed.

  And I may safely write it now, and you may safely read.

  TO HILAIRE BELLOC

  THE DEDICATION OF THE NAPOLEON OF NOTTING HILL

  For every tiny town or place

  God made the stars especially;

  Babies look up with owlish face

  And see them tangled in a tree:

  You saw a moon from Sussex Downs,

  A Sussex moon, untravelled still,

  I saw a moon that was the town’s,

  The largest lamp on Campden Hill.

  Yea, Heaven is everywhere at home.

  The big blue cap that always fits,

  And so it is (be calm; they come

  To goal at last, my wandering wits),

  So it is with the heroic thing;

  This shall not end for the world’s end,

  And though the sullen engines swing,

  Be you not much afraid, my friend.

  This did not end by Nelson’s urn

  Where an immortal England sits —

  Nor where your tall young men in turn

  Drank death like wine at Austerlitz.

  And when the pedants bade us mark

  What cold mechanic happenings

  Must come; our souls said in the dark,

  “Belike; but there are likelier things.”

  Likelier across these flats afar,

  These sulky levels smooth and free,

  The drums shall crash a waltz of war

  And Death shall dance with Liberty;

  Likelier the barricades shall blare

  Slaughter below and smoke above,

  And death and hate and hell declare

  That men have found a thing to love.

  Far from your sunny uplands set

  I saw the dream; the streets I trod,

  The lit straight streets shot out and met

  The starry streets that point to God;

  The legend of an epic hour

  A child I dreamed, and dream it still,

  Under the great grey water-tower

  That strikes the stars on Campden Hill

  TO M. E. W.

  Words, for alas my trade is words, a barren burst of rhyme,

  Rubbed by a hundred rhymesters, battered a thousand times,

  Take them, you, that smile on strings, those nobler sounds than mine,

  The words that never lie, or brag, or flatter, or malign.

  I give a hand to my lady, another to my friend,

  To whom you too have given a hand; and so before the end

  We four may pray, for all the years, whatever suns beset,

  The sole two prayers worth praying — to live and not forget.

  The pale leaf falls in pallor, but the green leaf turns to gold;

  We that have found it good to be young shall find it good to be old;

  Life that bringeth the marriage bell, the cradle and the grave,

  Life that is mean to the mean of heart, and only brave to the brave.

  In the calm of the last white winter, when all the past is ours,

  Old tears are frozen as jewels, old storms frosted as flowers.

  Dear Lady, may we meet again, stand up again, we four,

  Beneath the burden of the years, and praise the earth once more.

  WAR POEMS

  LEPANTO

  White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,

  And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;

  There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,

  It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,

  It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,

  For the inmost sea of all the earth is shake with his ships.

  They have dared the white republics up the cape of Italy,

  They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,

  And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,

  And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.

  The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;

  The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;

  From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,

  And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

  Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,

  Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,

  Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,

  The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,

  The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,

  That once went singing southward when all the world was young.

  In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,

  Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.

  Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,

  Don John of Austria is going to the war,

  Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold

  In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,

  Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,

  Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.

  Don John laughing in the brave beard curled.

  Spuming of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,

  Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.

  Love-light of Spain — hurrah!

  Death-light of Africa!

  Don John of Austria

  Is riding to the sea.

  Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,

  (Don John of Austria is going to the war.)

  He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri’s knees,

  His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.

  He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,

  And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,

  And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring

  Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.

  Giants and the Genii,

  Multiplex of wing and eye,

  Whose strong obedience broke the sky

  When Solomon was king.

  They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,

  From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;

  They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea

  Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;

  On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,

  Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;

  They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground, —

  They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.

  And he saith, “Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,

  And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,

  And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,

  For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.

  We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,

  Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,

  But a noise is in ‘the mountains, in the mountains, and I know

  The voice that shook our palaces — four hundred years ago:

  It is he that saith not ‘Kismet’; it is he that knows not Fate;

  It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!

