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OLLECTED
&OHN MASEFIEUD
I
THE COLLECTED POEMS
OF JOHN MASEFIELD
THE
COLLECTED POEMS
OF
JOHN MASEFIELD
I'tl i5(c
3 1- I ■ ^ "f
LONDON: WILLIA.M HEINEMANN LTD.
3
First Published . . . October 1Q23
New Impression . . . November 1923
MADE AND I'RINTED IN GRF.AT BRITAIN BY MOKRISON AND GIBB LTD., EDINBURGH
CONTENTS'
SAtT-VVATER BALLADS—
VA C<insecration
The Yarn of the Loch Achray
Sing a Song o' Shipwreck
Burial-Party
Bill ....
Fever Ship .
Fever-Chills
One of the Bo'sun's Yarns
- Hell's Pavement
Sea-Change.
Harbour-Bar
The Turn of the Tide
One of Wally's Yarns
A Valediction (Liverpool Docks)
A Night at Dago Tom's
" Port of Many Ships "
- Cape Horn Gospel (I)
^ Cape Horn Gospel (II)
Mother Carey
Evening — Regatta Day
A Valediction
A Pier7Head Chorus
* The Golden City of St. Mary
^ Trade Winds
*Sea-Fever .
A Wanderer's Song
'ardigan Bay . •
PAGE
4
6
8
9
9
10
11
14
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
26
27
27
28
29
VI
CONTENTS
I "
SALT-WATER BALLADS— continued
Christmas Eve at Sea
A Ballad of Cape St. Vincent
The Tarry Buccaneer
A Ballad of John Silver
Lyrics from The Buccaneer
D'Avalos' Prayer
The West Wind
The Galley-Rowers
> Sorrow of Mydath
^Vagabond .
Vision
Spunyarn .
The Dead Knight
Personal
On Malvern Hill
yTewkesbury Road
On Eastnor Knoll
" Rest her Soul, she 's dead
" All ye that pass by "
In Memory of A. P. R.
To-Morrow .
Cavalier
A Song at Parting
Glossary : ;
BALLADS AND POEMS—
The BaUad of Sir Bors
Spanish Waters
Cargoes
Captain Stratton's Fancy
An Old Song Re-sung
• St. Mary's Bells .
London Town
The Emigrant
Port of Holy Peter
Beauty i
The Seekers
CONTENTS
Vll
BALLADS AND POEMS— con«ntt«d page
Dawn . . . . • • .63
Laugh and be Merry
64
June Twilight
64
Roadways .
65
Midsiimmer Night .
y
66
The Harper's Song .
67
The Gentle Lady .
68
*' Twilight
68
Invocation .
6*
Posted as Missing •
69
A Creed
69
When Bony Death
71
•5^er Heart .
71
Being her Friend .
72
^Fragments .
. 72
Born for Nought Else
, 74
The Death Rooms .
, 75
Ignorance .
. 75
The Watch in the Wood
. 76
*.C. L. M. .
. 77
Waste
. 78
Thu-d Mate ,
. 78
V The Wild Duck
. 79
Imagination
. 80
Christmas, 1903
. 80
The Word .
81
LYRICS FROM THF, TRAGEDY OF POMPEY THE
GREAT—
(I) The Chief Centurions ; . . .85
(II) Philip Sings . . . . . .85
(III) Chanty
B
. 85
THE EVERLASTING MERCY—
The Everlasting Mercy
THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET—
The Widow in the Bye Street .
89
135
Vlll
CONTENTS
DAUBER-
Dauber ....... 193
Explanations of Some of the Sea Terms used in the Poem . 247
THE DAFFODIL FIELDS—
The Daffodil Fields
PHILIP THE KING, AND OTHER POEMS—
Philip the King
Truth
"Vrhe Wanderer
August, 1914
^Biography .
Song
^hips
255
321
3617
367
374
377
384
38l
387
Sonnet (from the Spanish of Don Francisco A. Quevedo) .
Sonnet on the Death of his Wife (from the Portuguese of
Antonio di Ferreiro) ..... 388
They Closed her Eyes (from the Spanish of Don Gustavo
A. Becqu^r) . . . . . . 388
The River . . . . . . . 391
Watching by a Sick-Bed ..... 401
LOLLINGDON DOAVNS, AND OTHER POEMS, WITH
SONNETS—
Lollingdon Downs .
. 405
The Ship ....
. 412
The Blacksmith
. 418
The Frontier
.417
Midnight
. 420
GOOD FRIDAY—
Good Friday
. 449
ROSAS—
Rosas ....
. 503
REYNARD THE FOX ; or, THE GHOST HEATH RUN-
Reynard the Fox ; or, The Ghost Heath Run
525
CONTENTS
IX
ENSLAVED, AND OTHER POEMS—
Enslaved
■*The Hounds of Hell
Cap on Head
Sonnets
The Passing Strange
Animula
The Lemmings
•"Forget
^ On Growing Old
Lyric
RIGHT ROYAL— -7,
>Right Royal
KING COLE, AND OTHER POEMS—
King Cole .
■^
The Dream
The Woman Speaks
The Rider at the Gate
The Builders
The Setting of the Windcock
The Racer .
The Blowing of the Horn .
The Haunted
Campeachy Picture
The Eye and the Object .
INDEX OF FIRST LINES .
PAGE
601
639
655
661
663
665
670
670
671
672
675
731
763
767
768
770
771
772
772
774
777
778
779
SALT-WATER BALLADS
A CONSECRATION
ATOT of the princes and prelates with periwigged
-^ ' charioteers
Biding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years, —
Rather the scorned — the rejected — the men hemmed in with
the spears ;
he men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,
lazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries, i
The men with the broken heads and the blood running into
their eyes.
Not the be-medalled Commander, beloved of the throne,
Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,
But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.
Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the road,
The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with
the goad.
The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.
The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,
Vhe chantyman bent at the halliards putting a tune to the
shout,
Vhe drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out.
hhers may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,
^he portly presence of potentates goodly in girth ; —
If me be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the
earth /
^HEiRS be the music, the colour, the glory, the gold ;
dine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mould,
f the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and
the cold —
f these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.
Amen.
i^
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
THE YARN OF THE LOCH ACHRAY
The Loch Achray was a clipper tall
With seven-and-twenty hands in all.
Twenty to hand and reef and haul,
A skipper to sail and mates to bawl
" Tally on to the tackle-fall,
Heave now 'n' start her, heave 'n' pawl ! "
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.
Her crew were shipped and they said " Farewell,
So-long, my Tottie, my lovely gell ;
We sail to-day if we fetch to hell.
It's time we tackled the wheel a spell."
Hear the yarn of a sailor.
An old yarn learned at sea.
The dockside loafers talked on the quay
The day that she towed down to sea :
" Lord, what a handsome ship she be !
Cheer her, sonny boys, three times three ! "
And the dockside loafers gave her a shout
As the red-funnelled tug-boat towed her out ;
They gave her a cheer as the custom is,
And the crew yelled " Take our loves to Liz —
Three cheers, bullies, for old Pier Head
'N' the bloody stay-at-homes ! " they said.
Hear the yarn of a sailor,
An old yarn learned at sea.
In the grey of the coming on of night
She dropped the tug at the Tuskar Light,
'N' the topsails went to the topmast head
To a chorus that fairly awoke the dead.
She trimmed her yards and slanted South
With her royals set and a bone in her mouth.
Hear the yarn of a sailor.
An old yarn learned at sea.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 7
" 'N' smash comes a crash of green water as sets me
afloat
With freezing fingers clutching the keel of a boat —
The bottom-up whaler — 'n' that was the juice of a note.
" Well, I clambers acrost o' the keel 'n' I gets me secured,
When I sees a face in the white o' the smother to looard.
So I gives 'm a 'and, 'n' be shot if it wasn't the stooard !
'N'
'XT'
So he climbs up forrard o' me, 'n' ' thanky,' a' says,
N' we sits 'n' shivers 'n' freeze to the bone wi' the sprays,
N' / sings ' Abel Brown,' 'n' the stooard he prays.
" Wi' never a dollop to sup nor a morsel to bite,
The lips of us blue with the cold 'n' the heads of us light,
Adrift in a Cape Horn sea for a day 'n' a night.
" 'N' then the stooard goes dotty 'n' puts a tune to his
lip,
'N' moans about Love like a dern old hen wi' the pip —
(I sets no store upon stooards — they ain't no use on a
ship).
" 'N' ' mother,' the looney cackles, ' come 'n' put Willy
to bed ! '
So I says ' Dry up, or I'll fetch you a crack o' the head ' ;
' The kettle's a-bilin',' he answers, ' 'n' I'll go butter the
bread.'
" 'XT'
'TVT'
N' he falls to singin' some slush about clinkin' a can,
N' at last he dies, so he does, 'n' I tells you, Jan,
I was glad when he did, for he weren't no fun for a man.
'N'
'XT'
So he falls forrard, he does, 'n' he closes his eye,
N' quiet he lays 'n' quiet I leaves him lie,
N' I was alone with his corp, 'n' the cold green sea and
the sky.
" 'N' then I dithers, I guess, for the next as I knew
Was the voice of a mate as was sayin' to one of the crew,
' Easy, my son, wi' the brandy, be shot if he ain't comin'-
to ! ' "
8 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
BURIAL-PARTY
" He 's deader 'n nails," the fo'c's'le said, " 'n' gone to
his long sleep " ;
" 'N' about his corp," said Tom to Dan, " d'ye think
his corp'll keep
Till the day 's done, 'n' the work 's through, 'n' the ebb 's
upon the neap ? "
" He 's deader 'n nails," said Dan to Tom, " 'n' I wish
his sperrit j'y ;
He spat straight 'n' he steered true, but listen to me,
say I,
Take 'n' cover 'n' bury him now, 'n' I'll take 'n' tell
you why.
" It 's a rummy rig of a guffy's yarn, 'n' the juice of a
rummy note.
But if you buries a corp at night, it takes 'n' keeps afloat.
For its bloody soul 's afraid o' the dark 'n' sticks within
the throat.
" 'N' all the night till the grey o' the dawn the dead
'un has to swim
With a blue 'n' beastly Will o' the Wisp a-burnin' over
him.
With a herring, maybe, a-scoffin' a toe or a shark a-
chewin' a limb.
" 'N' all the night the shiverin' corp it has to swim the
sea.
With its shudderin' soul inside the throat (where a
soul 's no right to be).
Till the sky 's grey 'n' the dawn 's clear, 'n' then the
sperrit 's free.
' ' Now Joe was a man as right as rain. I'm sort of sore
for Joe,
'N' if we bury him durin' the day, his soul can take 'n'
go;
So we'll dump his corp when the bell strikes 'n' we can
get below.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 9
" I'd fairly hate for him to swim in a blue 'n' beastly
light,
With his shudderin' soul inside of him a-feelin' the
fishes bite,
So over he goes at noon, say I, 'n' he shall sleep to-
night."
BILL
He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold
skies,
With never a friend to mourn for him nor a hand to
close his eyes :
" Bill, he 's dead," was all they said ; " he 's dead, 'n*
there he lies."
The mate came forrard at seven bells and spat across the
rail :
" Just lash him up wi' some holystone in a clout o' rotten
sail,
'N', rot ye, get a gait on ye, ye're slower 'n a bloody
snail ! "
When the rising moon was a copper disc and the sea was
a strip of steel.
We dumped him down to the swaying weeds ten fathom
" It 's rough about Bill," the fo'c's'le said, " we'll have
to stand his wheel."
FEVER SHIP
There'll be no weepin' gells ashore when ourjship
sails,
Nor no crews cheerin' us, standin' at the rails,
'N' no Blue Peter a-foul the royal stay,
For we've the Yellow Fever — Harry died to-day. —
It 's cruel when a fo'c's'le gets the fever !
I*
10 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
'N' Dick has got the fever-shakes, 'n' look what I was told
(I went to get a sack for him to keep him from the cold) :
" Sir, can I have a sack ? " I says, " for Dick 'e 's fit to
die."
"Oh, sack be shot!" the skipper says, "jest let the
rotter lie ! " —
It 's cruel when a fo'c's'le gets the fever !
It 's a cruel port is Santos, and a hungry land.
With rows o' graves already dug in yonder strip of sand,
'N' Dick is hollerin' up the hatch, 'e says 'e 's goin' blue,
His pore teeth are chattering, 'n' what 's a man to do ?—
It 's cruel when a fo'c's'le gets the fever !
FEVER-CHILLS
He tottered out of the alleyway with cheeks the colour
of paste.
And shivered a spell and mopped his brow with a clout
of cotton waste :
" I've a lick of fever-chills," he said, " 'n' my inside it 's
green.
But I'd be as right as rain," he said, " if I had some
quinine, —
But there ain't no quinine for us poor sailor-men.
" But them there passengers," he said, " if they gets
fever-chills.
There 's brimmin' buckets o' quinine for them, 'n' bulgin'
crates o' pills,
'N' a doctor with Latin 'n' drugs 'n' all — enough to sink
a town,
'N' they lies quiet in their blushin' bunks 'n' mops their
gruel down, —
But there ain't none 'o them fine ways for us poor
sailor-men.
" But the Chief comes forrard 'n' he says, says he, ' I
gives you a straight tip :
Come none o' your Cape Horn fever lays aboard o' this
yer ship.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 11
On wi' your rags o' duds, my son, 'n' aft, 'n' down the
hole :
The best cure known for fever-chills is shovelling bloody
coal.'
It 's hard, my son, that 's what it is, for us poor sailor-
men."
ONE OF THE BO'SUN'S YARNS
Loafin' around in Sailor Town, a-bluin' o' my advance,
I met a derelict donkeyman who led me a merry dance,
Till he landed me 'n' bleached me fair in the bar of a
rum-saloon,
'N' there he spun me a juice of a yarn to this-yer brand
of tune.
" It 's a solemn gospel, mate," he says, " but a man as
ships aboard
A steamer-tramp, he gets his whack of the wonders of
the Lord —
Such as roaches crawlin' over his bunk, 'n' snakes inside
his bread,
And work by night and work by day enough to strike
him dead.
" But that there 's by the way," says he ; " the yarn
I'm goin' to spin
Is about myself 'n' the life I led in the last ship I was in,
The Esmeralda, casual tramp, from Hull towards the
Hook,
Wi' one o' the brand o' Cain for mate 'n' a human mis-
take for cook.
" We'd a week or so of dippin' around in a wind from
outer hell,
With a fathom or more of broken sea at large in the
forrard well,
Till our boats were bashed and bust and broke and gone
to Davy Jones,
'N' then come white Atlantic fog as chilled us to the
bones.
12 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
*' We slowed her down and started the horn and watch
and watch about,
We froze the marrow in all our bones a-keepin' a good
look-out,
'N' the ninth night out, in the middle watch, I woke
from a pleasant dream,
With the smash of a steamer ramming our plates a point
abaft the beam.
" 'Twas cold and dark when I fetched the deck, dirty 'n'
cold 'n' thick,
'N' there was a feel in the way she rode as fairly turned
me sick ; —
She was setthn', hstin' quickly down, 'n' I heard the
mates a-cursin',
'N' I heard the wash 'n' the grumble-grunt of a steamer's
screws reversin'.
" She was leavin' us, mate, to sink or swim, 'n' the words
[V we took 'n' said
They turned the port-light grassy-green 'n' the starboard
rosy-red.
We give her a hot perpetual taste of the singeing curse
of Cain,
As we heard her back 'n' clear the wreck 'n' off to her
course again.
" Then the mate came dancin' on to the scene, 'n' he
says, ' Now quit yer chin,
Or I'll smash yer skulls, so help me James, 'n' let some
wisdom in.
Ye dodderin' scum o' the slums,' he says, ' are ye drunk
or blazin' daft ?
If ye wish to save yer sickly hides, ye'd best contrive
a raft.'
" So he spoke us fair and turned us to, 'n' we wrought
wi' tooth and nail
Wi' scanthng, casks, 'n' coops 'n' ropes, 'n' boiler-plates
'n' sail,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 13
'N' all the while it were dark 'n' cold 'n' dirty as it could
be,
'N' she was soggy 'n' settlin' down to a berth beneath
the sea.
" Soggy she grew, 'n' she didn't lift, 'n' she hsted more
'n' more,
Till her bell struck 'n' her boiler-pipes began to wheeze
'n' snore ;
She settled, settled, listed, heeled, 'n' then may I be
cust.
If her sneezin', wheezin' boiler-pipes did not begin to
bust !
" 'N' then the stars began to shine, 'n' the birds began to
sing,
'N' the next I knowed I was bandaged up 'n' my arm
were in a sling,
'N' a swab in uniform were there, 'n' ' Well,' says he,
' 'n' how
Are yer arms, 'n' legs, 'n' liver, 'n' lungs, 'n' bones a-
feelin' now ? '
" ' Where am I ? ' says I, 'n' he says, says he, a-cantin*
to the roll,
* You're aboard the R.M.S. Marie in the after Glory-
Hole,
'N' you've had a shave, if you wish to know, from the
port o' Kingdom Come.
Drink this,' he says, 'n' I takes 'n' drinks, 'n' s'elp me,
it was rum !
" Seven survivors seen 'n' saved of the Esmeralda's
crowd,
Taken aboard the sweet Marie 'n' bunked 'n' treated
proud,
'N' D.B.S.'d to Mersey Docks ('n' a joyful trip we made),
'N' there the skipper were given a purse by a grateful
Board of Trade.
14 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" That 's the end o' the yarn," he says, 'n' he takes 'n'
wipes his Hps,
" Them 's the works o' the Lord you sees in steam 'n'
saihn' ships, —
Rocks 'n' fogs 'n' shatterin' seas 'n' breakers right ahead,
'N' work o' nights 'n' work o' days enough to strike
you dead."
HELL'S PAVEMENT
" When I'm discharged in Liverpool 'n' draws my bit
o' pay,
I won't come to sea no more.
I'll court a pretty little lass 'n' have a weddin' day,
'N' settle somewhere down ashore.
I'll never fare to sea again a-temptin' Davy Jones,
A-hearkening to the cruel sharks a-hungerin' for my
bones ;
I'll run a blushin' dairy-farm or go a-crackin' stones.
Or buy 'n' keep a little liquor-store," —
So he said.
They towed her in to Liverpool, we made the hooker fast,
And the copper-bound officials paid the crew,
And Billy drew his money, but the money didn't last,
For he painted the alongshore blue, —
It was rum for Poll, and rum for Nan, and gin for Jolly
Jack.
He shipped a week later in the clothes upon his back.
He had to pinch a little straw, he had to beg a sack
To sleep on, when his watch was through, —
So he did.
SEA-CHANGE
" GoNEYS an' gullies an' all o' the birds o' the sea
They ain't no birds, not really," said Billy the Dane,
" Not mollies, nor gullies, nor goneys at all," said he,
" But simply the sperrits of mariners livin' again.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 15
" Them birds goin' fishin' is nothin' but souls o' the
drowned,
Souls o' the drowned an' the kicked as are never no
more ;
An' that there haughty old albatross cruisin' around,
Belike he 's Admiral Nelson or Admiral Noah.
" An' merry 's the life they are living. They settle and
dip.
They fishes, they never stands watches, they waggle
their wings ;
When a ship comes by, they fly to look at the ship
To see how the nowaday mariners manages things.
" When freezing aloft in a snorter, I tell you I wish —
(Though maybe it ain't like a Christian) — I wish I
could be
A haughty old copper-bound albatross dipping for fish
And coming the proud over all o' the birds o' the sea."
HARBOUR-BAR
All in the feathered palm-tree tops the bright green
parrots screech,
The white line of the running surf goes booming down
the beach.
But I shall never see them, though the land lies close
aboard,
I've shaped the last long silent tack as takes one to the
Lord.
Give me the Scripters, Jakey, 'n' my pipe atween my
lips,
I'm bound for somewhere south and far beyond the track
of ships ;
I've run my rags of colours up and clinched them to
the stay,
And God the pilot 's come aboard to bring me up the
bay.
16 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
You'll mainsail-haul my bits o' things when Christ has
took my soul,
'N' you'll lay me quiet somewhere at the landward end
the Mole,
Where I shall hear the steamers' sterns a-squattering
from the heave,
And the topsail blocks a-piping when a rope-j^arn fouls
the sheave.
Give me a sup of lime-juice ; Lord, I'm drifting in to
port,
The landfall lies to windward and the wind comes light
and short.
And I'm for signing off and out to take my watch below,
And — prop a fellow, Jakey — Lord, it 's time for me to
go!
THE TURN OF THE TIDE
An' Bill can have my sea-boots. Nigger Jim can have
my knife.
You can divvy up the dungarees an' bed,
An' the ship can have my blessing, an' the Lord can
have my life.
An' sails an' fish my body when I'm dead.
An' dreaming down below there in the tangled greens an'
blues.
Where the sunlight shudders golden round about,
I shall hear the ships complainin' an' the cursin' of the
crews.
An' be sorry when the watch is tumbled out.
I shall hear them hilly-hollying the weather crojick brace,
And the sucking of the wash about the hull ;
When they chanty up the topsail I'll be hauling in my
place,
For my soul will follow seawards like a gull.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 17
I shall hear the blocks a-grunting in the bumpkins over-
side,
An' the slatting of the storm-sails on the stay,
An' the rippling of the catspaw at the making of the tide,
An' the swirl and splash of porpoises at play.
An' Bill can have my sea-boots, Nigger Jim can have
my knife.
You can divvy up the whack I haven't scofft,
An' the ship can have my blessing and the Lord can
have my life, ^
For it 's time I quit the deck and went aloft.^
~ ONE OF WALLY'S YARNSJ
The watch was up on the topsail-yard a-making fast the
sail,
'N' Joe was swiggin' his gasket taut, 'n' I felt the stirrup
give,
'N' he dropped sheer from the tops'1-yard 'n' barely
cleared the rail,
'N' o' course, we bein' aloft, we couldn't do nothin' —
We couldn't lower a boat and go a-lookin' for him.
For it blew hard 'n' there was sech a sea runnin'
That no boat wouldn't live.
I seed him rise in the white o' the wake, I seed him lift
a hand
('N' him in his oilskin suit 'n' all), I heard him hft a cry ;
'N' there was his place on the yard 'n' all, 'n' the stirrup's
busted strand.
'N' the old man said, " There 's a cruel old sea runnin',
A cold green Barney's Bull of a sea runnin' ;
It 's hard, but I ain't agoin' to let a boat be lowered " :
So we left him there to die.
He couldn't have kept afloat for long an' him lashed
up 'n' all,
'N' we couldn't see him for long, for the sea was blurred
with the sleet 'n' snow,
'N' we couldn't think of him much because o' the snortin',
screamin' squall.
18 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
There was a hand less at the haUiards 'n' the braces,
'N' a name less when the watch spoke to the muster-roll,
'N' a empty bunk 'n' a pannikin as wasn't wanted
When the watch went below.
A VALEDICTION (LIVERPOOL DOCKS)
A CRIMP. A DnUNKEN SAILOll.
Is there anything as I can do ashore for you
When you've dropped down the tide ? —
You can take 'n' tell Nan I'm goin' about the world agen,
'N' that the world 's wide.
'N' tell her that there ain't no postal service
Not down on the blue sea.
'N' tell her that she'd best not keep her fires alight
Nor set up late for me.
'N' tell her I'll have forgotten all about her
Afore we cross the Line.
'N' tell her that the dollars of any other sailorman
Is as good red gold as mine.
Is there anything as I can do aboard for you
Afore the tow-rope's taut ?
I'm new to this packet and all the ways of her,
'N' I don't know of aught ;
But I knows as I'm goin' down to the seas agen
'N' the seas are salt 'n' drear ;
But I knows as all the doin' as you're man enough for
Won't make them lager-beer.
'iV' ain't there nothin' as I can do ashore for you
When you've got fair afloat ? —
You can buy a farm with the dollars as you've done me of
'N' cash my advance-note.
7* there anythin' you'd fancy for your breakfastin'
When you're home across Mersey Bar ? —
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 19
I wants a red herrin' 'n' a prairie oyster
'N' a bucket of Three Star,
'N' a gell with redder Ups than Polly has got,
'N' prettier ways than Nan
Well, so-long, Billy, 'n' a spankin' heavy pay-day to you !
So-long, my fancy man !
A NIGHT AT DAGO TOM'S
Oh yesterday, I t'ink it was, while cruisin' down the
street,
I met with Bill.— " Hullo," he says, "let's give the
girls a treat."
We'd red bandanas round our necks 'n' our shrouds new
rattled down.
So we filled a couple of Santy Cruz and cleared for Sailor
Town.
We scooted south with a press of sail till we fetched to
a caboose.
The " Sailor's Rest," by Dago Tom, alongside " Paddy's
Goose."
Red curtains to the windies, ay, 'n' white sand to the
floor.
And an old blind fiddler liltin' the tune of " Lowlands
no more."
He played the " Shaking of the Sheets " 'n' the couples
did advance,
Bowing, stamping, curtsying, in the shuffling of the
dance ;
The old floor rocked and quivered, so it struck beholders
dumb,
'N' arterwards there was sweet songs 'n' good Jamaikey
rum.
'N' there was many a merry yarn of many a merry
spree
Aboard the ships with royals set a-sailing on the sea,
-p"
20 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Yarns of the hooker Spindrift, her as had the dipper-
bow, —
*' There ain't no ships," says Bill to me, " hke that there
hooker now."
When the old blind fiddler played the tune of " Pipe the
Watch Below."
The skew-eyed landlord dowsed the glim and bade us
" stamp 'n' go,"
'N' we linked it home, did Bill 'n' I, adown the scattered
streets.
Until we fetched to Land o' Nod atween the linen sheets.
PORT OF MANY SHIPS
(■
" It 's a sunny pleasant anchorage, is Kingdom Come,
Where crews is always layin' aft for double-tots o' rum,
'N' there 's dancin' 'n' fiddlin' of ev'ry kind o' sort.
It 's a fine place for sailor-men is that there port.
'N' I wish—
I wish as I was there. i
" The winds is never nothin' more than jest light airs,
'N' no-one gets belayin'-pinned, 'n' no-one never swears,
Yer free to loaf an' laze around, yer pipe atween yer lips,
LoHin' on the fo'c's'le, sonny, lookin' at the ships.
'N' I wish—
I wish as I was there.
" For ridin' in the anchorage the ships of all the world
Have got one anchor down 'n' all sails furled.
All the sunken hookers 'n' the crews as took 'n' died
They lays there merry, sonny, swingin' to the tide.
'N' I wish—
I wish as I was there.
" Drowned old wooden hookers green wi' drippin' wrack,
Ships as never fetched to port, as never came back,
Swingin' to the blushin' tide, dippin' to the swell,
'N' the crews all singin', sonnv, beatin' on the bell.
'N' I wish—
I wish as I was there."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 21
CAPE HORN GOSPEL
" I WAS in a hooker once," said Karlssen,
" And Bill, as was a seaman, died,
So we lashed him in an old tarpaulin
And tumbled him across the side ;
And the fun of it was that all his gear was
Divided up among the crew
Before that blushing human error,
Our crawling little captain, knew.
" On the passage home one morning
(As certain as I prays for grace)
There was old Bill's shadder a-hauling
At the weather mizzen-topsail brace.
He was all grown green with sea-weed,
He was all lashed up and shored ;
So I says to him, I says, ' Why, Billy !
What 's a-bringin' of you back aboard ? '
" ' I'm a-weary of them there mermaids,'
Says old Bill's ghost to me ;
' It ain't no place for a Christian
Below there — under sea.
For it 's all blown sand and shipwrecks,
And old bones eaten bare,
And them cold fishy females
With long green weeds for hair.
" ' And there ain't no dances shuffled,
And no old yarns is spun.
And there ain't no stars but starfish.
And never any moon or sun.
I heard your keel a-passing
And the running rattle of the brace,'
And he says ' Stand by,' says William,
' For a shift towards a better place.'
22 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Well, he sogered about decks till sunrise,
When a rooster in the hen-coop crowed,
And as so much smoke he faded
And as so much smoke he goed ;
, And I've often wondered since, Jan,
How his old ghost stands to fare
Long o' them cold fishy females
With long green weeds for hair."
CAPE HORN GOSPEL
II
Jake was a dirty Dago lad, an' he gave the skipper chin,
An' the skipper up an' took him a crack with an iron
belaying-pin
Which stiffened him out a rusty corp, as pretty as you
could wish.
An' then we shovelled him up in a sack an' dumped him
to the fish.
That was jest arter we'd got sail on her.
Josey slipped from the tops'1-yard an' bust his bloody
back
(Which comed from playing the giddy goat an' leavin' go
the jack) ;
We lashed his chips in clouts of sail an' ballasted him
with stones,
" The Lord hath taken away," we says, an' we give him
to Davy Jones.
An' that was afore we were up with the Line.
Joe were chippin' a rusty plate a-squattin' upon the deck,
An' all the watch he had the sun a-singein' him on the
neck.
An' forrard he falls at last, he does, an' he lets his mallet
go,
Dead as a nail with a calenture, an' that was the end of
Joe.
An' that was just afore we made the Plate.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 23
All o' the rest were sailor-men, an' it come to rain an'
squall,
An' then it was halliards, sheets, an' tacks " clue up,
an' let go all."
We snugged her down an' hove her to, an' the old con-
trairy cuss
Started a plate, an' settled an' sank, an' that was the
end of us.
We slopped around on coops an' planks in the cold an'
in the dark,
An' Bill were drowned, an' Tom were ate by a swine
of a cruel shark,
An' a mail-boat resided Harry an' I (which corned of
pious prayers),
Which brings me here a-kickin' my heels in the port of
Buenos Ayres.
I'm bound for home in the Oronook, in a suit of looted
duds,
A D.B.S. a-earnin' a stake by helpin' peelin' spuds.
An' if ever I fetch to Prince's Stage an' sets my feet
ashore.
You bet your hide that there I stay, an' follers the sea
no more.
MOTHER CAREY
(as told me by the bo'sun)
Mother Carey ? She 's the mother o' the witches
'N' all them sort o' rips ;
She 's a fine gell to look at, but the hitch is,
She 's a sight too fond of ships.
She lives upon a iceberg to the norred,
'N' her man he 's Davy Jones,
'N' she combs the weeds upon her forred
With pore drowned sailors' bones.
She 's the mother o' the wrecks, 'n' the mother
Of all big winds as blows ;
She 's up to some deviltry or other
When it storms, or sleets, or snows
24 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The noise of the wind 's her screamin',
" I'm arter a plump, young, fine.
Brass-buttoned, beefy-ribbed young seam'n
So as me 'n' my mate kin dine."
She 's a hungry old rip 'n' a cruel
For sailor-men like we.
She 's give a many mariners the gruel
'N' a long sleep under sea.
She 's the blood o' many a crew upon her
'N' the bones of many a wreck,
'N' she 's barnacles a-growin' on her
'N' shark's teeth round her neck.
I ain't never had no schoolin'
Nor read no books like you,
But I knows 't ain't healthy to be foolin'
With that there gristly two.
You're young, you thinks, 'n' you're lairy,
But if you're to make old bones,
Steer clear, I says, o' Mother Carey
'N' that there Davy Jones.
EVENING— REGATTA DAY
Your nose is a red jelly, your mouth 's a toothless wreck.
And I'm atop of you, banging your head upon the dirty
deck ;
And both your eyes are bunged and blind like those of a
mewling pup,
For you're the juggins who caught the crab and lost the
ship the Cup.
He caught a crab in the spurt home, this blushing cherub
did,
And the Craigie's whaler slipped ahead like a cart-wheel
on the skid.
And beat us fair by a boat's nose though we sweated
fit to start her,
So we are playing at Nero now, and he 's the Christian
martyr.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 25
And Stroke is lashing a bunch of keys to the buckle-end
a belt,
And we're going to lay you over a chest and baste you
till you melt.
The Craigie boys are beating the bell and cheering down
the tier.
D'ye hear, you Port Mahone baboon, I ask you, do you
hear ?
A VALEDICTION
We're bound for blue water where the [great winds
blow,
It 's time to get the tacks aboard, time for us to go ;
The crowd 's at the capstan and the tune 's in the
shout,
" A long pull, a strong pull, and warp the hooker out."
The bow-wash is eddying, spreading from the bows.
Aloft and loose the topsails and some one give a rouse ;
A salt Atlantic chanty shall be music to the dead,
" A long pull, a strong pull, and the yard to the masthead."
Green and merry run the seas, the wind comes cold.
Salt and strong and pleasant, and worth a mint of
gold;
And she 's staggering, swooping, as she feels her feet,
" A long pull, a strong pull, and aft the main-sheet."
Shrilly squeal the running sheaves, the weather-gear
strains.
Such a clatter of chain - sheets, the devil 's in the
chains ;
Over us the bright stars, under us the drowned,
" A long pull, a strong pull, and weWe outward hound."
Yonder, round and ruddj'", is the mellow old moon.
The red-funnelled tug has gone, and now, sonny, soon
We'll be clear of the Channel, so watch how you steer,
" Ease her when she pitches, and so-lo7ig, my dear,"
26 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A PIER-HEAD CHORUS
Oh I'll be chewing salted horse and biting flinty bread,
And dancing, with the stars to watch, upon the fo'c's'le
head.
Hearkening to the bow-wash and the welter of the tread
Of a thousand tons of clipper running free.
For the tug has got the tow-rope and will take us to the
Downs,
Her paddles churn the river-wrack to muddy greens and
browns,
And I have given river- wrack and all the filth of towns
For the rolling, combing cresters of the sea.
We'll sheet the mizzen-royals home and shimmer down
the Bay,
The sea-line blue with billows, the land-line blurred and
The bow-wash will be piling high and thrashing into
spray.
As the hooker's fore-foot tramples down the swell.
She'll log a giddy seventeen and rattle out the reel,
The weight of all the run-out line will be a thing to feel,
As the bacca-quidding shell-back shambles aft to take
the wheel.
And the sea-sick little middy strikes the bell.
THE GOLDEN CITY OF ST. MARY
Out beyond the sunset, could I but find the way,
Is a sleepy blue laguna which widens to a bay,
And there 's the Blessed City — so the sailors say —
The Golden City of St. Mary.
It 's built of fair marble — white — without a stain,
And in the cool twilight when the sea-winds wane
The bells chime faintly, like a soft, warm rain,
In the Golden City of St. Mary.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 27
Among the green palm-trees where the fire-flies shine,
Are the white tavern tables where the gallants dine,
Singing slow Spanish songs like old mulled wine.
In the Golden City of St. Mary.
Oh I'll be shipping sunset-wards and westward-ho
Through the green toppling combers a-shattering into
snow,
Till I come to quiet moorings and a watch below,
In the Golden City of St. Mary.
TRADE WINDS
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas,
Are the tiny white houses and the orange-trees.
And day-long, night-long, the cool and pleasant breeze
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
There is the red wine, the nutty Spanish ale.
The shuffle of the dancers, the old salt's tale.
The squeaking fiddle, and the soughing in the sail
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
And o' nights there 's fire-flies and the yellow moon,
And in the ghostly palm-trees the sleepy tune
Of the quiet voice calling me, the long low croon
Of the steady Trade Winds blowing.
SEA-FEVER
I MUST down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the
sky.
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white
sail's shaking.
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn break-
ing.
28 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running
tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied ;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray "and the blown spume, and the
sea-gulls crying.
I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind 's
like a whetted knife ;
And all I ask is a merry yarn_from a laughing fellow-
rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick 's
over.
A WANDERER'S SONG
A WIND 's in the heart of me, a fire 's in my heels,
I am tired of brick and stone and rumbling wagon-
wheels ;
I hunger for the sea's edge, the limits of the land,
Where the wild old Atlantic is shouting on the sand.
Oh I'll be going, leaving the noises of the street.
To where a lifting foresail-foot is yanking at the sheet ;
To a windy, tossing anchorage where yawls and ketches
ride.
Oh I'll be going, going, until I meet the tide.
And first I'll hear the sea-wind, the mewing of the gulls,
The clucking, sucking of the sea about the rusty hulls,
The songs at the capstan in the hooker warping out,
And then the heart of me '11 know I'm there or thereabout.
Oh I am tired of brick and stone, the heart of me is sick,
For windy green, unquiet sea, the realm of Moby Dick ;
And I'll be going, going, from the roaring of the wheels'
For a wmd 's m the heart of me. a fire 's in my heels
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
CARDIGAN BAY
Clean, green, windy billows notching out the sky,
Grey clouds tattered into rags, sea-winds blowing high,
And the ships under topsails, beating, thrashing by,
And the mewing of the herring gulls.
Dancing, flashing green seas shaking white locks.
Boiling in blind eddies over hidden rocks,
And the wind in the rigging, the creaking of the blocks,
And the straining of the timber hulls.
Delicate, cool sea-weeds, green and amber-brown,
In beds where shaken sunlight slowly filters down
On many a drowned seventy-four, many a sunken town,
And the whitening of the dead men's skulls.
CHRISTMAS EVE AT SEA
A WIND is rustling " south and soft,"
Cooing a quiet country tune,
The calm sea sighs, and far aloft
The sails are ghostly in the moon.
Unquiet ripples lisp and purr,
A block there pipes and chirps i' the sheave,
The wheel-ropes jar, the reef-points stir
Faintly — and it is Christmas Eve.
The hushed sea seems to hold her breath.
And o'er the giddy, swaying spars,
Silent and excellent as Death,
The dim blue skies are bright with stars.
Dear God — they shone in Palestine
Like this, and yon pale moon serene
Looked down among the lowing kine
On Mary and the Nazarene.
30 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The angels called from deep to deep,
The burning heavens felt the thrill,
Startling the flocks of silly sheep
And lonely shepherds on the hill.
To-night beneath the dripping bows
Where flashing bubbles burst and throng,
The bow-wash murmurs and sighs and soughs
A message from the angels' song.
The moon goes nodding down the west,
The drowsy helmsman strikes the bell ;
Rex Judceorum natus est,
I charge you, brothers, sing Nowell,
Nowell,
Rex Judceorum natus est.
A BALLAD OF CAPE ST. VINCENT
Now, Bill, ain't it prime to be a-sailin',
Slippin' easy, splashin' up the sea,
Dossin' snug aneath the weather-railin',
Quiddin' bonded Jacky out a-lee ?
English sea astern us and afore us,
Reaching out three thousand miles ahead,
God's own stars a-risin' solemn o'er us,
And — yonder 's Cape St. Vincent and the Dead.
There they lie. Bill, man and mate together,
Dreamin' out the dog-watch down below,
Anchored in the Port of Pleasant Weather, f^*
Waiting for the Bo'sun's call to blow. *
Over them the tide goes lappin', swayin',
Under them 's the wide bay's muddy bed, I
And it 's pleasant dreams — to them — to hear us sayin', I r^ ,
Yonder 's Cape St. Vincent and the Dead. ,
iHl,
Hear that P. and O. boat's engines dronin',
Beating out of time and out of tune.
Ripping past with every plate a-groanin'.
Spitting smoke and cinders at the moon ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 31
Ports a-lit like little stars a-settin',
See 'em glintin' yaller, green, and red,
Loggin' twenty knots, Bill, — but forgettin',
Yonder 's Cape St. Vincent and the Dead.
They're " discharged " now, Billy, " left the service,"
Rough an' bitter was the watch they stood,
Drake an' Blake, an' CoUingwood an' Jervis,
Nelson, Rodney, Hawke, an' Howe an' Hood.
They'd a hard time, haulin' an' directin',
There's the flag they left us, Billy — tread
Straight an' keep it flyin' — recollectin'.
Yonder 's Cape St. Vincent and the Dead.
THE TARRY BUCCANEER
I'm going to be a pirate with a bright brass pivot-gun.
And an island in the Spanish Main beyond the setting
sun,
And a silver flagon full of red wine to drink when work is
done.
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer,
With a sandy creek to careen in, and a pig-tailed Spanish
mate,
And under my main-hatches a sparkling merry freight
Of doubloons and double moidores and pieces of eight,
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
With a taste for Spanish wine-shops and for spending my
doubloons.
And a crew of swart mulattoes and black-eyed octoroons,
And a thoughtful way with mutineers of making them
maroons.
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
With a sash of crimson velvet and a diamond-hilted
sword,
And a silver whistle about my neck secured to a golden
cord,
And a habit of taking captives and walking them along
a board.
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
32 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
With a spy-glass tucked beneath my arm and a cocked
hat cocked askew,
And a long low rakish schooner a-cutting of the waves
in two,
And a flag of skull and cross-bones the wickedest that
ever flew.
Like a fine old salt-sea scavenger, like a tarry Buccaneer.
A BALLAD OF JOHN SILVER
We were schooner-rigged and rakish, with a long and
lissome hull.
And we flew the pretty colours of the cross-bones and the
skull ;
We'd a big black Jolly Roger flapping grimly at the
fore,
And we sailed the Spanish Water in the happy days of
yore.
We'd a long brass gun amidships, like a well-conducted
ship,
We had each a brace of pistols and a cutlass at the hip ;
It's a point which tells against us, and a fact to be
deplored,
But we chased the goodly merchant-men and laid their
ships aboard.
Then the dead men fouled the scuppers and the wounded
filled the chains.
And the paint-work all was spatter-dashed with other
people's brains.
She was boarded, she was looted, she was scuttled till
she sank.
And the pale survivors left us by the medium of the
plank.
O ! then it was (while standing by the taffrail on the
poop)
We could hear the drowning folk lament the absent
chicken-coop ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 33
Then, having washed the blood away, we'd httle else to
do
Than to dance a quiet hornpipe as the old salts taught
us to.
O ! the fiddle on the fo'c's'le, and the slapping naked
soles,
And the genial " Down the middle, Jake, and curtsey
when she rolls ! "
With the silver seas around us and the pale moon over-
head,
And the look-out not a-looking and his pipe-bowl glowing
red.
Ah ! the pig-tailed, quidding pirates and the pretty
pranks we played,
All have since been put a stop-to by the naughty Board
of Trade ;
The schooners and the merry crews are laid away to
rest,
A little south the sunset in the Islands of the Blest.
LYRICS FROM THE BUCCANEER
We are far from sight of the harbour lights,
Of the sea-ports whence we came, ^»^«?*-^
But the old sea calls and the cold wind bites,
And our hearts are turned to flame.
And merry and rich is the goodly gear
We'll win upon the tossing sea,
A silken gown for my dainty dear,
And a gold doubloon for me.
It 's the old old road and the old old^quest
Of the cut-throat sons of Cain,
South by west and a quarter west.
And hey for the Spanish Main.
34 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
II
There 's a sea-way somewhere where all day long
Is the hushed susurrus of the sea,
The mewing of the skuas, and the sailor's song,
And the wind's cry calling me.
There 's a haven somewhere where the quiet of the bay
Is troubled with the shifting tide,
Where the gulls are flying, crying in the bright white
spray.
And the tan-sailed schooners ride.
Ill
The toppling rollers at the harbour mouth
Are spattering the bows with foam,
And the anchor 's catted, and she 's heading for the south
With her topsails sheeted home.
And a merry measure is the dance she'll tread
(To the clanking of the staysail's hanks)
When the guns are growling and the blood runs red,
And the prisoners are walking of the planks.
D'AVALOS' PRAYER
When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted.
When the last field is reaped and the last harvest
stored,
When the last fire is out and the last guest departed,
Grant the last prayer that I shall pray, Be good to me,
O Lord !
And let me pass in a night at sea, a night of storm and
thunder.
In the loud crying of the wind through sail and rope
and spar ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 35
Send me a ninth great peaceful wave to drown and roll
me under
To the cold tunny-fishes' home where the drowned
galleons are.
And in the dim green quiet place far out of sight and
hearing,
Grant I may hear at whiles the wash and thresh of the
sea-foam
About the fine keen bows of the stately clippers steering
Towards the lone northern star and the fair ports of
home.
THE WEST WIND
It 's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries ;
I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes.
For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills,
And April 's in the west wind, and daffodils.
It 's a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine,
Apple orchards blossom there, and the air 's like wine.
There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest.
And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest.
" Will ye not come home, brother ? ye have been long
away.
It 's April, and blossom time, and white is the may ;
And bright is the sun, brother, and warm is the rain, —
Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again ?
" The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run.
It 's blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun.
It 's song to a man's soul, brother, fire to a man's brain.
To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again.
" Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green
wheat.
So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired
feet ?
I've a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching
eyes,"
Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries.
36 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
It 's the white road westwards is the road I must tread
To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and
head.
To the violets and the warm hearts and the thrushes'
song,
In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong.
THE GALLEY-ROWERS
Staggering over the running combers
The long-ship heaves her dripping flanks,
Singing together, the sea-roamers
Drive the oars grunting in the banks.
A long pull.
And a long long pull to Mydath.
" Wherejare ye bound, ye swart sea-farers.
Vexing the grey wind-angered brine,
Bearers of home-spun cloth, and bearers
Of goat-skins filled with country wine ? "
" We are bound sunset-wards, not knowing.
Over the whale's way miles and miles.
Going to Vine-Land, haply going
To the Bright Beach of the Blessed Isles.
*' In the wind's teeth and the spray's stinging
Westward and outward forth we go.
Knowing not whither nor why, but singing
An old old oar-song as we row.
A long pull,
And a long long pull to Mydath."
SORROW OF MYDATH
Weary the cry of the wind is, weary the sea,
Weary the heart and the mind and the body of me.
Would I were out of it, done with it, would I could be
A white gull crying along the desolate sands !
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 37
Outcast, derelict soul in a body accurst,
Standing drenched -with, the spindrift, standing athirst,
For the cool green waves of death to arise and burst
In a tide of quiet for me on the desolate sands.
Would that the waves and the long white hair of the spray
Would gather in splendid terror and blot me away
To the sunless place of the wrecks where the waters sway
Gently, dreamily, quietly over desolate sands !
V, VAGABOND
DuNNO a heap about the what an' why,
Can't say 's I ever knowed.
Heaven to me 's a fair blue stretch of sky.
Earth 's jest a dusty road.
Dunno the names o' things, nor what they are,
Can't say 's I ever will.
Dunno about God — He 's jest the noddin' star
Atop the windy hill.
Dunno about Life — it 's jest a tramp alone
From wakin'-time to doss.
Dunno about Death — it 's jest a quiet stone
All over-grey wi' moss.
An' why I live, an' why the old world spins.
Are things I never knowed ;
My mark 's the gypsy fires, the lonely inns,
An' jest the dusty road.
VISION
I HAVE drunken the red wine and flung the dice ;
Yet once in the noisy ale-house I have seen and heard
The dear pale lady with the mournful eyes,
And a voice like that of a pure grey cooing bird.
38 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
With delicate white hands — white hands that I have kist
(Oh frail white hands !) — she soothed my aching eyes ;
And her hair fell about her in a dim clinging mist,
Like smoke from a golden incense burned in Paradise.
With gentle loving words, like shredded balm and myrrh,
She healed with sweet forgiveness my black bitter sins.
Then passed into the night, and I go seeking her
Down the dark, silent streets, past the warm, lighted
inns.
SPUNYARN
Spunyarn, spunyarn, with one to turn the crank,
And one to slather the spunyarn, and one to knot the
hank ;
It 's an easy job for a summer watch, and a pleasant
job enough,
To twist the tarry lengths of yarn to shapely sailor stuff.
Life is nothing but spunyarn on a winch in need of oil,'
Little enough is twined and spun but fever-fret and moil.
I have travelled on land and sea, and all that I have
found
Are these poor songs to brace the arms that help the
winches round.
THE DEAD KNIGHT
The cleanly rush of the mountain air,
And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees,
Are the only things that wander there,
The pitiful bones are laid at ease.
The grass has grown in his tangled hair,
And a rambling bramble binds his knees.
To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell, j
The only requiem-bells that rang
Were the hare-bell and the heather-bell.
Hushed he is with the holy spell
In the gentle hymn the wind sang.
And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 39
He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun :
The misty rain and cold dew
Have altered him from the kingly one
(That his lady loved, and his men knew)
And dwindled him to a skeleton.
The vetches have twined about his bones,
The straggling ivy twists and creeps
In his eye-sockets ; the nettle keeps
Vigil about him while he sleeps.
Over his body the wind moans
With a dreary tune throughout the day,
In a chorus wistful, eerie, thin *
As the gull's cry — as the cry in the bay.
The mournful word the seas say
When tides are wandering out or in.
PERSONAL
Tramping at night in the cold and wet, I passed the
lighted inn,
And an old tune, a sweet tune, was being played within.
It was full of the laugh of the leaves and the song the
wind sings ;
It brought the tears and the choked throat, and a catch
to the heart-strings.
And it brought a bitter thought of the days that now
were dead to me.
The merry days in the old home before I went to sea —
Days that were dead to me indeed. I bowed my head
to the rain,
And I passed by the lighted inn to the lonely roads again.
ON MALVERN HILL
A WIND is brushing down the clover.
It sweeps the tossing branches bare.
Blowing the poising kestrel over
The crumbling ramparts of the Caer.
40 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
It whirls the scattered leaves before us
Along the dusty road to home,
Once it awakened into chorus
The heart-strings in the ranks of Rome.
There by the gusty coppice border
The shrilling trumpets broke the halt,
The Roman line, the Roman order,
Swayed forwards to the blind assault.
Spearman and charioteer and bowman
Charged and were scattered into spray,
Savage and taciturn the Roman
Hewed upwards in the Roman way.
There — in the twilight — where the cattle
Are lowing home across the fields,
The beaten warriors left the battle
Dead on the clansmen's wicker shields.
The leaves whirl in the wind's riot
Beneath the Beacon's jutting spur,
Quiet are clan and chief, and quiet
Centurion and signifer.
TEWKESBURY ROAD
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows
not where,
Going through meadow and village, one knows not
whither nor why ;
Through the grey light drift of the dust, in the keen cool
rush of the air,
Under the flying white clouds, and the broad blue lift
of the sky ;
And to halt at the chattering brook, in the tall green
fern at the brink
Where the harebell grows, and the gorse, and the
fox-gloves purple and white ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 41
Where the shy-eyed delicate deer troop down to the
pools to drink,
When the stars are mellow and large at the coming
on of the night.
0 ! to feel the warmth of the rain, and the homely smell
of the earth,
Is a tune for the blood to jig to, a joy past power of
words ;
And the blessed green comely meadows seem all a-ripple
with mirth
At the lilt of the shifting feet, and the dear wild^ry
of the birds.
ON EASTNOR KNOLL
Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are
Hushed in the twilight : yonder, in the path through
The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy
Calling the cows home.
A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but
Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset
Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on
The misty hill-tops.
Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning
Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are
A silent army of phantoms thronging
A land of shadows.
" REST HER SOUL, SHE 'S DEAD ! "
She has done with the sea's sorrow and the world's way
And the wind's grief ;
Strew her with laurel, cover her with bay
And ivy-leaf.
Let the slow mournful music sound before her,
Strew the white flowers about the bier, and o'er her
The sleepy poppies red beyond belief.
2*
42 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
On the black velvet covering her eyes
Let the dull earth be thrown ;
Hers is the mightier silence of the skies,
And long, quiet rest alone.
Over the pure, dark, wistful eyes of her,
O'er all the human, all that dies of her,
Gently let flowers be strown.
Lay her away in quiet old peaceful earth
(This blossom of ours),
She has done with the world's anger and the world's mirth
Sunshine and rain-showers ;
And over the poor, sad, tired face of her,
In the long grass above the place of her
(The grass which hides the glory and^the grace of her),
May the Spring bring the flowers.
" ALL YE THAT PASS BY "
On the long dusty ribbon of the long city street.
The pageant of hfe is passing me on multitudinous feet,
With a word here of the hills, and a song there of the sea,
And — the great movement changes — the pageant passes
me.
Faces — passionate faces — of men I may not know.
They haunt me, burn me to the heart, as I turn aside
to go :
The king's face and the cur's face, and the face of the
stuffed swine.
They are passing, they are passing, their eyes look into
mine.
I never can tire of the music of the noise of many feet.
The thrill of the blood pulsing, the tick of the heart's beat,
Of the men many as sands, of the squadrons ranked and
massed
Who are passing, changing always, and never have
changed or jjassed.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 43
IN MEMORY OF A. P. R.
Once in the windy wintry weather,
The road dust blowing in our eyes,
We starved or tramped or slept together
Beneath the haystacks and the skies ;
Until the tiring tramp was over,
And then the call for him was blown.
He left his friend — his fellow-rover —
To tramp the dusty roads alone.
The winds wail and the woods are yellow,
The hills are blotted in the rain,
" And would he were with me," sighs his fellow,
" With me upon the roads again ! "
TO-MORROW
Oh yesterday the cutting edge drank thirstily and deep,
The upland outlaws ringed us in and herded us as sheep,
They drove us from the stricken field and bayed us into
keep ;
But to-morrow.
By the living God, we'll try the game again !
Oh yesterday our little troop was ridden through and
through,
Our swaying, tattered pennons fled, a broken, beaten few
And all a summer afternoon they hunted us and slew ;
But to-morrow,
By the living God, we'll try the game again !
And here upon the turret-top the bale-fire glowers red.
The wake-lights burn and drip about our hacked, dis-
figured dead,
And many a broken heart is here and many a broken
head ;
But to-morrow,
By the living God, we'll try the game again !
44 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
^ CAVALIER
All the merry kettle-drums are thudding into 'rhyme,
Dust is swimming dizzily down the village street,
The_ scabbards are clattering, the feathers nodding time.
To a clink of many horses' shoes, a tramp of many
feet.
Seven score of Cavaliers fighting'for the King,
Trolling lusty stirrup-songs, clamouring for wine.
Riding with a loose rein, marching with a swing.
Beneath the blue bannerol of Rupert of the Rhine.
Hey the merry company ; — the loud fifes playing —
Blue scarves and bright steel and blossom of the
may,
Roses in the feathered hats, the long plumes swaying,
A king's son ahead of them showing them the way.
A SONG AT PARTING
The tick of the blood is settling slow, my heart will soon
be still.
And ripe and ready am I for rest in the grave atop the
hill ;
So gather me up and lay me down, for ready and ripe
am I,
For the weary vigil with sightless eyes that may not see
the sky.
I have lived my life : I have spilt the wine that God the
Maker gave,
So carry me up the lonely hill and lay me in the grave,
And cover me in with cleanly mould and old and lichened
stones.
In a place where ever the cry of the wind shall thrill my
sleepy bones.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 45
Gather me up and lay me down with an old song and a
prayer,
Cover me in with wholesome earth, and weep and leave
me there ;
And get you gone with a kindly thought and an old tune
and a sigh,
And leave me alone, asleep, at rest, for ready and ripe
am I.
GLOSSARY
Abaft the Beam. — That half of a ship included between her amid-
ship section and the taffrail. (For " taffrail," see below.)
Abel Brown. — An unquotable sea-song.
Advance-note. — A note for one month's wages issued to sailors
on their signing a ship's articles.
Belaying-pins. — Bars of iron or hard wood to which running
rigging may be secured or belayed.
Belaying-pins, from their handiness and peculiar club-shape,
are sometimes used as bludgeons.
Bloody. — An intensive derived from the substantive " blood,"
a name applied to the Bucks, Scowrers, and Mohocks of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
Blue Peter. — A blue and white flag hoisted at the foretrucks of
ships about to sail.
Bollard. — From hGl or hole, the round trunk of a tree. A phallic
or " sparklet "-shaped ornament of the dockside, of assistance
to mariners in warping into or out of dock.
Bonded Jacky. — Negro-head tobacco or sweet cake.
Bull of Barney. — A beast mentioned in an unquotable sea-
proverb.