  It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,

  Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth.”

  For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,

  (Don John of Austria is going to the war.)

  Sudden and still — hurrah!

  Bolt from Iberia!

  Don John of Austria

  Is gone by Alcalar.

  St. Michael’s on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north

  (Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)

  Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift

  And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.

  He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;

  The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;

  The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes

  And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,

  And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty

  And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,

  And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,

  But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.

  Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse

  Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,

  Trumpet that sayeth ha!

  Domino gloria!

  Don John of Austria

  Is shouting to the ships.

  King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck

  (Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)

  The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,

  And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.

  He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,

  He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very

  And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey

  Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day.

  And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,

  But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.

  Don John’s hunting, and his hounds have bayed — Booms

  away past Italy the rumour of his raid.

  Gun upon gun, ha! ha!

  Gun upon gun, hurrah!

  Don John of Austria

  Has loosed the cannonade.

  The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,

  (Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)

  The hidden room in man’s house where God sits all the year,

  The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.

  He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea

  The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;

  They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,

  They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;

  And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,

  And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,

  Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines

  Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.

  They are lost like slaves that swat, and in the skies of morning hung

  The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.

  They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on

  Before the high Kings’ horses in the granite of Babylon.

  And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell

  Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,

  And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign(But

  Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)

  Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,

  Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop,

  Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,

  Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,

  Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sex

  White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

  Vivat Hispania!

  Domino Gloria!

  Don John of Austria

  Has set his people free!

  Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath

  (Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)

  And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,

  Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,

  And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....

  (But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

  THE MARCH OF THE BLACK MOUNTAIN 1913

  What will there be to remember

  Of us in the days to be?

  Whose faith was a trodden ember

  And even our doubt not free;

  Parliaments built of paper,

  And the soft swords of gold

  That twist like a waxen taper

  In the weak aggressor’s hold;

  A hush around Hunger, slaying

  A city of serfs unfed;

  What shall we leave for a saying

  To praise us when we are dead?

  But men shall remember the Mountain

  That broke its forest chains,

  And men shall remember the Mountain

  When it arches against the plains:

  And christen their children from it

  And season and ship and street,

  When the Mountain came to Mahomet

  And looked small before his feet.

  His head was as high as the crescent

  Of the moon that seemed his crown,

  And on glory of past and present

  The light of his eyes looked down;

  One hand went out to the morning

  Over Brahmin and Buddhist slain,

  And one to the West in scorning

  To point at the scars of Spain;

  One foot on the hills for warden

  By the little Mountain trod;

  And one was in a garden

  And stood on the grave of God.

  But men shall remember the Mountain,

  Though it fall down like a tree,

  They shall see the sign of the Mountain

  Faith cast into the sea;

  Though the crooked swords overcome it

  And the Crooked Moon ride free,

  When the Mountain comes to Mahomet

  It has more life than he.

  But what will there be to remember

  Or what will there be to see —

  Though our towns through a long November

  Abide to the end and be?

  Strength of slave and mechanic

  Whose iron is ruled by gold,

  Peace of immortal panic,

  Love that is hate grown cold —

  Are these a bribe or a warning

  That we turn not to the sun,

  Nor look on the lands of morning

  Where deeds at last are done?

  Where men shall remember the Mountain

  When truth forgets the plain —

  And walk in the way of the Mountain

  That did not fail in vain;

  Death and eclipse and comet,

  Thunder and seals that rend:

  When the Mountain came to Mahomet;

  Because it was the end.

  BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS

  Of old with a divided heart

  I saw my people’s pride expand,

  Since a man’s soul is torn apart

  By mother earth and fatherland.

  I knew, through many a tangled tale,

  Glory and truth not one but two:

  King, Constable, and Amirail

  Took me like trumpets: but I knew

  A blacker thing than blood’s own dye

  Weighed down great Hawkins on the sea;