Bumpkin. — An iron bar (projecting out-board from the ship's side)
to which the lower and topsail brace blocks are sometimes
hooked.
Cape Horn Fever. — The illness proper to malingerers.
Catted. — Said of an anchor when weighed and secured to the
" cat-head."
Chanty. — A song sung to lighten labour at the capstan, sheets, and
halliards. The soloist is known as the chantyman, and is
usually a person of some authority in the fo'c's'le. Many
chanties are of great beauty and extreme antiquity.
Clipper-bow. — A bow of delicate curves and lines.
Clout. — A rag or cloth. Also a blow : " I fetched him a clout i'
the lug."
Crimp. — A sort of scoundrelly land-shark preying upon sailors.
47
48 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
D.B.S. — Distressed British Sailor. A term applied to those who are
invalided home from foreign ports.
Dungaree. — A cheap, rough thin cloth (generally blue or brown),
woven, I am told, of coco-nut fibre.
Forward or Forrard. — Towards the bows.
Fo'c's'le (Forecastle). — The deck-house or living-room of the
crew. The word is often used to indicate the crew, or those
members of it described by passengers as the " common sailors."
Fore-stay. — A powerful wire rope supporting the foremast forward.
Gaskets. — Ropes or plaited lines used to secure the sails in furling.
GoNEYS. — Albatrosses.
GuFFY. — A marine or jolly.
GtTLLiES. — Sea-gulls, Cape Horn pigeons, etc.
Heave and Pawl. — A cry of encouragement at the capstan.
Hooker. — A periphrasis for ship, I suppose from a ship's carrying
hooks or anchors.
Jack or Jackstay. — A slender iron rail running along the upper
portions of the yards in some ships.
liEEWARD. — Pronoxmced " looard." That quarter to which the
wind blows.
Mainsail Haul. — An order in tacking ship bidding " swing the
mainyards." To loot, steal, or " acquire."
Main-shrouds. — Ropes, usually wire, supporting lateral strains
upon the mainmast.
Mollies. — Molly-hawks, or Fulmar petrels. Wide-winged dusky
sea-fowls, common in high latitudes, oily to taste, gluttonous.
Great fishers and garbage-eaters.
Port Mahon Baboon, or Port Mahon Soger. — I have been unable
to discover either the origin of these insulting epithets or the
reasons or the peculiar bitterness with which they sting the
marine recipient. They are older than Dana {circa 1840).
An old merchant sailor, now dead, once told me that Port
Mahon was that godless city from which the Ark set sail, in
which case the name may have some traditional connection
with that evil " Mahoun " or 'Mahu," prince of darkness,
mentioned by Shakespeare and some of our older poets.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 49
The real Port Mahon, a fine harbour in Minorca, was taken
by the French, from Admiral Byng, in the year 1756.
I think that the phrases originated at the time of Byng's
consequent trial and execution.
Purchase. — See " Tackle."
QuiDDiNG. — Tobacco-chewing.
Satls. — The sail-maker.
Santa Cruz. — A brand of rum.
Scantling. — Planks.
Soger. — A laggard, malingerer, or hang-back. To loaf or skulk
or work Tom Cox's Traverse.
Spunyarn. — A three-strand line spun out of old rope-yarns knotted
together. Most sailing-ships carry a spunyarn winch, and the
spinning of such yarn is a favourite occupation in fine weather.
Stirrup. — A short rope supporting the foot-rope on which the
sailors stand when aloft on the yards.
Tack. — To stay or 'bout ship. A reach to windward. The weather
lower corner of a course.
Tacbxe. — Pronoimced " taykle." A combination of pulleys for
obtaining of artificial power.
Taffrall. — The rail or bulwark round the sternmost end of a
ship's poop or after-deck.
Trick. — The ordinary two-hour spell at the wheel or on the look-out*
Windward or Weather. — That quarter from which the wind
blows.
BALLADS AND POEMS
5»
1
THE BALLAD OF SIR BORS
WOULD I could win some quiet and rest, and a
little ease,
In the cool grey hush of the dusk, in the dim green place
of the trees,
Where the birds are singing, singing, singing, crying
aloud
The song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the
seas.
Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to
fail,
And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the
mail ;
The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the
Christ,
In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy Grail.
The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims
the West,
The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest ;
But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and
waits.
That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends
the Quest.
My horse is spavined and ribbed, and his bones come
through his hide,
My sword is rotten with rust, but I shake the reins and
ride.
For the bright white birds of God that nest in the rose
have called.
And never a township now is a town where I can bide.
S3
54 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
It will happen at last, at dusk, as mv horse limps down
the fell,
A star will glow like a note God strikes on a silver bell,
And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul to
Christ,
And the sight of the Rose, the Rose, will pay for the
years of hell.
The York Express.
SPANISH WATERS
Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my
ears.
Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten
years ;
Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary
thoughts to me
Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I
could be.
There 's a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops
to roar,
And it 's there we came to anchor, and it 's there we
went ashore,
Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting
trees.
Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas.
We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was
red.
We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head ;
And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was
done.
We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we
had won.
We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered
chests,
Sinking, in the sucking quagmires to the sunburn on our
breasts,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 55
Heaving over tree-trunks, gasping, damning at the flies
and heat,
Longing for a long drink, out of silver, in the ship's cool
lazareet.
The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure
down,
There was gear there'd make a beggarman as rich as
Lima Town,
Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of
Spanish crews.
Gold doubloons and double moidores, louis d'ors and
portagues,
Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,
Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil ;
Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica
bronze,
Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons.
We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and
blazed the tree.
Which marks yon where the gear is hid that none will
ever see.
And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we
steers,
Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating
in my ears.
I'm the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone
their ways
Killed, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas
Cays,
And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair.
And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only
there.
It 's not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly
blind.
And an old man's past 's a strange thing, for it never
leaves his mind.
56 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun's disc
dipping red,
And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger
Head.
I'd be glad to step ashore there. Glad to take a pick and
go
To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others
know.
And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there
for years
By the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my
ears.
Tettenhall.
CARGOES
QuiNQUiREME of Nincveh from distant Ophir
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts.
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days.
With a cargo of Tyne coal.
Road-rail, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Tettenhall.
CAPTAIN STRATTON'S FANCY
Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white
And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight ;
But rum alone 's the tipple, and the heart's delight
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 57
Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of
French,
And some'll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench ;
But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench.
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose,
But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows ;
For it 's that that makes the bonny drink to warm my
copper nose,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung,
And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue ;
But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at
the bung,
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice,
And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses' eyes ;
But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize
To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some that 's good and godly ones they hold that it 's
a'-sin
To troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin ;
But I'm for toleration and for drinking at an inn.
Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits.
And there 's a mort of wicked rogues that live in good
reputes ;
So I'm for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots,
Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Coram St.
AN OLD SONG RE-SUNG
I SAW a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing.
With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold ;
And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing.
Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold ;
The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled.
58 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I saw a ship a-5teering, a-steering, a-steering,
With roses in red thread worked upon her sails ;
With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering,
Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales,
Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the larails.
I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking.
With glittering sea-water splashing on her decks.
With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drink-
.ing,
Pulling claret bottles down, and knocking off the necks,
The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the
wrecks.
Hyde Park Mansions.
ST. MARY'S BELLS
It 's pleasant in Holy Mary
By San Marie lagoon,
The bellsjbhey^chime and jingle
From dawn to afternoon.
They rhyme and chime and mingle,
They pulse and boom and beat,
And the laughing bells are gentle
And the mournful bells are sweet.
Oh, who are the men that ring them,
The bells of San Marie,
Oh, who but sonsie seamen
Come in from over sea.
And merrily in the belfries
They rock and sway and hale,
And send the bells a-jangle,
And down the lusty ale.
It 's pleasant in Holy Mary
To hear the beaten bells
Come booming into music.
Which throbs, and clangs, and swells.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 59
From sunset till the daybreak, '
From dawn to afternoon,
In port of Holy Mary
On San Marie Lagoon.
Coram St.
^ LONDON TOWN
Oh London Town 's a fine town, and London sights are
rare,
And London ale is right ale, and brisk's the London air,
And busily goes the world there, but crafty grows the
mind.
And London Town of all towns I'm glad to leave behind.
Then hey for croft and hop-yard, and hill, and field, and
pond,
With Bredon Hill before me and Malvern Hill beyond,
The hawthorn white i' the hedgerow, and all the spring's
attire
In the comely land of Teme and Lugg, and Clent, and
Clee, and Wyre.
Oh London girls are brave girls, in silk and cloth o' gold,
And London shops are rare shops, where gallant things
are sold.
And bonnily clinks the gold there, but drowsily blinks
the eye.
And London Town of all towns I'm glad to hurry by.
Then, hey for covert and woodland, and ash and elm and
oak,
Tewkesbury inns, and Malvern roofs, and Worcester
chimney smoke.
The apple trees in the orchard, the cattle in the byre.
And all the land from Ludlow town to Bredon church's
spire.
Oh London tunes are new tunes, and London books are
wise,
And London plays are rare plays, and fine to country
eyes,
60 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
But craftily fares the knave there, and wickedly fares the
Jew,
And London Town of all towns I'm glad to hurry
through.
So hey for the road, the west road, by mill and forge and
fold,
Scent of the fern and song of the lark by brook, and
field, and wold.
To the comely folk at the hearth-stone and the talk
beside the fire,
In the hearty land, where I was bred, my land of heart's
desire.
Coram St.
THE EMIGRANT
Going by Daly's shanty I heard the boys within
Dancing the Spanish hornpipe to Driscoll's violin,
I heard the sea-boots shaking the rough planks of the
floor.
But I was going westward, I hadn't heart for more. I
All down the windy village the noise rang in''my ears.
Old sea-boots stamping, shuffling, it brought the bitter
tears.
The old tune piped and quavered, the lilts came clear
and strong.
But I was going westward, I couldn't join the song.
There were the grey stone houses, the night wind blowing
keen.
The hill-sides pale with moonlight, the young corn spring-
ing green.
The hearth nooks lit and kindly, with dear friends good
to see.
But I was going westward, and the ship waited me.
Coram St.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 61
PORT OF HOLY PETER
The blue laguna rocks and quivers,
Dull gurgling eddies twist and spin,
The climate does for people's livers,
It 's a nasty place to anchor in
Is Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.
The town begins on the sea-beaches,
And the town 's mad with the stinging flies,
The drinking water's mostly leeches,
It 's a far remove from Paradise
Is Spanish port,
Fever port.
Port of Holy Peter.
There 's sand-bagging and throat-slitting,
And quiet graves in the sea slime,
Stabbing, of course, and rum-hitting.
Dirt, and drink, and stink, and crime.
In Spanish port.
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.
All the day the wind 's blowing
From the sick swamp below the hills.
All the night the plague 's growing.
And the dawn brings the fever chills,
In Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.
You get a thirst there 's no slaking,
You get the chills and fever-shakes.
Tongue yellow and head aching.
And then the sleep that never wakes.
62 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And all the year the heat 's baking.
The sea rots and the earth quakes,
In Spanish port,
Fever port,
Port of Holy Peter.
Tettenhall.
^ BEAUTY
I HAVE seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain :
I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils.
Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.
I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant
of the sea,
And seen strange lands from under the arched white
sails of ships ;
But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed
to me,
Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red
curve of her lips.
Coram St.
THE SEEKERS
Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed
abode,
But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the
road.
Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind.
For we go seeking a city that we shall never find.
There is no solace on earth for us — for such as we —
Who search for a hidden city that we shall never see.
Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the
rain,
And the watch fire under stars, and sleep, and the road
again.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 63
We seek the City of God, and the haunt where beauty
dwells,
And we find the noisy mart and the sound of burial bells.
Never the golden city, where radiant people meet.
But the dolorous town where mourners are going about
the street.
We travel the dusty road till the light of the day is dim,
And sunset shows us spires away on the world's rim.
We travel from dawn to dusk, till the day is past and
by,
Seeking the Holy City beyond the rim of the sky.
Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blest
abode,
But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the
road.
Tettenhall.
DAWN
The dawn comes cold : the haystack smokes,
The green twigs crackle in the fire,
The dew is dripping from the oaks.
And sleepy men bear milking-yokes
Slowly towards the cattle-byre.
Down in the town a clock strikes six,
The grey east heaven burns and glows,
The dew shines on the thatch of ricks,
A slow old crone comes gathering sticks,
The red cock in the ox-yard crows.
Beyond the stack where we have lain
The road runs twisted like a snake
(The white road to the land of Spain),
The road that we must foot again.
Though the feet halt and the heart ache.
Coram St.
64 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
LAUGH AND BE MERRY
Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a
song,
Better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong.
Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a
span.
Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant
of man.
Laugh and be merry : remember, in olden time,
God made Heaven and Earth for joy He took in a rhyme,
Made them, and filled them full with the strong red wine
of His mirth.
The splendid joy of the stars : the joy of the earth.
So we must laugh and drink from the deep blue cup of
the sky
Join the jubilant song of the great stars sweeping by.
Laugh, and battle, and work, and drink of the wine
outpoured
In the dear green earth, the sign of the joy of the Lord.
Laugh and be merry together, like brothers akin,
Guesting awhile in the rooms of a beautiful inn.
Glad till the dancing stops, and the lilt of the music ends.
Laugh till the game is played ; and be you merry, my
friends.
The Edinburgh Express.
JUNE TWILIGHT
The twilight comes ; the sun
Dips down and sets.
The boys have done
Play at the nets.
In a warm golden glow
The woods are steeped.
The shadows grow ;
The bat has cheeped.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 65
Sweet smells the new-mown hay ;
The mowers pass
Home, each his way,
Through the grass.
The night-wind stirs the fern,
A night- jar spins ;
The windows burn
In the inns.
Dusky it grows. The moon !
The dews descend.
Love, can this beauty in our hearts
end?
Henrietta St,
ROADWAYS
One road leads to London,
One road runs to Wales,
My road leads me seawards
To the white dipping sails.
One road leads to the river.
As it goes singing slow ;
My road leads to shipping.
Where the bronzed sailors go.
Leads me, lures me, calls me
To salt green tossing sea ;
A road without earth's road-dust
Is the right road for me.
A wet road heaving, shining.
And wild with seagulls' cries,
A mad salt sea-wind blowing
The salt spray in my eyes.
My road calls me, lures me
West, east, south, and north ;
Most roads lead men homewards,
My road leads me forth.
66 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
To add more miles to the tally
Of grey miles left behind,
In quest of that one beauty
God put me here to find.
Tettenhall.
MIDSUMMER NIGHT
The perfect disc of the sacred moon
Through still blue heaven serenely s-wims,
And the lone bird's liquid music brims
The peace of the night with a perfect tune.
This is that holiest night of the year
When (the mowers say) may be heard and seen
The ghostly court of the English queen,
Who rides to harry and hunt the deer.
And the woodland creatures cower awake,
A strange unrest is on harts and does.
For the maiden Dian a-hunting goes,
And the trembling deer are a-foot in the brake.
They start at a shaken leaf : the sound
Of a dry twig snapped by a squirrel's foot
Is a nameless dread : and to them the hoot
Of a mousing owl is the cry of a hound.
Oh soon the forest will ring with cries.
The dim green coverts will flash : the grass
Will glow as the radiant hunters pass
After the quarry with burning eyes.
The hurrying feet will range unstayed
Of questing goddess and hunted fawn.
Till the east is grey with the sacred dawn,
And the red cock wakens the milking maid.
Coram St.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 67
THE HARPER'S SONG
This sweetness trembling from the strings
The music of my troublous lute
Hath timed Herodias' Daughter's foot ;
Setting a-clink her ankle-rings
Whenas she danced to feasted kings.
Where gemmed apparel burned and caught
The sunset 'neath the golden dome,
To the dark beauties of old Rome
My sorrowful lute hath haply brought
Sad memories sweet with tender thought.
When night had fallen and lights and fires
Were darkened in the homes of men,
Some sighing echo stirred : — and then
The old cunning wakened from the wires
The old sorrows and the old desires.
Dead Kings in long forgotten lands.
And all dead beauteous women ; some
Whose pride imperial hath become
Old armour rusting in the sands
And shards of iron in dusty hands.
Have heard my lyre's soft rise and fall
Go trembling down the paven ways,
Till every heart was all ablaze —
Hasty each foot — to obey the call
To triumph or to funeral.
Could I begin again the slow
Sweet mournful music filled with tears,
Surely the old, dead, dusty ears
Would hear ; the old drowsy eyes would glow,
Old memories come ; old hopes and fears.
And time restore the long ago.
Tettenhall.
68 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
THE GENTLE LADY
So beautiful, so dainty-sweet,
So like a lyre's delightful touch —
A beauty perfect, ripe, complete
That art's own hand could only smutch
And nature's self not better much.
So beautiful, so purely wrought,
Like a fair missal penned with hymns,
So gentle, so surpassing thought —
A beauteous soul in lovely limbs,
A lantern that an angel trims.
So simple-sweet, without a sin,
Like gentle music gently timed,
Like rhyme-words coming aptly in,
To round a mooned poem rhymed
To tunes the laughing bells have chimed.
Coram St.
TWILIGHT
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rooks
cry and call.
Down in the valley the lamps, and the mist, and a star
over all,
There by the rick, where they thresh, is the drone at an
end,
Twilight it is, and I travel the road with my friend.
I think of the friends who are dead, who were dear long
ago in the past,
Beautiful friends who are dead, though I know that
death cannot last ;
Friends with the beautiful eyes that the dust has defiled.
Beautiful souls who were gentle when I was a child.
Gt. Comberion.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 69
INVOCATION
O WANDERER into many brains,
O spark the emperor's purple hides,
You sow the dusk with fiery grains
When the gold horseman rides.
O beauty on the darkness hurled,
Be it through me you shame the world.
POSTED AS MISSING
Under all her topsails she trembled like a stag,
The wind made a ripple in her bonny red flag ;
They cheered her from the shore and they cheered her
from the pier,
And under all her topsails she trembled like a deer.
So she passed swaying, where the green seas run,
Her wind-steadied topsails were stately in the sun ;
There was glitter on the water from her red port light,
So she passed swaying, till she was out of sight.
Long and long ago it was, a weary time it is.
The bones of her sailor-men are coral plants by this ;
Coral plants, and shark-weed, and a mermaid's comb,
And if the fishers net them they never bring them home
It 's rough on sailors' women. They have to mangle hard
And stitch at dungarees till their finger-ends are scarred
Thinking of the sailor-men who sang among the crowd,
Hoisting of her topsails when she sailed so proud.
Greenwich.
A CREED
I held that when a person dies
His soul returns again to earth ;
Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise
Another mother gives him birth.
With sturdier limbs and brighter brain
The old soul takes the roads again.
70 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Such was my own belief and trust ;
This hand, this hand that holds the pen,
Has many a hundred times been dust
And turned, as dust, to dust again ;
These eyes of mine have blinked and shone
In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.
All that I rightly think or do.
Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast.
Is curse or blessing justly due
For sloth or effort in the past.
My life 's a statement of the sum
Of vice indulged, or overcome.
I know that in my lives to be m
My sorry heart will ache and burn, "
And worship, unavailingly,
The woman whom I used to spurn.
And shake to see another have
The love I spurned, the love she gave.
And I shall know, in angry words.
In gibes, and mocks, and many a tear,
A carrion flock of homing-birds,
The gibes and scorns I uttered here
The brave word that I failed to speak
Will brand me dastard on the cheek.
And as I wander on the roads
I shall be helped and healed and blessed ;
Dear words shall cheer and be as goads
To urge to heights before unguessed.
My road shall be the road I made ;
All that I gave shall be repaid.
So shall I fight, so shall I tread.
In this long war beneath the stars ;
So shall a glory wreathe my head,
So shall I faint and show the scars,
Until this case, this clogging mould,
Be smithied all to kingly gold,
Greenzvich.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 71
WHEN BONY DEATH
When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood,
And dimmed the brightness of her wistful eyes,
And changed her glorious beauty into mud
By his old skill in hateful wizardries ;
When an old lichened marble strives to tell
How sweet a grace, how red a lip was hers ;
When rheumy greybeards say, " I knew her well,"
Showing the grave to curious worshippers ;
When all the roses that she sowed in me
Have dripped their crimson petals and decayed,
Leaving no greenery on any tree
That her dear hands in my heart's garden laid.
Then grant, old Time, to my green mouldering skull.
These songs may keep her memory beautiful.
Coram St.
HER HEART
Her heart is always doing lovely things.
Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers,
Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings,
Delighting all my undelightful hours.
She plays me like a lute, what tune she will.
No string in me but trembles at her touch,
Shakes into sacred music, or is still.
Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such.
And in the dusty tavern of my soul
Where filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine.
Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl,
Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine.
All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse,
Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers.
Coram St.
72 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
BEING HER FRIEND
Being her friend, I do not care, not I,
How gods or men may wrong me, beat me down ;
Her word 's sufficient star to travel by,
I count her quiet praise sufficient crown.
Being her friend, I do not covet gold,
Save for a royal gift to give her pleasure ;
To sit with her, and have her hand to hold,
Is wealth, I think, surpassing minted treasure.
Being her friend, I only covet art,
A white pure flame to search me as I trace
In crooked letters from a throbbing heart.
The hymn to beauty written on her face.
Coram St.
\ FRAGMENTS
Troy Town is covered up with weeds.
The rabbits and the pismires brood
On broken gold, and shards, and beads
Where Priam's ancient palace stood.
The floors of many a gallant house
Are matted with the roots of grass ;
The glow-worm and the nimble mouse
Among her ruins flit and pass.
And there, in orts of blackened bone,
The widowed Trojan beauties lie,
And Simois babbles over stone
And waps and gurgles to the sky.
Once there were merry days in Troy,
Her chimneys smoked with cooking meals,
\! The passing chariots did annoy
The sunning housewives at their wheels.
»
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 73
And many a lovely Trojan maid
Set Trojan lads to lovely things ;
The game of life was nobly played,
They played the game like Queens and Kings.
So that, when Troy had greatly passed
In one red roaring fiery coal,
The courts the Grecians overcast
Became a city in the soul.
In some green island of the sea,
Where now the shadowy coral grows
In pride and pomp and empery
The courts of old Atlantis rose.
In many a glittering house of glass
The Atlanteans wandered there ;
The paleness of their faces was
Like ivory, so pale they were.
And hushed they were, no noise of words
In those bright cities ever rang ;
Only their thoughts, like golden birds.
About their chambers thrilled and sang.
t>'
They knew all wisdom, for they knew
The souls of those Egyptian Kings
Who learned, in ancient Babilu,
The beauty of immortal things.
The)' knew all beauty — when they thought
The air chimed like a stricken lyre,
The elemental birds were wrought.
The golden birds became a fire.
And straight to busy camps and marts
The singing flames were swiftly gone ;
The trembling leaves of human hearts
Hid boughs for them to perch upon.
3*
74 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And men in desert places, men
Abandoned, broken, sick with fears.
Rose singing, swung their swords agen,
And laughed and died among the spears.
The green and greedy seas have drowned
That city's glittering walls and towers,
Her sunken minarets are crowned
With red and russet water-flowers.
In towers and rooms and golden courts
The shadowy coral lifts her sprays ;
The scrawl hath gorged her broken orts,
The shark doth haunt her hidden ways.
V
But, at the falling of the tide.
The golden birds still sing and gleam,
The Atlanteans have not died.
Immortal things still give us dream.
\ The dream that fires man's heart to make,
To build, to do, to sing or say
A beauty Death can never take,
An Adam from the crumbled clay.
Greenwich.
BORN FOR NOUGHT ELSE
Born for nought else, for nothing but for this.
To watch the soft blood throbbing in her throat.
To think how comely sweet her body is,
And learn the poem of her face by rote.
Born for nought else but to attempt a rhyme
That shall describe her womanhood aright.
And make her holy to the end of Time,
And be my soul's acquittal in God's sight.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 75
Born for nought else but to expressly mark
The music of her dear delicious ways ;
Born but to perish meanly in the dark,
Yet born to be the man to sing her praise.
Born for nought else ; there is a spirit tells
My lot 's a King's, being born for nothing else.
Coram St.
THE DEATH ROOMS
My soul has many an old decaying room
Hung with the ragged arras of the past,
Where startled faces flicker in the gloom,
And horrid whispers set the cheek aghast.
Those dropping rooms are haunted by a death,
A something like a worm gnawing a brain,
That bids me heed what bitter lesson saith,
The blind wind beating on the window-pane.
None dwells in those old rooms : none ever can —
I pass them through at night with hidden head ;
Lock'd rotting rooms her eyes must never scan,
Floors that her blessed feet must never tread.
Haunted old rooms ; rooms she must never know,
Where death-ticks knock and mouldering panels glow.
Coram St.
IGNORANCE
Since I have learned Love's shining alphabet,
And spelled in ink what 's writ in me in flame,
And borne her sacred image richly set
Here in my heart to keep me quit of shame ;
Since I have learned how wise and passing wise
Is the dear friend whose beauty I extol.
And know how sweet a soul looks through the eyes,
That are so pure a window to her soul ;
76 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Since I have learned how rare a woman shows
As much in all she does as in her looks,
And seen the beauty of her shame the rose,
And dim the beauty writ about in books ;
All I have learned, and can learn, shows me this —
How scant, how slight, my knowledge of her is.
Coram St.
THE WATCH IN THE WOOD
When Death has laid her in his quietude,
And dimmed the glow of her benignant star,
Her tired limbs shall rest within a wood,
In a green glade where oaks and beeches are,
Where the shy fawns, the pretty fawns, the deer.
With mild brown eyes shall view her spirit's husk,
The sleeping woman of her will appear,
The maiden Dian shining through the dusk.
And, when the stars are white as twilight fails,
And the green leaves are hushed, and the winds swoon,
The calm pure thrilling throats of nightingales
Shall hymn her sleeping beauty to the moon.
All the woods hushed — save for a dripping rose,
All the woods dim — save where a glow-worm glows.
Brimming the quiet woods with holiness.
The lone brown birds will hymn her till the dawn.
The dehcate, shy, dappled deer will press
Soft pitying muzzles on her swathed lawn.
The little pretty rabbits running by.
Will pause among the dewy grass to peep,
Their thudding hearts affrighted to espy
The maiden Dian lying there asleep.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 77
Brown, lustrous, placid eyes of sylvan things
Will wonder at the quiet in her face.
While from the thorny branch the singer brings
Beauty and peace to that immortal place.
Until the grey dawn sets the woods astir
The pure birds' thrilling psalm will mourn for her.
Coram St.
J C. L. M.
In the dark womb where I began
My mother's life made me a man.
Through all the months of human birth
Her beauty fed my common earth.
I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,
But through the death of some of her.
Down in the darkness of the grave
She cannot see the life she gave.
For all her love, she cannot tell
Whether I use it ill or well.
Nor knock at dusty doors to find
Her beauty dusty in the mind.
If the grave's gates could be undone,
She would not know her little son,
I am so grown. If we should meet
She would pass by me in the street,
Unless my soul's face let her see
My sense of what she did for me.
What have I done to keep in mind
My debt to her and womankind ?
What woman's happier hfe repays
Her for those months of wretched days ?
For all my mouthless body leeched
Ere Birth's releasing hell was reached ?
78 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
What have I done, or tried, or said
In thanks to that dear woman dead ?
Men triumph over women still,
Men trample women's rights at will.
And man's lust roves the world untamed.
^ H: 4= Hi :!:
O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.
Maida Hill.
WASTE
No rose but fades : no glory but must pass :
No hue but dims : no precious silk but frets.
Her beauty must go underneath the grass,
Under the long roots of the violets.
O, many glowing beauties Time has hid
In that dark, blotting box the villain sends.
He covers over with a coffin-lid
Mothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.
Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned,
Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay.
All are as blossoms blowing down the wind,
Things the old envious villain sweeps away.
And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll.
Death brings another April to the soul.
Coram St.
THIRD MATE
All the sheets are clacking, all the blocks are whining.
The sails are frozen stiff and the wetted decks are shining ;
The reef 's in the topsails, and it 's coming on to blow,
And I think of the dear girl I left long ago.
Grey were her eyes, and her hair was long and bonny,
Golden was her hair, like the wild bees' honey.
And I was but a dog, and a mad one to despise,
The gold of her hair and the grey of her eyes.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 79
There 's the sea before me, and my home 's behind me,
And beyond there the strange lands where nobody will
mind me,
No one but the girls with the paint upon their cheeks,
Who sell away their beauty to whomsoever seeks.
There'll be drink and women there, and songs and
laughter.
Peace from what is past and from all that follows after ;
And a fellow will forget how a woman lies awake,
Lonely in the night watch crying for his sake.
Black it blows and bad, and it howls like slaughter.
And the ship she shudders as she takes the water.
Hissing flies the spindrift like a wind-blown smoke.
And I think of a woman and a heart I broke.
Greenwich.
THE WILD DUCK
Twilight. Red in the west.
Dimness. A glow on the wood.
The teams plod home to rest.
The wild duck come to glean.
O souls not understood,
What a wild cry in the pool ;
What things have the farm ducks seen
That they cry so — huddle and cry ?
Only the soul that goes.
Eager. Eager. Flying.
Over the globe of the moon,
Over the wood that glows.
Wings linked. Necks a-strain,
A rush and a wild crying.
r~
A cry of the long pain
In the reeds of a steel lagoon.
In a land that no man knows.
Hampden.
80 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
IMAGINATION
Woman, beauty, wonder, sacred woman.
Spirit moulding man from brute to human.
All the beauty seen by all the wise
Is but body to the soul seen by your eyes.
Woman, if my quickened soul could win you.
Nestle to the living soul within you,
Breathe the very breathing of your spirit.
Tremble with you at the things which stir it,
Be you, while your swifter nerves divine
Wisdom from the touch unfelt by mine,
Pass within the beauty to the brain,
Learn the heroism from the pain,
I should know the blinding, quick intense,
Lightning of the soul's spring from the sense,
Touch the very gleam of life's division.
Earth should learn a new soul from the vision.
Hampden.
CHRISTMAS, 1903
O, THE sea breeze will be steady, and the tall ship 's going
trim.
And the dark blue skies are paling, and the white stars
burning dim ;
The long night watch is over, and the long sea-roving
done,
And yonder light is the Start Point light, and yonder
comes the sun.
O, we have been with the Spaniards, and far and long on
the sea ;
But there are the twisted chimneys, and the gnarled old
inns on the quay.
The wind blows keen as the day breaks, the roofs are
white with the rime.
And the church-bells ring as the sun comes up to call men
in to Prime.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 81
The church-bells rock and jangle, and there is peace on
the earth.
Peace and good will and plenty and Christmas games and
mirth.
O, the gold glints bright on the wind-vane as it shifts
above the squire's house,
And the water of the bar of Salcombe is muttering about
the bows.
O, the salt sea tide of Salcombe, it wrinkles into wisps of
foam,
And the church-bells ring in Salcombe to ring poor sailors
home.
The belfry rocks as the bells ring, the chimes are merry
as a song,
They ring home wandering sailors who have been home-
less long.
Cashlauna Shelmiddy.
THE WORD
My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old,
And hand in hand go tottering down the hill.
May we be rich in love's refined gold,
May love's gold coin be current with us still.
May love be sweeter for the vanished days.
And your most perfect beauty still as dear
As when your troubled singer stood at gaze
In the dear March of a most sacred year.
May what we are be all we might have been,
And that potential, perfect, O my friend.
And may there still be many sheafs to glean
In our love's acre, comrade, till the end.
And may we find when ended is the page
Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.
LYRICS FROM THE TRAGEDY OF
POMPEY THE GREAT
B3
THE CHIEF CENTURIONS
MAN is a sacred city, built of marvellous earth. '
Life was lived nobly here to give this body birth.
Something was in this brain and in this eager hand.
Death is so dumb and blind, Death cannot understand.
Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young
limbs' glory.
Death makes women a dream and men a traveller's story,
Death drives the lovely soul to wander under the sky,
Death opens unknown doors. It is most grand to die.
II
PHILIP SINGS
Though we are ringed with spears, though the last hope
is gone,
Romans stand firm, the Roman dead look on.
Before our sparks of life blow back to him who gave,
Burn clear, brave hearts, and light our pathway to the
grave.
Ill
CHANTY
Kneel to the beautiful women who bear us this strange
V * brave fruit.
Man with his soul so noble : man half god and half brute
Women bear him in pain that he may bring them tears
He is a king on earth, he rules for a term of years.
And the conqueror's prize is dust and lost endeavour.
And the beaten man becomes a story for ever.
For the gods employ strange means to bring their will
'ito be.
We are in the wise gods' hands and more we cannot see,
85
THE EVERLASTING MERCY
87
Thy place is biggyd above the sterrys deer.
Noon erthely paleys wrouhte in so statly wyse.
Com on my freend, my brothir moost enteer,
For the I offryd my blood in sacrifise.
John Lydgate.
88
THE EVERLASTING MERCY
FROM '41 to '51
I was my folk's contrary son ;
I bit my father's hand right through
And broke my mother's heart in two.
I sometimes go without my dinner
Now that I know the times I've gi'n her.
From '51 to '61
I cut my teeth and took to fun.
I learned what not to be afraid of
And what stuff women's lips are made of ;
I learned with what a rosy feeling
Good ale makes floors seem like the ceiling,
And how the moon gives shiny light
To lads as roll home singing by't.
My blood did leap, my flesh did revel,
Saul Kane was tokened to the devil.
From '61 to '67
I lived in disbelief of heaven.
I drunk, I fought, I poached, I whored,
I did despite unto the Lord,
I cursed, 'twould make a man look pale,
And nineteen times I went to jail.
Now, friends, observe and look upon me,
Mark how the Lord took pity on me.
By Dead Man's Thorn, while setting wires,
Who should come up but Billy Myers,
A friend of mine, who used to be
As black a sprig of hell as me.
With whom I'd planned, to save encroachin'.
Which fields and coverts each should poach in.
Now when he saw me set my snare,
He tells me " Get to hell from there.
89
90 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
This field is mine," he says, " by right ;
If you poach here, there'll be a fight.
Out now," he says, " and leave your wire ;
It 's mine."
" It ain't."
" You put."
" You liar."
" You closhy put."
" You bloody liar."
" This is my field."
" This is my wire."
" I'm ruler here."
" You ain't."
" I am."
" I'll fight you for it."
" Right, by damn.
Not now, though, I've a-sprained my thumb,
We'll fight after the harvest hum.
And Silas Jones, that bookie wide.
Will make a purse five pounds a side."
Those were the words, that was the place
By which God brought me into grace.
On Wood Top Field the peewits go
Mewing and wheeling ever so ;
And like the shaking of a timbrel
Cackles the laughter of the whimbrel.
In the old quarry-pit they say
Head-keeper Pike was made away.
He walks, head-keeper Pike, for harm.
He taps the windows of the farm ;
The blood drips from his broken chin.
He taps and begs to be let in.
On Wood Top, nights, I've shaked to hark
The peewits wambling in the dark
Lest in the dark the old man might
Creep up to me to beg a light.
But Wood Top grass is short and sweet
And springy to a boxer's feet ;
At harvest hum the moon so bright
Did shine on Wood Top for the fight
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 91
When Bill was stripped down to his bends
I thought how long we two'd been friends,
And in my mind, about that wire,
I thought, " He 's right, I am a liar.
As sure as skilly 's made in prison
The right to poach that copse is his'n.
I'll have no luck to-night," thinks I.
" I'm fighting to defend a lie.
And this moonshiny evening's fun
Is worse than aught I ever done."
And thinking that way my heart bled so
I almost stept to Bill and said so.
And now Bill 's dead I would be glad
If I could only think I had.
But no. I put the thought away
For fear of what my friends Avould say.
They'd backed me, see ? O Lord, the sin ,
Done for the things there 's money in. '
The stakes were drove, the ropes were hitched,
Into the ring my hat I pitched.
My corner faced the Squire's park
Just where the fir-trees make it dark ;
The place where I begun poor Nell
Upon the woman's road to hell.
I thought oft, sitting in my corner
After the time-keep struck his warner
(Two brandy flasks, for fear of noise,
Oinked out the time to us two boys).
And while my seconds chafed and gloved me
I thought of Nell's eyes when she loved me.
And wondered how my tot would end.
First Nell cast off and now my friend ;
And in the moonlight dim and wan
I knew quite well my luck was gone .
And looking round I felt a spite
At all who'd come to see me fight ;
The five and forty human faces
Inflamed by drink and going to races,
Faces of men who'd never been
Merry or true or live or clean ;
92 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Who'd never felt the boxer's trim
Of brain divinely knit to limb,
Nor felt the whole live body go
One tingling health from top to toe ;
Nor took a punch nor given a swing,
But just soaked deady round the ring
Until their brains and bloods were foul
Enough to make their throttles howl.
While we whom Jesus died to teach
Fought round on round, three minutes each.
And thinking that, you'll understand
I thought, " I'll go and take Bill's hand.
I'll up and say the fault was mine,
He sha'n't make play for these here swine."
And then I thought that that was silly,
They'd think I was afraid of Billy :
They'd think (I thought it, God forgive me)
I funked the hiding Bill could give me.
And that thought made me mad and hot.
" Think that, will they ? Well, they shall not.
They sha'n't think that. I will not. I'm
Damned if I will. I will not."
Time !
From the beginning of the bout
My luck was gone, my hand was out.
Right from the start Bill called the play,
But I was quick and kept away
Till the fourth round, when work got mixed,
And then I knew Bill had me fixed.
My hand was out, why, Heaven knows ;
Bill punched me when and where he chose.
Through two more rounds we quartered wide
And all the time my hands seemed tied ;
Bill punched me when and where he pleased.
The cheering from my backers ceased.
But every punch I heard a yell
Of " That 's the style. Bill, give him hell."
No one for me, but Jimmy's light
" Straight left ! Straight left ! " and "Watch his right."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 93
I don't know how a boxer goes
When all his body hums from blows ;
I know I seemed to rock and spin,
I don't know how I saved my chin ;
I know I thought my only friend
Was that chnked flask at each round's end
When my two seconds, Ed and Jimmy,
Had sixty seconds help to gimme.
But in the ninth, with pain and knocks
I stopped : I couldn't fight nor box.
Bill missed his swing, the light was tricky
But I went down, and stayed down, dicky.
" Get up," cried Jim. I said, " I will."
Then all the gang yelled, " Out him. Bill.
Out him." Bill rushed . . . and Clink, Chnk, Clink.
Time ! and Jim's knee, and rum to drink.
And round the ring there Tan a titter :
" Saved by the call, the bloody quitter."
They drove (a dodge that never fails)
A pin beneath my finger nails.
They poured what seemed a runping beck
Of cold spring water down my neck ;
Jim with a lancet quick as flies
Lowered the swellings round my eyes.
They sluiced my legs and fanned my face
Through all that blessed minute's grace ;
They gave my calves a thorough kneading,
They salved my cuts and stopped the bleeding.
A gulp of liquor dulled the pain.
And then the two flasks clinked again.
Time !
There was Bill as grim as death.
He rushed, I chnched, to get more breath.
And breath I got, though Billy bats
Some stinging short-arms in my slats.
And when we broke, as I foresaw,
He swung his right in for the jaw.
I stopped it on my shoulder bone.
And at the shock I heard Bill groan —
A little groan or moan or grunt
As though I'd hit his wind a bunt.
94 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
At that, I clinched, and while we clinched,
His old-time right-arm dig was flinched,
And when we broke he hit me light
As though he didn't trust his right.
He flapped me somehow with his wrist
As though he covildn't use his fist.
And when he hit he winced with pain.
I thought, " Your sprained thumb 's crocked again.'"
So I got strength and Bill gave ground,
And that round was an easy round.
During the wait my Jimmy said,
" What 's making Billy fight so dead ?
He 's all to pieces. Is he blown ? "
" His thumb 's out."
" No ? Then it 's your own.
It 's all your own, but don't be rash —
He's got the goods if you've got cash,
And what one hand can do he'll do.
Be careful this next round or two."
Time ! There was Bill, and I felt sick
That luck shou* play so mean a trick
And give me leave to knock him out
After he'd plainly won the bout.
But by the way the man came at me
He made it plain he meant to bat me ;
If you'd a seen the way he come
You wouldn't think he'd crocked a thumb.
With all his skill and all his might
He clipped me dizzy left and right ;
The Lord knows what the effort cost,
But he was mad to think he'd lost.
And knowing nothing else could save him
He didn't care what pain it gave him.
He called the music and the dance
For five rounds more and gave no chance.
Try to imagine if you can
The kind of manhood in the man,
And if you'd like to feel his pain,
You sprain yoar thumb and hit the sprain,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 95
And hit it hard, with all your power
On something hard for half an hour,
While someone thumps you black and blue,
And then you'll know what Billy knew.
Bill took that pain without a sound
Till half-way through the eighteenth round,
And then I sent him down and out.
And Silas said, " Kane wins the bout.
)>
When Bill came to, you understand,
I ripped the mitten from my hand
And went across to ask Bill shake.
My limbs were all one pain and ache,
I was so weary and so sore
I don't think I'd a stood much more.
Bill in his corner bathed his thumb.
Buttoned his shirt and glowered glum.
" I'll never shake your hand," he said.
" I'd rather see my children dead.
I've been about and had some fun with you.
But you're a liar and I've done with you.
You've knocked me out, you didn't beat me ;
Look out the next time that you meet me,
There'll be no friend to watch the clock for you
And no convenient thumb to crock for you,
And I'll take care, with much delight,
You'll get what you'd a got to-night ;
That puts my meaning clear, I guess,
Now get to hell ; I want to dress."
I dressed. Mv backers one and all
Said, " Well done you," or " Good old Saul."
" Saul is a wonder and a fly 'un,
What'll you have, Saul, at the ' Lion ' ? "
With merry oaths they helped me down
The stony wood-path to the town.
The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk,
It made the limestone look like chalk.
It was too late for any people.
Twelve struck as we went by the steeple.
96 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A dog barked, and an owl was calling.
The Squire's brook was still a-falling,
The carved heads on the church looked down
On " Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,"
And all the graves of all the ghosts
Who rise on Christmas Eve in hosts
To dance and carol in festivity
For joy of Jesus Christ's Nativity
(Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sons
Beheld 'em from the bell-tower once),
Two and two about about
Singing the end of Advent out.
Dwindling down to windlestraws
When the glittering peacock craws.
As craw the glittering peacock should
When Christ's own star comes over the wood.
Lamb of the sky come out of fold
Wandering windy heavens cold.
So the}^ shone and sang till twelve
When all the bells ring out of theirselve ;
Rang a peal for Christmas morn.
Glory, men, for Christ is born.
All the old monks' singing places
Ghmmered quick with flitting faces,
Singing anthems, singing hymns
Under carven cherubims.
Ringer Dawe aloft could mark
Faces at the window dark
Crowding, crowding, row on row,
Till all the church began to glow.
The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir,
All the faces became fire
Below the eastern window high
To see Christ's star come up the sky.
Then they lifted hands and turned,
And all their lifted fingers burned.
Burned like the golden altar tallows,
Burned like a troop of God's own Hallows,
Bringing to mind the burning time
When all the bells will rock and chime
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 97
And burning saints on burning horses
Will sweep the planets from their courses
And loose the stars to burn up night.
Lord, give us eyes to bear the light.
We all went quiet down the Scallenge
Lest Police Inspector Drew should challenge.
But 'Spector Drew was sleeping sweet,
His head upon a charges sheet.
Under the gas-jet flaring full,
Snorting and snoring like a bull,
His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing,
His ugly yellow front teeth showing.
Just as we peeped we saw him fumble
And scratch his head, and shift, and mumble.
Down in the lane so thin and dark
The tan-yards stank of bitter bark,
The curate's pigeons gave a flutter,
A cat went courting down the gutter,
And none else stirred a foot or feather.
The houses put their heads together.
Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly,
Of all the folk they'd seen go by,
Children, and men and women, merry all.
Who'd some day pass that way to burial.
It was all dark, but at the turning
The " Lion " had a window burning.
So in we went and up the stairs,
Treading as still as cats and hares.
The way the stairs creaked made you wonder
If dead men's bones were hidden under.
At head of stairs upon the landing
A woman with a lamp was standing ;
She greet each gent at head of stairs
With " Step in, gents, and take your chairs.
The punch'll come when kettle bubble,
But don't make noise or there'll be trouble."
'Twas Doxy Jane, a bouncing girl
With eyes all sparks and hair all curl.
And cheeks all red and lips all coal.
And thirst for men instead of soul.
98 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
She's trod her pathway to the fire.
Old Rivers had his nephew by her,
I step aside from Tom and Jimmy
To find if she'd a kiss to gimme.
I blew out lamp 'fore she could speak.
She said, " If you ain't got a cheek,"
And then beside me in the dim,
" Did he beat you or you beat him ? "
" Why, I beat him " (though that was wrong).
She said, " You must be turble strong.
I'd be afraid you'd beat me, too."
" You'd not," I said, " I wouldn't do."
" Never ? "
" No, never."
" Never ? "
" No."
" O Saul. Here's missus. Let me go."
It wasn't missus, so I didn't,
Whether I mid do or I midn't.
Until she'd promised we should meet
Next evening, six, at top of street,
When we could have a quiet talk
On that low wall up Worcester Walk.
And while we whispered there together
I give her silver for a feather
And felt a drunkenness like wine
And shut out Christ in husks and swine.
I felt the dart strike through my liver.
God punish me for't and forgive her.
Each one could be a Jesus mild,
Each one has been a little child,
A little child with laughing look,
A lovely white unwritten book ;
A book that God will take, my friend,
As each goes out at journey's end.
The Lord who gave us Earth and Heaven
Takes that as thanks for all He's given.
The book He lent is given back
All blotted red and smutted black.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 99
" Open the door," said Jim, " and call."
Jane gasped, " They'll see me. Loose me, Saul.
She pushed me by, and ducked downstair
With half the pins out of her hair.
I went inside the lit room rollin'.
Her scented hankerchief I'd stolen.
" What would you fancy, Saul ? " they said.
" A gin punch hot and then to bed."
" Jane, fetch the punch bowl to the gemmen ;
And mind you don't put too much lemon.
Our good friend Saul has had a fight of it.
Now smoke up, boys, and make a night of it."
The room was full of men and stink
Of bad cigars and heavy drink.
Riley was nodding to the floor
And gurgling as he w^anted more.
His mouth was wide, his face was pale.
His swollen face was sweating ale ;
And one of those assembled Greeks
Had corked black crosses on his cheeks.
Thomas was having words with Goss,
He " wouldn't pay, the fight was cross."
And Goss told Tom that " cross or no.
The bets go as the verdicts go,
By all I've ever heard or read of.
So pay, or else I'll knock your head off."
Jim Gurvil said his smutty say
About a girl down Bye Street way.
And how the girl from Froggatt's circus
Died giving birth in Newent work'us.
And Dick told how the Dymock wench
Bore twins, poor thing, on Dog Hill bench ;
And how he'd owned to one in court
And how Judge made him sorry for't.
Jock set a Jew's harp twanging drily ;
" Gimme another cup," said Riley.
A dozen more were in their^glories
With laughs and smokes and smutty stories ;
And Jimmy joked and took his sup
And sang his song of " Up, come up."
100 THE POEMS OF JOHN MA.SEFIELD
Jane brought the bowl of stewing gin
And poured the egg and lemon in,
And whisked it up and served it out
While bawdy questions went about.
Jack chucked her chin, and Jim accost her
With bits out of the " Maid of Gloster."
And fifteen arms went round her waist.
(And then men ask, Are Barmaids chaste ?)
0 young men, pray to be kept whole
From bringing down a weaker soul.
Your minute's joy so meet in doin'
May be the woman's door to ruin ;
The door to wandering up and down,
A painted whore at half a crown.
The bright mind fouled, the beauty gay
All eaten out and fallen away,
By drunken days and weary tramps
From pub to pub by city lamps.
Till men despise the game they started,
Till health and beauty are departed,
And in a slum the reeking hag
Mumbles a crust with toothy jag.
Or gets the river's help to end
The life too wrecked for man to mend.
We spat and smoked and took our swipe
Till Silas up and tap his pipe,
And begged us all to pay attention
Because he'd several things to mention.
We'd seen the fight (Hear, hear. That 's you) ;
But still one task remained to do ;
That task was his, he didn't shun it.
To give the purse to him as won it ;
With this remark, from start to out
He'd never seen a brisker bout.
There was the purse. At that he'd leave it.
Let Kane come forward to receive it.
I|took the purse and hemmed and bowed.
And called for gin punch for the crowd.
And when the second bowl was done,
1 called, " Let 's have another one.
5)
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 101
Si's wife come in and sipped and sipped
(As women will) till she was pipped.
And Si hit Dicky Twot a clouter
Because he put his arm about her ;
But after Si got overtasked
She sat and kissed whoever asked.
My Doxy Jane was splashed by this,
I took her on my knee to kiss.
And Tom cried out, " O damn the gin ;
Why can't we all have women in ?
Bess Evans, now, or Sister Polly,
Or those two housemaids at the Folly ?
Let some one nip to Biddy Price's,
Thej'^'d all come in a brace of trices.
Rose Davies, Sue, and Betsy Perks ;
One man, one girl, and damn all Turks."
But, no. " More gin," they cried ; " Come on,
We'll have the girls in when it's gone."
So round the gin went, hot and heady,
Hot Hollands punch on top of deady.
Hot Hollands punch on top of stout
Puts madness in and wisdom out.
From drunken man to drunken man
The drunken madness raged and ran.
" I'm climber Joe who cUmbed the spire."
" You're climber Joe the bloody liar."
" Who says I lie ? "
" I do."
" You lie,
I climbed the spire and had a fly."
" I'm French Suzanne, the Circus Dancer,
I'm going to dance a bloody Lancer."
" If I'd my rights I'm Squire's heir."
" By rights I'd be a millionaire,"
" By rights I'd be the lord of you.
But Farmer Scriggins had his do.
He done me, so I've had to hoove it,
I've got it all wrote down to prove it.
And one of these dark winter nights
He'll learn I mean to have my rights ;
102 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I'll bloody him a bloody fix,
I'll bloody burn his bloody ricks."
From three long hours of gin and smokes,
And two girls' breath and fifteen blokes',
A warmish night, and windows shut,
The room stank like a fox's gut.
The heat and smell and drinking deep
Began to stun the gang to sleep.
Some fell downstairs to sleep on the mat,
Some snored it sodden where they sat.
Dick Twot had lost a tooth and wept,
But all the drunken others slept.
Jane slept beside me in the chair,
And I got up ; I wanted air.
I opened window wide and leaned
Out of that pigstye of the fiend
And felt a cool wind go like grace
About the sleeping market-place.
The clock struck three, and sweetly, slowly,
The bells chimed Holy, Holy, Holy ;
And in a second's pause there fell
The cold note of the chapel bell,
And then a cock crew, flapping wings,
And summat made me think of things.
How long those ticking clocks had gone
From church and chapel, on and on.
Ticking the time out, ticking slow |
To men and girls who'd come and go,
And how they ticked in belfry dark
When half the town was bishop's park,
And how they'd rung a chime full tilt
The night after the church was built,
And how that night was Lambert's Feast,
The night I'd fought and been a beast.
And how a change had come. And then
I thought, " You tick to different men."
What with the fight and what with drinking
And being awake alone there thinking.
My mind began to carp and tetter,
" If this life 's all, the beasts are better."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 103
And then I thought, " I wish I'd seen
The many towns this town has been ;
I wish I knew if they'd a-got
A kind of summat we've a-not,
If them as built the church so fair
Were half the chaps folk say they were ;
For they'd the skill to draw their plan,
And skill 's a joy to any man ;
And they'd the strength, not skill alone,
To build it beautiful in stone ;
And strength and skill together thus . . .
O, they were happier men than us.
" But if they were, they had to die
The same as every one and I.
And no one lives again, but dies,
And all the bright goes out of eyes,
And all the skill goes out of hands.
And all the wise brain understands.
And all the beauty, all the power
Is cut down like a withered flower.
In all the show from birth to rest
I give the poor dumb cattle best."
I wondered, then, why Hfe should be,
And what would be the end of me
When youth and health and strength were gone
And cold old age came creeping on ?
A keeper's gun ? The Union ward ?
Or that new quod at Hereford ?
And looking round I felt disgust
At all the nights of drink and lust.
And all the looks of all the swine
Who'd said that they were friends of mine ;
And yet I knew, when morning came.
The morning would be just the same.
For I'd have drinks and Jane would meet me
And drunken Silas Jones would greet me,
And I'd risk quod and keeper's gun
Till all the silly game was done.
" For parson chaps are mad supposin'
A chap can change the road he's chosen."
104 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And then the Devil whispered " Saul,
Why should you want to live at all ?
Why fret and sweat and try to mend ?
It 's all the same thing in the end.
But when it 's done," he said, " it 's ended.
Why stand it, since it can't be mended ? "
And in my heart I heard him plain,
"|Throw yourself down and end it, Kane."
" Why not ? " said I. " Why not ? But no.
I won't. I've never had my go.
I've not had ail the world can give.
Death by and by, but first I'll live.
The world owes me my time of times,
And that time 's coming now, by crimes."
A madness took me then. I felt
I'd like to hit the world a belt.
I felt that I could fly through air,
A screaming star with blazing hair,
A rushing comet, crackling, numbing
The folk with fear of judgment coming,
A 'Lijah in a fiery car
Coming to tell folk what they are.
" That 's what I'll do," I shouted loud,
" I'll tell this sanctimonious crowd.
This town of window-peeping, prying.
Maligning, peering, hinting, lying,
Male and female human blots
Who would, but daren't be, whores and sots,
That they're so steeped in petty vice
That they're less excellent than lice.
That they're so soaked in petty virtue
That touching one of them will dirt you,
Dirt you with the stain of mean
Cheating trade and going between,
Pinching, starving, scraping, hoarding,
Spying through the chinks of boarding
To see if Sue the prentice lean
Dares to touch the margarine.
Fawning, cringing, oiling boots.
Raging in the crowd's pursuits.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 105
Flinging stones at all the Stephens,
Standing firm with all the evens,
Making hell for all the odd,
All the lonely ones of God,
Those poor lonely ones who find
Dogs more mild than human kind.
For dogs," I said, " are nobles born
To most of you, you cockled corn.
I've known dogs to leave their dinner,
Nosing a kind heart in a sinner.
Poor old Crafty wagged his tail
The day I first came home from jail.
When allfmy folk, so primly clad,
Glowered black and thought me mad.
And muttered how they'd been respected.
While I was what they'd all expected.
(I've thought of that old dog for years,
And of how near I come to tears.)
" But you, you minds of bread and cheese,
Are less divine than that dog's fleas.
You suck blood from kindly friends,
And kill them when it serves your ends.
Double traitors, double black,
Stabbing only in the back.
Stabbing with the knives you borrow
From the friends you bring to sorrow.
You stab all that 's true and strong ;
Truth and strength you say are wrong ;
Meek and mild, and sweet and creeping.
Repeating, canting, cadging, peeping.
That 's the art and that 's the life
To win a man his neighbour's wife.
All that 's good and all that 's true,
You kill that, so I'll kill you."
At that I tore my clothes in shreds
And hurled them on the window leads ;
I flung my boots through both the winders
And knocked the glass to little flinders ;
The punch bowl and the tumblers followed,
And then I seized the lamps and holloed,
106 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And down the stairs, and tore back bolts,
As mad as twenty blooded colts ;
And out into the street I pass,
As mad as two-year-olds at grass,
A naked madman waving grand
A blazing lamp in either hand.
I yelled like twenty drunken sailors,
" The devil's come among the tailors."
A blaze of flame behind me streamed,
And then I clashed the lamps and screamed
" I'm Satan, newly come from hell,"
And then I spied the fire-bell.
I've been a ringer, so I know
How best to make a big bell go.
So on to bell-rope swift I swoop,
And stick my one foot in the loop
And heave a down-swig till I groan,
" Awake, you swine, you devil's own."
I made the fire-bell awake,
I felt the bell-rope throb and shake ;
I felt the air mingle and clang
And beat the walls a muffled bang,
And stifle back and boom and bay
Like muffled peals on Boxing Day,
And then surge up and gather shape.
And spread great pinions and escape ;
And each great bird of clanging shrieks
0 Fire, Fire ! from iron beaks.
My shoulders cracked to send around
Those shrieking birds made out of sound
With news of fire in their bills.
(They heard 'em plain beyond Wall Hills.)
Up go the winders, out come heads,
1 heard the springs go creak in beds ;
But still I heave and sweat and tire.
And still the clang goes " Fire, Fire ! "
" Where is it, then ? Who is it, there ?
You ringer, stop, and tell us where."
" Run round and let the Captain know."
*' It must be bad, he 's ringing so."
ii
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 107
" It 's in the town, I see the flame ;
Look there ! Look there, how red it came."
" Where is it, then ? O stop the bell."
I stopped and called : " It 's fire of hell ;
And this is Sodom and Gomorrah,
And now I'll burn you up, begorra."
By this the firemen were mustering,
The half-dressed stable men were flustering,
Backing the horses out of stalls
While this man swears and that man bawls,
" Don't take th' old mare. Back, Toby, back.
Back, Lincoln. Where 's the fire, Jack ? "
" Damned if I know. Out Preston way."
" No. It 's at Chancey's Pitch, they say."
" It 's sixteen ricks at Pauntlej'- burnt."
" You back old Darby out, I durn't."
They ran the big red engine out.
And put 'em to with damn and shout.
And then they start to raise the shire,
" Who brought the news, and where 's the fire ? "
They'd moonlight, lamps, and gas to light 'em.
I give a screech-owl's screech to fright 'em.
And snatch from underneath their noses
The nozzles of the fire hoses.
" I am the fire. Back, stand back,
' Or else I'll fetch your skulls a crack ;
D'you see these copper nozzles here ?
They weigh ten pounds apiece, my dear ;
I'm fire of hell come up this minute
, To burn this town, and all that 's in it.
1 To burn you dead and burn you clean.
You cogwheels in a stopped machine.
You hearts of snakes, and brains of pigeons,
You dead devout of dead religions.
You offspring of the hen and ass,
I By Pirate ruled, and Caiaphas.
; Now your account is totted. Learn
' Hell's flames are loose and you shall burn."
At that I leaped and screamed and ran,
I heard their cries go " Catch him, man."
1
108 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Who was it ? " " Down him." " Out him, Ern."
" Duck him at pump, we'll see who'll burn."
A policeman clutched, a fireman clutched,
A dozen others snatched and touched.
" By God, he 's stripped down to his buff."
" By God, we'll make him warm enough."
" After him." " Catch him," " Out him," " Scrob him,"
" We'll give him hell." " By God, we'll mob him."
" We'll duck him, scrout him, flog him, fratch him."
" All right," I said. " But first you'll catch him."
The men who don't know to the root
The joy of being swift of foot.
Have never known divine and fresh
The glory of the gift of flesh.
Nor felt the feet exult, nor gone
Along a dim road, on and on.
Knowing again the bursting glows
The mating hare in April knows.
Who tingles to the pads with mirth
At being the s\viftest thing on earth.
O, if you want to know delight,
Run naked in an autumn night.
And laugh, as I laughed then, to find
A running rabble drop behind.
And whang, on every door you pass.
Two copper nozzles, tipped with brass,
And doubly whang at every turning.
And yell, " All hell 's let loose, and burning."
I beat my brass and shouted fire
At doors of parson, lawyer, squire.
At all three doors I threshed and slammed
And yelled aloud that they were damned.
I clodded squire's glass with turves
Because he spring-gunned his preserves.
Through parson's glass my nozzle swishes
Because he stood for loaves and fishes,
But parson's glass I spared a tittle.
He give me an orange once when little.
And he who gives a child a treat
Makes joy-bells ring in Heaven's street
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 109
And he who gives a child a home
Builds palaces in Kingdom come,
And she who gives a baby birth
Brings Saviour Christ again to Earth,
For life is joy, and mind is fruit.
And body's precious earth and root.
But lawyer's glass — well, never mind,
Th' old Adam 's strong in me, I find.
God pardon man, and may God's son
Forgive the evil things I've done.
What more ? By Dirty Lane I crept
Back to the " Lion," where I slept.
The raging madness hot and floodin'
Boiled itself out and left me sudden.
Left me worn out and sick and cold.
Aching as though I'd all grown old ;
So there I lay, and there they found me
On door-mat, with a curtain round me.
Si took my heels and Jane my head
And laughed, and carried me to bed.
And from the neighbouring street they reskied
My boots and trousers, coat and weskit ;
They bath-bricked both the nozzles bright
To be mementoes of the night.
And knowing what I should awake with
They flannelled me a quart to slake with,
And sat and shook till half-past two
Expecting Police Inspector Drew.
I woke and drank, and went to meat
In clothes still dirty from the street.
Down in the bar I heard 'em tell
How someone rang the fire-bell.
And how th' Inspector's search had thriven.
And how five pounds reward was given.
And Shepherd Boyce, of Marley, glad us
By saying it was blokes from mad'us,
Or two young rips lodged at the " Prince "
Whom none had seen nor heard of since.
Or that young blade from Worcester Walk
(You know how country people talk).
110 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Young Joe the ostler come in sad,
He said th' old mare had bit his dad.
He said there'd come a blazing screeching
Daft Bible-prophet chap a-preaching,
Had put th' old mare in such a taking
She'd thought the bloody earth was quaking.
And others come and spread a tale
Of cut-throats out of Gloucester jail,
And how we needed extra cops
With all them Welsh come picking hops ;
With drunken Welsh in all our sheds
We might be murdered in our beds.
By all accounts, both men and wives
Had had the scare up of their lives.
I ate and drank and gathered strength,
And stretched along the bench full length,
Or crossed to window seat to pat
BlacK Silas Jones's little cat.
At four I called, " You devil's own,
The second trumpet shall be blown.
The second trump, the second blast ;
Hell's flames are loosed, and judgment 's passed.
Too late for mercy now. Take warning
I'm death and hell and Judgment morning."
I hurled the bench into the settle,
I banged the table on the kettle,
I sent Joe's quart of cider spinning.
" Lo, here begins my second inning."
Each bottle, mug, and jug and pot
I smashed to crocks in half a tot ;
And Joe, and Si, and Nick, and Percy
I rolled together topsy versy.
And as I ran I heard 'em call,
" Now damn to hell, what 's gone with Saul ? "
Out into street I ran uproarious,
The devil dancing in me glorious.
And as I ran I yell and shriek
" Come on, now, turn the other cheek."
Across the way by almshouse pump
I see old puffing parson stump.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 111
Old parson, red-eyed as a ferret
From nightly wrestlings with the spirit ;
I ran across, and barred his path.
His turkey gills went red as wrath
And then he froze, as parsons can.
" The police will deal with you, my man."
" Not yet," said I, " not yet they won't ;
And now you'll hear me, like or don't.
The English Church both is and was
A subsidy of Caiaphas.
^ I don't believe in Prayer nor Bible,
They're lies all through, and you're a libel,
A libel on the Devil's plan
When first he miscreated man.
You mumble through a formal code
To get which martyrs burned and glowed.
I look on martyrs as mistakes.
But still they burned for it at stakes ;
Your only fire 's the jolly fire
Where you can guzzle port with Squire,
And back and praise his damned opinions
y/About his temporal dominions.
You let him give the man who digs,
A filthy hut unfit for pigs,
Without a well, without a drain,
With mossy thatch that lets in rain,
Without a 'lotment, 'less he rent it,
And never meat, unless he scent it,
But weekly doles of 'leven shilling
To make a grown man strong and willing
To do the hardest work on earth
And feed his wife when she gives birth.
And feed his little children's bones.
I tell you, man, the Devil groans.
With all your main and all your might
You back what is against what 's right ;
You let the Squire do things like these.
You back him in't and give him ease.
You take his hand, and drink his wine
And he 's a hog, but you're a swine.
For you take gold to teach God's ways
And teach man how to sing God' s praise.
112 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And now I'll tell you what you teach
In downright honest English speech.
" You teach the ground-down starving man
That Squire's greed 's Jehovah's plan.
You get his learning circumvented
Lest it should make him discontented
(Better a brutal, starving nation
Than?men with thoughts above their station),
You let him neither read nor think,
You goad his wretched soul to drink
And then to jail, the drunken boor ;
O sad intemperance of the poor.
You starve his soul till it 's rapscallion,
Then blame his flesh for being stallion.
You send your wife around to paint
The golden glories of ' restraint.'
How moral exercise bewild'rin'
Would soon result in fewer children.
You work a day in Squire's fields
And see what sweet restraint it yields ;
A woman's day at turnip picking,
Your heart 's too fat for plough or ricking.
" And you whom luck taught French and Greek
Have purple flaps on either cheek,
A stately house, and time for knowledge,
And gold to send your sons to college,
That pleasant place, where getting learning
Is also key to money earning,
But quite your damn'dest want of grace
Is what you do to save your face ;
The way you sit astride the gates
By padding wages out of rates ;
Your Christmas gifts of shoddy blankets
That every working soul may thank its
Loving parson, loving squire
Through whom he can't afford a fire.
Your well-packed bench, your prison pen,
To keep them something less than men ;
Your friendly clubs to help 'em bury,
Your charities of midwifery.
i
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 118
Your bidding children duck and cap
To them who give them workhouse pap.
O, what you are, and what you preach,
And what you do, and what you teach
Is not God's Word, nor honest schism,
But Devil's cant and pauperism."
By this time many folk had gathered
To listen to me while I blathered ;
I said my piece, and when I'd said it,
I'll do old purple parson credit,
He sunk (as sometimes parsons can)
His coat's excuses in the man.
" You think that Squire and I are kings
Who made the existing state of things,
And made it ill. I answer. No,
States are not made, nor patched ; they grow,
Grow slow through centuries of pain
And grow correctly in the main,
But only grow by certain laws
Of certain bits in certain jaws.
You want to doctor that. Let be.
You cannot patch a growing tree.
Put these two words beneath your hat,
These two : securus judicat.
The social states of human kinds
Are made by multitudes of minds,
Andfafter multitudes of years
A little human growth appears
Worth having, even to the soul
Who sees most plain it 's not the whole.
This state is dull and evil, both,
I keep it in the path of growth ;
You think the Church an outworn fetter ;
Kane, keep it, till you've built a better.
And keep the existing social state ;
I quite agree it 's out of date.
One does too much, another shirks.
Unjust, I grant ; but still ... it works.
To get the whole world out of bed
And washed, and dressed, and warmed, and fed,
114 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
To work, and back to bed again,
Believe me, Saul, costs worlds of pain.
Then, as to whether true or sham
That book of Christ, Whose priest I am ;
The Bible is a lie, say you,
Where do you stand, suppose it true ?
Good-bye. But if you've more to say,
My doors are open night and day.
Meanwhile, my friend, 'twould be no sin
To mix more water in your gin.
We're neither saints nor Philip Sidneys,
But mortal men with mortal kidneys."
He took his snuff, and wheezed a greeting,
And waddled off to mothers' meeting ;
I hung my head upon my chest,
I give old purple parson best,
For while the Plough tips round the Pole
The trained mind outs the upright soul.
As Jesus said the trained mind might,
Being wiser than the sons of light.
But trained men's minds are spread so thin
They let all sorts of darkness in ;
Whatever light man finds they doubt it,
They love not light, but talk about it.
But parson'd proved to people's eyes
That I was drunk, and he was wise ;
And people grinned and women tittered.
And little children mocked and twittered.
So blazing mad, 1 stalked to bar
To show how noble drunkards are,
And guzzled spirits like a beast,
To show contempt for Church and priest,
Until, by six, my wits went round
Like hungry pigs in parish pound.
At half-past six, rememb'ring Jane,
I staggered into street again
With mind made up (or primed with gin)
To bash the cop who'd run me in ;
For well I knew I'd have to cock up
My legs that night inside the lock-up,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 115
And it was my most fixed intent
To have a fight before I went.
Our Fates are strange, and no one knows his ;
Our lovely Saviour Christ disposes.
Jane wasn't where we'd planned, the jade.
She'd thought me drunk and hadn't stayed.
So I went up the Walk to look for her
And lingered by the little brook for her.
And dowsed my face, and drank at spring.
And watched two wild duck on the wing.
The moon come pale, the wind come cool,
A big pike leapt in Lower Pool,
The peacock screamed, the clouds were straking,
My cut cheek felt the weather breaking ;
An orange sunset waned and thinned
Foretelling rain and western wind.
And while I watched I heard distinct
The metals on the railway clinked.
The blood-edged clouds were all in tatters,
The sky and earth seemed mad as hatters ;
They had a death look, wild and odd,
Of something dark foretold by God.
And seeing it so, I felt so shaken
I wouldn't keep the road I'd taken.
But wandered back towards the inn
Resolved to brace myself with gin.
And as I walked, I said, " It 's strange.
There 's Death let loose to-night, and Change."
In Cabbage Walk I made a haul
Of two big pears from lawyer's wall,
And, munching one, I took the lane
Back into Market-place again.
Lamp-lighter Dick had passed the turning
And all the Homend lamps were burning.
The windows shone, the shops were busy,
But that strange Heaven made me dizzy.
The sky had all God's warning writ
In bloody marks all over it.
And over all I thought there was
A ghastly light beside the gas.
116 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The Devil's tasks and Devil's rages
Were giving me the Devil's wages.
In Market-place it 's always light,
The big shop windows make it bright ;
And in the press of people buying
I spied a little fellow crying
Because his mother'd gone inside
And left him there, and so he cried.
And mother'd beat him when she found him,
And mother's whip would curl right round him,
And mother'd say he'd done't to crost her.
Though there being crowds about he'd lost her.
Lord, give to men who are old and rougher
The things that little children suffer.
And let keep bright and undefiled
The young years of the little child.
I pat his head at edge of street
And gi'm my second pear to eat.
Right under lamp, I pat his head,
" I'll stay till mother come," I said,
And stay I did, and joked and talked,
And shoppers wondered as they walked.
" There 's that Saul Kane, the drunken blaggard.
Talking to little Jimmy Jaggard.
The drunken blaggard reeks of drink."
" Whatever will his mother think ? "
" Wherever has his mother gone ?
Nip round to Mrs Jaggard's, John,
And say her Jimmy's out again,
In Market-place, with boozer Kane."
" When he come out to-day he staggered.
O, Jimmy Jaggard, Jimmy Jaggard."
" His mother 's gone insid% to bargain,
Run in and tell her, Polly Margin,
And tell her poacher Kane is tipsy
And selling Jimmy to a gipsy."
" Run in to Mrs. Jaggard, Ellen,
Or else, dear knows, there'll be no telhn',
And don't dare leave yer till you've fount her,
You'll find her at the linen counter."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 117
I toldfa tale, to Jim's delight,
Of where the tom-cats go by night,
And how when moonlight come they went
Among the chimneys black and bent,
From'^roof to roof, from house to house,
With little baskets full of mouse
All red and white, both joint and chop
Like meat out of a butcher's shop ;
Then all along the wall they creep
And everyone is fast asleep,
And honey-hunting moths go by.
And by the bread-batch crickets cry ;
Then on they hurry, never waiting,
To|lawyer's backyard cellar grating.
Where Jaggard's cat, with clever paw,
Unhooks a broke-brick's secret door ;
Then down into the cellar black.
Across the wood slug's slimy track,
Into an old cask's quiet hollow,
Where they've got seats for what 's to follow ;
Then each tom-cat lights little candles.
And O, the stories and the scandals.
And O, the songs and Christmas carols.
And O, the milk from little barrels.
They light a fire fit for roasting
(And how good mouse-meat smells when toasting).
Then down they sit to merry feast
While moon goes west and sun comes east.
Sometimes they make so merry there
Old lawyer come to head of stair
To 'fend with fist and poker took firm
His parchments channelled by the bookworm,
And all his deeds, and all his packs
Of withered ink and sealing wax ;
And there he stands, with candle raised,
And listens like a man amazed.
Or like a ghost a man stands dumb at.
He says, " Hush ! Hush ! I'm sure there 's summat !
He hears outside the brown owl call.
He hears the death-tick tap the wall.
118 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The gnawing of the wainscot mouse,
The creaking up and down the house,
The unhooked window's hinges ranging,
The sounds that say the wind is changing.
At last he turns, and shakes his head,
" It 's nothing, I'll go back to bed."
And just then Mrs. Jaggard came
To view and end her Jimmy's shame.
She made one rush and gi'm a bat
And shook him like a dog a rat.
" I can't turn round but what you're straying.
I'll give you tales and gipsy playing.
I'll give you wand'ring off like this
And listening to whatever 't is.
You'll laugh the little side of the can,
You'll have the whip for this, my man ;
And not a bite of meat nor bread
You'll touch before you go to bed.
Some day you'll break your mother's heart,
After God knows she's done her part,
Working her arms off day and night
Trying to keep your collars white.
Look at your face, too, in the street.
What dirty filth 've you found to eat ?
Now don't you blubber here, boy, or
I'll give you sum't to blubber for."
She snatched him off from where we stand
And knocked the pear-core from his handj
And looked at me, " You Devil's limb,
How dare you talk to Jaggard 's Jim ;
You drunken, poaching, boozing brute, you.
If Jaggard was a man he'd shoot you."
She glared all this, but didn't speak,
She gasped, white hollows in her cheek ;
Jimmy was writhing, screaming wild.
The shoppers thought I'd killed the child.
I had to speak, so I begun,
" You'd oughtn't beat your little son ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 119
He did no harm, but seeing him there
I talked to him and gi'm a pear ;
I'm sure the poor child meant no wrong,
It 's all my fault he stayed so long,
He'd not have stayed, mum, I'll be bound
If I'd not chanced to come around.
It 's all my fault he stayed, not his.
I kept him here, that 's how it is."
" Oh ! And how dare you, then ? " says she,
" How dare you tempt my boy from me ?
How dare you do 't, you drunken swine.
Is he your child or is he mine ?
A drunken sot they've had the beak to.
Has got his dirty whores to speak to.
His dirty mates with whom he drink.
Not little children, one would think.
Look on him, there," she says, " look on him
And smell the stinking gin upon him.
The lowest sot, the drunk'nest liar,
The dirtiest dog in all the shire :
Nice friends for any woman's son
After ten years, and all she's done.
" For I've had eight, and buried five,
And only three are left alive.
I've given them all we could afford,
I've taught them all to fear the Lord.
They've had the best we had to give,
The only three the Lord let live.
" For Minnie whom I loved the worst
Died mad in childbed with her first.
And John and Mary died of measles,
And Rob was drownded at the Teasels.
And little Nan, dear little sweet,
A cart run over in the street ;
Her little shift was all one stain,
I prayed God put her out of pain.
And all the rest are gone or going
The road to hell, and there 's no knowing
For all I've done and all I've made them
I'd better not have overlaid them.
120 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
For Susan went the ways of shame
The time the 'till'ry regiment came,
And t'have her child without a father
I think I'd have her buried rather.
And Dicky boozes, God forgimme.
And now't's to be the same with Jimmy.
And all I've done and all I've bore
Has made a drunkard and a whore,
A bastard boy who wasn't meant,
And Jimmy gwine where Dicky went ;
For Dick began the self-same way
And my old hairs are going gray.
And my poor man's a withered knee.
And all the burden falls on me.
" I've washed eight little children's limbs,
I've taught eight little souls their hymns,
I've risen sick and lain down pinched
And borne it all and never flinched ;
But to see him, the town's disgrace,
With God's commandments broke in 's face,
Who never worked, not he, nor earned.
Nor will do till the seas are burned,
Who never did since he was whole
A hand's turn for a human soul.
But poached and stole and gone with women.
And swilled down gin enough to swim in ;
To see him only lift one finger
To make my little Jimmy linger.
In spite of all his mother's prayers.
And all her ten long years of cares.
And all her broken spirit's cry
That drunkard's finger puts them by,
And Jimmy turns. And now I see
That just as Dick was, Jim will be,
And all my life will have been vain.
I might have spared myself the pain,
And done the world a blessed riddance
If I'd a drowned 'em all like kittens.
And he the sot, so strong and proud,
Who'd make white shirts of 's mother's shroud,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 121
He laughs now, it 's a joke to him,
Though it 's the gates of hell to Jim.
" I've had my heart burnt out like coal,
And drops of blood wrung from soul
Day in, day out, in pain and tears,
For five and twenty wretched years ;
And he, he 's ate the fat and sweet,
And loafed and spat at top of street,
And drunk and leched from day till morrow,
And never known a moment's sorrow.
He come out drunk from th' inn to look
The day my little Ann was took ;
He sat there drinking, glad and gay.
The night my girl was led astray ;
He praised my Dick for singing well,
The night Dick took the road to hell ;
And when my corpse goes stiff and blind,
Leaving four helpless souls behind,
He will be there still, drunk and strong.
It do seem hard. It do seem wrong.
But ' Woe to him by whom the offence,'
Says our Lord Jesus' Testaments.
Whatever seems, God doth not slumber,
Though He lets pass times without number
He'll come with trump to call His own,
And this world's way'll be overthrown.
He'll come with glory and with fire
To^cast great darkness on the liar,
To burn the drunkard and the treacher,
And do His judgment on the lecher,
To glorify the spirits' faces
Of those whose ways were stony places,
Who chose with Ruth the better part ;
O Lord, I see Thee as Thou art,
O God, the fiery four-edged sword.
The thunder of the wrath outpoured.
The fiery four-faced creatures burning.
And all the four-faced wheels all turning,
Coming with trump and fiery saint.
Jim, take me home, I'm turning faint."
122 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
They went, and some cried, " Good old sod.
She put it to him straight, by God."
Summat she was, or looked, or said,
Went home and made me hang my head.
I slunk away into the night
Knowing deep down that she was right.
I'd often heard religious ranters.
And put them down as windy canters,
But this old mother made me see
The harm I done by being me.
Being both strong and given to sin
I 'tracted weaker vessels in.
So back to bar to get more drink,
I didn't dare begin to think.
And there were drinks and drunken singing,
As though this life were dice for flinging ;
Dice to be flung, and nothing furder,
And Christ's blood just another murder.
" Come on, drinks round, salue, drink hearty.
Now, Jane, the punch-bowl for the party.
If any here won't drink with me
I'll knock his bloody eyes out. See ?
Come on, cigars round, rum for mine,
Sing us a smutty song, some swine."
But though the drinks and songs went round
That thought remained, it was not drowned.
And when I'd rise to get a light
I'd think, " What's come to me to-night ? "
There 's always crowd when drinks are standing.
The house doors slammed along the landing.
The rising wind was gusty yet.
And those who came in late were wet ;
And all my body's nerves were snappin'
With sense of summat 'bout to happen,
And music seemed to come and go
And seven lights danced in a row.
There used to be a custom then.
Miss Bourne, the Friend, went round at ten
To all the pubs in all the place
To bring the drunkard's soul to grace ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 123
Some sulked, of course, and some were stirred,
But none gave her a dirty word.
A tall pale woman, grey and bent.
Folk said of her that she was sent.
She wore Friend's clothes, and women smiled,
But she'd a heart just like a child.
She come to us near closing time
When we were at some smutty rhyme,
And I was mad and ripe for fun ;
I wouldn't a minded what I done,
So when she come so prim and grey
I pound the bar and sing, " Hooray,
Here 's Quaker come to bless and kiss us,
Come, have a gin and bitters, missus.
Or maybe Quaker girls so prim
Would rather start a bloody hymn.
Now, Dick, oblige. A hymn, you swine,
Pipe up the ' Officer of the Line,'
A song to make one's belly ache.
Or ' Nell and Roger at the Wake,'
Or that sweet song, the talk in town,
' The lady fair and Abel Brown.'
' O, who 's that knocking at the door.'
Miss Bourne '11 play the music score."
The men stood dumb as cattle are.
They grinned, but thought I'd gone too far,
There come a hush and no one break it,
They wondered how Miss Bourne would take it.
She up to me with black eyes wide,
She looked as though her spirit cried ;
She took my tumbler from the bar
Beside where all the matches are
And poured it out upon the floor dust,
Among the fag-ends, spit and sawdust.
" Saul Kane," she said, " when next you drink,
Do me the gentleness to think
That every drop of drink accursed
Makes Christ within you die of thirst,
That every dirty word you say
Is one more flint upon His way.
124 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Another thorn about His head,
Another mock by where He tread,
Another nail, another cross.
All that you are is that Christ's loss."
The clock run down and struck a chime
And Mrs. Si said, " Closing time."
The wet was pelting on the pane
And something broke inside my brain,
I heard the rain drip from the gutters
And Silas putting up the shutters,
While one by one the drinkers went ;
I got a glimpse of what it meant,
How she and I had stood before
In some old town by some old door
Waiting intent while someone knocked
Before the door for ever locked ;
She was so white that I was scared,
A gas-jet, turned the wrong way, flared.
And Silas snapped the bars in place.
Miss Bourne stood white and searched my face.
When Silas done, with ends of tunes
He 'gan a-gathering the spittoons,
His wife primmed lips and took the till.
Miss Bourne stood still and I stood still.
And " Tick. Slow. Tick. Slow " went the clock.
She said, " He waits until you knock."
She turned at that and went out swift.
Si grinned and winked, his missus sniffed.
I heard her clang the " Lion " door,
I marked a drink-drop roll to floor ;
It took up scraps of sawdust, furry,
And crinkled on, a half inch, blurry ;
A drop from my last glass of gin ;
And someone waiting to come in,
A hand upon the door latch gropin'
Knocking the man inside to open.
I know the very words I said.
They bayed like bloodhounds in my head.
" The water 's going out to sea
And there 's a great moon calling me ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 125
But there 's a great sun calls the moon,
And all God's bells will carol soon
For joy and glory and delight
Of someone coming home to-night."
Out into darkness, out to night,
My flaring heart gave plenty light,
So wild it was there was no knowing
Whether the clouds or stars were blowing ;
Blown chimney pots and folk blown blind
And puddles glimmering like my mind.
And chinking glass from windows banging,
And inn signs swung like people hanging.
And in my heart the drink unpriced,
The burning cataracts of Christ.
I did not think, I did not strive.
The deep peace burnt my me alive ;
The bolted door had broken in,
I knew that I had done with sin.
I knew that Christ had given me birth
To brother all the souls on earth,
And every bird and every beast
Should share the crumbs broke at the feast.
0 glory of the lighted mind.
How dead I'd been, how dumb, how blind.
The station brook, to my new eyes.
Was babbling out of Paradise ;
The waters rushing from the rain
Were singing Christ has risen again.
1 thought all earthly creatures knelt
From rapture of the joy I felt.
The narrow station-wall's brick ledge,
The wild hop withering in the hedge,
The lights in huntsman's upper storey
Were parts of an eternal glory.
Were God's eternal garden flowers.
I stood in bliss at this for hours.
O glory of the lighted soul.
The dawn came up on Bradlow Knoll,
The dawn with glittering on the grasses.
The dawn which pass and never passes.
126 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" It 's dawn," I said, " and chimney 's smoking,
And all the blessed fields are soaking.
It 's dawn, and there 's an engine shunting ;
And hounds, for huntsman's going hunting.
It 's dawn, and I must wander north
Along the road Christ led me forth."
So up the road I wander slow
Past where the snowdrops used to grow
With celandines in early springs,
When rainbows were triumphant things
And dew so bright and flowers so glad,
Eternal joy to lass and lad.
And past the lovely brook I paced.
The brook whose source I never traced,
The brook, the one of two which rise
In my green dream in Paradise,
In wells where heavenly buckets clink
To give God's wandering thirsty drink
By those clean cots of carven stone
Where the clear water sings alone.
Then down, past that white-blossomed pond.
And past the chestnut trees beyond,
And past the bridge the fishers knew,
Where yellow flag flowers once grew.
Where we'd go gathering cops of clover,
In sunny June times long since over.
O clover-cops half white, half red,
O beauty from beyond the dead.
O blossom, key to earth and heaven,
O souls that Christ has new forgiven.
Then down the hill to gipsies' pitch
By where the brook clucks in the ditch.
A gipsy's camp was in the copse,
Three felted tents, with beehive tops,
And round black marks where fires had been,
And one old waggon painted green.
And three ribbed horses wrenching grass,
And three wild boys to watch me pass,
And one old woman by the fire
Hulking a rabbit warm from wire.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 127
I loved to see the horses bait.
I felt I walked at Heaven's gate,
That Heaven's gate was opened wide
Yet still the gipsies camped outside.
The waste souls will prefer the wild,
Long after life is meek and mild.
Perhaps when man has entered in
His perfect city free from sin,
The campers will come past the walls
With old lame horses full of galls,
And waggons hung about with withies,
And burning coke in tinkers' stithies,
And see the golden town, and choose.
And think the wild too good to lose.
And camp outside, as these camped then.
With wonder at the entering men.
So past, and past the stone-heap white
That dewberry trailers hid from sight,
And down the field so full of springs,
Where mewing peewits clap their wings.
And past the trap made for the mill
Into the field below the hill.
There was a mist along the stream,
A wet mist, dim, like in a dream ;
I heard the heavy breath of cows.
And waterdrops from th' alder boughs ;
And eels, or snakes, in dripping grass
Whipping aside to let me pass.
The gate was backed against the ryme
To pass the cows at milking time.
And by the gate as I went out
A moldwarp rooted earth wi 's snout.
A few steps up the Callows' Lane
Brought me above the mist again ;
The two great fields arose like death
Above the mists of human breath.
All earthly things that blessed morning
Were everlasting joy and warning.
The gate was Jesus' way made plain,
The mole was Satan foiled again.
128 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Black blinded Satan snouting way
Along the red of Adam's clay ;
The mist was error and damnation,
The lane the road unto salvation,
Out of the mist into the light ;
O blessed gift of inner sight.
The past was faded like a dream ;
There come the jingling of a team,
A ploughman's voice, a clink of chain,
Slow hoofs, and harness under strain.
Up the slow slope a team came bowing.
Old Callow at his autumn ploughing.
Old Callow, stooped above the hales,
Ploughing the stubble into wales ;
His grave eyes looking straight ahead,
Shearing a long straight furrow red ;
His plough-foot high to give it earth
To bring new food for men to birth.
O wet red swathe of earth laid bare,
O truth, O strength, O gleaming share,
O patient eyes that watch the goal,
O ploughman of the sinner's soul.
0 Jesus, drive the coulter deep
To plough my living man from sleep.
Slow up the hill the plough team plod,
Old Callow at the task of God,
Helped by man's wit, helped by the brute
Turning a stubborn clay to fruit.
His eyes for ever on some sign
To help him plough a perfect line. M
At top of rise the plough team stopped, "
The fore-horse bent his head and cropped.
Then the chains chack, the brasses jingle,
The lean reins gather through the cringle,
The figures move against the sky,
The clay wave breaks as they go by.
1 kneeled there in the muddy fallow,
I knew that Christ was there with Callow,
That Christ was standing there with me.
That Christ had taught me what to be.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 129
That I should plough, and as I ploughed
My Saviour Christ would sing aloud,
And as I drove the clods apart
Christ would be ploughing in my heart,
Through rest-harrow and bitter roots,
Through all my bad life's rotten fruits.
O Christ who holds the open gate,
O Christ who drives the furrow straight,
O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter
Of holy white birds flying after,
Lo, all my heart's field red and torn.
And Thou wilt bring the young green corn
The young green corn divinely springing,
The young green corn for ever singing ;
And when the field is fresh and fair
Thy blessed feet shall glitter there.
And we will walk the weeded field.
And tell the golden harvest's yield,
The corn that makes the holy bread
By which the soul of man is fed,
The holy bread, the food unpriced.
Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.
The share will jar on many a stone,
Thou wilt not let me stand alone ;
And I shall feel (Thou wilt not fail),
Thy hand on mine upon the hale.
Near Bullen Bank, on Gloucester Road,
Thy everlasting mercy showed
The ploughman patient on the hill
For ever there, for ever still.
Ploughing the hill with steady yoke
Of pine-trees lightning-struck and broke.
I've marked the May Hill ploughman stay
There on his hill, day after day
Driving his team against the sky.
While men and women live and die.
And now and then he seems to stoop
To clear the coulter with the scoop,
130 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Or touch an ox to haw or gee
While Severn stream goes out to sea.
The sea with all her ships and sails.
And that great smoky port in Wales,
And Gloucester tower bright i' the sun.
All know that patient wandering one.
And sometimes when they burn the leaves
The bonfires' smoking trails and heaves,
And girt red flames twink and twire
As though he ploughed the hill afire.
And in men's hearts in many lands
A spiritual ploughman stands
For ever waiting, waiting now,
The heart's " Put in, man, zook the plough."
By this the sun was all one glitter,
The little birds were all in twitter ;
Out of a tuft a little lark
Went higher up than I could mark,
His little throat was all one thirst
To sing until his heart should burst,
To sing aloft in golden light
His song from blue air out of sight.
The mist drove by, and now the cows
Came plodding up to milking house.
Followed by Frank, the Callows' cowman.
Who whistled " Adam was a ploughman."
There come such cawing from the rooks.
Such running chuck from little brooks.
One thought it March, just budding green
With hedgerows full of celandine.
An otter 'out of stream and played.
Two hares come loping up and stayed ;
Wide-eyed and tender-eared but bold.
Sheep bleated up by Penny's fold.
I heard a partridge covey call ;
The morning sun was bright on all.
Down the long slope the plough team drove,
The tossing rooks arose and hove.
A stone struck on the share. A word
Came to the team. The red earth stirred.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 131
I crossed the hedge by shooter's gap,
I hitched my boxer's belt a strap,
I jumped the ditch and crossed the fallow,
I took the hales from farmer Callow.
How swift the summer goes,
Forget-me-not, pink, rose.
The young grass when I started
And now the hay is carted,
And now my song is ended.
And all the summer spended ;
The blackbird's second brood
Routs beech-leaves in the wood
The pink and rose have speeded.
Forget-me-not has seeded.
Only the winds that blew.
The rain that makes things new.
The earth that hides things old,
And blessings manifold.
O lovely lily clean,
O lily springing green,
O lily bursting white.
Dear lily of delight.
Spring in my heart agen
That I may flower to men.
Great Hampden, June 1911.
THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET
133
.Jv,
THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET
DOWN Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town,
There lived a widow with her only son :
She had no wealth nor title to renown.
Nor any joyous hours, never one.
She rose from ragged mattress before sun
And stitched all day until her eyes were red.
And had to stitch, because her man was dead.
Sometimes she fell asleep, she stitched so hard,
Letting the linen fall upon the floor ;
And hungry cats would steal in from the yard,
And mangy chickens pecked about the door
Craning their necks so ragged and so sore
To search the room for bread-crumbs, or for mouse,
But they got nothing in the widow's house.
Mostly she made her bread by hemming shrouds
For one rich undertaker in the High Street,
Who used to pray that folks might die in crowds
And that their friends might pay to let them lie sweet ;
And when one died the widow in the Bye Street
Stitched night and day to give the worm his dole.
The dead were better dressed than that poor soul.
Her little son was all her life's delight.
For in his little features she could find
A ghmpse of that dead husband out of sight,
Where out of sight is never out of mind.
And so she stitched till she was nearly blind,
Or till the tallow candle end was done,
To get a living for her little son.
135
136 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Her love for him being such she would not rest,
It was a want which ate her out and in,
Another hunger in her withered breast
Pressing her woman's bones against the skin.
To make him plump she starved her body thin.
And he, he ate the food, and never knew,
He laughed and played as little children do.
When there was little sickness in the place
She took what God would send, and what God sent
Never brought any colour to her face
Nor life into her footsteps when she went
Going, she trembled always withered and bent
For all went to her son, always the same.
He was first served whatever blessing came.
Sometimes she wandered out to gather sticks.
For it was bitter cold there when it snowed.
And she stole hay out of the farmer's ricks
For bands to wrap her feet in while she sewed,
And when her feet were warm and the grate glowed
She hugged her little son, her heart's desire.
With " Jimmy, ain't it snug beside the fire ? "
So years went on till Jimmy was a lad
And went to work as poor lads have to do.
And then the widow's loving heart was glad
To know that all the pains she had gone through
And all the years of putting on the screw,
Down to the sharpest turn a mortal can.
Had borne their fruit, and made her child a man.
He got a job at working on the line
Tipping the earth down, trolley after truck,
From daylight till the evening, wet or fine,
With arms all red from wallowing in the muck,
And spitting, as the trolly tipped, for luck,
And singing " Binger " as he swung the pick
Because the red blood ran in him so quick.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 137
So there was bacon then, at night, for supper
In Bye Street there, where he and mother stay ;
And boots they had, not leaky in the upper.
And room rent ready on the setthng day ;
And beer for poor old mother, worn and grey,
And fire in frost ; and in the widow's eyes
It seemed the Lord had made earth paradise.
And there they sat of evenings after dark
Singing their song of " Binger," he and she,
Her poor old cackle made the mongrels bark.
And " You sing Binger, mother," carols he ;
" By crimes, but that 's a good song, that her be."
And then they slept there in the room they shared.
And all the time Fate had his end prepared.
One thing alone made life not perfect sweet :
The mother's daily fear of what would come
When woman and her lovely boy should meet,
When the new wife would break up the old home.
Fear of that unborn evil struck her dumb,
And when her darling and a woman met,
She shook and prayed, " Not her, O God ; not yet."
" Not yet, dear God, my Jimmy go from me."
Then she would subtly question with her son.
" Not very handsome, I don't think her be ? "
" God help the man who marries such an one."
Her red eyes peered to spy the mischief done.
She took great care to keep the girls away,
And all her trouble made him easier prey.
There was a woman out at Plaister's End,
Light of her body, fifty to the pound,
A copper coin for any man to spend.
Lovely to look on when the Avits were drowned.
Her husband's skeleton was never found.
It lay among the rocks at Glydyr Mor
Where he drank poison, finding her a whore.
.1
138 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
She was not native there, for she belonged
Out Milford way, or Swansea ; no one knew.
She had the piteous look of someone wronged,
" Anna," her name, a widow, last of Triw.
She had lived at Plaister's End a year or two ;
At Callow's cottage, renting half an acre ;
She was a henwife and a perfume-maker.
Secret she was ; she lived in reputation ;
But secret unseen threads went floating out :
Her smile, her voice, her face, were all temptation.
All subtle flies to trouble man the trout ;
Man to entice, entrap, entangle, flout . . .
To take and spoil, and then to cast aside :
Gain without giving was the craft she plied.
And she complained, poor lonely widowed souU
How no one cared, and men were rutters all ;
While true love is an ever-burning goal
Burning the brighter as the shadows fall.
And all love's dogs went hunting at the call,
Married or not she took them by the brain, I
Sucked at their hearts and tossed them back again. "
Like the straw fires lit on Saint John's Eve,
She burned and dwindled in her fickle heart ;
For if she wept when Harry took his leave.
Her tears were lures to beckon Bob to start.
And if, while loving Bob, a tinker's cart
Came by, she opened window with a smile
And gave the tinker hints to wait a while.
She passed for pure ; but, years before, in Wales,.
Living at Mountain Ash with different men,
Her less discretion had inspired tales
Of certain things she did, and how, and when.
Those seven years of youth ; we are frantic then.
She had been frantic in her years of youth,
The tales were not more evil than the truth.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 139
She had two children as the fruits of trade
Though she drank bitter herbs to kill the curse,
Both of them sons, and one she overlaid,
The other one the parish had to nurse.
Now she grew plump with money in her purse,
Passing for pure a hundred miles, I guess,
From where her little son wore workhouse dress.
There with the Union boys he came and went,
A parish bastard fed on bread and tea,
Wearing a bright tin badge in furthest Gwent,
And no one knowing who his folk could be.
His mother never knew his new name : she, —
She touched the lust of those who served her turn,
And chief among her men was Shepherd Em.
A moody, treacherous man of bawdy mind,
Married to that mild girl from Ercall Hill,
Whose gentle goodness made him more inclined
To hotter sauces sharper on the bill.
The new lust gives the lecher the new thrill.
The- new wine scratches as it slips the throat.
The new flag is so bright by the old boat.
Ern was her man to buy her bread and meat,
Half of his weekly wage was hers to spend.
She used to mock " How is your wife, my sweet ? "
Or wail, " O, Ernie, how is this to end ? "
Or coo, " My Ernie is without a friend.
She cannot understand my precious life,"
And Ernie would go home and beat his wife.
So the four souls are ranged, the chess-board set,
The dark, invisible hand of secret Fate
Brought it to come to being that they met
After so many years of lying in wait.
While we least think it he prepares his Mate.
Mate, and the King's pawn played, it never ceases
Though all the earth is dust of taken pieces.
140 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
II
October Fair-time is the time for fun
For all the street is hurdled into rows
Of pens of heifers blinking at the sun,
And Lemster sheep which pant and seem to doze,
And stalls of hardbake and galanty shows.
And cheapjacks smashing crocks, and trumpets blowing
And the loud organ of the horses going.
There you can buy blue ribbons for your girl
Or take her in a swing-boat tossing high.
Or hold her fast when all the horses whirl
Round to the steam pipe whanging at the sky.
Or stand her cockshies at the cocoa-shy.
Or buy her brooches with her name in red,
Or Queen Victoria done in gingerbread.
Then there are rifle shots at tossing balls,
" And if you hit you get a good cigar."
And strength-whackers for lads to lamm with mauls,
And Cheshire cheeses on a greasy spar.
The country folk flock in from near and far.
Women and men, like blow-flies to the roast.
All love the fair ; but Anna loved it most.
Anna was all agog to see the fair ;
She made Ern promise to be there to meet her.
To arm her round to all the pleasures there,
And buy her ribbons for her neck, and treat her,
So that no woman at the fair should beat her
In having pleasure at a man's expense.
She planned to meet him at the chapel fence.
So Ernie went ; and Jimmy took his mother,
Dressed in her finest with a Monmouth shawl.
And there was such a crowd she thought she'd smother,
And O, she loved a pep'mint above all.
Clash go the crockeries where the cheapjacks bawl,
Baa go the sheep, thud goes the waxwork's drum,
And Ernie cursed for Anna hadn't come.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 141
He hunted for her up and down the place,
Raging and snapping like a working brew,
" If you're with someone else I'll smash his face,
And when I've done for him I'll go for you."
He bought no fairings as he'd vowed to do
For his poor little children back at home
Stuck at the glass " to see till father come."
Not finding her, he went into an inn,
Busy with ringing till and scratching matches.
Where thirsty drovers mingled stout with gin
And three or four Welsh herds were singing catches
The swing-doors clattered, letting in in snatches
The noises of the fair, now low, now loud.
Em called for beer and glowered at the crowd.
While he was glowering at his drinking there
In came the gipsy Bessie, hawking toys ;
A bold-eyed strapping harlot with black hair.
One of the tribe which camped at Shepherd's Bois.
She lured him out of inn into the noise
Of the steam-organ where the horses spun,
And so the end of all things was begun.
Newness in lust, always the old in love.
" Put up your toys," he said, " and come along,
We'll have a turn of swing-boats up above.
And see the murder when they strike the gong."
" Don't 'ee," she giggled. " My, but ain't you strong.
And where 's your proper girl ? You don't know me."
" I do." " You don't." " Why, then, I will," said he.
Anna was late because the cart which drove her
Called for her late (the horse had broke a trace).
She was all dressed and scented for her lover.
Her bright blue blouse had imitation lace,
The paint was red as roses on her face.
She hummed a song, because she thought to see
How envious all the other girls would be.
142 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
When she arrived and found her Ernie gone,
Her bitter heart thought, " This is how it is.
Keeping me waiting while the sports are on :
Promising faithful, too, and then to miss.
O, Ernie, won't I give it you for this."
And looking up she saw a couple cling,
Em with his arm round Bessie in the swing.
Ern caught her eye and spat, and cut her dead,
Bessie laughed hardly, in the gipsy way.
Anna, though bhnd with fury, tossed her head,
Biting her lips until the red was grey,
For bitter moments given, bitter pay,
The time for payment comes, early or late.
No earthlv debtor but accounts to Fate.
She turned aside, telling with bitter oaths
What Ern should suffer if he turned agen,
And there was Jimmy stripping off his clothes
Within a little ring of farming men.
" Now, Jimmy, put the old tup into pen."
His mother, watching, thought her heart would curdle,
To see Jim drag the old ram to the hurdle.
Then the ram butted and the game began,
Till Jimmy's muscles cracked and the ram grunted.
The good old wrestling game of Ram and Man,
At which none knows the hunter from the hunted.
" Come and see Jimmy have his belly bunted."
" Good tup. Good Jim. Good Jimmy. Sick him, Rover
By dang, but Jimmy's got him fairly over."
Then there was clap of hands and Jimmy grinned
And took five silver shillings from his backers.
And said th' old tup had put him out of wind
Or else he'd take all comers at the Whackers.
And some made rude remarks of rams and knackers,
And mother shook to get her son alone,
So's to be sure he hadn't broke a bone.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 143
None but the lucky man deserves the fair,
For lucky men have money and success,
Things that a whore is very glad to share,
Or dip, at least, a finger in the mess.
Anne, with her raddled cheeks and Sunday dress,
Smiled upon Jimmy, seeing him succeed.
As though to say, " You are a man, indeed."
All the great things of life are swiftly done.
Creation, death, and love the double gate.
However much we dawdle in the sun
We have to hurry at the touch of Fate ;
When Life knocks at the door no one can wait,
When Death makes his arrest we have to go.
And so with Love, and Jimmy found it so.
Love, the sharp spear, went pricking to the bone.
In that one look, desire and bitter aching,
Longing to have that woman all alone
For her dear beauty's sake all else forsaking ;
And sudden agony that set him shaking
Lest she, whose beauty made his heart's blood cruddle.
Should be another man's to kiss and cuddle.
She was beside him when he left the ring.
Her soft dress brushed against him as he passed her ;
He thought her penny scent a sweeter thing
Than precious ointment out of alabaster ;
Love, the mild servant, makes a drunken master.
She smiled, half sadly, out of thoughtful eyes.
And all the strong young man was easy prize.
She spoke, to take him, seeing him a sheep,
" How beautiful you wrastled with the ram,
It made me all go tremble just to peep,
I am that fond of wrastling, that I am.
Why, here 's your mother, too. Good-evening, ma'am.
I was just telling Jim how well he done.
How proud you must be of so fine a son."
144 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Old mother blinked, while Jimmy hardly knew
Whether he knew the woman there or not ;
But well he knew, if not, he wanted to,
Joy of her beauty ran in him so hot,
Old trembling mother by him was forgot.
While Anna searched the mother's face, to know
Whether she took her for a whore or no.
The woman's maxim, " Win the woman first,"
Made her be gracious to the withered thing.
" This being in crowds do give one such a thirst,
I wonder if they've tea going at ' The King ' ?
My throat 's that dry my very tongue do cling.
Perhaps you'd take my arm, we'd wander up
(If you'd agree) and try and get a cup.
" Come, ma'am, a cup of tea would do you good;
There 's nothing like a nice hot cup of tea
After the crowd and all the time you've stood ;
And ' The King ' 's strict, it isn't like ' The Key.'
Now, take my arm, my dear, and lean on me."
And Jimmy's mother, being nearly blind.
Took Anna's arm, and only thought her kind.
So off they set, with Anna talking to her.
How nice the tea would be after the crowd.
And mother thinking half the time she knew her,
And Jimmy's heart's blood ticking quick and loud,
And Death beside him knitting at his shroud,
And all the High Street babbling with the fair,
And white October clouds in the blue air.
So tea was made and down they sat to drink ;
O the pale beauty sitting at the board !
There is more death in women than we think.
There is much danger in the soul adored.
The white hands bring the poison and the cord
Death has a lodge in lips as red as cherries.
Death has a mansion in the yew-tree berries.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 145
They sat there talking after tea was done,
And Jimmy blushed at Anna's sparkling looks,
And Anna flattered mother on her son,
Catching both fishes on her subtle hooks.
With twilight, tea and talk in ingle-nooks,
And music coming up from the dim street,
Mother had never known a fair so sweet.
Now cow-bells clink, for milking time is come,
The drovers stack the hurdles into carts.
New masters drive the straying cattle home,
Many a young calf from his mother parts,
Hogs straggle back to sty by fits and starts ;
The farmers take a last glass at the inns.
And now the frolic of the fair begins.
All of the side shows of the fair are lighted.
Flares and bright lights, and brassy cymbals clanging,
" Beginning now " and " Everyone 's invited,"
Shatter the pauses of the organ's whanging,
The Oldest Show on Earth and the Last Hanging,
" The Murder in the Red Barn," with real blood.
The rifles crack, the Sally shy-sticks thud.
Anna walked slowly homewards with her prey,
Holding old tottering mother's weight upon her,
And pouring in sweet poison on the way
Of " Such a pleasure, ma'am, and such an honour,"
And " One 's so safe with such a son to con her
Through all the noises and through all the press.
Boys daredn't squirt tormenters on her dress."
At mother's door they stop to say " Good-night."
And mother must go in to set the table.
Anna pretended that she felt a fright
To go alone through all the merry babel :
" My friends are waiting at ' The Cain and Abel,'
Just down the other side of Market Square,
It 'd be a mercy if you'd set me there."
146 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So Jimmy came, while mother went inside ;
Anna has got her victim in her chitch.
Jimmy, all blushing, glad to be her guide,
Thrilled by her scent, and trembling at her touch.
She was all white and dark, and said not much ;
She sighed, to hint that pleasure's grave was dug,
And smiled within to see him such a mug.
They passed the doctor's house among the trees.
She sighed so deep that Jimmy asked her why.
" I'm too unhappy upon nights like these.
When everyone has happiness but I ! "
" Then, aren't you happy ? " She appeared to cry
Blinked with her eyes, and turned away her head :
Not much ; but some men understand," she said.
((
Her voice caught lightly on a broken note,
Jimmy half-dared but dared not touch her hand,
Yet all his blood went pumping in his throat
Beside the beauty he could understand.
And Death stopped knitting at the muffling band.
" The shroud is done," he muttered, " toe to chin.
He snapped the ends, and tucked his needles in.
Jimmy, half stammering, choked, " Has any man
He stopped, she shook her head to answer " No."
" Then tell me." " No. P'raps some day, if I can.
It hurts to talk of some things ever so.
But you're so different. There, come, we must go.
None but unhappy women know how good
It is to meet a soul who 's understood."
" No. Wait a moment. May I call you Anna ? "
" Perhaps. There must be nearness 'twixt us two.''
Love in her face hung out his bloody banner.
And all love's clanging trumpets shocked and blew.
" When we got up to-day we never knew."
" I'm sure I didn't think, nor you did." " Never."
" And now this friendship's come to us for ever."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 147
" Now, Anna, take my arm, dear." " Not to-night.
That must come later when we know our minds.
We must agree to keep this evening white,
We'll eat the fruit to-night and save the rinds."
And all the folk whose shadows darked the blinds,
And all the dancers whirling in the fair,
Were wretched worms to Jim and Anna there.
" How wonderful life is," said Anna, lowly.
" But it begins again with you for friend,"
In the dim lamplight Jimmy thought her holy,
A lovely fragile thing for him to tend,
Grace beyond measure, beauty without end.
" Anna," he said ; " Good-night. This is the door.
I never knew what people meant before."
"Good-night, my friend. Good-bye." " But, O my sweet,
The night 's quite early yet, don't say good-bye,
Come just another short turn down the street,
The whole life's bubbling up for you and I.
Somehow I feel to-morrow we may die.
Come just as far as to the blacksmith's hght."
But "No," said Anna; " Not to-night. Good-night."
All the tides triumph when the white moon fills.
Down in the race the toppling waters shout,
The breakers shake the bases of the hills.
There is a thundering where the streams go out,
And the wise shipman puts his ship about
Seeing the gathering of those waters wan.
But what when love makes high tide in a man ?
Jimmy walked home with all his mind on fire,
One lovely face for ever set in flame.
He shivered as he went, like tautened wire,
Surge after surge of shuddering in him came
And then swept out repeating one sweet name,
" Anna, O Anna," to the evening star.
Anna was sipping whiskey in the bar.
148 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So back to home and mother Jimmy wandered,
Thinking of Plaister's End and Anna's Ups.
He ate no supper worth the name, but pondered
On Plaister's End hedge, scarlet with ripe hips.
And of the lovely moon there in eclipse.
And how she must be shining in the house
Behind the hedge of those old dog-rose boughs.
Old mother cleared away. The clock struck eight.
" Why, boy, you've left your bacon, lawks a me,
So that 's what comes of having tea so late,
Another time you'll go without your tea.
Your father liked his cup, too, didn't he,
Always ' another cup ' he used to say,
He never went without on any day.
" How nice the lady was and how she talked,
I've never had a nicer fair, not ever."
" She said she'd like to see us if we walked
To Plaister's End, beyond by Watersever.
Nice-looking woman, too, and that, and clever ;
We might go round one evening, p'raps, we two ;
Or I might go, if it 's too far for you."
" No," said the mother, " we're not folk for that
Meet at the fair and that, and there an end.
Rake out the fire and put out the cat.
These fairs are sinful, tempting folk to spend.
Of course she spoke polite and like a friend ;
Of course she had to do, and so I let her.
But now it 's done and past, so I forget her."
" I don't see why forget her. Why forget her ?
She treat us kind. She weren't like everyone.
I never saw a woman I liked better,
And he 's not easy pleased, my father's son.
So I'll go round some night when work is done."
" Now, Jim, my dear, trust mother, there 's a dear,"
" Well, so I do, but sometimes you're so queer."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 149
She blinked at him out of her withered eyes
Below her lashless eyelids red and bleared.
Her months of sacrifice had won the prize,
Her Jim had come to what she always feared.
And yet she doubted, so she shook and peered
And begged her God not let a woman take
The lovely son whom she had starved to make.
Doubting, she stood the dishes in the rack,
" We'll ask her in some evening, then," she said.
" How nice her hair looked in the bit of black."
And still she peered from eyes all dim and red
To note at once if Jimmy drooped his head.
Or if his ears blushed when he heard her praised.
And Jimmy blushed and hung his head and gazed.
" This is the end," she thought. " This is the end.
I'll have to sew again for Mr. Jones,
Do hems when I can hardly see to mend.
And have the old ache in my maij"Ow-bones.
And when his wife 's in child-bed^ when she groans,
She'll send for me until the pains have ceased.
And give me leavings at the christening feast.
" And sit aslant to eye me as I eat,
' You're only wanted here, ma'am, for to-day,
Just for the christ'ning party, for the treat.
Don't ever think I mean to let you stay ;
Two 's company, three 's none, that 's what I say.
Life can be bitter to the very bone
When one is poor, and woman, and alone.
" Jimmy," she said, still doubting, " Come, my dear.
Let 's have our ' Binger ' 'fore we go to bed,"
And then " The parson's dog," she cackled clear,
" Lep over stile," she sang, nodding her head.
" His name was httle Binger." " Jim," she said,
" Binger, now, chorus "... Jimmy kicked the hob,
The sacrament of song died in a sob.
150 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Jimmy went out into the night to think
Under the moon so steady in the bhie.
The woman's beauty ran in him Hke drink,
The fear that men had loved her burnt him through
The fear that even then another knew
All the deep mystery which women make
To hide the inner nothing made him shake.
" Anna, I love you, and I always shall."
He looked towards Plaister's End beyond Cot Hills,
A white star glimmered in the long canal,
A droning from the music came in thrills.
Love is a flame to burn out human wills,
Love is a flame to set the will on fire,
Love is a flame to cheat men into mire.
One of the three, we make Love what we choose.
But Jimmy did not know, he only thought
That Anna was too beautiful to lose.
That she was all the world and he was naught.
That it was sweet, though bitter, to be caught.
" Anna, I love you." Underneath the moon,
" I shall go mad unless I see you soon."
The fair's lights threw aloft a misty glow.
The organ whangs, the giddy horses reel,
The rifles cease, the folk begin to go.
The hands unclamp the swing-boats from the wheel.
There is a smell of trodden orange peel ;
The organ drones and dies, the horses stop.
And then the tent collapses from the top.
The fair is over, let the people troop.
The drunkards stagger homewards down the gutters, ^
The showmen heave in an excited group, I
The poles tilt slowly down, the canvas flutters, '
The mauls knock out the pins, the last flare sputters.
" Lower away." " Go easy." " Lower, lower."
" You've dang near knock my skull in. Loose it slower."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 151
it
Back in the horses." "Are the swing-boats loaded ? "
" All right to start." " Bill, where 's the cushion gone ?
The red one for the Queen ? " "I think I stowed it."
" You think, you think. Lord, where 's that cushion,
John ? "
" It 's in that bloody box you're sitting on,
What more d'you want ? " A concertina plays
Far off as wandering lovers go their ways.
Up the dim Bye Street to the market-place
The dead bones of the fair are borne in carts,
Horses and swing-boats at a funeral pace
After triumphant hours quickening hearts ;
A policeman eyes each waggon as it starts,
The drowsy showmen stumble half asleep.
One of them catcalls, having drunken deep.
So out, over the pass, into the plain,
And the dawn finds them filling empty cans
In some sweet-smelling dusty country lane.
Where a brook chatters over rusty pans.
The iron chimneys of the caravans
Smoke as they go. And now the fair has gone
To find a new pitch somewhere further on.
But as the fair moved out two lovers came,
Ernie and Bessie loitering out together ;
Bessie with wild eyes, hungry as a flame,
Ern like a stallion tugging at a tether.
It was calm moonlight, and October weather,
So still, so lovely, as they topped the ridge.
They brushed by Jimmy standing on the bridge.
And, as they passed, they gravely eyed each other.
And the blood burned in each heart beating there ;
And out into the Bye Street tottered mother.
Without her shawl, in the October air.
" Jimmy," she cried, " Jimmy." And Bessie's hair
Drooped on the instant over Ernie's face,
And the two lovers clung in an embrace.
152 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" O, Ern." " My own, my Bessie." As they kissed
Jimmy was envious of the thing unknown.
So this was Love, the something he had missed.
Woman and man athirst, aflame, alone.
Envy went knocking at his marrow-bone.
And Anna's face swam up so dim, so fair,
Shining and sweet, with poppies in her hair.
Ill
After the fair, the gang began again.
Tipping the troHies down the banks of earth.
The truck of stone clanks on the endless chain,
A clever pony guides it to its berth.
" Let go." It tips, the navvies shout for mirth
To see the pony step aside, so wise,
But Jimmy sighed, thinking of Anna's eyes.
And when he stopped his shovelling he looked
Over the junipers towards Plaister way,
The beauty of his darling had him hooked.
He had no heart for wrastling with the clay.
" O Lord Almighty, I must get away ;
O Lord, I must. I must just see my flower,
Why, I could run there in the dinner hour."
The whistle on the pilot engine blew.
The men knocked off, and Jimmy slipped aside
Over the fence, over the bridge, and through,
And then ahead along the water-side.
Under the red-brick rail-bridge, arching wide,
Over the hedge, across the fields, and on ;
The foreman asked : " Where 's Jimmy Gurney gone ?
It is a mile and more to Plaister's End,
But Jimmy ran the short way by the stream.
And there was Anna's cottage at the bend,
With blue smoke on the chimney, faint as steam.
" God, she 's at home," and up his heart a gleam
Leapt like a rocket on November nights,
And shattered slowly in a burst of lights.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 153
Anna was singing at her kitchen fire,
She was surprised, and not well pleased to see
A sweating navvy, red with heat and mire,
Come to her door, whoever he might be.
But when she saw that it was Jimmy, she
Smiled at his eyes upon her, full of pain,
And thought, " But, still, he mustn't come again.
" People will talk ; boys are such crazy things ;
But he 's a dear boy though he is so green."
So, hurriedly, she slipped her apron strings.
And dabbed her hair, and wiped her fingers clean,
And came to greet him languid as a queen.
Looking as sweet, as fair, as pure, as sad,
As when she drove her loving husband mad.
" Poor boy," she said, " poor boy, how hot you are."
She laid a cool hand to his sweating face.
" How kind to come. Have you been running far ?
I'm just going out ; come up the road a pace.
O dear, these hens ; they're all about the place."
So Jimmy shooed the hens at her command.
And got outside the gate as she had planned.
" Anna, my dear, I love you ; love you, true ;
I had to come — I don't know — I can't rest —
I lay awake all night, thinking of you.
Many must love you, but I love you best."
" Many have loved me, yes, dear," she confessed.
She smiled upon him with a tender pride,
" But my love ended when my husband died.
" Still, we'll be friends, dear friends, dear, tender friends
Love with its fever 's at an end for me.
Be by me gently now the fever ends.
Life is a lovelier thing than lovers see,
I'd like to trust a man, Jimmy," said she,
" May I trust you ? " " Oh, Anna dear, my dear "
" Don't come so close," she said, " with people near.
154 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
((
J3
Dear, don't be vexed ; it 's very sweet to find
One who will understand ; but life is life,
And those who do not know are so unkind.
But you'll be by me, Jimmy, in the strife,
I love you though I cannot iDe your wife ;
And now be off, before the whistle goes,
Or else you'll lose your quarter, goodness knows.'
" When can I see you, Anna ? Tell me, dear.
To-night ? To-morrow ? Shall I come to-night ?
" Jimmy, my friend, I cannot have you here ;
But when I come to town perhaps we might.
Dear, you must go ; no kissing ; you can write,
And I'll arrange a meeting when I learn
What friends are doing " (meaning Shepherd Ern).
" Good-bye, my own." " Dear Jim, you understand.
If we were only free, dear, free to meet.
Dear, I would take you by your big, strong hand
And kiss your dear boy eyes so blue and sweet ;
But my dead husband lies under the sheet,
Dead in my heart, dear, lovely, lonely one.
So, Jim, my dear, my loving days are done.
" But though my heart is buried in his grave
Something might be — friendship and utter trust —
And you, my dear starved little Jim shall have
Flowers of friendship from my dead heart's dust ;
Life would be sweet if men would never lust.
Wh}^ do you, Jimmy ? Tell me sometime, dear.
Why men are always what we women fear.
" Not now. Good-bye ; we understand, we two,
And life, O Jim, how glorious life is ;
This sunshine in my heart is due to you ;
I was so sad, and life has given this.
I think ' I wish I had something of his,'
Do give me something, will you be so kind ?
Something to keep you always in my mind."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 155
" I will," he said. " Now go, or you'll be late."
He broke from her and ran, and never dreamt
That as she stood to watch him from the gate
Her heart was half amusement, half contempt,
Comparing Jim the squab, red and unkempt.
In sweaty corduroys, with Shepherd Ern.
She blew him kisses till he passed the turn.
The whistle blew before he reached the line ;
The foreman asked him what the hell he meant.
Whether a duke had asked him out to dine,
Or if he thought the bag would pay his rent ?
And Jim was fined before the foreman went.
But still his spirit glowed from Anna's words,
Cooed in the voice so like a singing bird's.
" O Anna, darling, you shall have a present ;
I'd give you golden gems if I were rich.
And everything that 's sweet and all that 's pleasant."
He dropped his pick as though he had a stitch,
And stared tow'rds Plaister's End, past Bushe's Pitch.
" O beauty, what I have to give I'll give,
All mine is yours, beloved, while I live."
All through the afternoon his pick was slacking.
His eyes were always turning west and south,
The foreman was inclined to send him packing.
But put it down to after fair-day drouth :
He looked at Jimmy with an ugly mouth.
And Jimmy slacked, and muttered in a moan,
" My love, m}^ beautiful, my very own."
So she had loved. Another man had had her ;
She had been his with passion in the night ;
An agony of envy made him sadder.
Yet stabbed a pang of bitter-sweet delight —
O he would keep his image of her white.
The foreman cursed, stepped up, and asked him flat
What kind of gum-tree he was gaping at.
156 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
It was Jim's custom, when the pay day came,
To take his weekly five and twenty shilling
Back in the little packet to his dame ;
Not taking out a farthing for a filling,
Nor twopence for a pot, for he was willing
That she should have it all to save or spend.
But love makes many lovely customs end.
Next pay day came and Jimmy took the money,
But not to mother, for he meant to buy
A thirteen-shilling locket for his honey,
Whatever bellies hungered and went dry,
A silver heart-shape with a ruby eye.
He bought the thing and paid the shopman's price,
And hurried off to make the sacrifice.
" Is it for me ? You dear, dear generous boy.
How sweet of you. I'll wear it in my dress.
When you're beside me life is such a joy,
You bring the sun to solitariness."
She brushed his jacket with a light caress,
His arms went round her fast, she yielded meek ;
He had the happiness to kiss her cheek.
" My dear, my dear." " My very dear, my Jim,
How very kind my Jimmy is to me ;
I ache to think that some are harsh to him ;
Not like my Jimmy, beautiful and free.
My darling boy, how lovely it would be
If all would trust as we two trust each other."
And Jimmy's heart grew hard against his mother.
She, poor old soul, was waiting in the gloom
For Jimmy's pay, that she could do the shopping.
The clock ticked out a solemn tale of doom ;
Clogs on the bricks outside went clippa-clopping,
The owls were coming out and dew was dropping.
The bacon burnt, and Jimmy not yet home.
The clock was ticking dooms out hke a gnome.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 157
" What can have kept him that he doesn't come ?
O God, they'd tell me if he'd come to hurt."
The unknown, unseen evil struck her numb,
She saw his body bloody in the dirt.
She saw the life blood pumping through the shirt,
She saw him tipsy in the navvies' booth,
She saw all forms of evil but the truth.
At last she hurried up the line to ask
If Jim were hurt or why he wasn't back.
She found the watchman wearing through his^task ;
Over the fire basket in his shack ;
Behind, the new embankment rose up black.
" Gurney ? " he said. " He'd got to see a friend."
" Where ? " "I dunno. I think out Plaister's End."
Thanking the man, she tottered down the hill.
The long-feared fang had bitten to the bone.
The brook beside her talked as water will
That it was lonely singing all alone,
The night was lonely with the water's tone.
And she was lonely to the very marrow.
Love puts such bitter poison on Fate's arrow.
She went the long way to them by the mills.
She told herself that she must find her son.
The night was ominous of many ills ;
The soughing larch-clump almost made her run,
Her boots hurt (she had got a stone in one)
And bitter beaks were tearing at her liver
That her boy's heart was turned from her forever.
She kept the lane, past Spindle's, past the Callows',
Her lips still muttering prayers against the worst,
And there were people coming from the sallows.
Along the wild duck patch by Beggar's Hurst.
Being in moonlight mother saw them first.
She saw them moving in the moonlight dim,
A woman with a sweet voice saying " Jim."
158 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD J
Trembling she grovelled down into the ditch,
They wandered past her pressing side to side.
" O Anna, my belov'd, if I were rich."
It was her son, and Anna's voice replied,
" Dear boy, dear beauty boy, my love and pride."
And he : " It 's but a silver thing, but I
Will earn you better lockets by and by."
5>
" Dear boy, you mustn't." " But I mean to do
" What was that funny sort of noise I heard ? "
" Where ? " "In the hedge ; a sort of sob or coo
Listen. It 's gone." " It may have been a bird."
Jim tossed a stone but mother never stirred.
She hugged the hedgerow, choking down her pain
While the hot tears were bhnding in her brain.
The two passed on, the withered woman rose,
For many minutes she could only shake,
Staring ahead with trembling little " Oh's,"
The noise a very frightened child might make.
" O God, dear God, don't let the woman take
My little son, God, not my little Jim.
O God, I'll have to starve if I lose him."
So back she trembled, nodding with her head,
Laughing and trembling in the bursts of tears.
Her ditch-filled boots both squelching in the tread,
Her shopping-bonnet sagging to her ears.
Her heart too dumb with brokenness for fears.
The nightmare whickering with the laugh of death
Could not have added terror to her breath.
She reached the house, and : " I'm all right," said she,
" I'll just take off my things ; but I'm all right,
I'd be all right with just a cup of tea.
If I could only get this grate to hght.
The paper 's damp and Jimmy 's late to-night ;
' Belov'd, if I was rich,' was what he said,
O Jim, I wish that God would kill me dead."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 159
While she was blinking at the unlit grate,
Scratching the moistened match-heads off the wood,
She heard Jim coming, so she reached his plate.
And forked the over-frizzled scraps of food.
" You're late," she said, " and this yer isn't good,
Whatever makes you come in late like this ? "
" I've been to Plaister's End, that's how it is."
" You've been to Plaister's End ? "
" Yes."
" I've been staying
For money for the shopping ever so.
Down here we can't get victuals without paying.
There 's no trust down the Bye Street, as you know,
And now it 's dark and it 's too late to go.
You've been to Plaister's End. What took you there ? "
" The lady who was with us at the fair."
" The lady, eh ? The lady ? "
" Yes, the lady."
" You've been to see her ? "
" Yes."
" What happened then ? "
" I saw her."
" Yes. And what filth did she trade ye ?
Or d'you expect your locket back agen ?
I know the rotten ways of whores with men.
What did it cost ye ? "
" What did what cost ? "
" ^*-
Your devil's penny for the devil's bit."
" I don't know what you mean."
" Jimmy, my own.
Don't lie to mother, boy, for mother knows.
I know you and that lady to the bone.
And she 's a whore, that thing you call a rose,
A whore who takes whatever male thing goes ;
A harlot with the devil's skill to tell
The special key of each man's door to hell."
160 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" She 's not. She 's nothing of the kind, I tell 'ee.
" You can't tell women like a woman can ;
A beggar tells a lie to fill his belly,
A strumpet tells a lie to win a man.
Women were liars since the world began ;
And she 's a liar, branded in the eyes,
A rotten liar, who inspires lies."
" I say she 's not."
" No, don't 'ee Jim, my dearie.
You've seen her often in the last few days.
She 's given a love as makes you come in wear}'^
To lie to me before going out to laze.
She 's tempted you into the devil's ways,
She 's robbing you, full fist, of what you earn.
In God's name, what 's she giving in return ? "
" Her faith, my dear, and that 's enough for me."
" Her faith. Her faith. O Jimmy, listen, dear ;
Love doesn't ask for faith, my son, not he ;
He asks for life throughout the live-long year.
And life 's a test for any plough to ere
Life tests a plough in meadows made of stones.
Love takes a toll of spirit, mind and bones.
" I know a woman's portion when she loves,
It 's hers to give, my darhng, not to take ;
It isn't lockets, dear, nor pairs of gloves.
It isn't marriage bells nor wedding cake,
It 's up and cook, although the belly ache ;
And bear the child, and up and work again,
And count a sick man's grumble worth the pain.
" Will she do this, and fifty times as much ? "
" No. I don't ask her."
" No. I warrant, no.
She 's one to get a young fool in her clutch.
And you're a fool to let her trap you so.
She love you ? She ? O Jimmy, let her go ;
I was so happy, dear, before she came.
And now I'm going to the grave in shame.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 161
" I bore you, Jimmy, in this very room.
For fifteen years I got you all you had,
You were my little son, made in my womb.
Left all to me, for God had took your dad.
You were a good son, doing all I bade.
Until this strumpet came from God knows where,
And now you lie, and I am in despair.
" Jimmy, I won't say more. I know you think
That I don't know, being just a withered old,
With chaps all fallen in and eyes that blink.
And hands that tremble so they cannot hold.
A bag of bones to put in churchyard mould,
A red-eyed hag beside your evening star."
And Jimmy gulped, and thought " By God, you are."
" Well, if I am, my dear, I don't pretend.
I got my eyes red, Jimmy, making you.
My dear, before our love time 's at an end
Think just a minute what it is you do.
If this were right, my dear, you'd tell me true ;
You don't, and so it 's wrong ; you lie ; and she
Lies too, or else you wouldn't lie to me.
" Women and men have only got one way
And that way 's marriage ; other ways are lust.
If you must marry this one, then you may,
If not you'll drop her."
" No." " I say you must.
Or bring my hairs with sorrow to the dust.
Marry your whore, you'll pay, and there an end.
My God, you shall not have a whore for friend.
" By God, you shall not, not while I'm alive.
Never, so help me God, shall that thing be.
If she 's a woman fit to touch she'll wive.
If not she 's whore, and she shall deal with me.
And may God's blessed mercy help us see
And may He make my Jimmy count the cost,
My little boy who 's lost, as I am lost."
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162 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
People in love cannot be won by kindness,
And opposition makes them feel like martyrs.
When folk are crazy with a drunken blindness,
It 's best to flog them with each other 's garters,
And have the flogging done by Shropshire carters,
Born under Ercall where the white stones lie ;
Ercall that smells of honey in July.
Jimmy said nothing in reply, but thought
That mother was an old, hard jealous thing.
" I'll love m}^ girl through good and ill report,
I shall be true whatever grief it bring."
And in his heart he heard the death-bell ring
For mother's death, and thought what it would be
To bury her in churchyard and be free.
He saw the narrow grave under the wall.
Home without mother nagging at his dear,
And Anna there with him at evenfall,
Bidding him dry his eyes and be of cheer.
" The death that took poor mother brings me near,
Nearer than we have ever been before.
Near as the dead one came, but dearer, more."
" Good-night, my son," said mother. " Night," he said.
He dabbed her brow wi's lips and blew the light.
She lay quite silent crying on the bed.
Stirring no limb, but crying through the night.
He slept, convinced that he was Anna's knight.
And when he went to work he left behind
Money for mother crying herself blind.
After that night he came to Anna's call.
He was a fly in Anna's subtle weavings.
Mother had no more share in him at all ;
All that the mother had was Anna's leavings.
There were more lies, more lockets, more deceivings,
Taunts from the proud old woman, lies from him,
And Anna's coo of " Cruel. Leave her, Jim."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 163
Also the foreman spoke : " You make me sick,
You come-day-go-day-God-send-plenty-beer.
You put less mizzle on your bit of Dick,
Or get your time, I'll have no slackers here,
I've had my eye on you too long, my dear,"
And Jimmy pondered while the man attacked,
" I'd see her all day long if I were sacked."
And trembling mother thought, " I'll go to see 'r.
She'd give me back my boy if she Avere told
Just what he is to me, my pretty dear :
She wouldn't leave me starving in the cold.
Like what I am." But she was weak and old.
She thought, " But if I ast her, I'm afraid
He'd hate me ever after," so she stayed.
IV
Bessie, the gipsy, got with child by Ern,
She joined her tribe again at Shepherd's Meen,
In that old quarry overgrown with fern.
Where goats are tethered on the patch of green.
There she reflected on the fool she'd been.
And plaited kipes and waited for the bastard,
And thought that love was glorious while it lasted.
And Ern the moody man went moody home,
To that most gentle girl from Ercall Hill,
And bade her take a heed now he had come.
Or else, by cripes, he'd put her through the mil
He didn't want her love, he'd had his fill,
Thank you, of her, the bread and butter sack.
And Anna heard that Shepherd Ern was back
" Back. And I'll have him back to me," she muttered
" This lovesick boy of twenty, green as grass.
Has made me wonder if my brains are buttered,
He, and his lockets, and his love, the ass.
I don't know why he comes, Alas ! alas !
God knows I want no love ; but every sun
I bolt my doors on some poor loving one.
164 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" It breaks my heart to turn them out of doors,
I hear them crying to me in the rain ;
One, with a white face, curses, one implores,
' Anna, for God's sake, let me in again,
Anna, belov'd, I cannot bear the pain.'
Like hoovey sheep bleating outside a fold
' Anna, belov'd, I'm in the wind and cold.'
" I want no men. I'm weary to the soul
Of men like moths about a candle flame,
Of men like flies about a sugar bowl,
Acting alike, and all wanting the same.
My dreamed-of swirl of passion never came.
No man has given me the love I dreamed,
But in the best of each one something gleamed.
" If my dear darling were alive, but he . . .
He was the same ; he didn't understand.
The eyes of that dead child are haunting me,
I only turned the blanket with my hand.
It didn't hurt, he died as I had planned.
A little skinny creature, weak and red ;
It looked so peaceful after it was dead.
" I have been all alone, in spite of all.
Never a light to help me place my feet :
I have had many a pain and many a fall.
Life 's a long headache in a noisy street,
Love at the budding looks so very sweet.
Men put such bright disguises on their lust,
And then it all goes crumble into dust.
" Jimmy the same, dear, lovely Jimmy, too
He goes the self-same way the others went,
I shall bring sorrow to those eyes of blue.
He asks the love I'm sure I never meant.
Am I to blame ? And all his money spent.
Men make this shutting doors such cruel pain.
O, Ern, I want you in my Ufe again."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 165
On Sunday afternoons the lovers walk
Arm within arm, dressed in their Sunday best,
The man with the blue necktie sucks a stalk,
The woman answers when she is addressed.
On quiet country stiles they sit to rest.
And after fifty years of wear and tear
They think how beautiful their courtships were.
Jimmy and Anna met to walk together
The Sunday after Shepherd Ern returned ;
And Anna's hat was lovely with a feather
Bought and dyed blue with money Jimmy earned.
They walked towards Callow's Farm, and Anna yearned:
" Dear boy," she said, " this road is dull to-day,
Suppose we turn and walk the other way."
They turned, she sighed. " What makes you sigh ? " he
asked.
" Thinking," she said, " thinking and grieving, too.
Perhaps some wicked woman will come masked
Into your life, my dear, to ruin you.
And trusting every woman as you do
It might mean death to love and be deceived ;
You'd take it hard, I thought, and so I grieved."
" Dear one, dear Anna." " O my lovely boy.
Life is all golden to the finger tips.
What will be must be : but to-day's a joy.
Reach me that lovely branch of scarlet hips,"
He reached and gave ; she put it to her lips.
" And here," she said, " we come to Plaister Turns.
And then she chose the road to Shepherd Ern's.
As the deft angler, when the fishes rise,
Flicks on the broadening circle over each
The delicatest touch of dropping flies,
Then pulls more line and whips a longer reach,
Longing to feel the rod bend, the reel screech.
And the quick comrade net the monster out,
So Anna played the fly over her trout.
jj
166 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Twice she passed, thrice, she with the boy beside her,
A lovely fly, hooked for a human heart.
She passed his little gate, while Jimmy eyed her.
Feeling her beauty tear his soul apart :
Then did the great trout rise, the great pike dart,
The gate went clack, a man came up the hill,
The lucky strike had hooked him through the gill.
Her breath comes quick, her tired beauty glows,
She would not look behind, she looked ahead.
It seemed to Jimmy she was like a rose,
A golden white rose faintly flushed with red.
Her eyes danced quicker at the approaching tread,
Her finger nails dug sharp into her palm.
She yearned to Jimmy's shoulder, and kept calm.
*' Evening," said Shepherd Ern. She turned and eyed
him
Cold and surprised, but interested too.
To see how much he felt the hook inside him,
And how much he surmised, and Jimmy knew.
And if her beauty still could make him do
The love tricks he had gambolled in the past.
A glow shot through her that her fish was grassed.
" Evening," she said. " Good evening." Jimmy felt
Jealous and angry at the shepherd's tone ;
He longed to hit the fellow's nose a belt,
He wanted his beloved his alone.
A fellow's girl should be a fellow's own.
Ern gave the lad a glance and turned to Anna,
Jim might have been in China by his manner.
" Still walking out ? " " As you are." " I'll be bound."
" Can you talk gipsy yet, or plait a kipe ? "
" I'll teach vou if I can when I come round."
" And when will that be ? " " When the time is ripe."
And Jimmy longed to hit the man a swipe
Under the chin to knock him out of time,
But Anna stayed : she still had twigs to lime.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 167
" Come, Anna, come, my dear," he muttered low.
She frowned, and bhnked and spoke again to Ern.
" I hear the gipsy has a row to hoe."
" The more you hear," he said, "the less you'll learn."
" We've just come out," she said, " to take a turn ;
Suppose you come along : the more the merrier."
" All right," he said, " but how about the terrier ? "
He cocked an eye at Jimmy. " Does he bite ? "
Jimmy blushed scarlet. " He 's a dear," said she.
Ern walked a step, " Will you be in to-night ? "
She shook her head, " I doubt if that may be.
Jim, here 's a friend who wants to talk to me,
So will you go and come another day ? "
" By crimes, I won't ! " said Jimmy, " I shall stay."
" I thought he bit," said Ern, and Anna smiled.
And Jimmy saw the smile and watched her face
While all the jealous devils made him wild ;
A third in love is always out of place ;
And then her gentle body full of grace
Leaned to him sweetly as she tossed her head,
" Perhaps we two '11 be getting on," she said.
They walked, but Jimmy turned to watch the third.
" I'm here, not you," he said ; the shepherd grinned
Anna was smiling sweet without a word ;
She got the scarlet berry branch unpinned.
" It 's cold," she said, " this evening, in the wind."
A quick glance showed that Jimmy didn't mind her,
She beckoned with the berry branch behind her,
Then dropped it gently on the broken stones.
Preoccupied, unheeding, walking straight.
Saying " You jealous boy," in even tones.
Looking so beautiful, so delicate.
Being so very sweet : but at her gate
She felt her shoe unlaced and looked to know
If Ern had taken up the sprig or no.
r
168 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He had, she smiled. " Anna," said Jimmy sadly,
" That man 's not fit to be a friend of yourn,
He 's nobbut just an oaf ; I love you madly,
And hearing you speak kind to 'm made me burn.
Who is he then ? " She answered " Shepherd Em,
A pleasant man, an old, old friend of mine."
" By cripes, then, Anna, drop him, he 's a swine."
" Jimmy," she said, " you must have faith in me.
Faith 's all the battle in a love like ours.
You must believe, my darling, don't you see,
That life to have its sweets must have its sours.
Love isn't always two souls picking flowers.
You must have faith. I give you all I can.
What, can't I say ' Good evening ' to a man ? "
" Yes," he rephed, " but not a man like him."
" Why not a man like him ? " she said. " What next ? "
By this they'd reached her cottage in the dim,
Among the daisies that the cold had kexed.
" Because I say. Now Anna, don't be vexed."
" I'm more than vexed," she said, " with words hke these.
' You say,' indeed ! How dare you ! Leave me, please."
" Anna, my Anna." " Leave me." She was cold,
Proud and imperious with a lifting lip.
Blazing within, but outwardly controlled ;
He had a colt's first instant of the whip.
The long lash curled to cut a second strip.
" You to presume to teach ! Of course, I know.
You're mother's Sunday scholar, aren't you ? Go."
She slammed the door behind her, clutching skirts.
" Anna." He heard her bedroom latches thud.
He learned at last how bitterly love hurts ;
He longed to cut her throat and see her blood.
To stamp her blinking eyeballs into mud.
" Anna, by God ! " Love's many torments make
That tune soon change to " Dear, for Jesus' sake."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 169
He beat the door for her. She never stirred,
But, primming bitter hps before her glass.
Admired her hat as though she hadn't heard,
And tried her front hair parted, and in mass.
She heard her lover's hasty footsteps pass.
" He 's gone," she thought. She crouched below the pane,
And heard him cursing as he tramped the lane.
Rage ran in Jimmy as he tramped the night ;
Rage, strongly mingled with a 3'^outh's disgust
At finding a beloved woman light.
And all her precious beauty dirty dust ;
A tinsel-varnish gilded over lust.
Nothing but that. He sat him down to rage,
Beside the stream whose waters never age.
Plashing, it slithered down the tiny fall
To eddy wrinkles in the trembling pool
With that light voice whose music cannot pall,
Always the note of solace, flute-like, cool.
And when hot-headed man has been a fool.
He could not do a wiser thing than go
To that dim pool where purple teazles grow.
He glowered there until suspicion came.
Suspicion, anger's bastard, with mean tongue,
To mutter to him till his heart was flame,
And every fibre of his soul was wrung.
That even then Ern and his Anna clung
Mouth against mouth in passionate embrace.
There was no peace for Jimmy in the place.
Raging he hurried back to learn the truth.
The little swinging wicket glimmered white.
The chimney jagged the skyline like a tooth.
Bells came in swoons for it was Sunday night.
The garden was all dark, but there was light
Up in the little room where Anna slept :
The hot blood beat his brain ; he crept, he crept,
6*
170 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Clutching himself to hear, clutching to know,
Along the path, rustling with withered leaves.
Up to the apple, too decayed to blow,
Which crooked a palsied finger at the eaves.
And up the lichened trunk his body heaves.
Dust blinded him, twigs snapped, the branches shook,
He leaned along a mossy bough to look.
Nothing at first, except a guttering candle
Shaking amazing shadows on the ceiling.
Then Anna's voice upon a bar of " Randal,
Where have you been ? " and voice and music reeling,
Trembling, as though she sang with flooding feeling.
The singing stopped midway upon the stair.
Then Anna showed in white with loosened hair.
Her back was towards him, and she stood awhile.
Like a wild creature tossing back her mane.
And then her head went back, he saw a smile
On the half face half turned towards the pane ;
Her eyes closed, and her arms went out again.
Jim gritted teeth, and called upon his Maker,
She drooped into a man's arms there to take her.
Agony first, sharp, sudden, like a knife,
Then down the tree to batter at the door ;
" Open there. Let me in. I'll have your life.
You Jezebel of hell, you painted whore.
Talk about faith, I'll give you faith galore."
The window creaked, a jug of water came
Over his head and neck with certain aim.
" Clear out," said Em ; " I'm here, not you, to-night,
Clear out. We whip young puppies when they yap." j
" If you're a man," said Jim, "come down and fight,
I'll put a stopiDcr on your ugly chap."
" Go home," said Ern ; "go home and get your^pap.
To kennel, pup, and bid your mother bake
Some soothing syrup in your puppy cake."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 171
There was a dibble sticking in the bed,
Jim wrenched it out and swung it swiftly round,
And sent it flying at the shepherd's head :
" I'll give you puppy cake. Take that, you hound."
The broken glass went clinking to the ground,
The dibble balanced, checked, and followed flat.
" My God," said Ern, " I'll give you hell for that."
He flung the door ajar with " Now, my pup —
Hold up the candle, Anna — now, we'll see."
" By crimes, come on," said Jimmy ; " put them up.
Come, put them up, you coward, here I be."
And Jim, eleven stone, what chance had he
Against fourteen ? but what he could he did ;
Ern swung his right : " That settles you, my kid."
Jimmy went down and out : " The kid," said Ern.
" A kid, a sucking puppy ; hold the light."
And Anna smiled : " It gave me such a turn.
You look so splendid, Ernie, when you fight."
She looked at Jim with : " Ern, is he all right ? "
" He 's coming to." She shuddered, " Pah, the brute,
What things he said " ; she stirred him with her foot.
" You go inside," said Ern, " and bolt the door,
I'll deal with him." She went and Jimmy stood.
" Now, pup," said Ern, " don't come round here no more.
I'm here, not you, let that be understood.
I tell you frankly, pup, for your own good."
" Give me my hat," said Jim. He passed the gate,
And as he tottered off he called, " You wait."
" Thanks, I don't have to," Shepherd Ern replied ;
" You'll do whatever waiting 's being done."
The door closed gently as he went inside,
The bolts jarred in the channels one by one.
" I'll give you throwing bats about, my son.
Anna." " My dear ? " " Where are you ? " " Come and
find."
The light went out, the windows stared out blind —
172 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Blind as blind eyes forever seeing dark.
And in the dim the lovers went upstairs,
Her eyes fast closed, the shepherd's burning stark,
His lips entangled in her straying hairs,
Breath coming short as in a convert's prayers,
Her stealthy face all drowsy in the dim
And full of shudders as she yearned to him.
Jim crossed the water, cursing in his tears,
" By cripes, you wait. My God, he 's with her now
And all her hair pulled down over her ears ;
Loving the blaggard like a filthy sow,
I saw her kiss him from the apple bough.
They say a whore is always full of wiles.
0 God, how sweet her eyes are when she smiles !
" Curse her and curse her. No, my God, she 's sweet
It 's all a helly nightmare. I shall wake.
If it were all a dream I'd kiss her feet.
1 wish it were a dream for Jesus' sake.
One thing : I bet I made his guzzle ache,
I cop it fair before he sent me down,
I'll cop him yet some evening on the crown.
" O God, 0 God, what pretty ways she had !
He 's kissing all her skin, so white and soft.
She 's kissing back. I think I'm going mad.
Like rutting rattens in the apple loft.
She held that light she carried high aloft
Full in my eyes for him to hit me by.
I had the light all dazzling in my eye.
" She had her dress all clutched up to her shoulder,
And all her naked arm was all one gleam.
It 's going to freeze to-night, it 's turning colder.
I wish there was more water in the stream,
I'd drownd myself. Perhaps it 's all a dream,
And by and by I'll wake and find it stuff ;
By crimes, the pain I suffer's real enough."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 178
About two hundred yards from Gunder Loss
He stopped to shudder, leaning on the gate,
He bit the touchwood underneath the moss ;
" Rotten, Hke her," he muttered in his hate ;
He spat it out again with " But, you wait.
We'll see again, before to-morrow's past.
In this life he laughs longest who laughs last."
All through the night the stream ran to the sea,
The different water always saying the same,
Cat-like, and then a tinkle, never glee,
A lonely little child alone in shame.
An otter snapped a thorn twig when he came.
It drifted down, it passed the Hazel Mill,
It passed the Springs ; but Jimmy stayed there still.
Over the pointed hill-top came the light,
Out of the mists on Ercall came the sun.
Red like a huntsman halloing after night,
Blowing a horn to rouse up everyone ;
Through many glittering cities he had run,
Splashing the wind vanes on the dewy roofs
With golden sparks struck by his horses' hoofs.
The watchman rose, rubbing his rusty eyes,
He stirred the pot of cocoa for his mate ;
The fireman watched his head of power rise.
" What time ? " he asked. " You haven't long to wait."
" Now, is it time ? " " Yes. Let her ripple." Straight
The whistle shrieked its message, " Up to work !
Up, or be fined a quarter if you shirk."
Hearing the whistle, Jimmy raised his head,
" The warning call, and me in Sunday clo'es ;
I'd better go ; I've time. The sun looks red,
I feel so stiff I'm very nearly froze."
So over brook and through the fields he goes,
And up the line among the navvies' smiles,
" Young Jimmy Gurney's been upon the tiles."
174 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The second whistle blew and work began,
Jimmy Avorked too, not knowing what he did,
He tripped and stumbled like a drunken man ;
He muddled all, whatever he was bid,
The foreman cursed, " Good God, what ails the kid ?
Hi ! Gurney. You. We'll have you crocking soon,
You take a lie down till the afternoon."
" I won't," he answered. " Why the devil should I ?
I'm here, I mean to work. I do my piece.
Or would do if a man could, but how could I
When you come nagging round and never cease ?
Well, take the job and give me my release.
I want the sack, now give it, there 's my pick ;
Give me the sack." The sack was given quick.
Dully he got his time-check from the keeper.
" Curse her," he said ; " and that 's the end of whores " —
He stumbled drunkenly across a sleeper —
" Give all you have and get kicked out a-doors."
He cashed his time-check at the station stores.
" Bett'ring yourself, I hope, Jim," said the master;
" That 's it," said Jim ; " and so I will do, blast her."
Beyond the bridge, a sharp turn to the right
Leads to " The Bull and Boar," the carters' rest ;
An inn so hidden it is out of sight
To anyone not coming from the west.
The high embankment hides it with its crest.
Far up above the Chester trains go by.
The drinkers see them sweep against the sky.
Canal men used it when the barges came,
The navvies used it when the line was making ;
The pigeons strut and sidle, ruffling, tame.
The chuckling brook in front sets shadows shaking.
Cider and beer for thirsty workers' slaking,
A quiet house ; like all that God controls,
It is Fate's instrument on human souls.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 175
Thither Jim turned. " And now I'll drink," he said.
" I'll drink and drink — I never did before —
I'll drink and drink until I'm mad or dead,
For that 's what comes of meddling with a whore."
He called for Hquor at " The Bull and Boar " ;
Moody he drank ; the woman asked him why :
" Have you had trouble ? " " No," he said, " I'm dry.
" Dry and burnt up, so give 's another drink ;
That 's better, that 's much better, that 's the sort."
And then he sang, so that he should not think,
His Binger-Bopper song, but cut it short.
His wits were working like a brewer's wort
Until among them came the vision gleaming
Of Ern with bloody nose and Anna screaming.
" That 's what I'll do," he muttered ; " knock him out,
And kick his face in with a running jump.
I'll not have dazzled eyes this second bout,
And she can wash the fragments under pump."
It was his ace ; but Death had played a trump.
Death the blind beggar chuckled, nodding dumb,
" My game ; the shroud is ready, Jimmy — come."
Meanwhile, the mother, waiting for her child,
Had tottered out a dozen times to search.
'* Jimmy," she said, " you'll drive your mother wild ;
Your father's name 's too good a name to smirch,
Come home, my dear, she'll leave you in the lurch ;
He was so good, my little Jim, so clever ;
He never stop a night away, not ever.
" He never slept a night away till now.
Never, not once, in all the time he's been.
It 's the Lord's will, they say, and we must bow,
But O it 's like a knife, it cuts so keen !
He'll work in 's Sunday clothes, it'll be seen.
And then they'll laugh, and say ' It isn't strange ;
He slept with her, and so he couldn't change.'
176 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Perhaps," she thought, " I'm wrong ; perhaps he 's
dead ;
Killed himself like ; folk do in love, they say.
He never tells what passes in his head,
And he 's been looking late so old and grey.
A railway train has cut his head away.
Like the poor hare we found at May low's shack,
0 God have pity, bring my darling back ! "
All the high stars went sweeping through the sky,
The sun made all the orient clean, clear gold,
" O blessed God," she prayed, " do let me die,
Or bring my wand'ring lamb back into fold.
The whistle 's gone, and all the bacon 's cold ;
1 must know somehow if he 's on the line.
He could have bacon sandwich when he dine,"
She cut the bread, and started, short of breath.
Up the canal now draining for the rail ;
A poor old woman pitted against death.
Bringing her pennyworth of love for bail.
Wisdom, beauty, and love may not avail.
She was too late, " Yes, he was here ; oh, yes.
He chucked his job and went." " Where ? " " Home,
I guess.
)5
" Home, but he hasn't been home." " Well, he went.
Perhaps you missed him, mother." " Or perhaps
He took the field path yonder through the bent.
He very likely done that, don't he, chaps ? "
The speaker tested both his trouser straps
And took his pick, " He 's in the town," he said.
" He'll be all right, after a bit in bed."
She trembled down the high embankment's ridge
Glad, though too late ; not yet too late, indeed.
For forty yards away, beyond the bridge,
Jimmy still drank, the devil still sowed seed.
" A bit in bed," she thought, " is what I need.
I'll go to ' Bull and Boar ' and rest a bit,
They've got a bench outside ; they'd let me sit."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 177
Even as two soldiers on a fortress wall
See the bright fire streak of a coming shell,
Catch breath, and wonder " Which way will it fall ?
To you ? to me ? or will it all be well ? "
Ev'n so stood life and death, and could not tell
Whether she'd go to th' inn and find her son,
Or take the field and let the doom be done.
" No, not the inn," she thought. " PeojDie would talk.
I couldn't in the open daytime ; no.
I'll just sit here upon the timber balk,
I'll rest for just a minute and then go."
Resting, her old tired heart began to glow,
Glowed and gave thanks, and thought itself in clover,
" He 's lost his job, so now she'll throw him over."
Sitting, she saw the rustling thistle-kex,
The picks flash bright above, the trollies tip.
The bridge-stone shining, full of silver specks,
And three swift children running down the dip.
A Stoke Saint Michael carter cracked his whip.
The water in the runway made its din.
She half heard singing coming from the inn.
She turned, and left the inn, and took the path,
And " Brother Life, you lose," said Brother Death,
" Even as the Lord of all appointed hath
In this great miracle of blood and breath."
He doeth all things well as the book saith,
He bids the changing stars fulfil their turn,
His hand is on us when we least discern.
Slowly she tottered, stopping with the stitch,
Catching her breath, " O lawks, a dear, a dear.
How the poor tubings in my heart do twitch,
It hurts like the rheumatics very near."
And every painful footstep drew her clear
From that young life she bore with so much pain.
She never had him to herself again.
178 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Out of the inn came Jimmy, red with drink,
Crying : " I'll show her. Wait a bit. I'll show her.
You wait a bit. I'm not the kid you think.
I'm Jimmy Gurney, champion tupper-thrower,
When I get done with her you'll never know her,
Nor him you won't. Out of my way, you fowls,
Or else I'll rip the red things off your jowls."
He went across the fields to Plaister's End.
There was a lot of water in the brook,
Sun and white cloud and weather on the mend
For any man with any eyes to look.
He found old Callow's plough-bat, which he took,
" My innings now, my pretty dear," said he.
" You wait a bit. I'll show you. Now you'll see."
Her chimney smoke was blowing blue and faint.
The wise duck shook a tail across the pool.
The blacksmith's shanty smelt of burning paint.
Four newly-tired cartwheels hung to cool.
He had loved the place when under Anna's rule.
Now he clenched teeth and flung aside the gate,
There at the door they stood. He grinned. " Now wait.
Ern had just brought her in a wired hare.
She stood beside him stroking down the fur.
" Oh, Ern, poor thing, look how its eyes do stare,'
" It isn't it," he answered. " It 's a her."
She stroked the breast and plucked away a bur,
She kissed the pads, and leapt back with a shout,
" My God, he 's got the spudder. Ern. Look out,
91
55
Ern clenched his fists. Too late. He felt no pain,
Only incredible haste in something swift,
A shock that made the sky black on his brain.
Then stillness, while a little cloud went drift.
The weight upon his thigh bones wouldn't lift ;
Then poultry in a long procession came.
Grey-legged, doing the goose-step, eyes like flame.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 179
Grey-legged old cocks and hens sedate in age,
Marching with jerks as though they moved on springs.
With sidelong hate in round eyes red with rage,
And shouldered muskets clipped by jealous wings,
Then an array of horns and stupid things :
Sheep on a hill with harebells, hare for dinner.
" Hare." A slow darkness covered up the sinner.
" But little time is right hand fain of blow."
Only a second changes life to death ;
Hate ends before the pulses cease to go.
There is great power in the stop of breath.
There 's too great truth in what the dumb thing saith,
Hate never goes so far as that, nor can,
" I am what life becomes. D'you hate me, man ? "
Hate with his babbling instant, red and damning.
Passed with his instant, having drunken red.
" You've killed him."
" No, I've not, he 's only shamming.
Get up." " He can't." " O God, he isn't dead."
" O God." " Here. Get a basin. Bathe his head.
Ernie, for God's sake, what are you playing at ?
I only give him one like, with the bat."
Man cannot call the brimming instant back ;
Time 's an affair of instants spun to days ;
If man must make an instant gold, or black.
Let him, he may, but Time must go his ways.
Life may be duller for an instant's blaze.
Life 's an affair of instants spun to years.
Instants are only cause of all these tears.
Then Anna screamed aloud. " Help. Murder. Murder."
" By God, it is," he said. " Through you, you slut."
Backing, she screamed, until the blacksmith heard her.
" Hurry," they cried, " the woman's throat 's being cut."
Jim had his coat off by the water butt.
" He might come to," he said, " with wine or soup.
I only hit him once, like, with the scoop. p
180 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Splash water on him, chaps. I only meant
To hit him just a clip, like, nothing more.
There. Look. He isn't dead, his eyelids went.
And he went down. O God, his head 's all tore.
I've washed and washed : it 's all one gob of gore.
He don't look dead to you ? What ? Nor to you ?
Not kill, the clip I give him, couldn't do."
" God send ; he looks damn bad," the blacksmith said.
" Py Cot," his mate said, " she wass altogether ;
She hass an illness look of peing ted."
" Here. Get a glass," the smith said, " and a feather."
" Wass you at fightings or at playings whether ? "
" Here, get a glass and feather. Quick 's the word."
The glass was clear. The feather never stirred.
" By God, I'm sorry, Jim. That settles it."
" By God. I've killed him then." " The doctor might."
" Try, if you like ; but that 's a nasty hit."
" Doctor's gone by. He won't be back till night."
" Py Cot, the feather was not looking right."
" By Jesus, chaps, I never meant to kill 'un.
Only to bat. I'll go to p'leece and tell 'un.
" O Ern, for God's sake speak, for God's sake speak."
No answer followed : Ern had done with dust,
" The p'leece is best," the smith said, " or a beak.
I'll come along ; and so the lady must.
Evans, you bring the lady, will you just ?
Tell 'em just how it come, lad. Come your ways ;
And Joe, you watch the body where it lays."
They walked to town, Jim on the blacksmith's arm.
Jimmy was crying like a child, and saying,
" I never meant to do him any harm."
His teeth went clack, like bones at murmurs playing.
And then he trembled hard and broke out praying,
" God help my poor old mother. If he 's dead,
i've brought her my last wages home," he said.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 181
He trod his last free journey down the street ;
Treading the middle road, and seeing both sides,
The school, the inns, the butchers selling meat.
The busy market where the town divides.
Then past the tanpits full of stinking hides,
And up the lane to death, as w^eak as pith.
" By God, I hate this, Jimmy," said the smith.
VI
Anna in black, the judge in scarlet robes,
A fuss of lawyers' people coming, going,
The windows shut, the gas alight in globes,
Evening outside, and pleasant weather blowing.
" They'll hang him ? " " I suppose so ; there 's no
knowing."
" A pretty piece, the woman, ain't she, John ?
He killed the fellow just for carrying on."
" She give her piece to counsel pretty clear."
" Ah, that she did, and when she stop she smiled."
" She 's had a-many men, that pretty dear ;
She 's drove a-many pretty fellows wild."
" More silly idiots they to be beguiled."
" Well, I don't know." " Well, I do. See her eyes ?
Mystery, eh ? A woman's mystery 's lies."
*' Perhaps," " No p'raps about it, that 's the truth.
I know these women ; they're a rotten lot,"
" You didn't use to think so in your youth."
" No ; but I'm wiser now, and not so hot.
Married or buried, I say, wives or shot.
These unmanned, unattached Maries and Susans
Make life no better than a proper nuisance."
" Well, I don't know." " Well, if you don't you will."
" I look on women as as good as men."
" Now, that 's the kind of talk that makes me ill.
When have they been as good ? I ask you when ? "
" Always they have." " They haven't. Now and then
P'raps one or two was neither hen nor fury."
" One for your mother, that. Here comes the jury."
182 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Guilty. Thumbs down. No hope. The judge passed
sentence ;
" A frantic passionate youth, unfit for Hfe,
A fitting time afforded for repentance,
Then certain justice with a pitiless knife.
For her his wretched victim's widowed wife,
Pity. For her who bore him, pity. (Cheers.)
The jury were exempt for seven years."
All bowed ; the Judge passed to the robing room,
Dismissed his clerks, disrobed, and knelt and prayed
As was his custom after passing doom.
Doom upon life, upon the thing not made.
" O God, who made us out of dust, and laid
Thee in us bright, to lead us to the truth,
O God, have pity upon this poor youth.
" Show him Thy grace, O God, before he die ;
Shine in his heart ; have mercy upon me,
Who deal the laws men make to travel by
Under the sun upon the path to Thee ;
O God, Thou knowest I'm as blind as he,
As blind, as frantic, not so single, worse.
Only Thy pity spared me from the curse.
" Thy pity, and Thy mercy, God, did save.
Thy bounteous gifts, not any grace of mine,
From all the pitfalls leading to the grave,
From all the death-feasts with the husks and swine.
God, who hast given me all things, now make shine
Bright in this sinner's heart that he may see.
God, take this poor boy's spirit back to Thee."
Then trembling with his hands, for he was old,
He went to meet his college friend, the Dean,
The loiterers watched him as his carriage rolled.
" There goes the Judge," said one, and one was keen :
" Hanging that wretched boy, that 's where he 's been.'
A policeman spat, two lawyers talked statistics,
" ' Crime passionel ' in Agricultural Districts."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 183
" They'd oughtn't hang a boy " : but one said " Stuff.
This sentimental talk is rotten, rotten.
The law 's the law and not half strict enough,
Forgers and murderers are misbegotten.
Let them be hanged and let them be forgotten.
A rotten fool should have a rotten end ;
Mend them, you say ? The rotten never mend."
And one " Not mend ? The rotten not, perhaps.
The rotting would ; so would the just infected.
A week in quod has ruined lots of chaps
Who'd all got good in them till prison wrecked it."
And one, " Society must be protected."
" He 's just a kid. She trapped him." " No, she didden."
" He'll be reprieved." " He mid be and he midden."
So the talk went ; and Anna took the train,
Too sad for tears, and pale ; a lady spoke
Asking if she were ill or suffering pain ?
" Neither," she said ; but sorrow made her choke,
" I'm only sick because my heart is broke,
My friend, a man, my oldest friend here, died.
I had to see the man who killed him, tried.
((
He 's to be hanged. Only a boy. My friend.
I thought him just a boy ; I didn't know.
And Ern was killed, and now the boy 's to end,
And all because he thought he loved me so."
" My dear," the lady said ; and Anna, " Oh.
It 's very hard to bear the ills men make,
He thought he loved, and it was all mistake."
" My dear," the lady said ; " you poor, poor woman,
Have you no friends to go to ? " " I'm alone.
I've parents living, but they're both inhuman,
And none can cure what pierces to the bone.
I'll have to leave and go where I'm not known.
Begin my life again." Her friend said " Yes.
Certainly that. But leave me your address.
184 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" For I might hear of something ; I'll enquire,
Perhaps the boy might be reprieved or pardoned.
Couldn't we ask the rector or the squire
To write and ask the Judge ? He can't be hardened.
What do you do ? Is it housework ? Have you gar-
dened ?
Your hands are very white and soft to touch."
" Lately I've not had heart for doing much."
So the talk passes as the train descends
Into the vale and halts and starts to climb
To where the apple-bearing country ends
And pleasant-pastured hills rise sweet with thyme,
Where clinking sheepbells make a broken chime
And sunwarm gorses rich the air with scent
And kestrels poise for mice, there Anna went.
There, in the April, in the garden-close,
One heard her in the morning singing sweet,
Calling the birds from the unbudded rose.
Offering her lips with grains for them to eat.
The redbreasts come with little wiry feet,
Sparrows and tits and all wild feathery things.
Brushing her lifted face with quivering wings.
Jimmy was taken down into a cell.
He did not need a hand, he made no fuss.
The men were kind " for what the kid done . . . well
The same might come to any one of us."
They brought him bits of cake at tea time : thus
The love that fashioned all in human ken.
Works in the marvellous hearts of simple men.
And in the nights (they watched him night and day)
They told him bits of stories through the grating.
Of how the game went at the football play,
And how the rooks outside had started mating.
And all the time they knew the rope was waiting.
And every evening friend would say to friend,
" I hope we've not to drag him at the end."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 185
And poor old mother came to see her son,
" The Lord has gave," she said, " the Lord has took ;
I loved you very dear, my darling one.
And now there 's none but God where we can look.
We've got God's promise written in His Book,
He will not fail ; but oh, it do seem hard."
She hired a room outside the prison yard.
" Where did you get the money for the room ?
And how are you living, mother ; how'll you live ? ''
" It 's what I'd saved to put me in the tomb,
I'll want no tomb but what the parish give."
" Mother, I lied to you that time, O forgive,
I brought home half my wages, half I spent.
And you went short that week to pay the rent.
" I went to see 'r, I spent my money on her,
And you who bore me paid the cost in pain.
You went without to buy the clothes upon her :
A hat, a locket, and a silver chain.
O mother dear, if all might be again.
Only from last October, you and me ;
O mother dear, how different it would be.
" We were so happy in the room together,
Singing at ' Binger-Bopper,' weren't us, just ?
And going a-hopping in the summer weather,
And all the hedges covered white with dust,
And blackberries, and that, and traveller's trust.
I thought her wronged, and true, and sweet, and wise,
The devil takes sweet shapes when he tells lies.
" Mother, my dear, will you forgive your son ?
" God knows I do, Jim, I forgive you, dear ;
You didn't know, and couldn't, what you done.
God pity all poor people suffering here,
And may His mercy shine upon us clear.
And may we have His Holy Word for mark,
To lead us to His Kingdom through the dark."
186 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Amen," " Amen," said Jimmy ; then they kissed.
The warders watched, the httle larks were singing,
A plough team jangled, turning at the rist ;
Beyond, the mild cathedral bells were ringing.
The elm-tree rooks were cawing at the springing :
O beauty of the time when winter's done.
And all the fields are laughing at the sun !
" I s'pose they've brought the line beyond the Knapp ? "
" Ah, and beyond the Barcle, so they say."
" Hearing the rooks begin reminds a chap.
Look queer, the street will, with the lock away ;
O God, I'll never see it." " Let us pray.
Don't think of that, but think," the mother said,
" Of men going on long after we are dead.
" Red helpless little things will come to birth,
And hear the whistles going down the line.
And grow up strong and go about the earth,
And have much happier times than yours and mine ;
And some day one of them will get a sign,
And talk to folk, and put an end. to sin,
And then God's blessed kingdom will begin.
" God dropped a spark down into everyone,
And if we find and fan it to a blaze
It'll spring up and glow like — like the sun,
And light the wandering out of stony ways.
God warms His hands at man's heart when he prays,
And Ught of prayer is spreading heart to heart ;
It'll light all where now it lights a part.
" And God who gave His mercies takes His mercies,
And God who gives beginning gives the end.
I dread my death ; but it 's the end of curses,
A rest for broken things too broke to mend.
0 Captain Christ, our blessed Lord and Friend,
We are two wandered sinners in the mire.
Burn our dead hearts with love out of Thy fire.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 187
" And when thy death comes, Master, let us bear it
As of Thy will, however hard to go ;
Thy Cross is infinite for us to share it,
Thy help is infinite for us to know.
And when the long trumpets of the Judgment blow
May our poor souls be glad and meet agen,
And rest in Thee." " Say, ' Amen,' Jim." " Amen."
There was a group outside the prison gate.
Waiting to hear them ring the passing bell,
Waiting as empty people always wait
For the strong toxic of another's hell.
And mother stood there, too, not seeing well,
Praying through tears to let His will be done,
And not to hide His mercy from her son.
Talk in the little group was passing quick.
" It 's nothing now to what it was, to watch."
" Poor wretched kid, I bet he 's feeling sick."
" Eh ? What d'you say, chaps ? Someone got a match ? "
" They draw a bolt and drop you down a hatch
And break your neck, whereas they used to strangle
In olden times, when you could see them dangle."
Some one said " Off hats " when the bell began.
Mother was whimpering now upon her knees.
A broken ringing like a beaten pan
It sent the sparrows wavering to the trees.
The wall-top grasses whickered in the breeze.
The broken ringing clanged, clattered and clanged
As though men's bees were swarming, not men hanged.
Now certain Justice with the pitiless knife.
The white sick chaplain snufflmg at the nose,
" I am the resurrection and the life."
The bell still clangs, the small procession goes.
The prison warders ready ranged in rows.
" Now, Gurne}^, come, my dear ; it 's time," they said.
And ninety seconds later he was dead.
188 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Some of life's sad ones are too strong to die,
Grief doesn't kill them as it kills the weak,
Sorrow is not for those who sit and cry
Lapped in the love of turning t'other cheek,
But for the noble souls austere and bleak
Who have had the bitter dose and drained the cup
And wait for Death face fronted, standing up.
As the last man upon the sinking ship,
Seeing the brine creep brightly on the deck,
Hearing aloft the slatting topsails rip,
Ripping to rags among the topmast's wreck.
Yet hoists the new red ensign without speck.
That she, so fair, may sink with colours flying,
So the old widowed mother kept from dying.
She tottered home, back to the little room,
It was all over for her, but for life ;
She drew the blinds, and trembled in the gloom ;
" I sat here thus when I was wedded wife ;
Sorrow sometimes, and joy ; but always strife.
Struggle to live except just at the last.
O God, I thank Thee for the mercies past.
" Harry, my man, when we were courting ; eh
The April morning up the Cony-gree.
How grand he looked upon our wedding day.
' I wish we'd had the bells,' he said to me ;
And we'd the moon that evening, I and he.
And dew come wet, oh, I remember how,
And we come home to where I'm sitting now.
" And he lay dead here, and his son was born here
He never saw his son, his little Jim.
And now I'm all alone here, left to mourn here,
And there are all his clothes, but never him.
He 's down under the prison in the dim.
With quicklime working on him to the bone.
The flesh I made with many and many a groan.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 189
" Oh, how his httle face come, with bright hair,
Dear little face. We made this room so snug ;
He sit beside me in his little chair,
I give him real tea sometimes in his mug.
He liked the velvet in the patchwork rug.
He used to stroke it, did my pretty son,
He called it Bunny, little Jimmie done.
" And then he ran so, he was strong at running.
Always a strong one, like his dad at that.
In summertimes I done my sewing sunning,
And he'd be sprawling, playing with the cat.
And neighbours brought their knitting out to chat
Till five o'clock ; he had his tea at five ;
How sweet life was when Jimmy was alive ! "
Darkness and midnight, and the midnight chimes.
Another four-and-twenty hours begin,
Darkness again, and many, many times.
The alternating light and darkness spin
Until the face so thin is still more thin,
Gazing each earthly evening wet or fine
For Jimmy coming from work along the line.
Over her head the Chester wires hum,
Under the bridge the rocking engines flash.
" He 's very late this evening, but he'll come
And bring his little packet full of cash
(Always he does) and supper's cracker hash.
That is his favourite food excepting bacon.
They say my boy was hanged; but they're mistaken.'
And sometimes she will walk the cindery mile.
Singing, as she and Jimmy used to do,
Singing, " The parson's dog lep over a stile,"
Along the path where water lilies grew.
The stars are placid on the evening's blue,
Burning like eyes so calm, so unafraid,
On all that God has given and man has made.
190 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Burning they watch, and mothhke owls come out,
The redbreast warbles shrilly once and stops ;
The homing cowman gives his dog a shout.
The lamps are lighted in the village shops.
Silence ; the last bird passes ; in the copse
The hazels cross the moon, a nightjar spins,
Dew wets the grass, the nightingale begins.
Singing her crazy song the mother goes,
Singing as though her heart were full of peace,
Moths knock the petals from the dropping rose,
Stars make the glimmering pool a golden fleece,
The moon droops west, but still she does not cease,
The little mice peep out to hear her sing,
Until the inn-man's cockerel shakes his wing.
And in the sunny dawns of hot Julys,
The labourers going to meadow see her there.
Rubbing the sleep out of their heavy eyes,
They lean upon the parapet to stare ;
They see her plaiting basil in her hair,
Basil, the dark red wound-wort, cops of clover,
The blue self-heal and golden Jacks of Dover.
Dully they watch her, then they turn to go
To that high Shropshire upland of late hay ;
Her singing lingers with them as they mow,
And many times they try it, now grave, now gay,
Till, with full throat, over the hills away.
They lift it clear ; oh, very clear it towers
Mixed with the swish of many falling flowers.
DAUBER
191
DAUBER
I
FOUR bells were struck, the watch was called on deck
All work aboard was over for the hour,
And some men sang and others played at check,
Or mended clothes or watched the sunset glower.
The bursting west was like an opening flower,
I And one man watched it till the light was dim,
But no one went across to talk to him.
He was the painter in that swift ship's crew —
Lampman and painter — tall, a slight-built man.
Young for his years, and not yet twenty-two ;
Sickly, and not yet brown with the sea's tan.
Bullied and damned at since the voyage began,
" Being neither man nor seaman by his tally,"
He bunked with the idlers just abaft the galley.
His work began at five ; he worked all day,
Keeping no watch and having all night in.
His work was what the mate might care to say ;
He mixed red lead in many a bouilli tin ;
His dungarees were smeared with paraffin.
" Go drown himself " his round-house mates advised him.
And all hands called him " Dauber " and despised him.
Si, the apprentice, stood beside the spar.
Stripped to the waist, a basin at his side.
Slushing his hands to get away the tar.
And then he washed himself and rinsed and dried ;
Towelling his face, hair-towzelled, eager-eyed.
He crossed the spar to Dauber, and there stood
Watching the gold of heaven turn to blood.
7
194 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
They stood there by the rail while the swift ship
Tore on out of the tropics, straining her sheets,
Whitening her trackway to a milky strip,
Dim with green bubbles and twisted water-meets,
Her clacking tackle tugged at pins and cleats,
Her great sails bellied stiff, her great masts leaned :
CThey watched how the seas struck and burst and greened.
Si talked with Dauber, standing by the side.
" Why did you come to sea, painter ? " he said.
" I want to be a painter," he replied,
" And know the sea and ships from A to Z,
And paint great ships at sea before I'm dead ;
Ships under skysails running down the Trade —
Ships and the sea ; there 's nothing finer made.
" But there 's so much to learn, with sails and rojDcs,
And how the sails look, full or being furled,
And how the lights change in the troughs and slopes.
And the sea's colours up and down the world,
And how a storm looks when the sprays are hurled
High as the yard (they say) I want to see ;
There 's none ashore can teach such things to me.
" And then the men and rigging, and the way
Ships move, running or beating, and the poise
At the roll's end, the checking in the swaj'^ —
I want to paint them perfect, short of the noise
And then the life, the half-decks full of boys.
The fo'c's'les with the men there, dripping wet.
I know the subjects that I want to get.
" It's not been done, the sea, not yet been done,
From the inside, by one who really knows ;
I'd give up all if I could be the one,
But art comes dear the way the money goes.
So I have come to sea, and I suppose
Three years will teach me all I want to learn
And make enough to keep me till I earn."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 195
Even as he spoke his busy pencil moved,
Drawing the leap of water off the side
Where the great clipper trampled iron-hooved,
Making the blue hills of the sea divide,
Shearing a glittering scatter in her stride,
And leaping on full tilt with all sails drawing,
Proud as a war-horse, snuffing battle, pawing.
" I cannot get it yet — not yet," he said ;
" That leap and light, and sudden change to green.
And all the glittering from the sunset's red,
And the milky colours where the bursts have been,
And then the clipper striding like a queen
Over it all, all beauty to the crown.
I see it all, I cannot put it down.
^ " It 's hard not to be able. There, look there !
/ I cannot get the movement nor the light ;
Sometimes it almost makes a man despair
To try and try and never get it right.
Oh, if I could — oh, if I only might,
I I wouldn't mind what hells I'd have to pass,
\ Not if the whole world called me fool and ass."
Down sank the crimson sun into the sea,
The wind cut chill at once, the west grew dun.
" Out sidelights ! " called the mate. " Hi, where is he ? "
The Boatswain called, " Out sidehghts, damn you !
Run ! "
"He 's always late or lazing," murmured one —
" The Dauber, with his sketching." Soon the tints
Of red and green passed on dark water-glints.
Darker it grew, still darker, and the stars
Burned golden, and the fiery fishes came.
The wire-note loudened from the straining spars ;
The sheet-blocks clacked together always the same ;
The rushing fishes streaked the seas with flame,
Racing the one speed noble as their own :
What unknown joy was in those fish unknown !
196 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Just by the round-house door, as it grew dark,
The Boatswain caught the Dauber with, " Now, you ;
Till now I've spared you, damn you ! now you hark :
I've just had hell for what you didn't do ;
I'll have you broke and sent among the crew^
If you get me more trouble by a particle.
Don't you forget, you daubing, useless article !
" You thing, you twice-laid thing from Port Mahon ! '
Then came the Cook's " Is that the Dauber there ?
Why don't you leave them stinking paints alone ?
They stink the house out, poisoning all the air.
Just take them out." " Where to ? " "I don't care
where.
I won't have stinking paint here." From their plates :
" That 's right ; wet paint breeds fever," growled his
mates.
He took his still wet drawings from the berth
And chmbed the ladder to the deck-house top ;
Beneath, the noisy half-deck rang with mirth,
For two ship's boys were putting on the strop ;
One, clambering up to let the skylight drop,
Saw him bend down beneath a boat and lay
His drawings there, till all were hid away,
And stand there silent, leaning on the boat.
Watching the constellations rise and burn,
Until the beauty took him by the throat,
So stately is their glittering overturn ;
Armies of marching eyes, armies that yearn
With banners rising and falling, and passing by
Over the empty silence of the sky.
The Dauber sighed there looking at the sails,
Wind-steadied arches leaning on the night.
The high trucks traced on heaven and left no trails ;
The moonlight made the topsails almost white,
The passing sidelight seemed to drip green light.
And on the clipper rushed with fire-bright bows ;
He sighed, " I'll never do 't," and left the house.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 197
" Now," said the reefer, " up ! Come, Sam ; come, Si,
Dauber's been hiding something." Up they shd,
Treading on naked tiptoe stealthily
To grope for treasure at the long-boat skid.
" Drawings ! " said Sam. " Is that what Dauber hid ?
Lord ! I expected pudding, not this rot.
Still, come, we'll have some fun with what we've got."
They smeared the paint '.with turpentine until
They could remove with mess-clouts every trace
Of quick perception caught by patient skill,
And lines that had brought blood into his face.
Tliey wiped the pigments off, and did erase.
With knives, all sticking clots. When they had done,
Under the boat they laid them every one.
All he had drawn since first he came to sea,
His six weeks' leisure's fruits, they laid them there.
They chuckled then to think how mad he'd be
Finding his paintings vanished into air.
Eight bells were struck, and feet from everywhere
Went shuffling aft to muster in the dark ;
The mate's pipe glowed above, a dim red spark.
Names in the darkness passed and voices cried ;
The red spark glowed and died, the faces seemed
As things remembered when a brain has died,
To all but high intenseness deeply dreamed.
Like hissing spears the fishes' fire streamed,
And on the clipper rushed with tossing mast,
A bath of flame broke round her as she passed.
The watch was set, the night came, and the men
Hid from the moon in shadowed nooks to sleep,
Bunched like the dead ; still, like the dead, as when
Plague in a city leaves none even to weep.
The ship's track brightened to a mile-broad sweep ;
The mate there felt her pulse, and eyed the spars : I
South-west by south she staggered under the stars.
198 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Down in his bunk the Dauber lay awake
Thinking of his unfitness for the sea.
Each failure, each derision, each mistake,
There in the life not made for such as he ;
A morning grim with trouble sure to be,
' A noon of pain from failure, and a night
Bitter with men's contemning and despite.
This is the first beginning, the green leaf,
Still in the Trades before bad weather fell ;
What harvest would he reap of hate and grief
When the loud Horn made every life a hell ?
When the sick ship lay over, clanging her bell.
And no time came for painting or for drawing.
But all hands fought, and icy death came clawing ?
Hell, he expected, — hell. His eyes grew bhnd ;
The snoring from his messmates droned and snuffled,
And then a gush of pity calmed his mind.
The cruel torment of his thought was muffled.
Without, on deck, an old, old seaman shuffled.
Humming his song, and through the open door
A moonbeam moved and thrust along the floor.
The green bunk curtains moved, the brass rings clicked,
The Cook cursed in his sleep, turning and turning,
The moonbeam's moving finger touched and picked,
And all the stars in all the sky were burning.
" This is the art I've come for, and am learning,
The sea and ships and men and travelling things.
It is most proud, whatever pain it brings."
He leaned upon his arm and watched the light
Sliding and fading to the steady roll ;
This he would some day paint, the ship at night,
And sleeping seamen tired to the soul ;
The space below the bunks as black as coal.
Gleams upon chests, upon the unKt lamp.
The ranging door-hook, and the locker clamp.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 199
This he would paint, and that, and all these scenes,
And proud ships carrying on, and men their minds.
And blues of rollers toppling into greens,
And shattering into white that bursts and bhnds,
And scattering ships running erect like hinds,
And men in oilskins beating down a sail
High on the yellow 5^ard, in snow, in hail.
With faces ducked down from the slanting drive
Of half-thawed hail mixed with half-frozen spray.
The roaring canvas, like a thing alive,
Shaking the mast, knocking their hands away
The foot-ropes jerking to the tug and sway,
The savage eyes salt-reddened at the rims.
And icicles on the south-wester brims.
And sunnier scenes would grow under his brush,
' The tropic dawn with all things dropping dew,
; The darkness and the wonder and the hush,
, The insensate grey before the marvel grew ;
Then the veil lifted from the trembling blue,
The walls^of sky burst in, the flower, the rose.
All the expanse of heaven a mind that glows.
He turned out of his bunk ; the Cook still tossed.
One of the other two spoke in his sleep,
A cockroach scuttled where the moonbeam crossed ;
Outside there was the ship, the night, the deep.
" It is worth while," the youth said ; " I will keep
To my resolve, I'll learn to paint all this.
My Lord, my God, how beautiful it is ' " '
Outside was the ship's rush to the wind's hurry,
A resonant wire-hum from every rope,
The broadening bow-wash in a fiery flurr}^
The leaning masts in their majestic slope.
And all things strange with moonlight : filled with hope
By all that beauty going as man bade.
He turned and slept in peace. Eight bells were made.
200 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
II
Next day was Sunday, his free painting day,
While the fine weather held, from eight till eight.
He rose when called at five, and did array
The round-house gear, and set the kit-bags straight
Then kneeling down, like housemaid at a grate.
He scrubbed the deck with sand until his knees
Were blue with dye from his wet dungarees.
Soon all was clean, his Sunday tasks were done ;
His day was clear for painting as he chose.
The wetted decks were drying in the sun,
The men coiled up, or swabbed, or sought repose.
The drifts of silver arrows fell and rose
As flying fish took wing ; the breakfast passed.
Wasting good time, but he was free at last.
Free for two hours and more to tingle deep.
Catching a likeness in a line or tint,
The canvas running up in a proud sweep,
Wind-wrinkled at the clews, and white like hnt,
The glittering of the blue waves into glint ;
Free to attempt it all, the proud ship's pawings,
The sea, the sky — he went to fetch his drawings.
Up to the deck-house top he quickly climbed.
He stooped to find them underneath the boat.
He found them all obliterated, slimed,
Blotted, erased, gone from him line and note.
They were all spoiled : a lump came in his throat,
Being vain of his attempts, and tender skinned —
Beneath the skylight watching reefers grinned.
He clambered down, holding the ruined things.
" Bosun," he called, " look here, did you do these :
Wipe off my paints and cut them into strings.
And smear them till you can't tell chalk from cheese ?
Don't stare, but did you do it ? Answer, please."
The Bosun turned : " I'll give you a thick ear !
Do it ? I didn't. Get to hell from here !
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 201
" I touch your stinking daubs ? The Dauber's daft."
A crowd was gathering now to hear the fun ;
The reefers tumbled out, the men laid aft.
The Cook blinked, cleaning a mess-kid in the sun.
" What 's up with Dauber now ? " said everyone.
" Someone has spoiled mv drawings — look at this ! "
" Well, that 's a dirty trick, by God, it is ! "
" It is," said Sam, " a low-down dirty trick,
To spoil a fellow's work in such a way,
And if you catch him. Dauber, punch him sick,
For he deserves it, be he who he may."
A seaman shook his old head wise and grey.
" It seems to me," he said, " who ain't no judge,
Them drawings look much better now they're smudge."
" Where were they. Dauber ? On the deck-house ?
Where ? "
" Under the long-boat, in a secret place."
" The blackguard must have seen you put them there.
He is a swine ! I tell him to his face :
I didn't think we'd anyone so base."
" Nor I," said Dauber. " There was six weeks' time
Just wasted in these drawings : it 's a crime ! "
'o^
" Well, don't you say we did it," growled his mates,
" And as for crime, be damned ! the things were smears —
Best overboard, like you, with shot for weights ;
Thank God they're gone, and now go shake your ears."
The Dauber listened, very near to tears.
" Dauber, if I were you," said Sam again,
" I'd aft, and see the Captain and complain."
A sigh came from the assembled seamen there.
Would he be such a fool for their delight
As go to tell the Captain ? Would he dare ?
And would the thunder roar, the lightning smite ?
There was the Captain come to take a sight.
Handling his sextant by the chart-house aft.
The Dauber turned, the seamen thought him daft.
7*
202 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The Captain took his sights — a mate below
Noted the times ; they shouted to each other,
The Captain quick with " Stop," the answer slow.
Repeating slowly one height then another.
The swooping clipper stumbled through the smother.
The ladder brasses in the sunlight burned,
The Dauber waited till the Captain turned.
There stood the Dauber, humbled to the bone,
Waiting to speak. The Captain let him wait,
Glanced at the course, and called in even tone,
" What is the man there wanting, Mr. Mate ? "
The logship clattered on the grating straight,
The reel rolled to the scuppers with a clatter,
The Mate came grim : " Well, Dauber, what 's the
matter ? "
" Please, sir, they spoiled my drawings." " Who did ? "
"They."
]^ Who 's they ? " "I don't quite know, sir."
" Don't quite know, sir ?
Then why are you aft to talk about it, hey ?
Whom d'you complain of ? " " No one." " No one ? "
" No, sir."
" Well, then, go forward till you've found them. Go, sir.
If you complain of someone, then I'll see.
Now get to hell ! and don't come bothering me."
" But, sir, they washed them off, and some they cut.
Look here, sir, how they spoiled them." " Never mind.
Go shove your head inside the scuttle butt.
And that will make you cooler. You will find
Nothing like water when you're mad and blind.
Where were the drawings ? in your chest, or where ? "
" Under the long-boat, sir ; I put them there."
"^ Under the long-boat, hey ? Now mind your tip,
I'll have the skids kept clear with nothing round them ;
The long-boat ain't a store in this here ship.
Lucky for you it wasn't I who found them.
If I had seen them, Dauber, I'd have drowned them.
Now you be warned by this. I tell you plain —
Don't stow your brass-rags under boats again.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 208
" Go forward to your berth." The Dauber turned.
The Hsteners down below them winked and smiled,
Knowing how red the Dauber's temples burned,
Having lost the case about his only child.
His work was done to nothing and defiled,
And there was no redress : the Captain's voice
Spoke, and called, " Painter," making him rejoice.
The Captain and the Mate conversed together.
" Drawings, you tell me, Mister ? " " Yes, sir ; views
Wiped off with turps, I gather that 's his blether.
He says they're things he can't afford to lose.
He 's Dick, who came to sea in dancing shoes,
And found the dance a bear dance. They were hidden
Under the long-boat's chocks, which I've forbidden."
" Wiped off with turps ? " The Captain sucked his lip
" Who did it, Mister ? " " Reefers, I suppose ;
Them devils do the most pranks in a ship ;
The round-house might have done it, Cook or Bose."
" I can't take notice of it till he knows.
How does he do his work ? " " Well, no offence ;
He tries ; he does his best. He 's got no sense."
" Painter," the Captain called ; the Dauber came.
" What 's all this talk of drawings ? What 's the mat-
ter ? "
" They spoiled my drawings, sir." " Well, who 's to
blame ?
The long-boat 's there for no one to get at her ;
You broke the rules, and if you choose to scatter
Gear up and down where it 's no right to be,
And suffer as result, don't come to me.
" Your place is in the round-house, and your gear
Belongs where you belong. Who spoiled your things ?
Find out who spoiled your things and fetch him here."
" But, sir, they cut the canvas into strings."
" I want no argument nor questionings.
Go back where you belong and say no more,
And please remember that you're not on shore."
204 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The Dauber touched his brow and slunk away —
They eyed his going with a bitter eye.
" Dauber," said Sam, " what did the Captain say ? "
The Dauber drooped his head without reply.
" Go forward. Dauber, and enjoy your cry."
The Mate limped to the rail ; like little feet
Over his head the drumming reef-points beat.
The' Dauber reached the berth and entered in.
Much mockery followed after as he went,
And each face seemed to greet him with the grin
Of hounds hot following on a creature spent.
" Aren't you a fool ? " each mocking visage meant.
" Who did it, Dauber ? What did Captain say ?
It is a crime, and there'll be hell to pay."
He bowed his head, the house was full of smoke ;
The Sails was pointing shackles on his chest.
" Lord, Dauber, be a man and take a joke " —
He puffed his pipe — " and let the matter rest.
Spit brown, my son, and get a hairy breast ;
Get shoulders on you at the crojick braces.
And let this painting business go to blazes.
" What good can painting do to anyone ?
I don't say never do it ; far from that —
No harm in sometimes painting just for fun.
Keep it for fun, and stick to what you're at.
Your job 's to fill your bones up and get fat ;
Rib up like Barney's Bull, and thick your neck.
Throw paints to hell, boy ; you belong on deck."
" That 's right," said Chips ; " it 's downright good
advice.
Painting 's no good ; what good can painting do
Up on a lower topsail stiff with ice.
With all your little fish-hooks frozen blue ?
Painting won't help you at the weather clew.
Nor pass your gaskets for you, nor make sail.
Painting 's a balmy job not worth a nail."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 205
The Dauber did not answer ; time was passing.
He pulled his easel out, his paints, his stool.
The wind was dropping, and the sea was glassing —
New realms of beauty waited for his rule ;
The draught out of the crojick kept him cool.
He sat to paint, alone and melancholy.
" No turning fools," the Chips said, " from their folly."
He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line, 1
And then came peace, and gentle beauty came, '
Turning his spirit's water into wine,
Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame. =^"
O, joy of trying for beauty, ever the same.
You never fail, your comforts never end ;
O, balm of this world's way ; O, perfect friend !
Ill
They lost the Trades soon after ; then came calm,
Light little gusts and rain, which soon increased
To glorious northers shouting out a psalm
At seeing the bright blue water silver fleeced ;
Hornwards she rushed, trampling the seas to yeast.
There fell a rain-squall in a blind day's end
When for an hour the Dauber found a friend. /
Out of the rain the voices called and passed,
The staysails flogged, the tackle yanked and shook.
Inside the harness-room a lantern cast
Light and wild shadows as it ranged its hook.
The watch on deck was gathered in the nook,
They had taken shelter in that secret place,
Wild light gave wild emotions to each face.
One beat the beef-cask, and the others sang
A song that had brought anchors out of seas
In ports where bells of Christians never rang.
Nor any sea mark blazed among the trees.
By forlorn swamps, in ice, by windy keys,
That song had sounded ; now it shook the air
From these eight wanderers brought together there.
206 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Under the poop-break, sheltering from the rain,
The Dauber sketched some hkeness of the room,
A note to be a prompting to his brain,
A spark to make old memory reillume.
" Dauber," said someone near him in the gloom,
" How goes it, Dauber ? " It was reefer Si.
" There 's not much use in trying to keep dry."
They sat upon the sail-room doorway coaming.
The lad held forth like youth, the Dauber listened
To how the boy had had a taste for roaming,
And what the sea is said to be and isn't.
Where the dim lamplight fell the wet deck glistened,
Si said the Horn was still some weeks away,
" But tell me. Dauber, where d'you hail from ? Eh ?
' The rain blew past and let the stars appear ;
The seas grew larger as the moonlight grew
For half an hour the ring of heaven was clear,
Dusty with moonlight, grey rather than blue ;
In that great moon the showing stars were few.
The sleepy time-boy's feet passed overhead.
" I come from out past Gloucester," Dauber said ;
" Not far from Pauntley, if you know those parts ;
The place is Spital Farm, near Silver Hill,
Above a trap-hatch where a mill-stream starts.
We had a mill once, but we've stopped the mill.
My dad and sister keep the farm on still.
We're only tenants, but we've rented there,
Father and son, for over eighty year.
" Father has worked the farm since grandfer went ;
It means the world to him ; I can't think why
They bleed him to the last half-crown for rent.
And this and that have almost milked him dry.
The land 's all starved ; if he'd put money by,
And corn was up, and rent was down two-thirds. . .
But then they aren't, so what 's the use of words.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 207
" Yet still he couldn't bear to see it pass
To strangers, or to think a time would come
When other men than us would mow the grass,
And other names than ours have the home.
Some sorrows come from evil thought, but some
Comes when two men are near, and both are blind
To what is generous in the other's mind.
*' I was the only boy, and father thought **-
I'd farm the Spital after he was dead.
And many a time he took me out and taught
About manures and seed-corn white and red.
And soils and hops, but I'd an empty head ;
Harvest or seed, I would not do a turn —
I loathed the farm, I didn't want to learn.
*' He did not mind at first, he thought it youth
Feeling the collar, and that I should change.
Then time gave him some inklings of the truth.
And that I loathed the farm, and wished to range, q
Truth to a man of fifty 's always strange ; r
It was most strange and terrible to him
That I, his heir, should be the devil's limb. C
*' Yet still he hoped the Lord might change my mind.
I'd see him bridle in his wrath and hate.
And almost break my heart he was so kind,
Biting his lips sore with resolve to wait.
And then I'd try awhile ; but it was Fate :
I didn't want to learn ; the farm to me
Was mire and hopeless work and misery.
" Though there were things I loved about it, too —
The beasts, the apple-trees, and going haying.
And then I tried ; but no, it wouldn't do.
The farm was prison, and my thoughts were straying.
And there'd come father, with his grey head, praying,
' O, my dear son, don't let the Spital pass ;
It 's my old home, boy, where your grandfer was.
208 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And now you won't learn farming ; you don't care,
The old home 's nought to you. I've tried to teach you ;
I've begged Almighty God, boy, all I dare,
To use His hand if word of mine won't reach you.
Boy, for your grandfer's sake I do beseech you,
Don't let the Spital pass to strangers. Squire
Has said he'd give it you if we require.
" ' Your mother used to walk here, boy, with me.
It was her favourite walk down to the mill ;
And there we'd talk how little death would be,
Knowing our work was going on here still.
You've got the brains, you only want the will —
Don't disappoint your mother and your father.
I'll give you time to travel, if you'd rather.'
" But, no, I'd wander up the brooks to read.
Then sister Jane would start with nagging tongue,
Saying my sin made father's heart to bleed.
And how she feared she'd live to see me hung.
And then she'd read me bits from Dr. Young.
And when we three would sit to supper, Jane
Would fillip dad till dad began again.
" ' I've been here all my life, boy. I was born
Up in the room above — looks on the mead.
I never thought you'd cockle my clean corn,
And leave the old home to a stranger's seed.
Father and I have made here 'thout a weed :
We've give our lives to make that. Eighty years.
And now I go down to the grave in tears.'
" And then I'd get ashamed and take off coat,
And work maybe a week, ploughing and sowing,
And then I'd creep away and sail my boat.
Or watch the water when the mill was going.
That 's my delight — to be near water flowing,
Dabbling or sailing boats or jumping stanks,
Or finding moorhens' nests along the banks.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 209
" And one day father found a ship I'd built ;
He took the cart-whip to me over that,
And I, half mad with pain, and sick with guilt,
Went up and hid in what we called the flat,
A dusty hole given over to the cat.
She kittened there ; the kittens had worn paths
Among the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths.
" And putting down my hand between the beams
I felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear :
A book with white cocoons stuck in the seams,
Where spiders had had nests for many a year.
It was my mother's sketch-book ; hid, I fear,
Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's life
Was not her own while she was father's wife.
" There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint.
March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three,
Unfinished that, for tears had smeared the paint.
The rest was landscape, not yet brought to be.
That was a holy afternoon to me ;
That book a sacred book ; the flat a place
Where I could meet my mother face to face.
" She had found peace of spirit, mother had,
Dramng the landscape from the attic there —
Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad,
Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair.
That rotting sketch-book showed me how and where
I, too, could get away ; and then I knew
That drawing was the work I longed to do.
" Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled.
And every penny I could get I spent
On paints and artist's matters, which I spoiled
Up in the attic to my heart's content.
Till one day father asked me what I meant ;
The time had come, he said, to make an end.
Now it must finish : what did I intend ?
210 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Either I took to farming, like his son,
In which case he would teach me, early and late
(Provided that my daubing mood was done).
Or I must go : it must be settled straight.
If I refused to farm, there was the gate.
I was to choose, his patience was all gone,
The present state of things could not go on.
" Sister was there ; she eyed me while he spoke.
The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour,
And something told me father's heart was broke,
For all he stood so set and looked so sour.
Jane took a duster, and began to scour
A pewter on the dresser ; she was crying.
I stood stock still a long time, not replying,
" Dad waited, then he snorted and turned round.
' Well, think of it,' he said. He left the room.
His boots went clop along the stony ground
Out to the orchard and the apple-bloom.
A cloud came past the sun and made a gloom ;
I swallowed with dry lips, then sister turned.
She was dead white but for her eyes that burned.
^
' You're breaking father's heart, Joe,' she began ;
It 's not as if ' she checked, in too much pain.
' O, Joe, don't help to kill so fine a man ;
You're giving him our mother over again.
It 's wearing him to death, Joe, heart and brain ;
You know what store he sets on leaving this
To (it 's too cruel) to a son of his.
" ' Yet you go painting all the day. O Joe,
Couldn't you make an effort ? Can't you see
What folly it is of yours ? It 's not as though
You are a genius, or could ever be.
O Joe, for father's sake, if not for me.
Give up this craze for painting, and be wise
And work with father, where your duty lies.'
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 211
" ' It goes too deep,' I said ; ' I loathe the farm ;
I couldn't help, even if I'd the mind.
Even if I helped, I'd only do him harm ;
Father would see it, if he were not blind.
I was not built to farm, as he would find.
O Jane, it 's bitter hard to stand alone
And spoil my father's life or spoil my own.'
" ' Spoil both,' she said, ' the way you're shaping now.
You're only a boy not knowing your own good.
Where will you go, suppose you leave here ? How
Do you propose to earn your daily food ?
Draw ? Daub the pavements ? There 's a feckless brood
Goes to the devil daily, Joe, in cities (
Only from thinking how divine their wit is. j
" ' Clouds are they, without water, carried away.
And you'll be one of them, the way you're going,
Daubing at silly pictures all the day,
And praised by silly fools who're always blowing.
And you chose this when you might go a-sowing,
Casting the good corn into chosen mould
That shall in time bring forth a hundredfold.'
"So we went on, but in the end it ended.
I felt I'd done a murder ; I felt sick.
There 's much in human minds cannot be mended,
And that, not I, played dad a cruel trick.
There was one mercy : that it ended quick.
I went to join my mother's brother : he
Lived down the Severn. He was kind to me.
" And there I learned house-painting for a living.
I'd have been happy there, but that I knew
I'd sinned before my father past forgiving,
And that they sat at home, that silent two.
Wearing the fire out and the evening through.
Silent, defeated, broken, in despair.
My plate unset, my name gone, and my chair.
212 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" I saw all that ; and sister Jane came white —
White as a ghost, with fiery, weeping eyes.
I saw her all day long and half the night,
Bitter as gall, and passionate and wise.
' Joe, you have killed your father : there he lies.
You have done your work — you with our mother's ways.'
She said it plain, and then her eyes would blaze,
" And then one day I had a job to do
Down below bridge, by where the docks begin,
And there I saw a chpper towing through.
Up from the sea that morning, entering in.
Raked to the nines she was, lofty and thin,
Her ensign ruffling red, her bunts in pile.
Beauty and strength together, wonder, style.
" She docked close to the gates, and there she lay
Over the water from me, well in sight ;
And as I worked I watched her all the day,
Finding her beauty ever fresh delight.
Her house-flag was bright green with strips of white ;
High in the sunny air it rose to shake
Above the skysail poles most splendid rake.
" And when I felt unhappy I would look
Over the river at her, and her pride.
So calm, so quiet, came as a rebuke
To half the passionate pathways which I tried ;
And though the autumn ran its term and died.
And winter fell and cold December came.
She was still splendid there, and still the same.
" Then on a day she sailed ; but when she went
My mind was clear on what I had to try :
To see the sea and ships, and what they meant,
That was the thing I longed to do ; so I
Drew and worked hard, and studied and put by,
And thought of nothing else but that one end,
But let all else go hang — love, money, friend.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 213
" ifVnd now I've shipped as Dauber I've begun.
It was hard work to find a dauber's berth ;
I hadn't any friends to find me one,
Only my skill, for what it may be worth ;
But I'm at sea now, going about the earth,
And when the ship 's paid off, when we return,
I'll join some Paris studio and learn."
He stopped, the air came moist. Si did not speak ;
The Dauber turned his eyes to where he sat.
Pressing the sail-room hinges with his cheek.
His face half covered with a drooping hat.
Huge dewdrops from the staysails dropped and spat.
Si did not stir, the Dauber touched his sleeve ;
A little birdlike noise came from a sheave.
Si was asleep, sleeping a calm deep sleep,
Still as a warden of the Egyptian dead
In some old haunted temple buried deep
Under the desert sand, sterile and red.
The Dauber shook his arm ; Si jumped and said,
" Good yarn, I swear ! I say, you have a brain —
Was that eight bells that went ? " He slept again.
Then waking up, " I've had a nap," he cried.
" Was that one bell ? What, Dauber, you still here ? "
" Si there ? " the Mate's voice called. " Sir," he rephed.
The order made the lad's thick vision clear ;
A something in the Mate's voice made him fear.
" Si," said the Mate, " I hear you've made a friend —
Dauber, in short. That friendship 's got to end.
" You're a young gentleman. Your place aboard
Is with the gentlemen abaft the mast.
You're learning to command ; you can't afford
To yarn with any man. But there ... it 's past.
You've done it once ; let this time be the last.
The Dauber's place is forward. Do it again,
I'll put you bunking forward with the men.
214 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Dismiss." Si went, but Sam, beside the Mate,
Timekeeper there, walked with him to the rail
And whispered him the menace of " You wait " —
Words which have turned full many a reefer pale.
The watch was changed ; the watch on deck trimmed sail.
Sam, going below, called all the reefers down,
Sat in his bunk and eyed them with a frown.
" Si here," he said, " has soiled the half-deck's name
Talking to Dauber — Dauber, the ship's clout.
A reefer takes the Dauber for a flame,
The half-deck take the round-house walking out.
He 's soiled the half-deck's honour ; now, no doubt.
The Bosun and his mates will come here sneaking,
Asking for smokes, or blocking gangways speaking.
" I'm not a vain man, given to blow or boast ;
I'm not a proud man, but I truly feel
That while I've bossed this mess and ruled this roast
I've kept this hooker's half-deck damned genteel.
Si must ask pardon, or be made to squeal.
Down on your knees, dog ; them we love we chasten.
Jao, pasea, my son — in English, Hasten."
Si begged for pardon, meekly kneeling down
Before the reefer's mess assembled grim.
The lamp above them smoked the glass all brown ;
Beyond the door the dripping sails were dim.
The Dauber passed the door ; none spoke to him.
He sought his berth and slept, or, waking, heard
Rain on the deck-house — rain, no other word.
IV
Out of the air a time of quiet came,
Calm fell upon the heaven like a drowth ;
The brass sky watched the brassy water flame,
Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered south
Slowly, with no white bone across her mouth,
No rushing glory, 'ike a queen made bold,
The Dauber strove to draw her as she rolled.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 215
There the four leaning spires of canvas rose,
Royals and skysails lifting, gently lifting,
White like the brightness that a great fish blows
When billows are at peace and ships are drifting ;
With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting,
The courses tugged their tethers : a blue haze
Drifted like ghosts of flocks come down to graze.
There the great skyline made her perfect round,
Notched now and then by the sea's deeper blue ;
A smoke-smutch marked a steamer homeward bound,
The haze wrought all things to intenser hue.
In tingling impotence the Dauber drew /
As all men draw, keen to the shaken soul V
To give a hint that might suggest the wholef
A naked seaman washing a red shirt
Sat at a tub whistling between his teeth ;
Complaining blocks quavered like something hurt,
A sailor cut an old boot for a sheath,
The ship bowed to her shadow-ship beneath,
And little slaps of spray came at the roll
On to the deck-planks from the scupper-hole.
He watched it, painting patiently, as paints
With eyes that pierce behind the blue sky's veil.
The Benedictine in a Book of Saints
Watching the passing of the Holy Grail ;
The green dish dripping blood, the trump, the hail,
The spears that pass, the memory, and the passion,
The beauty moving under this world's fashion.
But as he painted, slowly, man by man.
The seamen gathered near ; the Bosun stood
Behind him, jeering ; then the Sails began
Sniggering with comment that it was not good.
Chips flicked his sketch with little scraps of wood.
Saying, " That hit the top-knot," every time.
Cook mocked, " My lovely drawings ; it 's a crime."
216 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Slowly the men came nearer, till a crowd
Stood at his elbow, muttering as he drew ;
The Bosun, turning to them, spoke aloud,
" This is the ship that never got there. You
Look at her here, what Dauber's trying to do.
Look at her ! lummy, like a Christmas-tree.
That thing 's a ship ; he calls this painting. See ?
jj
Seeing the crowd, the Mate came forward ; then
" Sir," said the Bosun, " come and see the sight !
Here 's Dauber makes a circus for the men.
He calls this thing a ship — this hell's delight ! "
" Man," said the Mate, " you'll never get her right
Daubing like that. Look here ! " He took a brush.
" Now, Dauber, watch ; I'll put you to the blush.
((
Look here. Look there. Now watch this ship of mine."
He drew her swiftly from a memory stored.
" God, sir," the Bosun said, " you do her fine ! "
" Ay," said the Mate, " I do so, by the Lord !
I'll paint a ship with any man aboard."
They hung about his sketch like beasts at bait.
" There now, I taught him painting," said the Mate.
When he had gone, the gathered men dispersed ;
Yet two or three still lingered to dispute
What errors made the Dauber's work the worst.
They probed his want of knowledge to the root.
" Bei Gott ! " they swore, " der Dauber cannot do 't
He haf no knolich how to put der pense.
Der Mate's is goot. Der Dauber haf no sense.
55
" You hear ? " the Bosun cried, "you cannot do it !
" A gospel truth," the Cook said, " true as hell !
And wisdom, Dauber, if you only knew it ;
A five year boy would do a ship as well."
" If that 's the kind of thing you hope to sell,
God help you," echoed Chips, " I tell you true.
The job 's beyond you, Dauber ; drop it, do.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 217
" Drop it, in God's name drop it, and have done !
You see you cannot do it. Here 's the Mate
Paints you to frazzles before everyone ;
Paints you a dandy cHpper while you wait.
While you. Lord love us, daub. I tell you straight.
We've had enough of daubing ; drop it ; quit.
You cannot paint, so make an end of it."
" That 's sense," said all ; " you cannot, why pretend ? "
The Dauber rose and put his easel by.
" You've said enough," he said, " now let it end.
Who cares how bad my painting may be ? I /
Mean to go on, and, if I fail, to try. /
However much I miss of my intent, /
If I have done my best I'll be content.
" You cannot understand that. Let it be.
You cannot understand, nor know, nor share.
This is a matter touching only me ;
My sketch may be a daub, for aught I care.
You may be right. But even if you were,
Your mocking should not stop this work of mine ;
Rot though it be, its prompting is divine.
" You cannot understand that — you, and you,
And you, you Bosun. You can stand and jeer,
That is the task your spirit fits you to,
That you can understand and hold most dear.
Grin, then, like collars, ear to donkey ear.
But let me daub. Try, you, to understand ^
Which task will bear the light best on God's hand.^
The wester came as steady as the Trades ;
Brightly it blew, and still the ship did shoulder
The brilliance of the water's white cockades
Into the milky green of smoky smoulder.
The sky grew bluer and the air grew colder.
Southward she thundered while the westers held,
Proud, with taut bridles, pawing, but compelled.
218 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And still the Dauber strove, though all men mocked,
To draw the splendour of the passing thing.
And deep inside his heart a something locked.
Long pricking in him, now began to sting —
A fear of the disasters storm might bring ;
His rank as painter Avould be ended then —
He would keep watch and watch like other men.
And go aloft with them to man the yard
When the great ship was rolling scuppers under.
Burying her snout all round the compass card.
While the green water struck at her and stunned her ;
When the lee-rigging slacked, when one long thunder
Boomed from the black to windward, when the sail
Booted and spurred the devil in the gale
For him to ride on men : that was the time
The Dauber dreaded ; then the test would come,
When seas, half-frozen, slushed the decks with slime.
And all the air was blind with flying scum ;
When the drenched sails were furled, when the fierce hum
In weather riggings died into the roar
Of God's eternal never tamed by shore.
Once in the passage he had worked aloft,
Shifting her suits one summer afternoon.
In the iDright Trade wind, when the wind was soft.
Shaking the points, making the tackle croon.
But that was child's play to the future : soon
He would be ordered up when sails and spars
Were flying and going mad among the stars.
He had been scared that first time, daunted, thrilled.
Not by the height so much as by the size,
And then the danger to the man unskilled
In standing on a rope that runs through eyes.
" But in a storm," he thought, " the yards will rise
And roll together down, and snap their gear ! "
The sweat came cold upon his palms for fear.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 219
Sometimes in Gloucester he had felt a pang
Swinging below the house-eaves on a stage.
But stages carry rails ; here he would hang
Upon a jerking rope in a storm's rage,
Ducked that the sheltering oilskin might assuage
The beating of the storm, clutching the jack,
Beating the sail, and being beaten back.
Drenched, frozen, gasping, blinded, beaten dumb,
High in the night, reeling great blinding arcs
As the ship rolled, his chappy fingers numb.
The deck below a narrow blur of marks,
The sea a welter of whiteness shot with sparks.
Now snapping up in bursts, now dying away,
Salting the horizontal snow with spray.
A hundred and fifty feet above the deck.
And there, while the ship rolls, boldly to sit
Upon a foot-rope moving, jerk and check.
While half a dozen seamen work on it ;
Held by one hand, straining, by strength and wit
To toss a gasket's coil around the yard,
How could he compass that when blowing hard ?
And if he failed in any least degree.
Or faltered for an instant, or showed slack,
He might go drown himself within the sea.
And add a bubble to the clipper's track.
He had signed his name, there was no turning back,
No pardon for default — this must be done.
One iron rule at sea binds everyone.
Till now he had been treated with contempt
As neither man nor thing, a creature borne
On the ship's articles, but left exempt
From all the seamen's life except their scorn.
But he would rank as seaman off the Horn,
Work as a seaman, and be kept or cast
By standards set for men before the mast.
220 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Even now they shifted suits of sails ; they bent
The storm-suit ready for the expected time ;
The mighty wester that the Plate had lent
Had brought them far into the wintry clime.
At dawn, out of the shadow, there was rime.
The dim Magellan Clouds were frosty clear,
The wind had edge, the testing-time was near.
And then he wondered if the tales were lies
Told by old hands to terrify the new,
For, since the ship left England, only twice
Had there been need to start a sheet or clew.
Then only royals, for an hour or two.
And no seas broke aboard, nor was it cold.
What were these gales of which the stories told ?
The thought went by. He had heard the Bosun tell
Too often, and too fiercely, not to know
That being off the Horn in June is hell :
Hell of continual toil in ice and snow,
Frost-bitten hell in which the westers blow
Shrieking for days on end, in which the seas
Gulf the starved seamen till their marrows freeze.
Such was the weather he might look to find,
Such was the work expected : there remained
Firmly to set his teeth, resolve his mind,
And be the first, however much it pained,
And bring his honour round the Horn unstained,
And win his mates' respect ; and thence, untainted,
Be ranked as man however much he painted.
He drew deep breath ; a gantline swayed aloft
A lower topsail, hard with rope and leather,
Such as men's frozen fingers fight with oft
Below the Ramirez in Cape Horn weather.
The arms upon the yard hove all together.
Lighting the head along ; a thought occurred
Within the painter's brain like a bright bird :
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 221
That this, and so much hke it, of man's toil,
Compassed by naked manhood in strange places,
Was all heroic, but outside the coil
Within which modern art gleams or grimaces ;
That if he drew that line of sailors' faces
Sweating the sail, their passionate play and change,
It would be new, andjwonderful, and strange. i
That that was what^his work meant ; it would be 1
A training in new vision — a revealing
Of passionate' men in battle with the sea,
High on an unseen stage, shaking and reeling ;
And men through him would understand their feeling,
Their might, their misery, their tragic power, y
And all by suffering pain a little hour ;
High on the yard with them, feeling their pain,
Battling with them ; and it had not been done.
He was a door to new worlds in the brain,
A window opening letting in the sun,
A voice saying, " Thus is bread fetched and ports won
And life lived out at sea where men exist
Solely by man's strong brain and sturdy wrist."
So he decided, as he cleaned his brasses.
Hearing without, aloft, the curse, the shout
Where the taut gantline passes and repasses,
Heaving new topsails to be lighted out.
It was most proud, however self might doubt,
To share man's tragic toil and paint it true.
He took the offered Fate : this he would do.
That night the snow fell between six and seven,
A little feathery fall so light, so dry —
An aimless dust out of a confused heaven,
Upon an air no steadier than a sigh ;
The powder dusted down and wandered by
So purposeless, so many, and so cold,
Then died, and the wind ceased and the ship rolled.
222 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Rolled till she clanged — rolled till the brain was tired,
Marking the acme of the heaves, the pause
While the sea-beauty rested and respired.
Drinking great draughts of roller at her hawse.
Flutters of snow came aimless upon flaws.
" Lock up your paints," the Mate said, speaking light :
" This is the Horn ; you'll join my watch to-night ! "
VI
All through the windless night the clipper rolled
In a great swell with oily gradual heaves
Which rolled her down until her time-bells tolled.
Clang, and the weltering water moaned like beeves.
The thundering rattle of slatting shook the sheaves,
Startles of water made the swing ports gush,
The sea was moaning and sighing and saying " Hush !
It was all black and starless. Peering down
Into the water, trying to pierce the gloom.
One saw a dim, smooth, oily glitter of brown
Heaving and dying away and leaving room
For yet another. Like the march of doom
Came those great powers of marching silences ;
Then fog came down, dead-cold, and hid the seas.
They set the Dauber to the foghorn. There
He stood upon the poop, making to sound
Out of the pump the sailors' nasal blare,
Listening lest ice should make the note resound.
She bayed there like a solitary hound
Lost in a covert ; all the watch she bayed.
The fog, come closelier down, no answer made.
Denser it grew, until the ship was lost.
The elemental hid her ; she was merged
In mufflings of dark death, like a man's ghost,
New to the change of death, yet thither urged.
Then from the hidden waters something surged —
Mournful, despairing, great, greater than speech,
A noise like one slow wave on a still beach.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 223
Mournful, and then again mournful, and still
Out of the night that mighty voice arose ;
The Dauber at his foghorn felt the thrill.
Who rode that desolate sea ? What forms were those ?
Mournful, from things defeated, in the throes
Of memory of some conquered hunting-ground,
Out of the night of death arose the sound.
" Whales ! " said the mate. They stayed there all night
long
Answering the horn. Out of the night they spoke.
Defeated creatures who had suffered wrong.
But were still noble underneath the stroke.
They filled the darkness when the Dauber -woke ;
The men came peering to the rail to hear.
And the sea sighed, and the fog rose up sheer.
A wall of nothing at the world's last edge, •
W^here no life came except defeated life. I
The Dauber felt shut in within a hedge.
Behind which form was hidden and thought was rife,
And that a blinding flash, a thrust, a knife
Would sweep the hedge away and make all plain,
Brilliant beyond all words, blinding the brain.
So the night past, but then no morning broke — ^
Only a something showed that night was dead.
A sea-bird, cackling like a devil, spoke,
And the fog drew away and hung like lead.
Like mighty cliffs it shaped, sullen and red ;
Like glowering gods at watch it did appear,
And sometimes drew away, and then drew near.
Like islands, and like chasms, and like hell.
But always mighty and red, gloomy and ruddy,
Shutting the visible sea in like a well ;
Slow heaving in vast ripples, blank and muddy,
Where the sun should have risen it streaked bloody.
The day was still-born ; all the sea-fowl scattering
Splashed the still water, mewing, hovering, clattering.
224 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Then Polar snow came down little and light,
Till all the sky was hidden by the small,
Most multitudinous drift of dirty white
Tumbling and wavering down and covering all —
Covering the sky, the sea, the clipper tall,
Furring the ropes with white, casing the mast,
Coming on no known air, but blowing past.
And all the air seemed full of gradual moan,
As though in those cloud-chasms the horns were blowing
The mort for gods cast out and overthrown,
Or for the eyeless sun plucked out and going.
Slow the low gradual moan came in the snowing ;
The Dauber felt the prelude had begun.
The snowstorm fluttered by ; he saw the sun
Show and pass by, gleam from one towering prison
Into another, vaster and more grim.
Which in dull crags of darkness had arisen
To muffle-to a final door on him.
The gods upon the dull crags lowered dim,
The pigeons chattered, quarrelling in the track.
In the south-west the dimness dulled to black.
Then came the cry of " Call all hands on deck ! "
The Dauber knew its meaning ; it was come :
Cape Horn, that tramples beauty into wreck.
And crumples steel and smites the strong man dumb.
Down clattered flying kites and staysails : some
Sang out in quick, high calls ; the fairleads skirled,
And from the south-west came the end of the world.
" Caught in her ball-dress," said the Bosun, hauling ;
" Lee-ay, lee-ay ! " quick, high, came the men's call ;
It was all wallop of sails and startled calling.
" Let fly ! » " Let go ! " " Clew up ! " and " Let go
ah ! "
" Now up and make them fast ! " " Here, give us a
haul ! "
" Now up and stow them ! Quick ! By God ! we're
done ! "
The blackness crunched all memory of the sun.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 225
" Up ! " said the Mate. " Mizen topgallants. Hurry ! "
The Dauber ran, the others ran, the sails
Slatted and shook ; out of the black a flurry
Whirled in fine lines, tattering the edge to trails.
Painting and art and England were old tales
Told in some other life to that pale man,
Who struggled with white fear and gulped and ran.
He struck a ringbolt in his haste and fell —
Rose, sick with pain, half-lamed in his left knee ;
He reached the shrouds where clambering men pell-mell
Hustled each other up and cursed him ; he
Hurried aloft with them : then from the sea
Came a cold, sudden breath that made the hair
Stiff on the neck, as though Death whispered there.
A man below him punched him in the side.
" Get up, you Dauber, or let me get past."
He saw the belly of the skysail skied,
Gulped, and clutched tight, and tried to go more fast.
Sometimes he missed his ratline and was grassed.
Scraped his shin raw against the rigid line.
The clamberers reached the futtock-shrouds' incline.
Cursing they came ; one, kicking out behind,
Kicked Dauber in the mouth, and one below
Punched at his calves ; the futtock-shrouds inclined.
It was a perilous path for one to go.
" Up, Dauber, up ! " A curse followed a blow.
He reached the top and gasped, then on, then on.
And one voice yelled " Let go ! " and one " All gone ! "
Fierce clamberers, some in oilskins, some in rags.
Hustling and hurrying up, up the steep stairs.
Before the windless sails were blown to flags,
And whirled like dirty birds athwart great airs,
Ten men in all, to get this mast of theirs
Snugged to the gale in time. " Up ! Damn you, run ! '
The mizen topmast head was safely won.
8
226 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Lay out ! " the Bosun yelled. The Dauber laid
Out on the yard, gripping the yard, and feeling
Sick at the mighty space of air displayed
Below his feet, where mewing birds were wheeling.
A giddy fear was on him ; he was reeling.
He bit his lip half through, clutching the jack.
A cold sweat glued the shirt upon his back.
The yard was shaking, for a brace was loose.
He felt that he would fall ; he clutched, he bent,
Clammy with natural terror to the shoes
While idiotic promptings came and went.
Snow fluttered on a wind-flaw and was spent ;
He saw the water darken. Someone j^elled,
" Frap it ; don't stay to furl ! Hold on ! " He held.
Darkness came down — half darkness — in a whirl ;
The sky went out, the waters disappeared.
He felt a shocking pressure of blowing hurl
The ship upon her side. The darkness speared
At her with wind ; she staggered, she careered.
Then down she lay. The Dauber felt her go ;
He saw his yard tilt downwards. Then the snow
Whirled all about— dense, multitudinous, cold —
Mixed with the wind's one devilish thrust and shriek,
Which whiffled out men's tears, deafened, took hold,
Flattening the flying drift against the cheek.
The yards buckled and bent, man could not speak.
The ship lay on her broadside ; the Avind's sound
Had devilish malice at having got her downed.
^ :{: ^ ^j: H: ^ iK
-^ How long the gale had blown he could not tell,
Only the Avorld had changed, his life had died.
A moment now was everlasting hell.
Nature an onslaught from the weather side,
A withering rush of death, a frost that cried.
Shrieked, till he vdthered at the heart ; a hail
Plastered his oilskins with an icy mail.
\
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 227
" Cut ! " yelled his mate. He looked — the sail was gone.
Blown into rags in the first furious squall ;
The tatters drummed the devil's tattoo. On
The buckling yard a block thumped like a mall.
The ship lay — the sea smote her, the wdnd's bawl
Came, " loo, loo, loo ! " The devil cried his hounds
On to the poor spent stag strayed in his bounds.
" Cut ! Ease her ! " yelled his mate ; the Dauber heard.
His mate wormed up the tilted yard and slashed,
A rag of canvas skimmed like a darting bird.
The snow whirled, the ship bowed to it, the gear lashed,
The sea-tops were cut off and flung down smashed ;
Tatters of shouts were flung, the rags of yells —
And clang, clang, clang, below beat the two bells.
" O God ! " the Dauber moaned. A roaring rang.
Blasting the royals like a cannonade ;
The backstays parted with a cracking clang.
The upper spars were snapped like twigs decayed — /
Snapped at their heels, their jagged splinters splayed,
Like white and ghastly hair erect with fear.
The Mate veiled, " Gone, bv God, and pitched them
clear ! "
" Up ! " yelled the Bosun ; "up and clear the wreck ! " i
The Dauber followed where he led : below '
He caught one giddy glimpsing of the deck
Filled with white water, as though heaped with snow.
He saw the streamers of the rigging blow
Straight out like pennons from the splintered mast,
Then, all sense dimmed, all was an icy blast.
Roaring from nether hell and filled with ice.
Roaring and crashing on the jerking stage,
An utter bridle given to utter vice,
Limitless power mad with endless rage
Withering the soul ; a minute seemed an age.
He clutched and hacked at ropes, at rags of sail,
Thinking that comfort was a fairy-tale
\
228 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Told long ago — long, long ago — long since
Heard of in other lives — imagined, dreamed —
There where the basest beggar was a prince
To him in torment where the tempest screamed.
Comfort and warmth and ease no longer seemed
Things that a man could know : soul, body, brain,
Knew nothing but the wind, the cold, the pain.
" Leave that ! " the Bosun shouted : " Crojick save ! "
The splitting crojick, not yet gone to rags.
Thundered below, beating till something gave,
Bellying between its buntlines into bags.
Some birds were blown past, shrieking : dark, like shags,
Their backs seemed, looking down. " Leu, leu ! " they
cried.
The ship lay, the seas thumped her ; she had died.
They' reached the crojick yard, which buckled, buckled
Like a thin whalebone to the topsail's strain.
They laid upon the yard and heaved and knuckled.
Pounding the sail, which jangled and leapt again.
It wasjquite hard with ice, its rope like chain,
Its strength like seven devils ; it shook the mast.
They' cursed and toiled and froze : a long time passed.
Two hours passed, then a dim lightening came.
Those frozen ones upon the yard could see
TheTmainsail and the foresail still the same,
Still battling with the hands and blowing free,
Rags tattered where the staysails used to be.
The lower topsails stood ; the ship's lee deck
Seethed with four feet of water filled with wreck.
An hour more went by ; the Dauber lost
All sense of hands and feet, all sense of all
But of a wind that cut him to the ghost,
And of a frozen fold he had to haul.
Of heavens that fell and never ceased to fall,
And ran in smoky snatches along the sea.
Leaping from crest to wave-crest, yelling. He
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 229
Lost sense of time ; no bells went, but he felt
Ages go over him. At last, at last
They f rapped the cringled crojick's icy pelt ;
In frozen bulge and bunt they made it fast.
Then, scarcely live, they laid in to the mast.
The Captain's speaking-trumpet gave a blare,
" Make fast the topsail. Mister, while you're there."
Some seamen cursed, but up they had to go —
Up to the topsail yard to spend an hour
Stowing a topsail in a blinding snow,
Which made the strongest man among them cower.
More men came up, the fresh hands gave them power,
They stowed the sail ; then with a rattle of chain
One half the crojick burst its bonds again.
S}f Sj^ IfC vJC S|C afC 3^
They stowed the sail, frapping it round with rope,
Leaving no surface for the wind, no fold,
Then down the weather-shrouds, half dead, they grope ;
That struggle with the sail had made them old.
They wondered if the crojick furl would hold.
" Lucky," said one, " it didn't spring the spar."
" Lucky," the Bosun said, " lucky ! We are !
She came within two shakes of turning top
Or stripping all her shroud-screws, that first quiff.
Now fish those wash-deck buckets out of the slop.
Here 's Dauber says he doesn't like Cape Stiff.
This isn't wind, man, this is only a whiff.
Hold on, all hands, hold on ! " a sea, half seen,
Paused, mounted, burst, and filled the main-deck green*
The Dauber felt a mountain of water fall.
It covered him deep, deep, he felt it fill,
Over his head, the deck, the fife-rails, all.
Quieting the ship, she trembled and lay still.
Then with a rush and shatter and clanging shrill
Over she went ; he saw the water cream
Over the bitts : he saw the half-deck stream.
230 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Then in the rush he swirled, over she went ;
Her lee-rail dipped, he struck, and something gave ;
His legs went through a port as the roll spent ;
She paused, then rolled, and back the water drave.
He drifted with it as a part of the wave.
Drowning, half-stunned, exhausted, partly frozen,
He struck the booby hatchway ; then the Bosun
Leaped, seeing his chance, before the next sea burst,
And caught him as he drifted, seized him, held,
Up-ended him against the bitts, and cursed.
" This ain't the George's Swimming Baths," he yelled ;
" Keep on your feet ! " Another grey-back felled
The two together, and the Bose, half-blind,
Spat : " One 's a joke," he cursed, " but two 's unkind."
" Now, damn it. Dauber ! " said the Mate. " Look out,
Or you'll be over the side ! " The water freed ;
Each clanging freeing-port became a spout.
The men cleared up the decks as there was need.
The Dauber's head was cut, he felt it bleed
Into his oilskins as he cluthced and coiled.
Water and skv were devils' brews which boiled.
Boiled, shrieked, and glowered ; but the ship was saved,
Snugged safely down, though fourteen sails were spht.
Out of the dark a fiercer fury raved.
The grey-backs died and mounted, each crest lit
With a white toppling gleam that hissed from it
And slid, or leaped, or ran with whirls of cloud,
Mad with inhuman life that shrieked aloud.
The watch was called ; Dauber might go below.
" Splice the main brace ! " the Mate called. All laid aft
To get a gulp of momentary glow
As some reward for having saved the craft.
The steward ladled mugs, from which each quaff' d
Whisky, with water, sugar, and lime-juice, hot,
A quarter of a pint each made the tot.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 231
Beside the lamp-room door the steward stood
LadHng it out, and each man came in turn,
Tipped his sou'-wester, drank it, grunted " Good ! "
And shambled forward, letting it slowly burn.
When all were gone the Dauber lagged astern.
Torn by his frozen body's lust for heat,
The liquor's pleasant smell, so warm, so sweet,
And by a promise long since made at home
Never to taste strong liquor. Now he knew
The worth of liquor ; now he wanted some.
His frozen body urged him to the brew ;
Yet it seemed wrong, an evil thing to do
To break that promise. " Dauber," said the Mate,
" Drink, and turn in, man ; why the hell d'ye wait ? "
" Please, sir, I'm temperance." " Temperance are you,
hey?
That 's all the more for me ! So you're for slops ?
I thought you'd had enough slops for to-day.
Go to your bunk and ease her when she drops.
And — damme, steward ! you brew with too much hops !
Stir up the sugar, man ! — and tell your girl
How kind the Mate was teaching you to furl."
Then the Mate drank the remnants, six men's share,
And ramped into his cabin, where he stripped
And danced unclad, and was uproarious there.
In waltzes with the cabin cat he tripped,
Singing in tenor clear that he was pipped —
That " he who strove the tempest to disarm,
Must never first embrail the lee yard-arm,"
And that his name was Ginger. Dauber crept
Back to the round-house, gripping by the rail.
The wind howled by ; the passionate water leapt ;
The night was all one roaring with the gale.
Then at the door he stopped, uttering a wail ;
His hands were perished numb and blue as veins,
He could not turn the knob for both the Spains.
232 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A hand came shuffling aft, dodging the seas.
Singing " her nut-brown hair " between his teeth ;
Taking the ocean's tumult at his ease
Even when the wash about his thighs did seethe.
His soul was happy in its happy sheath ;
" What, Dauber, won't it open ? Fingers cold ?
You'll talk of this time, Dauber, when you're old."
He flung the door half open, and a sea
Washed them both in, over the splashboard, down
" You silly, salt miscarriage ! " sputtered he.
" Dauber, pull out the phig before we drown !
That's spoiled my laces and my velvet gown.
Where is the plug ? " Groping in pitch dark water,
He sang between his teeth " The Farmer's Daughter."
It was pitch dark within there ; at each roll
The chests slid to the slant ; the water rushed.
Making full many a clanging tin pan bowl
Into the black below-bunks as it gushed.
The dog-tired men slept through it ; they were hushed.
The water drained, and then with matches damp
The man struck heads off till he lit the lamp.
" Thank you," the Dauber said ; the seaman grinned.
" This is your first foul weather ? " " Yes." " I thought
Up on the yard you hadn't seen much wind.
Them's rotten sea-boots, Dauber, that you brought.
Now I must cut on deck before I'm caught."
He went ; the lamp-flame smoked ; he slammed the door ;
A film of water loitered across the floor.
The Dauber watched it come and watched it go ;
He had had revelation of the lies
Cloaking the truth men never choose to know ;
He could bear witness now and cleanse their eyes.
^—^ He had beheld in suffering ; he was wise ;
f This was the sea, this searcher of the soul —
X,_ This never-dying shriek fresh from the Pole.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 238
He shook with cold ; his hands could not undo
His oilskin buttons, so he shook and sat,
Watching his dirty fingers, dirty blue,
Hearing without the hammering tackle slat.
Within, the drops from dripping clothes went pat,
Running in little patters, gentle, sweet,
And " Ai, ai ! " went the wind, and the seas beat.
His bunk was sopping wet ; he clambered in.
None of his clothes were dry ; his fear recurred.
Cramps bunched the muscles underneath his skin.
The great ship rolled until the lamp was blurred.
He took his Bible and tried to read a word ;
Trembled at going aloft again, and then
Resolved to fight it out and show it to men.
Faces recurred, fierce memories of the yard.
The frozen sail, the savage eyes, the jests.
The oaths of one great seaman syphilis-scarred.
The tug of leeches jammed beneath their chests,
The buntlines bellying bunts out into breasts.
The deck so desolate-grey, the sky so wild,
He fell asleep, and slept like a young child.
But not for long ; the cold awoke him soon,
The hot-ache and the skin-cracks and the cramp,
The seas thundering without, the gale's wild tune,
The sopping misery of the blankets damp.
A speaking-trumpet roared ; a sea-boot's stamp
Clogged at the door. A man entered to shout :
" All hands on deck ! Arouse here ! Tumble out ! "
The caller raised the lamp ; his oilskins clicked
As the thin ice upon them cracked and fell.
" Rouse out I " he said. " This lamp is frozen wicked.
Rouse out ! " His accent deepened to a yell.
" We're among ice ; it 's blowing up like hell.
We're going to hand both topsails. Time, I guess,
We're sheeted up. Rouse out ! Don't stay to dress ! "
8*
c
234 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Is it cold on deck ? " said Dauber. " Is it cold ?
We're sheeted up, I tell you, inches thick !
The fo'c's'le 's like a wedding-cake, I'm told.
Now tumble out, my sons ; on deck here, quick !
Rouse out, away, and come and climb the stick.
I'm going to call the half-deck. Bosun ! Hey !
Both topsails coming in. Heave out ! Away ! "
He went ; the Dauber tumbled from his bunk,
Clutching the side. He heard the wind go past.
Making the great ship wallow as if drunk.
There was a shocking tumult up the mast.
" This is the end," he muttered, " come at last !
I've got to go aloft, facing this cold.
I can't. I can't. I'll never keep my hold.
" I cannot face the topsail yard again.
I never guessed what misery it would be,"
The cramps and hot-ache made him sick with pain.
The ship stopped suddenly from a devilish sea,
Then, with a triumph of wash, a rush of glee,
The door burst in, and in the water rolled.
Filling the lower bvmks, black, creaming, cold.
The lamp sucked out. " Wash ! " went the water back.
Then in again, flooding ; the Bosun swore.
" You useless thing ! You Dauber ! You lee slack !
Get out, you heekapoota ! Shut the door !
You coo-ilyaira, what are you waiting for ?
Out of my way, you thing — you useless thing ! "
He slammed the door indignant, clanging the ring.
And then he lit the lamp, drowned to the waist ;
" Here 's a fine house ! Get at the scupper-holes " —
He bent against it as the water raced —
" And pull them out to leeward when she rolls.
They say some kinds of landsmen don't have souls.
I well believe. A Port Mahon baboon
Would make more soul than you got with a spoon.'"
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 235
Down in the icy water Dauber groped
To find the plug ; the racing water sluiced
Over his head and shoulders as she sloped.
Without, judged by the sound, all hell was loosed.
He felt cold Death about him tightly noosed.
That Death was better than the misery there
Iced on the quaking foothold high in air.
And then the thought came ; " I'm a failure. All
My life has been a failure. They were right.
It will not matter if I go and fall ;
I should be free then from this hell's delight.
I'll never paint. Best let it end to-night.
I'll sHp over the side. I've tried and failed."
So in the ice-cold in the night he quailed.
Death would be better, death, than this long hell
Of mockery and surrender and dismay —
This long defeat of doing nothing well,
Playing the part too high for him to play.
" O Death ! who hides the sorry thing away,
Take me ; I've failed. I cannot play these cards."
There came a thundering from the topsail yards.
And then he bit his lips, clenching his mind,
And staggered out to muster, beating back
The coward frozen self of him that whined.
Come what cards might he meant to play the pack.
" Ai ! " screamed the wind ; the topsail sheets went clack ;
Ice filled the air with spikes ; the grey-backs burst.
" Here 's Dauber," said the Mate, " on deck the first.
" Why, holy sailor. Dauber, you're a man !
I took you for a soldier. Up now, come ! "
Up on the yards already they began
That battle with a gale which strikes men dumb
The leaping topsail thundered like a drum.
The frozen snow beat in the face like shots.
The wind spun whipping wave-crests into clots.
236 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So up upon the topsail yard again,
In the great tempest's fiercest hour, began
Probation to the Dauber's soul, of pain
Which crowds a century's torment in a span.
For the next month the ocean taught this man,
And he, in that month's torment, while she wested,
Was never warm nor dry, nor full nor rested.
But still it blew, or, if it lulled, it rose
Within the hour and blew again ; and still
The water as it burst aboard her froze.
The wind blew off an ice-field, raw and chill,
Daunting man's body, tampering with his will ;
But after thirty days a ghostl)^ sun
Gave sickly promise that the storms were done.
VII
A GREAT grey sea was running up the sky,
Desolate birds flew past ; their mewings came
As that lone water's spiritual cry,
Its forlorn voice, its essence, its soul's name.
The ship limped in the water as if lame.
Then in the forenoon watch to a great shout
More sail was made, the reefs were shaken out,
A slant came from the south ; the singers stood
Clapped to the halliards, hauling to a tune,
Old as the sea, a fillip to the blood.
The upper topsail rose like a balloon.
" So long, Cape Stiff. In Valparaiso soon,"
Said one to other, as the ship lay over.
Making her course again — again a rover.
Slowly the sea went down as the wind fell.
Clear rang the songs, " Hurrah ! Cape Horn is bet ! "
The combless seas were lumping into swell ;
The leaking fo'c's'les were no longer wet.
More sail was made ; the watch on deck was set
To cleaning up the ruin broken bare
Below, aloft, about her, everywhere.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 237
The Dauber, scrubbing out the round-house, found
Old pantiles pulped among the mouldy gear.
Washed underneath the bunks and long since drowned
During the agony of the Cape Horn year.
He sang in scrubbing, for he had done with fear —
Fronted the worst and looked it in the face ;
He had got manhood at the testing-place.
Singing he scrubbed, passing his watch below,
Making the round-house fair ; the Bosun watched,
Bringing his knitting slowly to the toe.
Sails stretched a mizzen skysail which he patched ;
They thought the Dauber was a bad egg hatched.
" Daubs," said the Bosun cheerly, " can you knit ?
I've made a Barney's Bull of this last bit."
Then, while the Dauber counted, Bosun took
Some marline from his pocket. " Here," he said,
" You want to know square sennit ? So fash. Look !
Eight foxes take, and stop the ends with thread.
I've known an engineer would give his head
To know square sennit." As the Bose began,
The Dauber felt promoted into man.
It was his warrant that he had not failed —
That the most hard part in his difficult climb
Had not been past attainment ; it was scaled :
Safe footing showed above the slippery slime.
He had emerged out of the iron time, /
And knew that he could compass his life's scheme '
He had the power sufficient to his dream.
Then dinner came, and now the sky was blue.
The ship was standing north, the Horn was rounded
She made a thundering as she weltered through.
The mighty grey-backs glittered as she bounded.
More sail was piled upon her ; she was hounded
North, while the wind came ; like a stag she ran
Over grey hills and hollows of seas wan.
238 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
She had a white bone in her mouth : she sped ;
Those in the round-house watched her as they ate
Their meal of pork-fat fried with broken bread.
" Good old ! " they cried. " She 's off ; she 's gathering
gait ! "
Her track was whitening like a Lammas spate.
" Good old ! " they cried. " Oh, give her cloth ! Hurray !
For three weeks more to Valparaiso Bay ! "
" She smells old Vallipo," the Bosun cried.
" We'll be inside the tier in three weeks more,
Lying at double-moorings where they ride
Off of the market, half a mile from shore,
And bumboat pan, my sons, and figs galore.
And girls in black mantillas fit to make a
Poor seaman frantic when they dance the cueca."
Eight bells were made, the watch was changed, and now
The Mate spoke to the Dauber : " This is better.
We'll soon be getting mudhooks over the bow.
She'll make her passage still if this'll let her.
Oh, run, you drogher ! dip your fo'c's'le wetter.
Well, Dauber, this is better than Cape Horn.
Them topsails made you wish you'd not been born."
" Yes, sir," the Dauber said. " Now," said the Mate,
" We've got to smart her up. Them Cape Horn seas
Have made her paint-work like a rusty grate.
Oh, didn't them topsails make your fish-hooks freeze ?
A topsail don't pay heed to ' Won't you, please ? '
Well, you have seen Cape Horn, my son ; you've learned.
You've dipped your hand and had your fingers burned.
" And now you'll stow that folly, trying to paint.
You've had your lesson ; you're a sailor now.
You come on board a female ripe to faint.
All sorts of slush you'd learned, the Lord knows how.
Cape Horn has sent you wisdom over the bow
If you've got sense to take it. You're a sailor.
My God ! before you were a woman's tailor.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 239
" So throw your paints to blazes and have done.
Words can't describe the silly things you did
Sitting before your easel in the sun,
With all your colours on the paint-box lid.
I blushed for you . . . and then the daubs you hid.
My God ! you'll have more sense now, eh ? You've
quit ? "
" No, sir." " You've not ? " " No, sir." " God give you
wit.
" I thought you'd come to wisdom." Thus they talked,
While the great clipper took her bit and rushed
Like a skin-glistening stallion not yet baulked.
Till fire-bright water at her swing-ports gushed ;
Poising and bowing down her fore-foot crushed
Bubble on glittering bubble ; on she went.
The Dauber watched her, wondering what it meant.
To come, after long months, at rosy dawn,
Into the placid blue of some great bay.
Treading the quiet water like a fawn
Ere yet the morning haze was blown away.
A rose-flushed figure putting by the grey,
And anchoring there before the city smoke
Rose, or the church-bells rang, or men awoke.
And then, in the first light, to see grow clear
That long-expected haven filled with strangers —
Alive with men and women ; see and hear
Its clattering market and its money-changers ;
And hear the surf beat, and be free from dangers.
And watch the crinkled ocean blue with calm
DroAvsing beneath the Trade, beneath the palm.
Hungry for that he worked ; the hour went by.
And still the wind grew, still the clipper strode,
And now a darkness hid the western sky,
And sprays came flicking off at the wind's goad.
She stumbled now, feeling her sail a load.
The Mate gazed hard to windward, eyed his sail.
And said the Horn was going to flick her tail.
240 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Boldly he kept it on her till she staggered,
But still the wind increased ; it grew, it grew,
Darkening the sky, making the water haggard ;
Full of small snow the mighty wester blew.
" More fun for little fish-hooks," sighed the crew.
They eyed the taut topgallants stiff like steel ;
A second hand was ordered to the wheel.
The Captain eyed her aft, sucking his lip.
Feeling the sail too much, but yet refraining
From putting hobbles on the leaping ship,
The glad sea-shattering stallion, halter-straining.
Wind-musical, uproarious, and complaining ;
But, in a gust, he cocked his finger, so :
You'd better take them off, before they go."
^t.
AJl saw. They ran at once without the word
" Leeay ! Leeay ! " Loud rang the clew-line cries ;
Sam in his bunk within the half-deck heard,
Stirred in his sleep, and rubbed his drowsy eyes.
" There go the lower to'gallants." Against the skies
Rose the thin bellying strips of leaping sail.
The Dauber was the first man over the rail.
Three to a mast they ran ; it was a race.
" God ! " said the Mate ; " that Dauber, he can go."
He watched the runners with an upturned face
Over the futtocks, struggling heel to toe,
Up to the topmast cross-trees into the blow
Where the three sails were leaping. " Dauber wins !
The yards were reached, and now the race begins.
55
Which three will furl their sail first and come down ?
Out to the yard-arm for the leech goes one,
His hair blown flagwise from a hatless crown,
His hands at work like fever to be done.
Out of the gale a fiercer fury spun.
The three sails leaped together, yanking high,
Like talons darting up to clutch the sky.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 241
The Dauber on the fore-topgallant yard
Out at the weather yard-arm was the first
To lay his hand upon the buntline-barred
Topgallant yanking to the wester's burst ;
He craned to catch the leech ; his comrades cursed ;
One at the buntlines, one with oaths observed,
" The eye of the outer jib-stay isn't served."
" No," said the Dauber. " No," the man replied.
They heaved, stowing the sail, not looking round,
Panting, but full of life and eager-eyed ;
The gale roared at them with its iron sound.
" That 's you," the Dauber said. His gasket wound
Swift round the yard, binding the sail in bands ;
There came a gust, the sail leaped from his hands,
So that he saw it high above him, gre)^.
And there his mate was falling ; quick he clutched
An arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away.
A voice said " Christ ! " a quick shape stooped and
touched,
Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutched
With vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled.
And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled,
The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft.
And blankness settling on him and great pain ;
And snow beneath his fingers wet and soft
And topsail-sheet-blocks shaking at the chain.
He knew it was he who had fallen ; then his brain
Swirled in a circle while he watched the sky.
Infinite multitudes of snow blew by.
" I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain's voice said.
" Down on the bloody deck ! " the Captain screamed.
The multitudinous little snow-flakes sped,
His pain was real enough, but all else seemed.
Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamed
Tilting upon him ; others came, the Mate . . .
They knelt with eager eyes like things that wait
242 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
For other things to come. He saw them there.
" It will go on," he murmured, watching Si.
Colours and sounds seemed mixing in the air.
The pain was stunning him, and the wind went by.
" More water," said the Mate. " Here, Bosun, try.
Ask if he 's got a message. Hell, he 's gone !
Here, Dauber, paints." /He said, " It will go on.'
X
>>
Not knowing his meaning rightly, but he spoke
With the intenseness of a fading soul
Whose share of Nature's fire turns to smoke,
Whose hand on Nature's wheel loses control.
The eager faces glowered red like coal.
They glowed, the great storm glowed, the sails, the mast.
" It will go on," he cried aloud, and passed. /
Those from the yard came down to tell the tale.
" He almost had me off," said Tom. " He slipped.
There came one hell of a jump-like from the sail. . . .
He clutched at me and almost had me pipped.
He caught my 'ris'band, but the oilskin ripped. . . .
It tore clean off. Look here. I was near gone.
I made a grab to catch him ; so did John.
" I caught his arm. My God ! I was near done.
He almost had me over ; it was near.
He hit the ropes and grabbed at every one."
" Well," said the Mate, " we cannot leave him here.
Run, Si, and get the half-deck table clear.
We'll lay him there. Catch hold there, you, and you.
He 's dead, poor son ; there 's nothing more to do."
Night fell, and all night long the Dauber lay
Covered upon the table ; all night long
The pitiless storm exulted at her prey,
Huddling the waters with her icy thong.
But to the covered shape she did no wrong.
He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bell
The night wore through ; the stars rose, the stars fell.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 243
Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear sky
The wind roared all night long ; and all night through
The green seas on the deck went washing by,
Flooding the half-deck ; bitter hard it blew.
But little of it all the Dauber knew —
The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet
The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat.
He was off duty. So it blew all night.
And when the watches changed the men would come
Dripping within the door to strike a light
And stare upon the Dauber lying dumb,
And say, " He come a cruel thump, poor chum."
Or, " He'd a-been a fine big man " ; or, " He . . .
A smart young seaman he was getting to be."
Or, " Damn it all, it 's what we've all to face ! . . .
I knew another fellow one time ..." then
Came a strange tale of death in a strange place
Out on the sea, in ships, with wandering men.
In many ways Death puts us into pen.
The reefers came down tired and looked and slept.
Below the skylight little dribbles crept
Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow.
Following the roll and dripping, never fast,
But dripping on the quiet form below,
Like passing time talking to time long past.
And all night long " Ai, ai ! " went the wind's blast.
And creaming water swished below the pale.
Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.
At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bells
They bore him to the gangway, wading deep,
Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hells
That flung his carriers over in their sweep.
They laid an old red ensign on the heap,
And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying,
Washed by the sea while the old man was praying
244 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Out of a borrowed prayer-book. At a sign
They twitched the ensign back and tipped the grating.
A creamier bubbhng broke the bubbhng brine.
The muffled figure tilted to the weighting ;
It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating.
, Some craned to see ; it dimmed, it disappeared ;
The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared.
" Mister, shake out your reefs," the Captain called.
" Out topsail reefs ! " the Mate cried ; then all hands.
Hurried the great sails shook, and all hands hauled,
Singing that desolate song of lonely lands,
Of how a lover came in dripping bands.
Green with the wet and cold, to tell his lover
That Death was in the sea, and all was over.
Fair came the falling wind ; a seaman said
The Dauber was a Jonah ; once again
The clipper held her course, showing red lead,
Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain.
The waves bowed down before her like blown grain ;
Onwards she thundered, on ; her voyage was short,
Before the tier's bells rang her into port.
Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells,
The new-come beauty stately from the sea.
Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells,
Treading the bubbles down. With three times three
They cheered her moving beauty in, and she
Came to her berth so noble, so superb ;
Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb.
Then in the sunset's flush they went aloft,
And unbent sails in that most lovely hour
When the light gentles and the wind is soft,
And beaut}^ in the heart breaks like a flower.
Working aloft they saw the mountain tower.
Snow to the peak ; they heard the launchmen shout ;
And bright along the bay the hghts came out.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 245
And then the night fell dark, and all night long
The pointed mountain pointed at the stars,
Frozen, alert, austere ; the eagle's song
Screamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars.
On her intense crags where the air is sparse
The stars looked down ; their many golden eyes
Watched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise.
Silent the finger of the summit stood.
Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows.
Then the sun's coming turned the peak to blood,
And in the rest-house the muleteers arose.
And all day long, where only the eagle goes,
Stones, loosened by the sun, fall ; the stones falling
Fill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling.
EXPLANATIONS OF SOME OF THE SEA
TERMS USED IN THE POEIM
Backstays. — Wire ropes which support the masts against lateral
and after strains.
Barney's Bull. — A figure in marine proverb. A jewel in marine
repartee.
Bells. — Two bells (one forward, one aft), which are struck every
half-hour in a certain manner to mark the passage of the
watches.
BiTTS. — Strong wooden structures (built round each mast) upon
which running rigging is secured.
Block. — A sheaved pulley.
Boatswain. — A supernumerary or idler, generally attached to the
mate's watch, and holding considerable authority over the
crew.
BouiLLi Tin. — Any tin that contains, or has contained, preserved
meat.
Bows. — The forward extremity of a ship.
Brace-blocks. — Pulleys through which the braces travel.
Braces. — Ropes by which the yards are inclined forward or aft.
BuMBOAT Pan. — Soft bread sold by the bumboat man, a kind of
sea costermonger who trades with ships in port.
Bl'nt. — Those cloths of a square sail which are nearest to the mast
when the sail is set. The central portion of a furled square sail*
The human abdomen (figuratively).
Buntlines. — Ropes which help to confine square sails to the yards
in the operation of furling.
Chocks. — Wooden stands on which the boats rest.
Cleats. — Iron or wooden contrivances to which ropes may be
secured.
Clew-lines. — Ropes by which the lower corners of square sails
are lifted.
Clews. — The lower corners of square sails.
Clipper. — A title of honour given to ships of more than usual speed
and beauty.
247
248 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Coaming. — The raised rim of a hatchway ; a barrier at a doorway
to keep water from entering.
Courses. — Tlie large square sails set upon the lower yards of sailing
ships. The mizzen course is called the " crojick."
Cringled. — Fitted with iron rings or cringles, many of which are
let into sails or sail-roping for various purposes.
Crojick or Cross-jack. — A square sail set upon the lower yard of
the mizzen-mast.
Dungarees. — Thin blue or khaki-coloured overalls made from
cocoanut fibre.
Fairleads. — Rings of wood or iron by means of which running
rigging is led in any direction.
Fife-rails. — Strong wooden shelves fitted with iron pins, to which
ropes may be secured.
Fish-hooks. — I.e., fingers.
Foot-ropes. — Ropes on which men stand when working aloft.
Fo'c's'le. — The cabin or cabins in which the men are berthed. It
is usually an iron deck-house divided through the middle into
two compartments for the two watches, and fitted with wooden
bunks. Sometimes it is even fitted with lockers and an iron
water-tank.
Foxes. — Strands, yarns, or arrangements of yarns of rope.
Frap. — To wrap round with rope.
Freeing-ports. — Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards
to free the decks of water.
FuTTOCK-SHROUDS. — Iron bars to which the topmast rigging is
secured. As they project outward and upward from the masts
they are difficult to clamber over.
Galley. — The ship's kitchen.
Gantline (Girtline). — A rope used for the sending of sails up and
down from aloft.
Gaskets. — Ropes by which the sails are secured in furling.
Half-deck. — A cabin or apartment in which the apprentices are
berthed. Its situation is usually the ship's waist ; but it is
sometimes further aft, and occasionally it is under the poop
or even right forward under the top-gallant fo'c's'le.
Halliards. — Ropes by which sails are hoisted.
Harness-room. — An office or room from which the salt meat is
issued, and in which it is sometimes stored.
Hawse. — The bows or forward end of a ship.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 249
Head. — The forward part of a ship. That upper edge of a square
sail which is attached to the yard.
House-flag. — The special flag of the firm to which a ship belongs.
Idlers. — The members of the round-house mess, generally con-
sisting of the carpenter, cook, sailmaker, boatswain, painter,
etc., are known as the idlers.
Jack or Jackstay. — An iron bar (fitted along all yards in sailing
ships) to which the head of a square sail is secured when bent.
Kites. — Light upper sails.
Leeches. — The outer edges of square sails. In furling some square
sails the leech is dragged inwards till it lies level with the
head upon the surface of the yard. This is done by the first
man who gets upon the yard, beginning at the weather side.
LoGSHip. — A contrivance by which a ship's speed is measured.
Lower Topsail. — The second sail from the deck on square-rigged
masts. It is a very strong, important sail.
Marline. — Tarry line or coarse string made of rope-yarns twisted
together.
Mate. — The First or Chief Mate is generally called the Mate.
Mizzen-topmast-head. — The summit of the second of the three or
four spars which make the complete mizzen-mast.
MuDHOOKS. — Anchors.
Pins. — Iron or wooden bars to which running rigging is secured.
Pointing.— A kind of neat plait with which ropes are sometimes
ended off or decorated.
Poop-break. — The forward end of the after superstructure.
Ratlines. — The rope steps placed across the shrouds to enable the
seamen to go aloft.
Reefers. — Apprentices.
Reef-points. — Ropes by which the area of some sails may be
reduced in the operation of reefing. Reef-points are securely
fixed to the sails fitted with them, and when not in use their
ends patter continually upon the canvas with a gentle drum-
ming noise.
Reel. — A part of the machinery used with a logship.
Round-house, — A cabin (of all shapes except round) in which the
idlers are berthed.
250 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Royals. — Light upper square sails ; the fourth, fifth, or sixth
sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.
Sail-room. — A large room or compartment in which the ship's sails
are stored.
" Sails." — The sailmaker is meant.
Scuttle-butt. — A cask containing fresh water.
Shackles. — Rope handles for a sea-chest.
Sheet-blocks. — Iron blocks, by means of which sails are sheeted
home. In any violent wind they beat upon the mast with
great rapidity and force.
Sheets. — Ropes or chains which extend the lower corners of square
sails in the operation of sheeting home.
Shitting Suits (of Sails). — The operation of removing a ship's
sails, and replacing them with others.
Shrouds. — Wire ropes of great strength, which support lateral
strains on masts.
Shroud-screws. — Iron contrivances by which shrouds are hove
taut.
Sidelights. — A sailing ship carries two of these between sunset
and sunrise : one green, to starboard ; one red, to port.
Sights. — Observations to help in the finding of a ship's position.
Skid. — A wooden contrivance on which ships' boats rest.
Skysails. — The uppermost square sails ; the fifth, sixth, or seventh
sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.
Slatting. — The noise made by sails flogging in the wind.
Slush. — Grease, melted fat.
South-wester. — A kind of oilskin hat. A gale from the south-
west.
Spit Brown. — To chew tobacco.
Square Sennit. — A cunning plait which makes a four-square bar.
Staysails. — Fore and aft sails set upon the stays between the
masts.
Stow. — To furl.
Strop (the, putting on). — A strop is a grummet or rope ring. The
two players kneel down facing each other, the strop is placed
over their heads, and the men then try to pull each other over
by the strength of their neck-muscles.
Swing Ports. — Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards
to free the decks from water.
Tackle (prounced " taykel "). — Blocks, ropes, pulleys, etc.
Take a Caulk. — To sleep upon the deck.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 251
Topsails. — The second and third sails from the deck on the masts
of a modern square-rigged ship are known as the lower and
upper topsails.
Trucks. — The summits of the masts.
Upper Topsail. — The third square sail from the deck on the masts
of square-rigged ships.
Yards. — The steel or wooden spars (placed across masts) from
which square sails are set.
THE DAFFODIL FIELDS
•53
■W
THE DAFFODIL FIELDS
BETWEEN the barren pasture and the wood
There is a patch of poultry-stricken grass,
Where, in old time, Ryemeadows' Farmhouse stood.
And human fate brought tragic things to pass.
A spring comes bubbling up there, cold as glass.
It bubbles down, crusting the leaves with lime,
Babbling the self-same song that it has sung through time.
Ducks gobble at the selvage of the brook.
But still it slips away, the cold hill-spring.
Past the Ryemeadows' lonely woodland nook
Where many a stubble gray-goose preens her wing,
On, by the woodland side. You hear it sing
Past the lone copse where poachers set their wires,
Past the green hill once grim with sacrificial fires.
Another water joins it ; then it turns,
Runs through the Ponton Wood, still turning west.
Past foxgloves, Canterbury bells, and ferns.
And many a blackbird's, many a thrush's nest ;
The cattle tread it there ; then, with a zest
It sparkles out, babbling its pretty chatter
Through Foxholes Farm, where it gives white-faced cattle
water.
Under the road it runs, and now it slips
Past the great ploughland, babbling, drop and linn,
To the moss'd stumps of elm trees which it lips.
And blackberry-bramble-trails where eddies spin.
Then, on its left, some short-grassed fields begin.
Red-clayed and pleasant, which the young spring fills
With the never-quiet joy of dancing daffodils.
»5S
256 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
There are three fields where daffodils are found ;
The grass is dotted blue-gray with their leaves ;
Their nodding beauty shakes along the ground
Up to a fir-clump shutting out the eaves
Of an old farm where always the wind grieves
High in the fir boughs, moaning ; people call
This farm The Roughs, but some call it the Poor Maid's
Hall.
There, when the first green shoots of tender corn
Show on the plough ; when the first drift of white
Stars the black branches of the spiky thorn,
And afternoons are warm and evenings light.
The shivering daffodils do take delight,
Shaking beside the brook, and grass comes green,
And blue dog-violets come and glistening celandine.
And there the pickers come, picking for town
Those dancing daffodils ; all day they pick ;
Hard-featured women, weather-beaten brown,
Or swarthy-red, the colour of old brick.
At noon they break their meats under the rick.
The smoke of all three farms lifts blue in air
As though man's passionate mind had never suffered there.
And sometimes as they rest an old man comes,
Shepherd or carter, to the hedgerow-side,
And looks upon their gangrel tribe, and hums.
And thinks all gone to wreck since master died ;
And sighs over a passionate harvest -tide
Which Death's red sickle reaped under those hills.
There, in the quiet fields among the daffodils.
When this most tragic fate had time and place.
And human hearts and minds to show it by,
Ryemeadows' Farmhouse was in evil case :
Its master, Nicholas Gray, was like to die.
He lay in bed, watching the windy sky,
Where all the rooks were homing on slow wings,
Cawing, or blackly circling in enormous rings.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 257
With a sick brain he watched them ; then he took
Paper and pen, and wrote in stragghng hand
(Like spider's legs, so much his fingers shook)
Word to the friends who held the adjoining land.
Bidding them come ; no more he could command
His fingers twitching to the feebling blood ;
He watched his last day's sun dip down behind the wood,
While all his life's thoughts surged about his brain :
Memories and pictures clear, and faces known —
Long dead, perhaps ; he was a child again,
Treading a threshold in the dark alone.
Then back the present surged, making him moan.
He asked if Keir had come yet. " No," they said.
" Nor Occleve ? " " No." He moaned : " Come soon or
I'll be dead."
The names like live things wandered in his mind :
" Charles Occleve of The Roughs," and " Rowland Keir —
Keir of the Foxholes " ; but his brain was blind,
A blind old alley in the storm of the year,
Baffling the traveller life with " No way here,"
For all his lantern raised ; life would not tread
Within that brain again, along those pathways red.
Soon all was dimmed but in the heaven one star.
" I'll hold to that," he said ; then footsteps stirred.
Down in the court a voice said, " Here they are,"
And one, " He 's almost gone." The sick man heard.
" Oh God, be quick," he moaned. " Only one word.
Keir ! Occleve ! Let them come. Why don't they come ?
Why stop to tell them that ? — the devil strike you dumb.
" I'm neither doll nor dead ; come in, come in.
Curse you, you women, quick," the sick man flamed.
" I shall be dead before I can begin.
A sick man's womaned-mad, and nursed and darned."
Death had him by the throat ; his wrath was tamed.
" Come in," he fumed ; " Stop muttering at the door.'*
The friends came in ; a creaking ran across the floor.
9
258 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Now, Nick, how goes it, man ? " said Occleve. " Oh,
The dying man replied, " I am dying ; past ;
Mercy of God, I die, I'm going to go.
But 1 have much to tell you if I last.
Come near me, Occleve, Keir. I am sinking fast,
And all my kin are coming ; there, look there.
All the old long dead Grays are moving in the air.
" It is my Michael that I called you for ;
My son, abroad, at school still, over sea.
See if that hag is listening at the door.
No ? Shut the door ; don't lock it, let it be.
No faith is kept to dying men like me.
I am dipped deep and dying, bankrupt, done
I leave not even a farthing to my lovely son.
" Neighbours, these many years our children played,
Down in the fields together, down the brook ;
Your Mary, Keir, the girl, the bonny maid.
And Occleve's Lion, always at his book ;
Them and my Michael : dear, what joy they took
Picking the daffodils ; such friends they've been —
My boy and Occleve's boy and Mary Keir for queen.
" I had made plans ; but I am done with, I.
Give me the wine. I have to ask you this :
I can leave Michael nothing, and I die.
By all our friendship used to be and is.
Help him, old friends. Don't let my Michael miss
The schooling I've begun. Give him his chance.
He does not know I am ill ; I kept him there in France,
" Saving expense ; each penny counts. Oh, friends,
Help him another year ; help him to take
His full diploma when the training ends,
So that my ruin won't be his. Oh, make
This sacrifice for our old friendship's sake.
And God will pay you ; for I see God's hand
Pass in most marvellous ways on souls : I understand
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 259
" How just rewards are given for man's deeds
And judgment strikes the soul. The wine there, wine.
Life is the daily thing man never heeds.
It is ablaze with sign and countersign.
Michael will not forget ; that son of mine
Is a rare son, my friends ; he will go far.
I shall behold his course from where the blessed are."
" Why, Nick," said Occleve, " come, man. Gather hold
Rouse up. You've given way. If times are bad.
Times must be bettering, master ; so be bold ;
Lift up your spirit, Nicholas, and be glad.
Michael's as much to me as my dear lad.
I'll see he takes his school." " And I," said Keir.
" Set you no keep by that, but be at rest, my dear.
" We'll see your Michael started on the road."
" But there," said Occleve, " Nick's not going to die.
Out of the ruts, good nag, now ; zook the load.
Pull up, man. Death ! Death and the fiend defy.
We'll bring the farm round for you, Keir and I.
Put heart at rest and get your health." " Ah, no,"
The sick man faintly answered, " I have got to go."
Still troubled in his mind, the sick man tossed.
" Old friends," he said, " I once had hoped to see
Mary and Michael wed, but fates are crossed.
And Michael starts with nothing left by me.
Still, if he loves her, will you let it be ?
So in the grave, maybe, when I am gone,
I'll know my hope fulfilled, and see the plan go on."
" I judge by hearts, not money," answered Keir.
" If Michael suits in that and suits my maid,
I promise you, let Occleve witness here.
He shall be free for me to drive his trade.
Free, ay, and welcome, too. Be not afraid,
I'll stand by Michael as I hope some friend
Will stand beside my girl in case my own life end."
260 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" And I," said Occleve ; but the sick man seemed
Still ill at ease. " My friends," he said, " my friends,
Michael may come to all that I have dreamed.
But he 's a wild yarn full of broken ends.
So far his life in France has made amends.
God grant he steady so ; but girls and drink
Once brought him near to hell, ay, to the very brink.
" There is a running vein of wildness in him :
Wildness and looseness both, which vices make
That woman's task a hard one who would win him :
His life depends upon the course you take.
He is a fiery-mettled colt to break,
And one to curb, one to be curbed, remember."
The dying voice died down, the fire left the ember.
But once again it flamed. " Ah me," he cried ;
" Our secret sins take body in our sons,
To haunt our age with what we put aside.
I was a devil for the women once.
He is as I was. Beauty like the sun's ;
Within, all water ; minded like the moon.
Go now. I sinned. I die. I shall be punished soon."
The two friends tiptoed to the room below.
There, till the woman came to them, they told
Of brave adventures in the long ago,
Ere Nick and they had thought of growing old ;
Snipe-shooting in the marshlands in the cold.
Old soldiering days as yeomen, days at fairs,
Days that had sent Nick tired to those self-same chairs.
They vowed to pay the schoohng for his son.
They talked of Michael, testing men's report,
How the young student was a lively one.
Handsome and passionate both, and fond of sport,
Eager for fun, quick-witted in retort.
The girls' hearts quick to see him cocking by.
Young April on a blood horse, with a roving eye.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 261
And, as they talked about the lad, Keir asked
If Occleve's son had not, at one time, been
Heartsick for Mary, though with passion masked.
" Ay," Occleve said : " time was. At seventeen.
It took him hard, it ran his ribs all lean.
All of a summer ; but it passed, it died.
Her fancjang Michael better touched my Lion's pride."
Mice flickered from the wainscot to the press,
Nibbling at crumbs, rattling to shelter, squeaking.
Each ticking in the clock's womb made life less ;
Oil slowly dropped from where the lamp was leaking.
At times the old nurse set the staircase creaking.
Harked to the sleeper's breath, made sure, returned,
Answered the questioning eyes, then wept. The great
stars burned.
" Listen," said Occleve, " listen, Rowland. Hark."
" It 's Mary, come with Lion," answered Keir ;
" They said they'd come together after dark."
He went to door and called " Come in, my dear."
The burning wood log blazed with sudden cheer.
So that a glowing lighted all the room.
His daughter Mary entered from the outer gloom.
The wind had brought the blood into her cheek.
Heightening her beauty, but her great gray eyes
Were troubled with a fear she could not speak.
Firm, scarlet lips she had, not made for lies.
Gentle she seemed, pure-natured, thoughtful, wise.
And when she asked what turn the sickness took.
Her voice 's passing pureness on a low note shook.
Young Lion Occleve entered at her side,
A well-built, clever man, unduly grave,
One whose repute already travelled wide
For skill in breeding beasts. His features gave
Promise of brilliant mind, far-seeing, brave.
One who would travel far. His manly grace
Grew wistful when his eyes were turned on Mary's face.
262 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Tell me," said Mary, " what did doctor say ?
How ill is he ? What chance of life has he ?
The cowman said he couldn't last the day,
And only yesterday he joked with me."
" We must be meek," the nurse said ; " such things be."
" There 's little hope," said Keir : " he 's dying, sinking."
" Dying without his son," the young girl's heart was
thinking.
" Does Michael know ? " she asked. " Has he been
called ? "
A slow confusion reddened on the faces.
As when one light neglect leaves friends appalled.
" No time to think," said nurse, " in such hke cases."
Old Occlcve stooped and fumbled with his laces.
" Let be," he said ; " there 's always time for sorrow.
He could not come in time ; he shall be called to-morrow."
" There is a chance," she cried, " there always is.
Poor Mr. Gray might rally, might live on.
Oh, I must telegraph to tell him this.
Would it were day still and the message gone."
She rose, her breath came fast, her gray eyes shone.
She said, " Come, Lion ; see me through the wood.
Michael must know." Keir sighed. " Girl, it will do no
good.
" Our friend is on the brink and almost passed."
" All the more need," she said, " for word to go ;
Michael could well arrive before the last.
He'd see his father's face at least. I know
The office may be closed ; but even so,
Father, I must. Come, Lion." Out they went.
Into the roaring woodland where the saplings bent.
Like breakers of the sea the leafless branches
Swished, bowing down, rolling like water, roaring
Like the sea's welcome when the chpper launches
And full affronted tideways call to warring.
Daffodils glimmered underfoot, the flooring
Of the earthly woodland smelt like torn-up moss ;
Stones in the path showed white, and rabbits ran across.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 263
They climbed the rise and struck into the ride,
Talking of death, while Lion, sick at heart.
Thought of the woman walking at his side,
And as he talked his spirit stood apart,
Old passion for her made his being smart.
Rankling within. Her thought for Michael ran
Like glory and like poison through his inner man.
" This will break Michael's heart," he said at length.
" Poor Michael," she replied ; " they wasted hours.
He loved his father so. God give him strength.
This is a cruel thing this life of ours."
The windy woodland glimmered with shut flowers,
White wood anemones that the wind blew down.
The valley opened wide beyond the starry town.
" Ten," clanged out of the belfry. Lion stayed.
One hand upon a many-carven bole.
" Mary," he said. " Dear, my beloved maid,
I love you, dear one, from my very soul."
Her beauty in the dusk destroyed control.
" Mary, my dear, I've loved you all these years."
" Oh, Lion, no," she murmured, choking back her tears.
" I love you," he repeated. " Five years since
This thing began between us : every day.
Oh sweet, the thought of you has made me wince ;
The thought of you, my sweet, the look, the way.
It 's only you, whether I work or pray,
You and the hope of you, sweet you, dear you.
I never spoke before ; now it has broken through.
" Oh, my beloved, can you care for me ? "
She shook her head. " Oh, hush, oh. Lion dear.
Don't speak of love, for it can never be
Between us two, never, however near.
Come on, my friend, we must not linger here."
White to the lips she spoke ; he saw her face
White in the darkness by him in the windy place.
264 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Mary, in time you could, perhaps," he pleaded.
" No," she replied, " no, Lion ; never, no."
Over the stars the boughs burst and receded.
The nobleness of Love comes in Love's woe.
" God bless you then, beloved, let us go.
Come on," he said, " and if I gave you pain,
Forget it, dear ; be sure I never will again."
They stepped together down the ride, their feet
Slipped on loose stones. Little was said ; his fate.
Staked on a kingly cast, had met defeat.
Nothing remained but to endure and wait.
She was still wonderful, and life still great.
Great in that bitter instant side by side,
Hallowed by thoughts of death there in the blinded ride.
He heard her breathing by him, saw her face
Dim, looking straight ahead ; her feet by his
Kept time beside him, giving life a grace ;
Night made the moment full of mysteries.
" You are beautiful," he thought ; " and life is this :
Walking a windy night while men are dying,
To cry for one to come, and none to heed our crying."
" Mary," he said, " are you in love with him,
With Michael ? Tell me. We are friends, we three."
They paused to face each other in the dim.
" Tell me," he urged. " Yes, Lion," answered she ;
" I love him, but he does not care for me.
I trust your generous mind, dear ; now you know,
You, who have been my brother, how our fortunes go.
" Now come ; the message waits." The heavens cleared.
Cleared, and were starry as they trod the ride.
Chequered by tossing boughs the moon appeared ;
A whistling reached them from the Hall House side ;
Climbing, the whistler came. A brown owl cried.
The whistler paused to answer, sending far
That haunting, hunting note. The echoes laughed Aha !
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 265
Something about the calhng made them start.
Again the owl note laughed ; the ringing cry
Made the blood quicken within Mary's heart.
Like a dead leaf a brown owl floated by.
" Michael ? " said Lion. " Hush." An owl's reply
Came down the wind ; they waited ; then the man,
Content, resumed his walk, a merry song began.
" Michael," they cried together. " Michael, you ? "
" Who calls ? " the singer answered. " Where away ?
Is that you, Mary ? " Then with glad halloo
The singer ran to meet them on the way.
It was their Michael ; in the moonlight gray,
They made warm welcome ; under tossing boughs,
They met and told the fate darkening Ryemeadows'
House.
As they returned at speed their comrade spoke
Strangely and lightly of his coming home.
Saying that leaving France had been a joke,
But that events now proved him wise to come.
\Down the steep 'scarpment to the house they clomb,
And Michael faltered in his pace ; they heard
How dumb rebellion in the much-wronged cattle stirred.
And as they came, high, from the sick man's room,
Old Gray burst out a-singing of the light
Streaming upon him from the outer gloom.
As his eyes dying gave him mental sight.
" Triumphing swords," he carolled, " in the bright :
Oh fire. Oh beauty fire," and fell back dead.
Occleve took Michael up to kneel beside the bed.
So the night passed ; the noisy wind went down ;
The half-burnt moon her starry trackway rode.
Then the first fire was lighted in the town,
And the first carter stacked his early load.
Upon the farm's drawn blinds the morning glowed ;
And down the valley, with little clucks and trills,
The dancing waters danced by dancing daffodils.
266 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
II
They buried Gray ; his gear was sold ; his farm
Passed to another tenant. Thus men go ;
The dropped sword passes to another arm,
And different waters in the river flow.
His two old faithful friends let Michael know
His father's ruin and their promise. Keir
Brought him to stay at Foxholes till a path was clear.
There, when the sale was over, all three met
To talk about the future and to find
Upon what project Michael's heart was set.
Gentle the two old men were, thoughtful, kind.
They urged the youth to speak his inmost mind,
For they would compass what he chose ; they told
How he might end his training ; they would find the gold.
" Thanks, but I cannot," Michael said. He smiled.
" Cannot. They've kicked me out. I've been expelled ;
Kicked out for good and all for being wild.
They stopped our evening leave, and I rebelled.
I am a gentle soul until compelled.
And then I put my ears back. The old fool
Said that my longer presence might inflame the school.
" And I am glad, for I have had my fill
Of farming by the book with those old fools,
Exhausted talkatives whose blood is still.
Who strive to bind a living man with rules.
This fettered kind of life, these laws, these schools.
These codes, these checks, what arc they but the clogs
Made by collected sheep to mortify the dogs ?
" And I have had enough of them ; and now
I make an end of them. I want to go
Somewhere where man has never used a plough,
Nor ever read a book ; where clean winds blow,
And passionate blood is not its owner's foe,
And land is for the asking for it. There
Man can create a life and have the open air.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 267
" The River Plate 's the country. There, I know,
A man hke me can thrive. There, on the range,
The cattle pass hke tides ; they ebb and flow,
And life is changeless in unending change,
And one can ride all day, and all day strange,
Strange, never trodden, fenceless, waiting there.
To feed unending cattle for the men who dare.
" There I should have a chance ; this land 's too old."
Old Occleve grunted at the young man's mood ;
Keir, who was losing money, thought him bold,
And thought the scheme for emigration good.
He said that, if he wished to go, he should.
South to the pampas, there to learn the trade.
Old Occleve thought it mad, but no objection made.
So it was settled that the lad should start,
A place was found for him, a berth was taken ;
And Michael's beauty plucked at Mary's heart.
And now the fabric of their lives was shaken :
For now the hour's nearness made love waken
In Michael's heart for Mary. Now Time's guile
Granted her passionate prayer, nor let her see his smile.
Granted his greatest gifts ; a night time came
When the two walking down the water learned
That life till then had only been a name ;
Love had unsealed their spirits : they discerned.
Mutely, at moth time there, their spirits yearned.
" I shall be gone three years, dear soul," he said.
" Dear, will you wait for me ? " "I will," replied the
maid.
So troth was pledged between them. Keir received
Michael as Mary's suitor, feeling sure
That the lad's fortunes would be soon retrieved.
Having a woman's promise as a lure.
The three years' wait would teach them to endure.
He bade them love and prosper and be glad.
And fast the day drew near that was to take the lad.
268 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Cowslips had come along the bubbling brook,
Cowslips and oxlips rare, and in the wood
The many-blossomed stalks of bluebells shook ;
The outward beauty' fed their mental mood.
Thought of the parting stabbed her as he wooed,
Walking the brook with her, and day by day,
The precious fortnight's grace dropped, wasted, slipped
away.
Till only one clear day remained to her :
One whole clear, precious day, before he sailed,
Some forty hours, no more, to minister
To months of bleakness before which she quailed.
Mist rose along the brook ; the corncrake railed ;
Dim red the sunset burned. He bade her come
Into the wood with him ; they went, the night came
dumb.
Still as high June, the very water's noise
Seemed but a breathing of the earth ; the flowers
Stood in the dim like souls without a voice.
The wood's conspiracy of occult powers
Drew all about them, and for hours on hours
No murmur shook the oaks, the stars did house
Their lights like lamps upon those never-moving boughs.
Under their feet the woodland sloped away
Down to the valley, where the farmhouse lights
Were sparks in the expanse the moon made gray.
June's very breast was bare this night of nights.
Moths blundered up against them, grays and whites
Moved on the darkness where the moths were out.
Nosing for stickysweet with trembling uncurled snout.
But all this beauty was but music played,
While the high pageant of their hearts prepared.
A spirit thrilled between them, man to maid,
Mind flowed in mind, the inner heart was bared.
They needed not to tell how much each cared ;
All the soul's strength was at the other's soul.
Flesh was away awhile, a glory made them whole.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 269
Nothing was said by them ; they understood,
They searched each other's eyes without a sound,
Alone with moonlight in the heart of the wood,
Knowing the stars and all the soul of the ground.
" Mary," he murmured. " Come." His arms went round,
A white moth glimmered by, the woods were hushed ;
The rose at Mary's bosom dropped its petals, crushed.
No word profaned the peace of that glad giving,
But the warm dimness of the night stood still,
Drawing all beauty to the point of living,
There in the beech-tree's shadow on the hill.
Spirit to spirit murmured ; mingling will
Made them one being ; Time's decaying thought
Fell from them like a rag ; it was the soul they sought.
The moonlight found an opening in the boughs ;
It entered in, it filled that sacred place
With consecration on the throbbing brows ;
It came with benediction and with grace.
A whispering came from face to yearning face :
" Beloved, will you wait for me ? " " My own.
" I shall be gone three years, you will be left alone ;
" You'll trust and wait for me ? " " Yes, yes," she
sighed ;
She would wait any term of years, all time —
So faithful to first love these souls abide,
Carrying a man's soul with them as they climb.
Life was all flower to them ; the church bells' chime
Rang out the burning hour ere they had sealed
Love's charter there below the June sky's starry field.
Sweetly the church bells' music reached the wood,
Chiming an old slow tune of some old hymn.
Calling them back to life from where they stood
Under the moonlit beech-tree gray and dim.
" Mary," he murmured ; pressing close to him.
Her kiss came on the gift he gave her there,
A silken scarf that bore her name worked in his hair.
5J
270 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
But still the two affixed their hands and seals
To a life compact witnessed by the sky,
Where the great planets drove their glittering wheels,
Bringing conflicting fate, making men die.
They loved, and she would wait, and he would try.
" Oh, beauty of my love," " My lovely man,"
So beauty made them noble for their little span.
Time cannot pause, however dear the wooer ;
The moon declined, the sunrise came, the hours,
Left to the lovers, dwindled swiftly fewer.
Even as the seeds from dandelion-flowers
Blow, one by one, until the bare stalk cowers,
And the June grass grows over ; even so
Daffodil-picker Time took from their lives the glow,
Stole their last walk along the three green fields,
Their latest hour together ; he took, he stole
The white contentment that a true love yields ;
He took the triumph out of Mary's soul.
Now she must lie awake and blow the coal
Of sorrow of heart. The parting hour came ;
They kissed their last good-bye, murmuring the other's
name.
Then the flag waved, the engine snorted, then
Slowly the couplings tautened, and the train
Moved, bearing off from her her man of men ;
She looked towards its going blind with pain.
Her father turned and drove her home again.
It was a different home. Awhile she tried
To cook the dinner there, but flung her down and cried.
Then in the dusk she wandered down the brook,
Treading again the trackway trod of old.
When she could hold her loved one in a look.
The night was all unlike those nights of gold.
Michael was gone, and all the April old.
Withered and hidden. Life was full of ills ;
She flung her down and cried i' the withered daffodils.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 271
III
The steaming river loitered like old blood
On which the tugboat bearing Michael beat,
Past whitened horse bones sticking in the mud.
The reed stems looked like metal in the heat.
Then the banks fell away, and there were neat,
Red herds of sullen cattle drifting slow.
A fish leaped, making rings, making the dead blood flow.
Wormed hard-wood piles were driv'n in the river bank.
The steamer threshed alongside with sick screws
Churning the mud below her till it stank ;
Big gassy butcher-bubbles burst on the ooze.
There Michael went ashore ; as glad to lose
One not a native there, the Gauchos flung
His broken gear ashore, one waved, a bell was rung.
The bowfast was cast off, the screw revolved.
Making a bloodier bubbling ; rattling rope
Fell to the hatch, the engine's tune resolved
Into its steadier beat of rise and slope ;
The steamer went her way ; and Michael's hope
Died as she lessened ; he was there alone.
The lowing of the cattle made a gradual moan.
He thought of Mary, but the thought was dim,
That was another life, lived long before.
His mind was in new worlds which altered him.
The startling present left no room for more.
The sullen river lipped, the sky, the shore
Were vaster than of old, and lonely, lonely.
Sky and low hills of grass and moaning cattle only.
But for a hut bestrewn with skulls of beeves.
Round which the flies danced, where an Indian girl
Bleared at him from her eyes' ophthalmic eaves,
Grinning a welcome ; with a throaty skirl,
She offered him herself ; but he, the churl,
Stared till she thought him fool ; she turned, she sat.
Scratched in her short, black hair, chewed a cigar end,
spat.
272 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Up, on the rise, the cattle bunched ; the bulls
Drew to the front with menace, pawing bold,
Snatching the grass-roots out with sudden pulls,
The distant cattle raised their heads ; the wold
Grew dusty at the top ; a waggon rolled,
Drawn by a bickering team of mules whose eyes
Were yellow like their teeth and bared and full of vice.
Down to the jetty came the jingling team,
An Irish cowboy driving, while a Greek
Beside him urged the mules with blow and scream.
They cheered the Indian girl and stopped to speak.
Then lifting her aloft they kissed her cheek,
Calling to Michael to be quick aboard.
Or they (they said) would fall from virtue, by the Lord.
So Michael climbed aboard, and all day long
He drove the cattle range, rise after rise.
Dotted with limber shorthorns grazing strong,
Cropping sweet-tasted pasture, switching flies ;
Dull trouble brooded in their smoky eyes.
Some horsemen watched them. As the sun went down,
The waggon reached the estancia builded like a town.
With wide corrales where the horses squealed,
Biting and lashing out ; some half-wild hounds
Gnawed at the cowbones littered on the field,
Or made the stallions stretch their picket bounds.
Some hides were drying ; horsemen came from rounds,
Unsaddled stiff, and turned their mounts to feed.
And then brewed bitter drink and sucked it through a
reed.
The Irishman removed his pipe and spoke :
" You take a fool's advice," he said. " Return.
Go back where you belong before you're broke ;
You'll spoil more clothes at this job than you'll earn ;
It 's living death, and when 3'^ou die you'll burn :
Body and soul it takes you. Quit it. No ?
Don't say I never told you, then. Amigos, Ho.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 273
" Here comes a Gringo ; make him pay his shot.
Pay up your footing, Michael ; rum 's the word,
It suits my genius, and I need a lot."
So the great cauldron full was mixed and stirred.
And all night long the startled cattle heard
Shouting and shooting, and the moon beheld
Mobs of dim, struggling men, who fired guns and yelled
That they were Abel Brown just come to town,
Michael among them. By a bonfire some
Betted on red and black for money down,
Snatching their clinking winnings, eager, dumb.
Some danced unclad, rubbing their heads with rum.
The gray dawn, bringing beauty to the skies.
Saw Michael stretched among them, far too drunk to rise.
His footing paid, he joined the living-shed,
Lined with rude bunks and set with trestles : there
He, like the other ranchers, slept and fed.
Save when the staff encamped in open air.
Rounding the herd for branding. Rude and bare
That barrack was ; men littered it about
With saddles, blankets blue, old headstalls, many a clout
Torn off to wipe a knife or clean a gun,
Tin dishes, sailors' hookpots, all the mess
Made where the outdoor work is never done
And every cleaning makes the sleeping less.
Men came from work too tired to undress.
And slept all standing like the trooper's horse ;
Then with the sun they rose to ride the burning course.
Whacking the shipment cattle into pen.
Where, in the dust, among the stink of burning.
The half-mad heifers bolted from the men,
And tossing horns arose and hoofs were churning,
A lover there had little time for yearning ;
But all day long, cursing the flies and heat,
Michael was handling steers on horseback till his feet
274 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Gave on dismounting. All day long he rode,
Then, when the darkness came, his mates and he
Entered dog-tired to the rude abode
And ate their meat and sucked their bitter tea,
And rolled themselves in rugs and slept. The sea
Could not make men more drowsy ; like the dead,
They lay under the lamp while the mosquitos fed.
There was no time to think of Mary, none ;
For when the work relaxed, the time for thought
Was broken up by men demanding fun :
Cards, or a Avell-kept ring while someone fought,
Or songs and dancing ; or a case was bought
Of white Brazilian rum, and songs and cheers
And shots and oaths rang loud upon the twitching ears
Of the hobbled horses hopping to their feed.
So violent images displaced the rose
In Michael's spirit ; soon he took the lead ;
None was more apt than he for games or blows.
Even as the battle-seeking bantam crows,
So crowed the cockerel of his mind to feel
Life's bonds removed and blood quick in him toe to heel.
But sometimes when her letters came to him.
Full of wise tenderness and maiden mind.
He felt that he had let his clearness dim ;
The riot with the cowboys seemed unkind
To that far faithful heart ; he could not find
Peace in the thought of her ; he found no spur
To instant upright action in his love for her.
She faded to the memory of a kiss.
There in the rough life among foreign faces ;
Love cannot live where leisure never is ;
He could not write to her from savage places.
Where drunken mates were betting on the aces.
And rum went round and smutty songs were lifted.
He would not raise her banner against that ; he drifted.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 275
Ceasing, in time, to write, ceasing to think.
But happy in the wild life to the bone ;
The riding in vast space, the songs, the drink,
Some careless heart beside him like his own.
The racing and the fights, the ease unknown
In older, soberer lands ; his young blood thrilled.
The pampas seemed his own, his cup of joy was filled.
And one day, riding far after strayed horses,
He rode beyond the ranges to a land
Broken and made most green by watercourses,
Which served as strayline to the neighbouring brand.
A house stood near the brook ; he stayed his hand,
Seeing a woman there, whose great eyes burned.
So that he could not choose but follow when she turned.
After that day he often rode to see
That woman at the peach farm near the brook.
And passionate love between them came to be
Ere many days. Their fill of love they took ;
And even as the blank leaves of a book
The days went over Mary, day by da}^
Blank as the last, was turned, endured, passed, turned
away.
Spring came again greening the hawthorn buds ;
The shaking flowers, new-blossomed, seemed the same
And April put her riot in young bloods ;
The jays flapped in the larch clump like blue flame.
She did not care ; his letter never came.
Silent she went, nursing the grief that kills,
And Lion watched her pass among the daffodils.
IV
Time passed, but still no letter came ; she ceased,
Almost, to hope, but never to expect.
The Jvme moon came which had beheld love's feast.
Then waned, like it ; the meadow-grass was flecked
With moon-daisies, which died ; little she recked
Of change in outward things, she did not change ;
Her heart still knew one star, one hope, it did not range.
276 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Like to the watery hearts of tidal men,
Swayed by all moons of beauty ; she was firm,
When most convinced of misery firmest then.
She held a light not subject to the worm.
The pageant of the summer ran its term,
The last stack came to staddle from the wain ;
The snow fell, the snow thawed, the year began again
With the wet glistening gold of celandines,
And snowdrops pushing from the withered grass,
Before the bud upon the hawthorn greens.
Or blackbirds go to building ; but, alas !
No spring within her bosom came to pass.
" You're going like a ghost," her father said ;
" Now put him out of mind, and be my prudent maid."
It was an April morning brisk with wind,
She wandered out along the brook sick-hearted.
Picking the daffodils where the water dinned.
While overhead the first-come swallow darted.
There, at the place where all the passion started.
Where love first knocked about her maiden heart.
Young Lion Occleve hailed her, calling her apart
To see his tulips at The Roughs, and take
A spray of flowering currant ; so she went.
It is a bitter moment, when hearts ache,
To see the loved unhappy ; his intent
Was but to try to comfort her ; he meant
To show her that he knew her heart's despair,
And that his own heart bled to see her wretched there.
So, as they talked, he asked her, had she heard
From Michael lately ? No, she had not ; she
Had been a great while now, without a word.
" No news is always good news," answered he.
" You know," he said, " how much you mean to me ;
You've always been the queen. Oh, if I could
Do anything to help, my dear, you know I would."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 277
" Nothing," she said, much touched. " But you believe—
You still believe in him ? " " Why, yes," he said.
Lie though it was he did not dare deceive
The all too cruel faith within the maid.
" That ranching is a wild and lonely trade.
Far from all posts ; it may be hard to send ;
All puzzling things like this prove simple in the end.
" We should have heard if he were ill or dead.
Keep a good heart. Now come " ; he led the way
Beyond the barton to the calving-shed.
Where, on a strawy Utter topped with hay,
A double-pedigree prize bull-calf lay.
" Near three weeks old," he said, " the Wrekin's pet,
Come up, now, son, come up ; you haven't seen him yet.
" We have done well," he added, " with the stock.
But this one, if he lives, will make a name."
The bull-calf gambolled with his tail acock.
Then shyly nosed towards them, scared but tame ;
His troublous eyes were sulky with blue flame.
Softly he tip-toed, shying at a touch ;
He nosed, his breath came sweet, his pale tongue curled
to clutch.
They rubbed his head, and Mary went her way,
Counting the dreary time, the dreary beat
Of dreary minutes dragging through the day ;
Time crawled across her life with leaden feet ;
There still remained a year before her sweet
Would come to claim her ; surely he would come ;
Meanwhile there was the year, her weakening father,
home.
Home with its deadly round, with all its s<"tting,
Things, rooms, and fields and flowers to sting, to burn
With memories of the love time past forgetting
Ere absence made her very being yearn.
" My love, be quick," she moaned. " Return, return :
Come when the three years end, oh, my dear soul.
It 's bitter, wanting you." The lonely nights took toll,
278 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Putting a sadness where the beauty was,
Taking a lustre from the hair ; the days
Saw each a sadder image in the glass.
And when December came, fouling the ways,
And ashless beech-logs made a Christmas blaze,
Some talk of Michael came ; a rumour ran,
Someone had called him " wild " to some returning man,
Who, travelling through that cattle-range, had heard
Nothing more sure than this ; but this he told
At second-hand upon a cowboy's word.
It struck on Mary's heart and turned her cold.
That winter was an age which made her old.
" But soon," she thought, " soon the third year will end ;
March, April, May, and June, then I shall see my friend.
" He promised he would come ; he will not fail.
Oh, Michael, my beloved man, come soon ;
Stay not to make a home for me, but sail.
Love and the hour will put the world in tune.
You in my life for always is the boon
I ask from life — we two, together, lovers."
So leaden time went by who eats things and discovers.
Then, in the winds of March, her father rode,
Hunting the Welland country on Black Ned ;
The tenor cry gave tongue past Clencher's Lode,
And on he galloped, giving the nag his head ;
Then, at the brook, he fell, was picked up dead.
Hounds were whipped off ; men muttered with one
breath,
" We knew that hard-mouthed brute would some day be
his death."
They bore his body on a hurdle home ;
Then came the burial, then the sadder day
When the peaked lawyer entered like a gnome.
With word to quit and lists of debts to pay.
There was a sale ; the Foxholes passed away
To strangers, who discussed the points of cows,
Where love had put such glory on the lovers' brows.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 279
Kind Lion Occleve helped the maid's affairs.
Her sorrow brought him much beside her ; he
Caused her to settle, having stilled her cares,
In the long cottage under Spital Gree.
He had no hope that she would love him ; she
Still waited for her lover, but her eyes
Thanked Lion to the soul ; he made the look suffice.
By this the yearling bull-calf had so grown
That all men talked of him ; mighty he grew.
Huge-shouldered, scaled above a hundred stone,
With deep chest many-wrinkled with great thew,
Plain-loined and playful-eyed ; the Occleves knew
That he surpassed his pasture ; breeders came
From far to see this bull ; he brought the Occleves fame.
Till a meat-breeding rancher on the plains
Where Michael wasted, sent to buy the beast.
Meaning to cross his cows with heavier strains
Until his jaeld of meat and bone increased.
He paid a mighty price ; the yearling ceased
To be the wonder of the countryside.
He sailed in Lion's charge, south, to the Plate's red tide.
There Lion landed with the bull, and there
The great beast raised his head and bellowed loud,
Challenging that expanse and that new air ;
Trembling, but full of wrath and thunder-browed,
Far from the daffodil fields and friends, but proud.
His wild eye kindled at the great expanse.
Two scraps of Shropshire life they stood there ; their
advance
Was slow along the well-grassed cattle land,
But at the last an end was made ; the brute
Ate his last bread crust from his master's hand.
And snuffed the foreign herd and stamped his foot ;
Steers on the swelling ranges gave salute.
The great bull bellowed back and Lion turned ;
His task was now to find where Michael lived : he learned
280 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The farm's direction, and with heavy mind,
Thinking of Mary and her sorrow, rode,
Leaving the offspring of his fields behind.
A last time in his ears the great bull lowed.
Then, shaking up his horse, the young man glowed
To see the unfenced pampas opening out
Grass that makes old earth sing and ail the valleys shout.
At sunset on the second day he came
To that white cabin in the peach-tree plot
Where Michael lived ; they met, the Shropshire name
Rang trebly dear in that outlandish spot.
Old memories swam up dear, old joys forgot.
Old friends, were real again ; but Mary's woe
Came into Lion's mind, and Michael vexed him so.
Talking with careless freshness, side by side
With that dark Spanish beauty who had won,
As though no heart-broke woman, heavy-eyed.
Mourned for him over sea, as though the sun
Shone but to light his steps to love and fun,
While she, that golden and beloved soul,
Worth ten of him, lay wasting like an unlit coal.
So supper passed ; the meat in Lion's gorge
Stuck at the last, he could not bide that face.
The idle laughter on it plied the forge
Where hate was smithying tools ; the jokes, the place,
Wrought him to wrath ; he could not stay for grace.
The tin mug full of red wine spilled and fell.
He kicked his stool aside with " Michael, this is hell.
" Come out into the night and talk with me."
The young man lit a cigarette and followed ;
The stars seemed trembling at a brink to see ;
A little ghostly white-owl stooped and holloed.
Beside the stake-fence Lion stopped and swallowed.
While all the wrath within him made him gray.
Michael stood still and smoked, and flicked his ash awav
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 281
" Well, Lion," Michael said, " men make mistakes,
And then regret them ; and an early flame
Is frequently the worst mistake man makes.
I did not seek this passion, but it came.
Love happens so in life. Well ? Who 's to blame ?
You'll say I've broken Mary's heart ; the heart
Is not the whole of life, but an inferior part,
" Useful for some few years and then a curse.
Nerves should be stronger. You have come to say
The three-year term is up ; so much the worse.
I cannot meet the bill ; I cannot pay.
I would not if I could. Men change. To-day
I know that that first choice, however sweet,
Was wrong and a mistake ; it would have meant defeat.
" Ruin and misery to us both. Let be.
You say I should have told her this ? Perhaps.
You try to make a loving woman see
That the warm link which holds you to her snaps.
Neglect is deadlier than the thunder-claps.
Yet she is bright and I am water. Well,
I did not make myself ; this life is often hell.
" Judge if you must, but understand it first.
We are old friends, and townsmen, Shropshire born,
Under the Wrekin. You believe the worst.
You have no knowledge how the heart is torn.
Trying for duty up against the thorn.
Now say I've broken Mary's heart : begin.
Break hers, or hers and mine, which were the greater
sin '
9 -■
" Michael," said Lion, " I have heard you. Now
Listen to me. Three years ago you made
With a most noble soul a certain vow.
Now you reject it, saying that you played.
She did not think so, Michael, she has stayed,
Eating her heart out for a line, a word,
News that you were not dead ; news that she never heard
282 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Not once, after the first. She has held firm
To what you counted pastime ; she has wept
Life, day by weary day throughout the term,
While her heart sickened and the clock-hand crept.
While you, you with your woman here, have kept
Holiday, feasting ; you are fat ; you smile.
You have had love and laughter all the ghastly while.
" I shall be back in England six weeks hence,
Standing with your poor Mary face to face ;
Far from a pleasant moment, but intense.
I shall be asked to tell her of this place.
And she will eye me hard and hope for grace.
Some little crumb of comfort while I tell.
And every word will bvirn like a red spark from hell,
" That you have done with her, that you are living
Here with another woman ; that you care
Nought for the pain you've given and are giving ;
That all your lover's vows were empty air.
This I must tell : thus I shall burn her bare,
Burn out all hope, all comfort, every crumb.
End it, and watch her whiten, hopeless, tearless, dumb.
" Or do I judge you wrongly ? " He was still.
The cigarette-end glowed and dimmed with ash ;
A preying night bird whimpered on the hill.
Michael said " Ah ! " and fingered with his sash.
Then stilled. The night was still ; there came no fiasli
Of sudden passion bursting. All was still ;
A lonely water gurgled like a whip-poor-will.
" Now I must go," said Lion ; " where 's the horse ? "
" There," said his friend ; " I'll set you on your way."
They caught and rode, both silent, while remorse
Worked in each heart, though neither would betray
What he was feeling, and the moon came gray.
Then burned into an opal white and great.
Silvering the downs of grass where these two travelled
late.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 283
Thinking of English fields which that moon saw,
Fields full of quiet beaut^^ lying hushed
At midnight in the moment full of awe,
When the red fox comes creeping, dewy-brushed.
But neither spoke ; they rode ; the horses rushed,
Scattering the great clods skywards with such thrills
As colts in April feel there in the daffodils.
The river brimming full was silvered over
By moonlight at the ford ; the river bank
Smelt of bruised clote buds and of yellow clover.
Nosing the gleaming dark the horses drank,
Drooping and dripping as the reins fell lank ;
The men drooped too ; the stars in heaven drooped ;
Rank after hurrying rank the silver water trooped
In ceaseless bright procession past the shallows,
Talking its quick inconsequence. The friends.
Warmed by the gallop on the unfenced fallows,
Felt it a kindlier thing to make amends.
" A jolly burst," said Michael ; " here it ends.
Your way lies straight beyond the water. There.
Watch for the lights, and keep those two stars as the
bear."
Something august was quick in all that sky,
Wheeling in multitudinous march with fire ;
The falling of the wind brought it more nigh,
They felt the earth take solace and respire ;
The horses shifted foothold in the mire,
Splashing and making eddies. Lion spoke :
" Do you remember riding past the haunted oak
" That Christmas Eve, when all the bells were ringing,
So that we picked out seven churches' bells.
Ringing the night, and people carol-singing ?
It hummed and died away and rose in swells
Like a sea breaking. We have been through hells
Since then, we two, and now this being here
Brings all that Christmas back, and makes it strangely
near."
284 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Yes," Michael answered, " they were happy times,
Riding beyond there ; but a man needs change ;
I know what they connote, those Christmas chimes,
Fudge in the heart, and pudding in the grange'.
It stifles me all that ; I need the range,
Like this before us, open to the sky ;
There every wing is clipped, but here a man can fly.'
" Ah," said his friend, " man only flies in youth,
A few short years at most, until he finds
That even quiet is a form of truth.
And all the rest a coloured rag that blinds.
Life offers nothing but contented minds.
Some day you'll know it, Michael. I am grieved
That Mary's heart will pay until I am believed."
There was a silence while the water dripped
From the raised muzzles champing on the steel.
Flogging the crannied banks the water lipped.
Night up above them turned her starry wheel ;
And each man feared to let the other feel
How much he felt ; they fenced ; they put up bars.
The moon made heaven pale among the withering stars.
" Michael," said Lion, " why should we two part ?
Ride on with me ; or shall we both return,
Make preparation, and to-morrow start,
And travel home together ? You would learn
How much the people long to see you ; turn.
We will ride back and say good-bye, and then
Sail, and see home again, and see the Shropshire men,
" And see the old Shropshire mountain and the fair.
Full of drunk Welshmen bringing mountain ewes ;
And partridge shooting would be starting there."
Michael hung down his head and seemed to choose.
The horses churned fresh footing in the ooze.
Then Michael asked if Tom were still ahve.
Old Tom, who fought the Welshman under Upton Drive,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 285
For nineteen rounds, on grass, with the bare hands ?
" Shaky," said Lion, " hving still, but weak ;
Almost past speaking, but he understands."
" And old Shon Shones we teased so with the leek ? "
" Dead." " When ? " " December." Michael did not
speak,
But muttered " Old Jones dead." A minute passed.
" What came to little Sue, his girl," he said at last.
" Got into trouble with a man and died ;
Her sister keeps the child." His hearer stirred.
" Dead, too ? She was a pretty girl," he sighed,
" A graceful pretty creature, like a bird.
What is the child ? " "A boy. Her sister heard
Too late to help ; poor Susan died ; the man
None knew who he could be, but many rumours ran."
" Ah," Michael said. The horses tossed their heads ;
A little wind arising struck in chill ;
" Time," he began, " that we were in our beds."
A distant heifer challenged from the hill.
Scraped at the earth with 's forefoot and was still.
" Come with me," Lion pleaded. Michael grinned ;
He turned his splashing horse, and prophesied a wind.
" So long," he said, and " Kind of you to call.
Straight on, and watch the stars " ; his horse's feet
Trampled the firmer foothold, ending all.
He flung behind no message to his sweet,
No other word to Lion ; the dull beat
Of his horse's trample drummed upon the trail ;
Lion could watch him drooping in the moonlight pale,
Drooping and lessening ; half expectant still
That he would turn and greet him ; but no sound
Came, save the lonely water's whip-poor-will
And the going horse hoofs dying on the ground.
" Michael," he cried, " Michael ! " A lonely mound
Beyond the water gave him back the cry.
" That 's at an end," he said, " and I have failed her — I."
286 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Soon the far hoof-beats died, save for a stir
Half heard, then lost, then still, then heard again.
A quickening rhythm showed he plied the spur.
Then a vast breathing silence took the plain.
The moon was like a soul within the brain
Of the great sleeping world ; silent she rode.
The water talked, talked, talked : it trembled as it flowed.
A moment Lion thought to ride in chase.
He turned, then turned again, knowing his friend.
He forded through with death upon his face.
And rode the plain that seemed never to end.
Clumps of pale cattle nosed the thing unkenned,
Riding the night ; out of the night they rose,
SnufRng with outstretched heads, stamping with surly
lows,
Till he was threading through a crowd, a sea
Of curious shorthorns backing as he came,
Barring his path, but shifting warily ;
He slapped the hairy flanks of the more tame.
Unreal the ghostly cattle lumbered lame.
His horse kept at an even pace ; the cows
Broke right and left like waves before advancing bows.
Lonely the pampas seemed amid that herd.
The thought of Mary's sorrow pricked him sore ;
He brought no comfort for her, not a word ;
He would not ease her pain, but bring her more.
The long miles dropped behind ; lights rose before,
Lights and the seaport and the briny air ;
And so he sailed for home to comfort Mary there.
When Mary knew the worst she only sighed,
Looked hard at Lion's face, and sat qviite still.
White to the lips, but stern and stony-eyed.
Beaten by life in all things but the will.
Though the blow struck her hard it did not kill.
She rallied on herself, a new life bloomed
Out of the ashy heart where Michael lay entombed.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 287
And more than this : for Lion touched a sense
That he, the honest humdrum man, was more
Than he by whom the glory and the offence
Came to her Hfe three bitter years before.
This was a treason in her being's core ;
It smouldered there ; meanwhile as two good friends
They met at autumn dusks and winter daylight-ends.
And once, after long twilight talk, he broke
His strong restraint upon his passion for her,
And burningly, most like a man he spoke,
Until her pity almost overbore her.
It could not be, she said ; her pity tore her ;
But still it could not be, though this was pain.
Then on a frosty night they met and spoke again.
And then he wooed again, clutching her hands.
Calling the maid his mind, his heart, his soul.
Saying that God had linked their lives in bands
When the worm Life first started from the goal ;
That they were linked together, past control,
Linked from all time, could she but pity ; she
Pitied him from the soul, but said it could not be.
" Mary," he asked, " you cannot love me ? No ? "
" No," she replied ; " would God I could, my dear."
" God bless you then," he answered, " I must go.
Go over sea to get away from here,
I cannot think of work when you are near ;
My whole life falls to pieces ; it must end.
This meeting now must be ' good-bye,' beloved friend."
White-lipped she listened, then with failing breath.
She asked for yet a little time ; her face
Was even as that of one condemned to death.
She asked for yet another three months' grace,
Asked it, as Lion inly knew, in case
Michael should still return ; and " Yes," said he,
" I'll wait three months for you, beloved ; let it be."
288 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Slowly the three months dragged : no Michael came.
March brought the daffodils and set them shaking.
April was quick in Nature like green flame ;
May came with dog-rose buds, and corncrakes craking,
Then dwindled like her blossom ; June was breaking,
" Mary," said Lion, " can you answer now ? "
White like a ghost she stood, he long remembered how.
Wild-eyed and white, and trembling Uke a leaf,
She gave her answer, " Yes " ; she gave her hps.
Cold as a corpse's to the kiss of grief.
Shuddering away as if his touch were whips.
Then her best nature, struggling to eclipse
This shrinking self, made speech ; she jested there ;
They searched each other's eyes, and both souls saw
despair.
So the first passed, and after that began
A happier time : she could not choose but praise
That recognition of her in the man
Striving to salve her pride in myriad ways ;
He was a gentle lover : gentle days
Passed like a music after tragic scenes ;
Her heart gave thanks for that ; but still the might-have-
beens
Haunted her inner spirit day and night.
And often in his kiss the memory came
Of Michael's face above her, passionate, white,
His lips at her lips murmuring her name.
Then she would suffer sleepless, sick with shame.
And struggle with her weakness. She had vowed
To give herself to Lion ; she was true and proud.
He should not have a woman sick with ghosts,
But one firm-minded to be his ; so time
Passed one by one the summer's marking posts,
The dog-rose and the foxglove and the lime.
Then on a day the church-bells rang a chime.
Men fired the bells till all the valley filled
With bell-noise from the belfry where the jackdaws build.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 28»
Lion and she were married ; home they went,
Home to The Roughs as man and wife ; the news
Was printed in the paper. Mary sent
A copy out to Michael. Now we lose
Sight of her for a time, and the great dews
Fall, and the harvest-moon grows red and fills
Over the barren fields where March brings daffodils.
VI
The rider lingered at the fence a moment.
Tossed out the pack to Michael, whistling low.
Then rode, waving his hand, without more comment,
Down the vast gray-green pampas sloping slow.
Michael's last news had come so long ago.
He wondered who had written now ; the hand
Thrilled him with vague alarm, it brought him to a stand.
He opened it with one eye on the hut,
Lest she within were watching him, but she
Was combing out her hair, the door was shut.
The green sun-shutters closed, she could not see.
Out fell the love-tryst handkerchief which he
Had had embroidered with his name for her ;
It had been dearly kept, it smelt of lavender.
Something remained : a paper, crossed with blue,
Where he should read ; he stood there in the sun,
Reading of Mary's wedding till he knew
What he had cast away, what he had done.
He was rejected, Lion was the one.
Lion, the godly and the upright, he.
The black lines in the paper showed how it could be.
He pocketed the love gift and took horse.
And rode out to the pay-shed for his savings.
Then turned, and rode a lonely water-course.
Alone with bitter thoughts and bitter cravings.
Sun-shadows on the reeds made twinkling wavings ;
An orange-bellied turtle scooped the mud ;
Mary had married Lion, and the news drew blood.
lO
290 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And with the bitterness, the outcast felt
A passion for those old kind Shropshire places,
The ruined chancel where the nuns had knelt ;
High Ercall and the Chase End and the Chases,
The glimmering mere, the burr, the well-known faces,
By Wrekin and by Zine and country town.
The orange-bellied turtle burrowed further down.
He could remember Mary now ; her crying
Night after night alone through weary years,
Had touched him now and set the cords replying ;
He knew her misery now, her ache, her tears.
The lonely nights, the ceaseless hope, the fears.
The arm stretched out for one not there, the slow
Loss of the lover's faith, the letting comfort go.
" Now I will ride," he said. Beyond the ford
He caught a fresh horse and rode on. The night
Found him a guest at Pepe Blanco's board.
Moody and drinking rum and ripe for fight ;
Drawing his gun, he shot away the light.
And parried Pepe's knife and caught his horse.
And all night long he rode bedevilled by remorse.
At dawn he caught an eastward-going ferry,
And all day long he steamed between great banks
Which smelt of yellow thorn and loganberry.
Then wharves appeared, and chimneys rose in ranks.
Mast upon mast arose ; the river's flanks
Were filled with English ships, and one he found
Needing another stoker, being homeward bound.
And all the time the trouble in his head
Ran like a whirlwind moving him ; he knew
Since she was lost that he was better dead.
He had no project outlined, what to do,
Beyond go home ; he joined the steamer's crew.
She sailed that night : he dulled his maddened soul.
Plying the iron coal-slice on the bunker coal.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFTELD 291
Work did not clear the turmoil in his mind ;
Passion takes colour from the nature's core ;
His misery was as his nature, blind.
Life was still turmoil when he went ashore.
To see his old love married lay before ;
To see another have her, drink the gall,
Kicked like a dog without, while he within had all.
*******
Soon he was at the Foxholes, at the place
Whither, from over sea, his heart had turned
Often at evening-ends in times of grace.
But little outward change his eye discerned ;
A red rose at her bedroom window burned,
Just as before. Even as of old the wasps
Poised at the yellow plums ; the gate creaked on its hasps
And the white fantails sidled on the roof
Just as before ; their pink feet, even as of old,
Printed the frosty morning's rime with proof.
Still the zew-tallat's thatch was green with mould ;
The apples on the withered boughs were gold.
Men and the times were changed : " And I," said he,
" Will go and not return, since she is not for me.
" I'll go, for it would be a scurry thing
To spoil her marriage, and besides, she cares
For that half-priest she married with the ring.
Small joy for me in seeing how she wears.
Or seeing what he takes and what she shares.
That beauty and those ways : she had such ways,
There in the daffodils in those old April days." "
So with an impulse of good will he turned,
Leaving that place of daffodils ; the road
Was paven sharp with memories which burned ;
He trod them strongly under as he strode.
At the Green Turning's forge the furnace glowed ;
Red dithymg sparks flew from the crumpled soft
Fold from the fire's heart ; down clanged the hammers oft.
292 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
That was a bitter place to pass, for there
Mary and he had often, often stayed
To watch the horseshoe growing in the glare.
It was a tryst in childhood when they strayed.
There was a stile beside the forge ; he laid
His elbows on it, leaning, looking down
The river-valley stretched with great trees turning brown.
Infinite, too, because it reached the sky,
And distant spires arose and distant smoke ;
The whiteness on the blue went stilly by ;
Only the clinking forge the stillness broke.
Ryemeadows brook was there ; The Roughs, the oak
Where the White Woman walked ; the black firs showed
Around the Occleve homestead, Mary's new abode.
A long, long time he gazed at that fair place,
So well remembered from of old ; he sighed.
" I will go down and look upon her face,
See her again, whatever may betide.
Hell is my future ; I shall soon have died,
But I will take to hell one memory more ;
She shall not see nor know ; I shall be gone before ;
" Before they turn the dogs upon me, even.
I do not mean to speak ; but only see.
Even the devil gets a peep at heaven ;
One peep at her shall come to hell with me ;
One peep at her, no matter what may be."
He crossed the stile and hurried down the slope.
Remembered trees and hedges gave a zest to hope.
******
A low brick wall with privet shrubs beyond
Ringed in The Roughs upon the side he neared.
Eastward some bramble bushes cloaked the pond ;
Westward was barley-stubble not yet cleared.
He thrust aside the privet boughs and peered.
The drooping fir trees let their darkness trail
Black like a pirate's masts bound under easy sail.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 293
The garden with its autumn flowers was there ;
Few that his wayward memory Hnked with her.
Summer had burnt the summer flowers bare,
But honey-hunting bees still made a stir.
Sprigs were still bluish on the lavender.
And bluish daisies budded, bright flies poised ;
The wren upon the tree-stump carolled cheery-voiced.
He could not see her there. Windows were wide,
Late wasps were cruising, and the curtains shook.
Smoke, like the house's breathing, floated, sighed ;
Among the trembling firs strange ways it took.
But still no Mary's presence blessed his look ;
The house was still as if deserted, hushed.
Faint fragrance hung about it as if herbs were crushed.
Fragrance that gave his memory's guard a hint
Of times long past, of reapers in the corn,
Bruising with heavy boots the stalks of mint,
When first the berry reddens on the thorn.
Memories of her that fragrance brought. Forlorn
That vigil of the watching outcast grew ;
He crept towards the kitchen, sheltered by a yew.
The windows of the kitchen opened wide.
Again the fragrance came ; a woman spoke ;
Old Mrs. Occleve talked to one inside.
A smell of cooking filled a gust of smoke.
Then fragrance once again, for herbs were broke ;
Pourri was being made ; the listener heard
Things lifted and laid down, bruised into sweetness, stirred.
While an old woman made remarks to one
Who was not the beloved : Michael learned
That Roger's wife at Upton had a son.
And that the red geraniums should be turned ;
A hen was missing, and a rick was burned ;
Our Lord commanded patience ; here it broke ;
The window closed, it made the kitchen chimney smoke.
294 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Steps clacked on flagstones to the outer door ;
A dairymaid, whom he remembered well,
Lined, now, with age, and grayer than before.
Rang a cracked cow-bell for the dinner-bell.
He saw the dining-room ; he could not tell
If Mary were within : inly he knew
That she was coming now, that she would be in blue.
Blue with a silver locket at the throat.
And that she would be there, within there, near,
With the little blushes that he knew by rote,
And the gray eyes so steadfast and so dear,
The voice, pure like the nature, true and clear,
Speaking to her belov'd within the room.
The gate clicked, Lion came : the outcast hugged the
gloom,
Watching intently from below the boughs.
While Lion cleared his riding-boots of clay.
Eyed the high clouds and went within the house.
His eyes looked troubled, and his hair looked gray.
Dinner began within with much to say.
Old Occleve roared aloud at his own joke.
Mary, it seemed, was gone ; the loved voice never spoke.
Nor could her lover see her from the yew ;
She was not there at table ; she was ill,
111, or away perhaps — he wished he knew.
Away, perhaps, for Occleve bellowed still.
" If sick," he thought, " the maid or Lion will
Take food to her." He watched ; the dinner ended.
The staircase was not used ; none climbed it, none
descended.
" Not here," he thought ; but wishing to be sure,
He waited till the Occleves went to field,
Then followed, round the house, another lure.
Using the well-known privet as his shield.
He meant to run a risk ; his heart was steeled.
He knew of old which bedroom would be hers ;
He crouched upon the north front in among the firs.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 295
The house stared at him with its red-brick blank,
Its vacant window-eyes ; its open door,
With old wrought bridle ring-hooks at each flank,
Swayed on a creaking hinge as the wind bore :
Nothing had changed ; the house was as before,
The dull red brick, the windows sealed or wide :
" I will go in," he said. He rose and stepped inside.
None could have seen him coming ; all was still ;
He listened in the doorway for a sign.
Above, a rafter creaked, a stir, a thrill
Moved, till the frames clacked on the picture line.
" Old Mother Occleve sleeps, the servants dine,"
He muttered, listening. " Hush." A silence brooded.
Far off the kitchen dinner clattered ; he intruded.
Still, to his right, the best room door was locked.
Another door was at his left ; he stayed.
Within, a stately timepiece ticked and tocked
To one who slumbered breathing deep ; it made
An image of Time's going and man's trade.
He looked : Old Mother Occleve lay asleep,
Hands crossed upon her knitting, rosy, breathing deep.
He tiptoed up the stairs which creaked and cracked.
The landing creaked ; the shut doors, painted gray,
Loomed, as if shutting in some dreadful act.
The nodding frames seemed ready to betray.
The east room had been closed in Michael's day.
Being the best ; but now he guessed it hers ;
The fields of daffodils lay next it, past the firs.
Just as he reached the landing. Lion cried.
Somewhere below, " I'll get it." Lion's feet
Struck on the flagstones with a hasty stride,
" He 's coming up," thought Michael, " we shall meet,'
He snatched the nearest door for his retreat.
Opened with thieves' swift silence, dared not close,
But stood within, behind it. Lion's footsteps rose.
296 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Running two steps at once, while Michael stood,
Not breathing, only knowing that the room
Was someone's bedroom smelling of old wood.
Hung with engravings of the day of doom.
The footsteps stopped ; and Lion called, to whom ?
A gentle question, tapping at a door,
And Michael shifted feet, and creakings took the floor
The footsteps recommenced, a door-catch clacked ;
Within an eastern room the footsteps passed.
Drawers were pulled loudly open and ransacked.
Chattels were thrust aside and overcast.
What could the thing be that he sought ? At last
His voice said, " Here it is." The wormed floor
Creaked with returning footsteps down the corridor.
The footsteps came as though the walker read,
Or added rows of figures by the way ;
There was much hesitation in the tread ;
Lion seemed pondering which, to go or stay ;
Then, seeing the door, which covered Michael, sway.
He swiftly crossed and shut it. "Always one
For order," Michael muttered ; " Now be swift, my son."
The action seemed to break the walker's mood ;
The footsteps passed downstairs, along the hall.
Out at the door and off towards the wood.
*' Gone," Michael muttered. " Now to hazard all."
Outside, the frames still nodded on the wall.
Michael stepped swiftly up the floor to try
The door where Lion tapped and waited for reply.
It was the"[eastmost of the rooms which look
Over the fields'of daffodils ; the bound
Scanned from its windows is Ryemeadows brook.
Banked by gnarled apple trees and rising ground.
Most gently Michael tapped ; he heard no sound,
Only the bhnd-pull tapping with the wind ;
The kitchen-door was opened ; kitchen-clatter dinned.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 297
A woman walked along the hall below,
Humming ; a maid, he judged ; the footsteps died,
Listening intently still, he heard them go,
Then swiftly turned the knob and went inside.
The blind-pull at the window volleyed wide ;
The curtains streamed out like a waterfall ;
The pictures of the fox-hunt clacked along the wall.
No one was there ; no one ; the room was hers.
A book of praise lay open on the bed ;
The clothes-press smelt of many lavenders,
Her spirit stamped the room ; herself was fled.
Here she found peace of soul like daily bread,
Here, with her lover Lion ; Michael gazed ;
He would have been the sharer had he not been crazed.
He took the love-gift handkerchief again ;
He laid it on her table, near the glass.
So opened that the broidered name was plain ;
" Plain," he exclaimed, " she cannot let it pass.
It stands and speaks for me as bold as brass.
My answer, my heart's cry, to tell her this.
That she is still my darling : all she was she is.
" So she will know at least that she was wrong.
That underneath the blindness I was true.
Fate is the strongest thing, though men are strong ;
Out from beyond life I was sealed to you.
But my blind ways destroyed the cords that drew ;
And now, the evil done, I know my need ;
Fate has his way with those who mar what is decreed.
" And now, good-bye." He closed the door behind him,
Then stept, with firm swift footstep down the stair.
Meaning to go where she would never find him ;
He would go down through darkness to despair.
Out at the door he stept ; the autumn air
Came fresh upon his face ; none saw him go.
" Good-bye, my love," he muttered ; " it is better so."
TO*
298 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Soon he ^vas on the high road, out of sight
Of valley and farm ; soon he could see no more
The oast-house pointing finger take the light
As tumbling pigeons glittered over ; nor
Could he behold the wind-vane gilded o'er,
Swinging above the church ; the road swung round.
" Now, the last look," he cried : he saw that holy ground.
" Good-bye," he cried ; he could behold it all,
Spread out as in a picture ; but so clear
That the gold apple stood out from the wall ;
Like a red jewel stood the grazing steer.
Precise, intensely coloured, all brought near,
As in a vision, lay that holy ground.
" Mary is there," he moaned, " and I am outward bound.
" I never saw this place so beautiful,
Never like this. I never saw it glow.
Spirit is on this place ; it fills it full.
So let the die be cast ; I will not go.
But I will see her face to face and know
From her own lips what thoughts she has of me ;
And if disaster come : right ; let disaster be.
55
Back, by another way, he turned. The sun
Fired the yew-tops in the Roman woods.
Lights in the valley twinkled one by one,
The starlings whirled in dropping multitudes.
Dusk fingered into one earth's many moods.
Back to The Roughs he walked ; he neared the brook ;
A lamp burned in the farm ; he saw ; his fingers shook.
He had to cross the brook, to cross a field
Where daffodils were thick when years were young.
Then, were she there, his fortunes should be scaled.
Down the mud trackway to the brook he swung ;
Then while the passion trembled on his tongue,
Dim, by the dim bridge-stile, he seemed to see
A figure standing mute ; a woman — it was she.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 299
She stood quite stilly, waiting for him there.
She did not seem surprised ; the meeting seemed
Planned from all time by powers in the air
To change their human fates ; he even deemed
That in another life this thing had gleamed,
This meeting by the bridge. He said, " It 's you."
" Yes, I," she said, " who else ? You must have known ;
you knew
" That I should come here to the brook to see.
After your message." " You were out," he said.
" Gone, and I did not know where you could be.
Where were you, Mary, when the thing was laid ? "
" Old Mrs. Cale is dying, and I stayed
Longer than usual, while I read the Word.
You could have hardly gone." She paused, her bosom
stirred.
" Mary, I sinned," he said. " Not that, dear, no."
She said ; " but, oh, you were unkind, unkind,
Never to write a word and leave me so.
But out of sight with you is out of mind."
" Mary, I sinned," he said, " and I was bhnd.
Oh, my beloved, are you Lion's wife ? "
" Belov'd sounds strange," she answered, " in my present
life.
" But it is sweet to hear it, all the same.
It is a language little heard by me
Alone, in that man's keeping, with my shame.
I never thought such miseries could be.
I was so happy in you, Michael. He
Came when I felt you changed from what I thought you.
Even now it is not love, but jealousy that brought you."
" That is untrue," he said. " I am in hell.
You are my heart's beloved, Mary, you.
By God, I know your beauty now too well.
We are each other's, flesh and soul, we two."
" That was sweet knowledge once," she said ; " we knew
That truth of old. Now, in a strange man's bed,
I read it in my soul, and find it written red."
I
300 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Is he a brute ? " he asked. " No," she rephed.
" I did not understand what it would mean.
And now that you are back, would I had died ;
Died, and the misery of it not have been.
Lion would not be wrecked, nor I imclean.
I was a proud one once, and now I'm tame ;
Oh, Michael, say some word to take away my shame."
She sobbed ; his arms went round her ; the night heard
Intense fierce whispering passing, soul to soul,
Love running hot on many a murmured word,
Love's passionate giving into new control.
Their present misery did but blow the coal.
Did but entangle deeper their two wills,
While the brown brook ran on by buried daffodils.
VII
Upon a light gust came a waft of bells,
Ringing the chimes for nine ; a broken sweet,
Like waters bubbling out of hidden wells.
Dully upon those lovers' ears it beat,
Their time was at an end. Her tottering feet
Trod the dim field for home ; he sought an inn.
" Oh, I have sinned," she cried, " but not a secret sin."
Inside The Roughs they waited for her coming ;
Eyeing the ticking clock the household sat.
" Nine," the clock struck ; the clock- weights ran down
drumming.
Old Mother Occleve stretched her sewing flat.
" It 's nine," she said. Old Occleve stroked the cat.
" Ah, cat," he said, " hast had good go at mouse ? "
Lion sat listening tense to all within the house.
" Mary is late to-night," the gammer said.
" The times have changed," her merry husband roared ;
" Young married couples now like lonely trade,
Don't think of bed at all, they think of board.
No multiplying left in people. Lord !
When I was Lion's age I'd had my five.
There was some go in folk when us two took to wive."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 301
Lion arose and stalked and bit his lip,
" Or was it six ? " the old man muttered, " six.
Us had so many I've alost the tip.
Us were two right good souls at getting chicks.
Two births of twins, then Johnny's birth, then Dick's " .'.".
" Now give a young man time," the mother cried.
Mary came swiftly in and flung the room door wide.
Lion was by the window when she came,
Old Occleve and his wife were by the fire ;
Big shadows leapt the ceiling from the flame.
She fronted the three figures and came nigher.
" Lion," she whispered, " I return my hire."
She dropped her marriage-ring upon the table.
Then, in a louder voice, " I bore what I was able,
" And Time and marriage might have worn me down,
Perhaps, to be a good wife and a blest,
With little children clinging to my gown,
And little blind mouths fumbling for my breast.
And this place would have been a place of rest
For you and me ; we could have come to know
The depth ; but that is over ; I have got to go.
" He has come back, and I have got to go.
Our marriage ends." She stood there white and breathed.
Old Occleve got upon his feet with " So."
Blazing with wrath upon the hearth he seethed.
A log fell from the bars ; blue spirals wreathed
Across the still old woman's startled face ;
The cat arose and yawned. Lion was still a space.
Old Occleve turned to Lion. Lion moved
Nearer to Mary, picking up the ring.
His was grim physic from the soul beloved ;
His face was white and twitching with the sting.
" You are my wife, you cannot do this thing,"
He said at last. " I can respect your pride.
This thing affects your soul ; my judgment must decide.
I
302 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" You are unsettled, shaken from the shock."
" Not so," she said. She stretched a hand to him,
White, large and noble, steady as a rock,
Cunning with many powers, curving, slim.
The smoke, drawn by the door-draught, made it dim.
" Right," Lion answered. " You are steady. Then
There is but one world, Mary ; this, the world of men.
" And there 's another world, without its bounds.
Peopled by streaked and spotted souls who prize
The flashiness that comes from marshy grounds
Above plain daylight. In their blinkered eyes
Nothing is bright but sentimental lies.
Such as are offered you, dear, here and now ;
Lies which betray the strongest, God alone knows how.
" You, in your beauty and your whiteness, turn
Your strong, white mind, your faith, your fearless truth
All for these rotten fires that so burn.
A sentimental clutch at perished youth.
I am too sick for wisdom, sick with ruth,
And this comes suddenly ; the unripe man
Misses the hour, oh God. But you, what is your plan ?
" What do you mean to do, how act, how live ?
What warrant have you for your life ? What trust ?
You are for going sailing in a sieve.
This brightness is too mortal not to rust.
So our beginning marriage ends in dust.
I have not failed you, Mary. Let me know
What you intend to do, and whither you will go."
'* Go from this place ; it chokes me," she replied.
" This place has branded me ; I must regain
My truth that I have soiled, my faith, my pride.
It is all poison and it leaves a stain.
I cannot stay nor be your wife again.
Never. You did your best, though ; you were kind.
I have grown old to-night and left all that behind.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 303
" Good-bye." She turned. Old Occleve faced his son.
Wrath at the woman's impudence was blent.
Upon his face, with wrath that such an one
Should stand unthrashed until her words were spent.
He stayed for Lion's wrath ; but Mary went
Unchecked ; he did not stir. Her footsteps ground
The gravel to the gate ; the gate-hinge made a sound
Like^to a cry of pain after a shot.
Swinging, it clicked, it clicked again, it swung
Until the iron latch bar hit the slot.
Mary had gone, and Lion held his tongue.
Old Mother Occleve sobbed ; her white head hung
Over her sewing while the tears ran down
Her worn, blood-threaded cheeks and splashed upon her
gown.
" Yes, it is true," said Lion, " she must go.
Michael is back. Michael was always first,
I did but take his place. You did not know.
Now itjhas happened, and you know the worst.
So passion makes the passionate soul accurst
And crucifies his darling. Michael comes
And the savage truth appears and rips my life to thrums,"
Upon Old Occleve's face the fury changed
First to contempt, and then to terror lest
Lion, beneath the shock, should be deranged.
But Lion's eyes were steady, though distressed.
" Father, good-night," he said, " I'm going to rest.
Good-night, I cannot talk. Mother, good-night."
He kissed her brow and went ; they heard him strike a
light,
And go with slow depressed step up the stairs,
Up to the door of her deserted bower ;
They heard him up above them, moving chairs ;
The memory of his paleness made them cower.
They did not know their son ; they had no power
To help, they only saw the new-won bride
Defy their child, and faith and custom put aside.
304 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
After a time men learned where Mary was :
Over the hills, not many miles away,
Renting a cottage and a patch of grass
Where Michael came to see her. Every day
Taught her what fevers can inhabit clay,
Shaking this body that so soon must die.
The time made Lion old : the winter dwindled by,
Till the long misery had to end or kill :
And " I must go to see her," Lion cried ;
" I am her standby, and she needs me still ;
If not to love she needs me to decide.
Dear, I will set you free. Oh, my bright bride,
Lost in such piteous ways, come back." He rode
Over the wintry hills to Mary's new abode.
And as he topped the pass between the hills.
Towards him, up the swerving road, there came
Michael, the happy cause of all his ills ;
Walking as though repentance were the shame,
Sucking a grass, unbuttoned, still the same,
Humming a tune ; his careless beauty wild
Drawing the women's eyes ; he wandered with a child
Who heard, wide-eyed, the scraps of tales which fell
Between the fragments of the tune ; they seemed
A cherub bringing up a soul from hell.
Meeting unlike the meeting long since dreamed.
Lion dismounted ; the great valley gleamed
With waters far below ; his teeth were set,
His heart thumped at his throat ; he stopped ; the two
men met.
The child well knew that fatal issues joined ;
He stood round-eyed to watch them, even as Fate
Stood with his pennypiece of causes coined
Ready to throw for issue ; the bright hate
Throbbed, that the heavy reckoning need not wait.
Lion stepped forward, watching Michael's eyes.
" We are old friends," [he said. " Now, Michael, you be
wise.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 305
" And let the harm already done suffice ;
Go, before Mary's name is wholly gone.
Spare her the misery of desertion twice,
There 's only ruin in the road you're on —
Ruin for both, whatever promise shone
In sentimental shrinkings from the fact.
So, Michael, play the man, and do the generous act
" And go ; if not for my sake, go for hers.
You only want her with your sentiment.
You are water roughed by every wind that stirs,
One little gust will alter your intent.
All ways, to every wind, and nothing meant.
Is your life's habit. Man, one takes a wife,
Not for a three months' fancy, but the whole of life.
" We have been friends, and so I speak you fair.
How will you bear her ill, or cross, or tired ?
Sentiment sighing will not help you there.
You call a half life's volume not desired.
I know your love for her. I saw it mired,
Mired, past going, by your first sharp taste
Of life and work ; it stopped ; you let her whole life
waste,
" Rather than have the trouble of such love,
You will again ; but if you do it now.
It will mean death, not sorrow. But enough.
You know too well you cannot keep a vow.
There are gray hairs already on her brow.
You brought them there. Death is the next step. Go,
Before you take the step. " No," Michael answered.
"No.
" As for my past, I was a dog, a cur,
And I have paid blood-money, and still pay.
But all my being is ablaze with her ;
There is no talk of giving up to-day.
I will not give her up. You used to say
Bodies are earth. I heard you say it. Liar !
You never loved her, you. She turns the earth to fire."
306 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Michael," said Lion, " you have said such things
Of other women ; less than six miles hence
You and another woman felt love's wings
Rosy and fair, and so took leave of sense.
She 's dead, that other woman, dead, with pence
Pressed on her big brown eyes, under the ground ;
She that was merry once, feeling the world go round.
" Her child (and yours) is with her sister now,
Out there, behind us, living as they can ;
Pinched by the poverty that you allow.
All a long autumn many rumours ran
About Sue Jones that was : you were the man.
The lad is like you. Think about his mother,
Before you turn the earth to fire with another."
" That is enough," said Michael, " you shall know
Soon, to your marrow, what my answer is ;
Know to your lying heart ; now kindly go.
The neighbours smell that something is amiss.
We two will keep a dignity in this.
Such as we can. No quarrelling with me here.
Mary might see ; now go ; but recollect, my dear
" That if you twit me with your wife, you lie ;
And that your further insult waits a day
When God permits that Mary is not by ;
I keep the record of it, and shall pay.
And as for Mary ; listen : we betray
No one. We keep our troth-plight as we meant.
Now go, the neighbours gather." Lion bowed and went
Home to his memories for a month of pain,
Each moment like a devil with a tongue,
Urging him, " Set her free," or " Try again,"
Or " Kill that man and stamp him into dung."
" See her," he cried. He took his horse and swung
Out on the road to her ; the rain was falling ;
Her dropping house-eaves splashed him when he knocked
there, calling.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 307
Drowned yellow jasmine dripped ; his horse's flanks
Steamed, and dark runnels on his yellow hair
Streaked the groomed surface into blotchy ranks.
The noise of water dropping filled the air.
He knocked again ; but there was no one there ;
No one within, the door was locked, no smoke
Came from the chimney stacks, no clock ticked, no one
spoke,
Only the water dripped and dribble-dripped,
And gurgled through the rain-pipe to the butt ;
Drops, trickling down the windows, paused or slipped ;
A wet twig scraked as though the glass were cut.
The blinds were all drawn down, the windows shut.
No one was there. Across the road a shawl
Showed at a door a space ; a woman gave a call.
" They're gone away," she cried. " They're gone away.
Been gone a matter of a week." Where to ?
The woman thought to Wales, but could not say,
Nor if she planned returning ; no one knew.
She looked at Lion sharply ; then she drew
The half-door to its place and passed within.
Saying she hoped the rain would stop and spring begin.
Lion rode home. A month went by, and now
Winter was gone ; the myriad shoots of green
Bent to the wind, like hair, upon the plough.
And up from withered leaves came celandine.
And sunlight came, though still the air was keen,
So that the first March market was most fair.
And Lion rode to market, having business there.
And in the afternoon, when all was done,
While Lion waited idly near the inn.
Watching the pigeons sidling in the sun,
As Jim the ostler put his gelding in,
He heard a noise of rioting begin
Outside the yard, with catcalls ; there were shouts
Of " Occleve. Lion Occleve," from a pack of louts,
308 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Who hung about the courtyard-arch, and cried,
" Yah, Occleve, of The Roughs, the married man,
Occleve, who had the bed and not the bride,"
At first without the arch ; but some began
To sidle in, still calling ; children ran
To watch the baiting ; they were farmers' leavings
Who shouted thus, men cast for drunkenness and thiev-
ings.
Lion knew most of them of old ; he paid
No heed to them, but turned his back and talked
To Jim, of through-pin in his master's jade.
And how no horse-wounds should be stuped or caulked.
The rabble in the archway, not yet baulked.
Came crowding nearer, and the boys began,
" Who was it took your mistress, master married man ? "
" Who was it, master, took your wife away ? "
" I wouldn't let another man take mine."
" She had two husbands on her wedding day."
" See at a blush : he blushed as red as wine."
" She'd ought a had a cart-whip laid on fine."
The farmers in the courtyard watched the baiting,
Grinning, the barmaids grinned above the window grat-
ing.
Then through the mob of brawlers Michael stepped
Straight to where Lion stood. " I come," he said,
" To give you back some words which I have kept
Safe in my heart till I could see them paid.
You lied about Sue Jones ; she died a maid
As far as I'm concerned, and there 's your lie
Full in your throat, and there, and there, and in your eye,
" And there 's for stealing Mary "... as he struck.
He slipped upon a piece of peel and dropped
Souse in a puddle of the courtyard muck ;
Loud laughter followed when he rose up sopped.
Friends rushed to intervene, the fight was stopped.
The two were hurried out by different ways.
Men said, " 'Tis stopped for now, but not for many days.'*
3|c :|! * 4: 4: ii: 4:
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 309
April appeared, the green earth's impulse came,
Pushing the singing sap until each bud
Trembled with delicate life as soft as flame,
Filled by the mighty heart-beat as with blood ;
Death was at ebb, and Life in brimming flood.
But little joy in life could Lion see.
Striving to gird his will to set his loved one free,
While in his heart a hope still struggled dim
That the mad hour would pass, the darkness break.
The fever die, and she return to him.
The routed nightmare let the sleeper wake.
" Then we could go abroad," he cried, " and make
A new life, soul to soul ; oh, love ! return."
" Too late," his heart replied. At last he rode to learn.
Bowed, but alive with hope, he topped the pass.
And saw, below, her cottage by the way.
White, in a garden green with springing grass,
And smoke against the blue sky going gray.
" God make us all the happier for to-day,"
He muttered humbly ; then, below, he spied,
Mary and Michael entering, walking side by side.
Arm within arm, like lovers, like dear lovers
Matched by the happy stars and newly wed.
Over whose lives a rosy presence hovers.
Lion dismounted, seeing hope was dead.
A child was by the road, he stroked his head.
And " Little one," he said, " who lives below
There, in the cottage there, where those two people go ? "
" They do," the child said, pointing : " Mrs. Gray
Lives in the cottage there, and he does, too.
They've been back near a week since being away."
It was but seal to what he inly knew.
He thanked the child and rode. The Spring was blue,
Bluer than ever, and the birds were glad ;
Such rapture in the hedges all the blackbirds had.
310 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He was not dancing to that pipe of the Spring.
He reached The Roughs, and there, within her room
Bowed for a time above her wedding ring,
Which had so chained him to unhappy doom ;
All his dead marriage haunted in the gloom
Of that deserted chamber ; all her things
Lay still as she had left them when her love took wings.
He kept a bitter vigil through the night,
Knowing his loss, his ten years' passion wasted,
His life all blasted, even at its height,
His cup of life's fulfilment hardly tasted.
Gray on the budding woods the morning hasted,
And looking out he saw the dawn come chill
Over the shaking acre pale with daffodil.
Birds were beginning in the meadows ; soon
The blackbirds and the thrushes with their singing
Piped down the withered husk that was the moon.
And up the sky the ruddy sun came winging.
Cows plodded past, yokes clanked, the men were bringing
Milk from the barton. Someone shouted " Hup,
Dog, drive them dangy red ones down away on up."
Some heavy hours went by before he rose.
He went out of the house into the grass,
Down which the wind flowed much as water flows ;
The daffodils bowed down to let it pass.
At the brook's edge a boggy bit there was.
Right at the field's north corner, near the bridge,
Fenced by a ridge of earth ; he sat upon the ridge.
Watching the water running to the sea,
Watching the bridge, the stile, the path beyond.
Where the white violet's sweetness brought the bee.
He paid the price of being overfond.
The water babbled always from the pond
Over the pretty shallows, chattering, tinkling.
With trembles from the sunlight in its clearness wrinkling.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 311
So gazing, like one stunned, it reached his mind,
That the hedge-brambles overhung the brook
More than was right, making the selvage blind ;
The dragging brambles too much flotsam took.
Dully he thought to mend. He fetched a hook,
And standing in the shallow stream he slashed,
For hours, it seemed ; the thorns, the twigs, the dead
leaves splashed,
Splashed and were bobbed away across the shallows ;
Pale grasses with the sap gone from them fell.
Sank, or were carried down beyond the sallows.
The bruised ground-ivy gave out earthy smell.
" I must be dead," he thought, " and this is hell."
Fiercely he slashed, till, glancing at the stile.
He saw that Michael stood there, watching, with a smile.
His old contemptuous smile of careless ease.
As though the world with all its myriad pain
Sufficed, but only just sufficed, to please.
Michael was there, the robber come again.
A tumult ran like flame in Lion's brain ;
Then, looking down, he saw the flowers shake :
Gold, trembling daffodils ; he turned, he plucked a stake
Out of the hedge that he had come to mend.
And flung his hook to Michael, crying, " Take ;
We two will settle our accounts, my friend.
Once and for ever. May the Lord God make
You see your sins in time." He whirled his stake
And struck at Michael's head ; again he struck ;
While Michael dodged and laughed, " Why, man, I bring
you luck.
" Don't kill a bringer of good news. You fool,
Stop it and listen. I have come to say :
Lion, for God's sake, listen and be cool.
You silly hothead, put that stake away.
Listen, I tell you." But he could not stay
The anger flaming in that passionate soul.
Blows rained upon him thick ; they stung ; he lost con-
trol.
312 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Till, " If you want to fight," he cried, " let be.
Let me get off the bridge and we will fight.
That firm bit by the quag will do for me.
So. Be on guard, and God defend the right.
You foaming madman, with your hell's delight,
Smashing a man with stakes before he speaks :
On guard. I'll make you humbler for the next few weeks."
The ground was level there ; the daffodils
Glimmered and danced beneath their cautious feet,
Quartering for openings for the blow that kills.
Beyond the bubbling brook a thrush was sweet.
Quickly the footsteps slid ; with feint and cheat,
The weapons poised and darted and withdrew.
" Now stop it," Michael said, " I want to talk to you."'
" We do not stop till one of us is dead,"
Said Lion, rushing in. A short blow fell
Dizzily, through all guard, on Michael's head.
His hedging-hook slashed blindly but too well :
It struck in Lion's side. Then, for a spell.
Both, sorely stricken, staggered, while their eyes
Dimmed under mists of blood ; they fell, they tried to-
rise, —
Tried hard to rise, but could not, so they lay,
Watching the clouds go sailing on the sky,
Touched with a redness from the end of day.
There was all April in the blackbird's cry.
And lying there they felt they had to die,
Die and go under mould and feel no more
April's green fire of life go running in earth's core.
" There was no need to hit me," Michael said ;
" You quiet thinking fellows lose control.
This fighting business is a foolish trade.
And now we join the grave-worm and the£mole.
I tried to stop you. You're a crazy soul ;
You always were hot-headed. Well, let be :
You deep and passionate souls have always puzzled me„
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 313
" I'm sorry that I struck you. I was hit,
And lashed out bhndly at you ; you were mad.
It would be different if you'd stopped a bit.
You are too blind when you are angry, lad.
Oh, I am giddy, Lion ; dying, bad.
Dying." He raised himself, he sat, his look
Grew greedy for the water bubbling in the brook.
And as he watched it, Lion raised his head
Out of a bloodied clump of daffodil.
" Michael," he moaned, " I, too, am dying : dead.
You're nearer to the water. Could you fill
Your hat and give me drink ? Or would it spill ?
Spill, I expect." " I'll try," said Michael, " try—
I may as well die trying, since I have to die."
Slowly he forced his body's failing life
Down to the water ; there he stooped and filled ;
And as his back turned Lion drew his knife.
And hid it close, while all his being thrilled
To see, as Michael came, the water spilled,
Nearer and ever nearer, bright, so bright.
" Drink," muttered Michael, " drink. We two shall
sleep to-night,"
He tilted up the hat, and Lion drank.
Lion lay still a moment, gathering power.
Then rose, as Michael gave him more, and sank.
Then, like a dying bird whom death makes tower.
He raised himself above the bloodied flower
And struck with all his force in Michael's side.
" You should not have done that," his stricken comrade
cried.
" No ; for I meant to tell you. Lion ; meant
To tell you ; but I cannot now ; I die.
That hit me to the heart and I am spent.
Mary and I have parted ; she and I
Agreed she must return, lad. That is why
I came to see you. She is coming here,
Back to your home to-night. Oh, my beloved dear.
314 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" You come to tread a bloody path of flowers.
All the gold flowers are covered up with blood
And the bright bugles blow along the towers ;
The bugles triumph like the Plate in flood."
His spilled life trickled down upon the mud
Between weak, clutching fingers. " Oh," he cried,
" This isn't what we planned here years ago." He died
Lion lay still while the cold tides of death
Came brimming up his channels. With one hand
He groped to know if Michael still drew breath.
His little hour was running out its sand.
Then, in a mist, he saw his Mary stand
Above. He cried aloud, " He was my brother.
I was his comrade sworn, and we have killed each other.
" Oh desolate grief, beloved, and through me.
We wise who try to change. Oh, yoii wild birds.
Help my unhappy spirit to the sea.
The golden bowl is shattered into sherds."
And Mary knelt and murmured passionate words
To that poor body on the dabbled flowers :
" Oh, beauty, oh, sweet soul, oh, little love of ours —
" Michael, my own heart's darling, speak ; it 's me,
Mary. You know my voice. I'm here, dear, here.
Oh, little golden-haired one, hsten. See,
It 's Mary, Michael. Speak to Mary, dear.
Oh, Michael, little love, he cannot hear ;
And you have killed him, Lion ; he is dead.
My little friend, my love, my Michael, golden head.
" We had such fun together, such sweet fun,
My love and I, my merry love and I.
Oh, love, you shone upon me like the sun.
Oh, Michael, say some little last good-bye."
Then in a great \ oice Lion called, " I die.
Go home and tell my people. Mary. Hear.
Though I have wrought this ruin, I have loved you, dear.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 315
((
Better than he ; not better, dear, as well.
If you could kiss me, dearest, at this last.
We have made bloody doorways from our hell,
Cutting our tangle. Now, the murder past,
We are but pitiful poor souls ; and fast
The darkness and the cold come. Kiss me, sweet ;
I loved you all my life ; but some lives never meet
" Though they go wandering side by side through Time.
Kiss me," he cried. She bent, she kissed his brow.
" Oh, friend," she said, "you're lying in the slime."
" Three blind ones, dear," he murmured, "in the slough,
Caught fast for death ; but never mind that now ;
Go home and tell my people. I am dying.
Dying dear, dying now." He died ; she left him lying.
And kissed her dead one's head and crossed the field.
" They have been killed," she called, in a great crying.
" Killed, and our spirits' eyes are all unsealed.
The blood is scattered on the flowers drying."
It was the hush of dusk, and owls were flying ;
They hooted as the Occleves ran to bring
That sorry harvest home from Death's red harvesting.
They laid the bodies on the bed together.
And " You were beautiful," she said, " and you
Were my own darling in the April weather.
You knew my very soul, you knew, you knew.
Oh, my sweet, piteous love, I was not true.
Fetch me fair water and the flowers of spring ;
My love is dead, and I must deck his burying."
They left her with her dead ; they could not choose
But grant the spirit burning in her face
Rights that their pity urged them to refuse.
They did her sorrow and the dead a grace.
All night they heard her passing footsteps trace
Down to the garden from the room of death.
They heard her singing there, lowly, with gentle breath.
316 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
To the cool darkness full of sleeping flowers,
Then back, still singing soft, with quiet tread.
But at the dawn her singing gathered powers
Like to the dying swan who lifts his head
On Eastnor lifts it, singing, dabbled red,
Singing the glory in his tumbling mind,
Before the doors burst in, before death strikes him blind.
So triumphing her song of love began.
Ringing across the meadows like old woe
Sweetened by poets to the help of man
Unconquered in eternal overthrow ;
Like a great trumpet from the long ago
Her singing towered ; all the valley heard.
Men jingling down to meadow stopped their teams and
stirred.
And they, the Occleves, hurried to the door
And burst it, fearing ; there the singer lay
Drooped at her lover's bedside on the floor,
Singing her passionate last of life away.
White flowers had fallen from a blackthorn spray
Over her loosened hair. Pale flowers of spring
Filled the white room of death ; they covered everything.
Primroses, daffodils, and cuckoo-flowers.
She bowed her singing head on Michael's breast.
" Oh, it was sweet," she cried, " that love of ours.
You were the dearest, sweet ; I loved you best.
Beloved, my beloved, let me rest
By you forever, little Michael mine.
Now the great hour is stricken, and the bread and wine
" Broken and spilt ; and now the homing birds
Draw to a covert, Michael ; I to you.
Bury us two together," came her words.
The dropping petals fell about the two.
Her heart had broken ; she was dead. They drew
Her gentle head aside ; they found it pressed
Against the broidered 'kerchief spread on Michael's breast,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 317
The one that bore her name in Michael's hair,
Given so long before. They let her lie
While the dim moon died out upon the air,
And happy sunlight coloured all the sky.
The last cock crowed for morning ; carts went by ;
Smoke rose from cottage chimneys ; from the byre
The yokes went clanking by, to dairy, through the mire.
In the day's noise the water's noise was stilled,
But still it slipped along, the cold hill-spring.
Dropping from leafy hollows, which it filled.
On to the pebbly shelves which made it sing ;
Glints glittered on it from the 'fisher's wing ;
It saw the moorhen nesting ; then it stayed
In a great space of reeds where merry otters played.
Slowly it loitered past the shivering reeds
Into a mightier water ; thence its course
Becomes a pasture where the salmon feeds.
Wherein no bubble tells its humble source ;
But the great waves go rolling, and the horse
Snorts at the bursting waves and will not drink,
And the great ships go outward, bubbling to the brink,
Outward, with men upon them, stretched in line,
Handling the halliards to the ocean's gates,
Where flicking windflaws fill the air with brine.
And all the ocean opens. Then the mates
Cry, and the sunburnt crew no longer waits.
But sings triumphant, and the topsail fills
To this old tale of woe among the daffodils.
"^
i'HiLIP THE KING
AND OTHER POEMS
»'V
PERSONS
Philip the Second of Spain
His Daughter, the Infanta
An English Prisoner
A Spanish Captain
Guards
SPIRITS
Indians
Don John of Austria
escovedo
Don Alvaro de Bazan, the Marquis of Santa Cruz
Alonso de Leyva
TIME
At dawn in late September, 1588
SCENE
A little dark cell in Philip's palace
320
PHILIP THE KING
Philip [kneeling].
LORD, I am that Philip whom Thou hast made
King of half the world. Thou knowest, Lord, how
great a fleet I have fitted out to destroy the English,
who work evil against Thee. Lord, I beseech Thee,
keep that great Armada now, as I trust, in battle on
the English coast. Protect my ships, O Lord, from
fire and pestilence, from tempest and shipwreck, and
in the day of battle. Amen. Amen.
Lord, now that the battle is joined, grant us Thy
victory, I beseech Thee. Amen. Amen.
Lord, I beseech Thee to have in Thy special keeping
my beloved friend, Alonso de Leyva, now at sea with
my fleet. Guard his ways, O Lord, that so he may come
safely home to me. Amen. Amen.
Lord, of Thy mercy, I beseech Thee to send to me,
if it be Thy will, some word or message from my fleet,
that I may know Thy will concerning it, that my weary
heart may find peace. Amen. Amen.
[He rises.]
[Enter the Princess.]
Peincess.
Has no news come ?
Philip.
None yet.
Princess.
Still nothing ?
II
322 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Philip.
No.
Princess.
Two months now since they sailed, and still no word.
Philip.
The wind is foul ; they cannot send.
Princess.
I know.
And yet what tales, what rumours we have heard.
How the heart sickens for the want of news.
Is that a courier ?
Philip.
No.
Princess.
What if we lose ?
Philip.
Why should we lose ?
Princess.
Because of too much pride,
Planning for glory not as scripture bade.
Philip.
I am not proud nor hopeful, nor afraid.
But you are trembling, sweet, and heavy-eyed.
Princess.
I am afraid, for all night long
The spirit of Spain's committed wrong.
Nourished wherever a life was shed.
Stood near my bed ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 323
And all night long it talked to me
Of a trouble there is beyond the sea.
A trouble of war ... I heard a horn
Blowing forlorn,
And I knew that it came from far away,
From men of Spain in a pass at bay
Blowing for help ; the beaten call
None heeds at all.
And now I fear that we have angered Him
Who makes pride dim.
Philip.
What we have done with our might
Cannot be hateful to God.
He speaks with dreams in the night
That the tired heart turn home
And an end of brooding come.
My heart has flushed in His praise.
The glow in my heart took sail
In a fleet that darkens the sprays ;
Sacrifice may not avail,
But the uttermost gift is wise.
Princess.
Yes, I believe that ; and the deed is grand —
It is a mighty blow to deal for God.
But in my ear there rings
Ill-omened words about the pride of kings —
" Pride is the evil that destroys a land."
Philip.
Brooding and watching waste you, you must sleep ;
The hand of God will bring us through the deep.
Princess.
Amen, my father, but my heart is breaking.
Philip.
You are too young for heart-break ; let it be.
324 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Princess.
There was another fear which kept me waking :
Spain's unborn monarchs came by night to me,
Each holding fewer of the Spanish gems
Here and abroad, each weaker in the soul.
With wearier brows and dimmer diadems,
And feebler fingers giving up control,
Till, as it seemed, a hundred years from now,
An idiot child was all the might of Spain,
And English spirits beat them on the brow,
Robbing their gems and binding them with chain.
And Spain's proud flag was draggled in the sea.
And then these shapes lamented, threatening me ;
Saying that we began Spain's downfall here —
So grimly, father, that I shook with fear.
Philip.
Child, these are only dreams. I have learned this
Since I have been a King, that our concern
Is not with Hope nor Fear, but with what is
Which, when we follow^ dreams, we cannot learn.
Be patient, child ; besides, the wind has changed ;
God's will must never find our hearts estranged :
The wind is north, the news may come to-day.
Ship after ship is running down the Bay
With news ; God grant that it be happy news.
Princess.
Rest till it comes, dear father.
Philip.
You can choose.
You who are young, whether to rest or no ;
When one is old one sees the hours go.
Dear, they go fast from withered men like me.
You were my little daughter on my knee
When first this war with England was conceived.
Now you are this ... it would not be believed
And nothing done, and still time hurrying by.
We are two grey old partners — Time and I :
Look at the work we do . . . you talk of rest.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 825
Princess.
You fall your Captains in and choose the best,
And make him do the work.
Philip.
Ah, you're a Queen,
That is what you would do, but I am King.
Kings have no beauty to make duty keen ;
They have to supervise with whip and sting.
Princess.
You do not whip men ; you are good and mild.
Philip.
Artists and Kings do what they can, my child,
Not what they would. It is not easy, dear,
Working with men, for men are only clay,
They crumble in the hand, or they betray
And time goes by, but no results appear —
Your little hands have happier work than mine.
Ah, little daughter, childhood is divine.
Princess.
I am no child now that the fleet has sailed ;
I was till then, but now I realize
What it would cost my father if it failed.
Philip.
Yes, it has cost some life, this enterprise.
Princess.
But all you had to do was give the word.
326 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Philip,
Ah, darling, many thousand men have heard
Orders from me since this attempt began
Seventeen years ago. Full many a man
Who helped the earliest outlines of the plot
Died at his unknown task suspecting not
What pattern his life's colour helped to weave.
Child, if I told you, you would not believe
How this idea has triumphed on unchanged
Past great commanders' deaths, past faith estranged,
Past tyranny and bloodshed and ill-hap,
Treachery striking like a thunder-clap,
Murder, betrayal, lying, past all these, ^
Past the grim days when feelings had to freeze
Lest the great King should drop his mask of lies
And hint his purpose to the thwarted spies,
Past half a world of men and years of thought,
Past human hope, to be the thing I sought.
Now that the dice are scattered for the stakes,
I half forget that old affront of Drake's,
By which this war with England was begun.
O child, the labour that must first be done
Before a King can act ! — unending work.
All the long days of beating down the Turk,
Then when Don John had thrust the Crescent down
(You cannot know) he plotted for the crown ;
Don John, my Admiral, plotted against me.
He would have sunk the English in the sea.
But since he plotted, that was ended too.
Then a great world of labour still to do.
The French to check, and then the Portuguese,
Clearing myself a pathway through the seas.
Then, when my way was clear, my Admiral died,
The Marquis Santa Cruz, the unconquered guide,
The greatest sea commander of known times.
Seventeen years of subtleties and crimes.
But it is done. I have resolved those years,
Those men, those crimes, those great attempts, those tears,
Sorrows and terrors of a twisted earth.
Into this fleet, this death, this Dragon's birth ;
I who have never seen it, nor shall see.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 327
Princess.
I shall thank God that it was shown to me ;
I saw it sail.
Philip.
You saw my heart's blood, child.
Princess.
All a long summer day those ships defiled.
I never saw so many nor so grand ;
They wandered down the tide and cleared the land,
And ranked themselves like pikemen, clump to clump.
Then in the silence came the Admiral's trump.
And from those hundreds of expectant ships,
From bells and cannonade and sailors' lips,
And from the drums and trumpets of the foot
Burst such a roaring thunder of salute
As filled my heart with wonder like a cup.
They cheered St. James's banner.'going up —
Golden St. James, whose figure blew out fair.
High on the flagship's mast in the blue air,
Rippling the gold. Then all the city bells.
Fired like the singing spheres some spirit impels,
Rang in the rocking belfries, the guns roared.
Each human soul there shook like tautened cord.
And to that Christian march the singing priests
Bore up the blessed banners. Even the beasts
Ramped at the challenge of that shouting crowd.
Then, as the wind came fair, the Armada bowed.
Those hundreds of great vessels, ranked in line,
Buried their bows and heaped the bubbled brine
In gleams before them. So they marched ; the van.
Led by De Leyva, like slipped greyhounds, ran
To spy the English. On the right and left
By Valdes and his friend the seas were cleft ;
Moncada's gallies weltered like a weir.
Flanking Recalde, bringing up the rear.
While in the midst St. James's banner marched,
Blowing towards England till the flagpole arched.
Onward they swept the sea, the flagship's side
Smoked from her cannon's hail ; she took her stride,
Leaned and stretched forward.
328 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I was conscious then
That I beheld the greatest fleet that men
Ever sent seaward ; all the world was there,
All nations that begem the crown you wear,
Pikemen of Rome, whose settled pikes had stood
Stern in full many a welter of man's blood.
Cunning Levantines, armed with crooked swords,
Venetians bronzed, the ocean's overlords,
Pisans and knights of Malta, Ferrarese,
Passionate half-bloods from the Indian seas,
Hollanders, Austrians, even English, come
To bring again religion to their home ;
Spain too, our Andalusians, and the hale
Iberian Basquers used to hunt the whale —
The flower of the knighthood of the world
Mustered beneath the banner you unfurled.
* « 4: 4: 4s >l(
And that was but the half, for there in France
Was Parma's army ready to advance.
Death-coupled bloodhounds straining to the slip,
Waiting your navy's coming to take ship.
Father, such power awed me.
Philip.
Time and I
Worked for long years.
Princess.
And when it had passed by
The bells were silent, and a sigh arose
Of joy in that fleet's pride, and grief for those
Who, even if all went well, had looked their last
On men and women who had made their past.
Then darkness came, and all that I could see
Was the horizon where the fleet must be —
A dimming skyline with a setting star.
It was as though they died ; and now, who knows
What has befallen them, or where they are ?
And night by sleepless night my trouble grows.
This daily silence has been hard to bear.
But now I dread news worse.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 329
Philip.
We must prepare,
Hoping the best, but ready for the worst ;
But patient still, for rumour must come first —
Rumour and broken news and seamen's lies ;
Patience, expecting nothing, is most wise.
If God vouchsafes it, we shall hear to-day.
Lighten your heart, my daughter.
Princess.
Pray for a Spanish triumph.
Philip.
I will pray —
Pray for me.
Pray for God's cause adventured on the sea.
Princess.
I will ; God help my prayer.
Philip.
God help us both.
[She goes.
Lord, I have laboured long to keep my oath.
And since my loved one died it has been hard.
O Lord, my God, in blessed mercy guard
My only friend De Leyva, now at sea ;
Keep him, O Lord, and bring him home to me.
0 Lord, be Thou his bulwark and his guide ;
1 am so lonely since my loved one died.
How splendidly the nations hold their way.
Marching with banners through the fields of Time !
Who sees the withered King weary and grey.
Prompting it all with secret lust or crime ?
Who guesses at the heavy brain behind ?
I am Earth's greatest man ; the world is blind.
[He droops over his papers. Starting up.]
II*
830 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I have still strength, and I must read these scrolls,
Or else all goes to ruin ; I must read.
[He sleeps
Voices.
Philip !
Philip.
Who calls ?
[The Indians enter.]
Voices.
We are the Indian souls,
Loosed from the gold-mines where our brothers bleed.
We swell the tale of blood : we dug you gold ;
We bore your burdens till we died of thirst ;
We sweated in the mines or shook with cold.
Washing the gravel which the blast had burst.
We dived for pearls until our eyeballs bled ;
You burned us till we told where treasure lay.
We were your Indian slaves, but we are dead ;
Our red account is cast and you must pay.
A Voice.
Our lives paid for your fleet ; you pay for us.
The unjustly killed restore the balance thus.
A Voice.
They flung my little baby to the hounds.
A Voice.
They took my daughter from me for their lust.
A Voice.
Even the weak are strong beyond life's bounds ;
We myriad weak add power to the thrust.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 331
Voices.
Philip ! Philip ! Philip 1
We gather from over the sea
To the justice that has to be
While the blind red bull goes on.
PhiHp I Phihp ! Philip !
We who were ciphers slain
In a tale of the pride of Spain
Are a part of her glory gone.
A Voice.
We see them where our will can help their foes.
A Voice.
Quick, brother, quick ! another galleon goes !
Waken those sleeping gunners by the fire,
Or she'll escape unracked.
[They fade away.]
Philip.
The voices tire.
They go. I dreamed. I slept. My heavy head
Is drowsed. What man is that ?
[Don John appears, with Escovedo behind him.]
Voice or Don John of Austria.
I am the dead ;
I am your brother, Philip — brother John,
Philip.
You corpse-fetch from the unclean grave, begone !
I had no brother.
Don John.
Would you never had !
332 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Philip.
You were a landmark of my father's sin,
Never my brother.
Don John.
I was that bright lad,
Your father's son, my brother ; I helped win
Great glory for you, Philip.
Philip.
I agreed
To overlook your bastardy, my friend,
So long as your bright talents served my need ;
But you presumed, and so it had to end.
Don John.
My talents serA^^ed you well.
Philip.
They did, at first.
Don John.
I vvon the Battle of Lepanto for you.
Philip.
And afterwards you killed my troops with thirst.
Following a crazy scheme which overbore you.
Don John.
Not crazy, unsuccessful.
Philip.
Poor vain ghost.
Poor flickering candle that was bright awhile.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 333
Don John.
I was the man whom Europe worshipped most,
One with a mighty plan which you thought guile.
Why did you kill me, Philip ?
Philip.
You betrayed me,
Or would have, traitor, had I not been wise.
Don John.
I was your board's best piece, you should have played me
Now I am dead and earth is in my eyes.
I could have won you England. I had planned
To conquer England. I had all prepared
Ships, soldiers, money, but your cruel hand
Killed me, and nothing 's done and nothing 's dared.
Philip.
You planned to conquer England and be King ;
Those who obstruct my path I sweep aside.
Don John.
Brother, there is a time for everything ;
That was the time for England, but I died.
Now you attempt too late,
The powers have closed the gate,
Destiny enters by another door,
The lost chance comes no more.
The Voice of Escovedo.
Philip, he tells the truth. We could have won
England for you, we were no plotters then.
Voices.
Philip, you were betrayed, you were undone.
You had the moment, but you killed the men.
334 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
ESCOVEDO.
The liar, Perez, tricked you. O great King !
We would have added England to your crown,
Now the worms cling
About our lips deep down.
You had me stabbed at midnight going home.
That man of Perez' stabbed me in the back.
And then I could not stir, down on the loam ;
The sky was full of blood, the stars were black.
And then I knew my wife and children waited
But that I could not come ; a moving hand
Had interposed a something fated
'Twixt us and what we planned.
Don John.
You had me poisoned in that Holland den.
Outcast, alone, without the help of men.
We planned a glorious hour
Hoisting the banner of Spain
On the top of London Tower,
With England a Spanish fief.
Life cannot happen again.
And doing dies with the brain ;
Autumn ruins the flower
And after the flower the leaf.
Voices.
Phihp, PhiHp, Philip !
The evil men do has strength.
It gathers behind the veils
While the unjust thing prevails,
While the pride of life is strong.
But the balance tips at length,
And the unjust things are tales.
The pride of life is a song.
Philip.
I kept my purpose while you lived. Shall I
Be weaker, now that you are dead, you things ?
What can such reedy wretches do but die
Standing against the purposes of Kings ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 335
Don John.
Do ? We can thwart you.
Voices.
And we will, we will ;
All Spain's unjustly murdered work you ill.
Gather against him, gather, mock him down.
The Voice of the Marquis of Santa Cruz.
Scatter, you shadows, fly. Philip, great King.
You vultures gathered in an unclean ring ;
Away, you shadows, scatter.
They are gone,
Phihp.
[The Marquis enters.']
Philip.
Who calls ?
Santa Cruz.
Master.
Philip.
Let me dream on.
Whose voice was that ? It warned me of defeat.
I
Santa Cruz.
I am that Santa Cruz who built your fleet,
And died to make it good. It was my child.
I call because my work has been defiled.
Philip. '
Why rail, uneasy soul ?
Santa Cruz.
If I had spent
Less life in that, I should be still alive.
Commanding what I built to my content.
Driving the English slaves as conquerors drive.
836 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Why did you give away my splendid sword,
Forged by a never-conquered captain's brain,
Into the hoof-hand of an ambling lord,
Useless in all things, but to ruin Spain ?
Would God I had but guessed it ! Would my stars
Had shown me clearer what my death would bring,
I would have burned those galleons, guns and spars,
Soldiers and all, and so have stopped this thing.
And doing that I should have served you well.
And brought less ruin on this lovely land.
What folly from the unfed brain of hell
Made you promote that thing to my command ? —
Folly from which so many men must die.
Philip.
We stand against all comers. Time and I.
I chose the Duke because I wanted one . . .
Who . . .
Santa Cruz.
Give no reason for the evil done.
Souls wrestle from the ever deedless grave
To do, not to hear reason. Oh, great King,
You still may save the ruin of this thing !
Philip.
You speak of ruin. Tell me what you see.
Santa Cruz.
Ruin that threatens, but need never be.
Be silent, Philip ; listen while I tell
What you must do.
Philip.
You are a voice from hell ;
I will not listen to these obscene dreams.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 887
Santa Cruz.
Life is a heavy cloud, through which come gleams.
Oh, Phihp, let me speak I Phihp, I say,
One way can still be tried ; I see the way.
You must do this, but listen.
Philip.
I still doubt.
Santa Cruz.
Listen, great King ; the light is dying out.
You are fading from me, Philip ; they are coming.
Before it is too late for ever send . . .
Send?
Philip.
Yes.
Santa Cruz.
To whom ?
Philip.
To . . .
Santa Cruz.
Voices.
Drown his voice with drumming :
Pipe with the Inca conch, the Indian flute.
What red flowers spring from this blood-sprinkled root !
Philip.
What name was that you said ?
Santa Cruz.
Wait, Philip — wait ;
They are so many and so full of hate.
Voices.
Call to your monarch. Marquis — call again.
338 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Philip.
Something he meant is knocking at my brain —
Knocking for entrance. Marquis !
Philip! King!
What must I do ?
Oh, fiends !
Santa Cruz.
Philip.
Santa Cruz.
Voices.
Ah, conquerers, sing !
Now we have triumphed.
We have torn the flag.
Dance in a ring, victorious spirits, dance ;
Brought to a byword is the Spanish brag,
And ruined is the grand inheritance.
Mourn, wretched PhiUp, for your plans are checked ;
Your colonies defenceless ; your sweet faith
Mocked by the heretics ; your ships are wrecked ;
The strength of Spain has dwindled to a wraith.
Aha ! you beaten King, you blinded fool !
Scream, for the empire tumbles from your rule.
Philip.
God will deliver me ; you are but words
Called in the night-time by malignant birds
But who are you ?
[The figure of m-E. Levy A enters.]
Voice of De Leyva.
I am De Leyva, come
Out of the sea, my everlasting home,
To whisper comfort to my ruined friend.
Dear, I am dead, but friendship cannot end ;
Love does not die, and I am with you here.
Often in sorrow you will feel me near,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 839
Feel me, but never speak, nor hear me speak.
Philip, whatever bitter Fate may wreak
On Spain and you, remember I am here,
The dead are bound to those they held most dear.
Philip.
Dreams of the night. I dreamed De Leyva came.
Voices.
Awake to hear the story of your shame.
[They cry. A gun is shot off. Bells.]
Philip.
[Rousing.] I dreamed I was defeated like those men
Whom I defeated ; I have felt their woe.
What is this noise ? A message ?
Enter then.
Princess.
A prisoner comes with news of victory.
Philip.
So.
Victory comes ! We win !
Princess.
The fleet has won !
Philip.
Thanks be to God on high.
Princess.
His will be done.
Philip.
Lord, help me use this victory for Thy praise.
Lord, Thou hast burst this night of many days
With glorious morning and my heart is full.
O God, my God, Thy ways are wonderful !
Bring me the prisoner.
340 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Princess.
He brought this letter.
[An Englishman is brought in.]
Philip.
You are an Englishman ?
Prisoner.
Yes, your Majesty.
Philip.
This letter says that you can tell me how things have
fared. Tell me your story.
Prisoner.
I was at sea, my lord, fishing, some fifteen miles south-
west from Falmouth. We were not expecting the Spanish
fleet, our cruisers had said it was not coming. It was
hazy summer weather and early morning. We could
hear that we were among a big fleet, and when the haze
lifted your ships were all round us, so we were taken
aboard an admiral's ship. A dark man the admiral was,
with a very quick way ; he was not the chief admiral,
but an Admiral Recalde, with the rearguard.
Philip.
Where was the English fleet at that time ? Was it
expecting us ?
Prisoner.
No, your honour. It was windbound in Plymouth,
unprepared, as I told your admiral. Then I was taken
down below.
Philip.
Did our^fleet enter Plymouth, then ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 341
Prisoner.
No, my lord, and I could not think why, for the wind
held and they had only to sail straight in. The day
passed.
The next day there was firing, and I thought "the
English have got out of the trap at least," but the firing
died down, and I concluded the English were beaten.
Philip.
Yes?
Prisoner.
I thought the ships would put ashore then to take
what they had won, but they kept at sea some days,
though there was firing every day, sometimes very heavy.
They said they were burning all the English towns as
they passed, and then going to France to fetch an army ;
and after some nights I was brought ashore in Calais to
come to your Majesty.
Philip.
What did you see in Calais ?
/ Prisoner.
It was dark night, my lord, when they sent me in.
I saw the road full of shipping, lit up like a town.
Philip.
What was the feeling among you English prisoners ?
That the Spaniards had prospered ?
Prisoner.
Yes, my lord. You had reached your army, which
was all your intent. You had only to take it across
the Channel ; the wind was fair for that.
Philip.
So then you started for Spain. You know no more of
what happened ?
342 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Prisonee.
No, my lord, except that looking back from a hill-top,
I saw a great glare over Calais.
Philip.
Something was burning there ?
Prisoner.
It was the bonfires, my lord, to give them light ;
they were embarking the army. Then in France later
on we heard that Drake had been sunk off Calais with
fifteen ships. A man said he had seen it. That_^is all I
know, my lord.
Philip.
What you say will be proved. You will be returned
to England. Treat this man well. [Exit Prisoner.
Princess.
Father, what blessed news !
Philip.
We have not failed ;
But then he hardly knew. The letter here
Shows that our navy partly has prevailed.
Princess.
The news has spread.
Cries Without.
Long live King Philip ! Cheer !
Cries.
Cheer our great King ! Long live our noble King.
Beat " Santiago," drummers.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 848
Princess.
Hark ! they sing.
The court is dark with people, but more come.
Cries.
Long live King Philip 1
A Great Voice.
Silence for the drum !
And when the drum beats, we will lift our thanks
Till his heart triumphs.
Silence in the ranks !
Eyes front ! O people, listen ! Our attempt
Has triumphed more than our desires dreamt.
England is ours. Give thanks. Sound trumpets. Sing!
Cries.
Philip, Philip the King ! God save the Kjng !
Philip the conqueror ! Philip !
[A strange cry.]
Princess.
Oh, look ! look I . . .
Just as they cheered, the palace banners shook,
They took it for a sign.
The guards are there,
Look, and the monks are forming in the square
Bringing the blessed relics. Oh, my dear !
I am so happy. Listen how they cheer.
Father, they're cheering because Spain has won.
All you have hoped and striven for is done.
I hardly dare believe it.
Cries.
Long live Spain.
Princess.
Oh, there are horsemen, I must look again !
344 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Cries.
There is the Princess at the window. See ?
God save you, little lady. Which is she ?
There. Is the King there ? No. He must be. Yes.
God save your Grace. He 's there with the Princess.
Philip.
Stand farther back ; they saw you.
Princess.
Oh, not now !
They called ' God save me,' father ; let me bow.
Philip,
Bow, then, my dear.
Cries.
God save your pretty face.
Princess.
Father, do come, they want you.
Cries.
Bless your Grace.
God save the King — King Philip.
Princess.
Father dear,
They're calling for you ; stand beside me here.
Philip.
Not yet. It is not time.
Cries.
Philip the King !
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 345
Princess.
Oh, father, come ! It is a thrilling thing
To know they won, and hear these shouts of praise.
Cries.
God save the King ! God send him many^days !
Philip the King, the conqueror of the sea !
St. James for Spain, King Philip, victory !
King Philip ! Santiago !
Princess.
Father.
Philip.
Wait !
Kings must not yield them at too cheap a rate.
Voices.
Philip the King ! The English are destroyed !
God save him ! Victory ! We are overjoyed !
Let the bells ring ! King Philip ! Philip ! King !
Ring the Cathedral bells — ay, let them ring !
St. James for Spain ! King Philip ! Clear the guns !
[Guns shot off.]
King Philip, fire — fire all at once !
King Philip, fire ! King PhiHp, fire ! St. James !
Thank God, the King of kings, the Name of names !
Fire, King Philip ! Santiago, fire !
Give thanks to God who gives us our desire !
Philip, God save and bless him !
Philip [going to window],
I will speak.
Voices.
Fire ! He 's there ! King Philip^!
346 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Philip.
Man is weak.
Voices.
He 's there !
Princess.
Oh, father, look !
Philip.
Stand at my side.
Voices.
God bless and guard our blessed country's guide I
King Philip, fire ! The King !
[The bells begin.]
Princess.
Oh, bells of joy !
And now the monks are singing.
The Monks.
Let us give thanks unto the Lord of lords,
Who saves His faithful from the Egyptian swords.
Voices.
Amen. God save the King !
The Monks.
He made the Red Sea waters to divide,
And led our Israel through with Him for guide.
Voices.
Amen. God save the King ! Philip the King !
Philip.
O God, I thank Thee for this marvellous thing.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 347
The Monks.
He 'whelmed King Pharaoh's army in the sea,
And of His mercy gave us victory.
Voices.
The famous kings are blown like chaff
Before Thy fiery car.
Thou smit'st th' ungodly with Thy staff . . .
Philip the King ! God save our prudent King !
Philip.
My subjects, whom God gave me for His ends . . ,
Princess.
Whatever pain you bore, this makes amends.
Voices.
Speak to your loving hearts, your Majesty.
Philip.
I do His will ; to God the glory be.
The Monks.
Praise Him, O sun and moon, morning and evening star !
The kings who mocked His word are broken in the war.
Praise Him with heart and soul ! Praise Him with voice
and lute !
Voices.
The King ! God save the King ! Silence ! He speaks.
Salute 1
The Monks.
In the dark night, ere dawn, we will arise and sing
Glory to God on high, the praises of our King.
348 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Voices.
The King is going to speak. He makes a sign.
God bless your noble Grace and all your line !
God bless you, Sir, for all your thought for us !
The conquering King, Philip victorious !
Philip the great and good ! Hush ! Silence ! Peace !
Philip ! Attention ! Bid the ringers cease.
The King is going to speak ; he raised his hand.
Princess.
Dear, to be loved as you are is most grand.
Speak to them, father ; thank them for their love.
The Monks.
I will exalt the Name of God above.
Voices.
The bells are hushed. Be quiet ! Silence all !
Philip.
I thought I heard, far off, a funeral call ;
As in your dream, a melancholy cry.
It was the fifes.
Princess.
Philip.
No ; listen !
Princess.
That sound ?
Philip.
Ay.
Princess.
It was the crowd outside. Now they are still.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 349
Philip.
No ; it was singing coming up the hill —
Sad singing, too.
Princess.
I did not hear it.
Philip.
There !
Princess.
The bells have left a trembling in the air.
Philip.
No ; it was voices. I will speak one word
To these below. There is the noise I heard.
[Recalde's men are heard singing.^
Recalde's Men.
Out of the deep, out of the deep, we come.
Preserved from death at sea to die at home.
Mercy of God alone preserved us thus ;
In the waste sea Death laid his hand on us.
Princess.
The Black Monks in a penitential psalm.
Voices.
Philip the King !
Philip.
I'll wait.
Princess.
Oh, speak !
Philip.
Be calm !
I cannot cross God's word with words of mine.
350 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Voices.
Quiet, you singers !
Princess.
They are men in line.
[Recalde's men are heard singing.]
Recalde's Men.
We called the world too small with boastful lips ;
Now we are ghosts crawled from the bones of ships.
We were most glorious at our setting sail ;
Now our knees knock, our broken spirits fail.
Our banner is abased and all our pride :
A tale of ships that sank and men who died.
Princess.
Listen ! Who are they ?
Philip.
What is it they sing ?
Voices.
The King is speaking. Silence for the King !
Let the King speak ; be still. You ragged crew,
Have you no manners ? Silence ! Who are you ?
Recalde's Men.
We are the beaten men, the men accursed,
Whose bitter glory 'tis t' have borne the worst.
They are not monks.
Princess.
Philip.
Nor beggars.
Princess.
Now they stand.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 351
Voices.
Yon navy's sweepings driven back to land.
Gk> to the hens and tunnies ; beat them down
Back to the sea you ran from ; back and drown.
Recalde's Men.
Pity our shame, you untried heroes here.
Defeat 's not victory, but 'tis bought as dear.
Philip.
They are sailors from the fleet.
Princess.
They come with news.
They are ragged to the skin, they have no shoes.
Philip.
The crowd is still.
Princess.
Why do they come like this ?
Philip.
Listen ; their Captain tells them what it is.
Recalde's Men.
Darken the bedrooms for us, people all.
And let us turn our faces to the wall,
And let the darkness and the silence make
A quiet time in which our hearts may break.
[A murmur runs through the Court.]
Princess.
Father, what is it ?
Philip.
Child, the Act of One
Who chastens earthly kings, whose Will be done.
352 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Princess.
It means that we are beaten ?
Philip.
Who can tell ?
Princess.
Father.
Philip.
Dear child, even defeat is well.
Princess.
I thought that we were happy.
Philip.
Watch the square.
Now tell me calmly what is passing there.
Princess.
The Captain comes, the crowd is making way.
Philip.
Who is it ? Can you see ?
Princess.
His hair is grey.
He"* walks bareheaded, slowly, and the crowd
Shrink as though Death were passing in his shroud.
Philip.
Worse news has come. Who is the man ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 353
Princess.
His face . . .
I seem to know him, but the air is strange.
He puts the touch of Death upon the place.
Nothing but Death could fashion such a change.
He carries something. Now the people kneel.
We are defeated, father.
Philip.
What I feel
I cover. Go within. Misfortune stuns
None but the tender. [Exit Princess.
Voices.
Give us back our sons.
Philip, give back our sons, our lovely sons.
The Palace Guard.
Halt 1 Who comes there ?
A Voice.
Spain and the Empire.
The Guard.
Pass.
Spain and the Empire.
Voices.
They are drowned. Alas !
Philip, give back our sons, our lovely sons.
[Enter Messenger, carrying an Admiral's chain.]
Philip.
What brings you to me, Captain ?
12
354 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Messenger,
This gold chain
Bears the twelve badges of the strength of Spain
Once linked in glory, Philip, but now loosed.
[Detaching link from link.]
Castilla, Leon, Aragon, and these,
Palestine, Portugal, the Sicilies,
Navarre, Granada, the Valencian State,
The Indes, East and West, the Archducate,
The Western Mainland in the Ocean Sea.
Those who upheld their strength have ceased to be.
I, who am dying, King, have seen their graves.
Phihp, your Navy is beneath the waves.
Philip.
He who in bounty gives in wisdom takes.
Messenger.
0 King, forgive me, for my spirit breaks ;
1 saw those beaches where the Grange descends
White with unburied corpses of stripped friends.
Philip.
I grieve that Spain's disaster brings such loss.
Messenger.
From Pentland to the Groyne the tempests toss
Unshriven Spaniards driving with the tide.
They were my lovely friends and they have died,
Far from wind-broken Biscay, far from home,
With no anointing chrism but the foam.
Philip.
The dead will rise from unsuspected slime ;
God's chosen will be gathered in God's time.
i
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 355
Messenger.
King, they died helpless ; our unwieldy fleet
Made such a target to the English guns
That we were riddled through like sifted wheat.
We never came to grappling with them once.
They raked us from a distance, and then ran.
Each village throughout Spain has lost a man ;
The widows in the seaports fill the streets.
Philip.
Uncertain chance decides the fate of fleets.
Messenger.
Now the North Sea is haunted for all time
By miserable souls whose dying words
Cursed the too proud adventure as a crime.
Our broken galleons house the gannet-birds.
The Irish burn our Captain's bones for lime.
O misery that the might of England wrought !
Philip.
Christ is the only remedy for thought
When the mind sickens. We are pieces played,
Not moving as we will, but as we are made ;
Beaten and spurred at times like stubborn steeds,
That we may go God's way. Your spirit bleeds,
Having been proved in trouble past her strength.
Give me the roll in all its ghastly length.
Which of my friends survive, if any live ?
Messenger.
Some have survived, but all are fugitive.
Your Admiral in command is living still ;
Michael Oquendo too, though he is ill,
Dying of broken heart and bitter shame.
Valdes is prisoner, Manrique the same.
356 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Philip.
God willed the matter ; they are not to blame.
Thank God that they are living. Name the rest.
Messenger.
They are all dead . . . with him you loved the best.
Philip.
I dreamed De Leyva died, so it is true ?
Messenger.
Drowned on the Irish coast with all his crew.
After enduring dying many days
The sea has given him quiet. Many ways
Lead men to death, and he a hard one trod,
Bearing much misery, like a knight of God.
Philip.
Amen. Go on.
Messenger.
Hugh de Mon9ada died.
Shot in his burning ship by Calais side,
Cheering his men to save her. Pimentel
Sank in a galleon shambled like a hell
Rather than yield, and in a whirl of flames
Pedro Mendoza, Captain of St. James,
Stood with Don Philip thrusting boarders back
Till their Toledan armour was burnt black.
And both their helms ran blood. And there they fell,
Shot down to bleed to death. They perished well,
Happy to die in battle for their King
Before defeat had fallen on their friends ;
Happier than most, for where the merrows sing
Paredes and his brother met their ends.
And Don Alarcon, cast alive ashore.
Was killed and stripped and hanged upon a tree.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 857
And young Mendoza, whom the flagship bore, •
Died of starvation and of misery.
But hundreds perished, King ; why mention these ?
Battle and hunger, heart-break, and the seas
Have overwhelmed the chivalry of Spain.
Philip.
Misfortune, after effort, brings no stain.
Perhaps I underjudged the English fleet.
How was it that the Spaniards met defeat ?
What evil fortune, brought about our fall ?
Messenger.
Their sailors and their cannon did it all.
Philip.
Yet when the fleet reached Calais all went well.
Messenger.
Our woes began there.
Philip.
Tell me what befell.
Messenger.
We were to ship the troops in Calais Road ;
They lay encamped, prepared to go aboard.
To windward still the English fleet abode —
Still as in port when peace has been restored.
The wind and sea were fair,
We lay at anchor there ;
The stars burned in the air,
The men were sleeping,
When in the midnight dark
Our watchman saw a spark
Suddenly light a bark
With long flames leaping.
358 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Then, as they stood amazed,
Others and others blazed ;
Then terror set them crazed,
They ran down screaming :
" Fire-ships are coming ! Wake
Cast loose, for Jesus' sake !
Eight fire-ships come from Drake —
Look at their gleaming ! "
Roused in the dark from bed.
We saw the fire show red,
And instant panic spread
Through troops and sailors ;
They swarmed on deck unclad,
They did what terror bade,
King, they were like the mad
Escaped from jailers.
Some prayed for mercy, some
Rang bells or beat the drum,
As though despair had come
At hell's contriving ;
Captains with terror pale
Screamed through the dark their hail,
" Cut cable, loose the sail.
And set all driving ! "
Heading all ways at once,
Grinding each other's guns,
Our blundering galleons
Athwart-hawse galleys.
Timbers and plankings cleft,
And half our tackling reft.
Your grand Armada left
The roads of Calais.
Weary and overwrought
We strove to make all taut ;
But when the morning brought
The dawn to light us,
Drake, with the weather gage,
Made signal to engage,
And, like a pard in rage,
Bore down to fight us.
i
i
>
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 359
Nobly the English line
Trampled the bubbled brine ;
We heard the gun-trucks whine
To the taut laniard.
Onwards we saw them forge,
While billowing at the gorge.
" On, on ! " they cried, " St. George !
Down with the Spaniard ! "
From their van squadron broke
A withering battle-stroke,
Tearing our planked oak
By straiks asunder,
Blasting the wood like rot
With such a hail of shot.
So constant and so hot
It beat us under.
The English would not close ;
They fought us as they chose,
Dealing us deadly blows
For seven hours.
Lords of our chiefest rank
The bitter billow drank.
For there the English sank
Three ships of ours.
Then the wind forced us northward from the fight ;
We could not ship the army nor return ;
We held the sea in trouble through the night.
Watching the English signals blink and burn.
The English in a dim cloud kept astern ;
All night they signalled, while our shattered ships
Huddled like beasts beneath the drovers' whips.
******
At dawn the same wind held ; we could not strive.
The English drove us north as herdsmen drive.
Under our tattered flags.
With rigging cut to rags,
Ovir ships like stricken stags
Were heaped and hounded.
860 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Caught by the unknown tide,
With neither chart nor guide,
We fouled the Holland side,
Where four more grounded.
Our water-casks were burst,
The horses died of thirst,
The wounded raved and curst,
Uncared, untended.
All night we heard the crying
Of lonely shipmates dying ;
We had to leave them lying.
So the fight ended.
Philip.
God gives His victory as He wills. But this
Was not complete destruction. What thing worse
Came to destroy you ?
Messenger.
An avenging curse,
Due for old sins, destroyed us.
Philip.
Tell the tale.
Messenger.
O King, when morning dawned it blew a gale.
But still the English followed, and we fled
Till breakers made the dirty waters pale.
We saw the Zealand sandbanks right ahead,
BUnd in a whirling spray that gave us dread ;
For we were blown there, and the water shoaled.
The crying of the leadsmen at the lead,
CaUing the soundings, were our death-bells tolled.
We drifted down to death upon the sands —
The English drew away to watch us drown ;
We saw the bitter breakers with grey hands
Tear the dead body of the sandbank brown.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 361
We could do nothing, so we drifted down
Singing the psalms for death — we who had been
Lords of the sea and knights of great renown,
Doomed to be strangled by a death unclean.
Philip.
So there the ships were wrecked ?
Messenger.
Time had not struck.
O King, we learned how blessed mercy saves :
Even as our forefoot grounded on the muck,
Tripping us up to drown us in the waves,
A sudden windshift snatched us from our graves
And drove us north ; and now another woe,
Tempest unending, beat our ships to staves —
A never-dying gale with frost and snow.
Now our hearts failed, for food and water failed ;
The men fell sick by troops, the wounded died.
They washed about the wet decks as we sailed
For want of strength to lift them overside.
Desolate seas we sailed, so grim, so wide,
That ship by ship our comrades disappeared.
With neither sun nor star to be a guide,
Like spirits of the wretched dead we steered.
Till, having beaten through the Pentland Pass,
We saw the Irish surf, with mists of spray
Blowing far inland, blasting trees and grass,
And gave God thanks, for we espied a bay
Safe, with bright water running down the clay —
A running brook where we could drink and drink.
But drawing near, our ships were cast away.
Bilged on the rocks ; we saw our comrades sink . . .
Or worse : for those the breakers cast ashore
The Irish killed and stripped ; their bodies white
Lay naked to the wolves — yea, sixty score —
All down the windy beach, a piteous sight.
12*
362 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The savage Irish watched by bonfire Hght
Lest more should come ashore ; we heard them there
Screaming the bloody news of their delight.
Then we abandoned hope and new despair.
And now the fleet is sunken in the sea,
And all the seamen, all the might of Spain,
Are dead, O King, and out of misery,
Never to drag at frozen ropes again —
Never to know defeat, nor feel the pain
Of watching dear companions sink and die.
Death's everlasting armistice to the brain
Gives their poor griefs quietus ; let them lie.
I, like a ghost returning from the grave.
Come from a stricken ship to tell the news
Of Spanish honour which we could not save,
Nor win again, nor even die to lose ;
And since God's hidden wisdom loves to bruise
Those whom He loves, we, trembling in despair,
Will watch our griefs to see God's finger there.
And make His will our solace and excuse.
Defeat is bitter and the truth is hard —
Spain is defeated, England has prevailed ;
This is the banner which I could not guard.
And this the consecrated sword which failed.
Do with your dying Captain as you will.
[He lays down sword and banner.]
Philip.
I, from my heart, thank God, from whose great hand
I am so helped with power, I can still
Set out another fleet against that land.
Nor do I think it ifl
If all the running water takes its course
While there are unspent fountains at the source.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 363
He sendeth out His word and melteth them.
Take back your standard, Captain. As you go,
Bid the bells toll and let the clergy come.
Then in the city by the strike of drum
Proclaim a general fast. In bitter days
The soul finds God, God us.
[Exit Captain.
Philip [alone].
De Leyva, friend.
Whom I shall never see, never again,
This misery that I feel is over Spain.
O God, beloved God, in pity send
That blessed rose among the thorns — an end :
Give a bruised spirit peace.
[He kneels. A muffled march of the drums.]
Curtain.
I
OTHER POEMS
365
I
TRUTH
Man with his burning soul
Has but an hour of breath
To build a ship of truth
In which his soul may sail —
Sail on the sea of death,
For death takes toll
Of beauty, courage, youth,
Of all but truth.
Life's city ways are dark.
Men mutter by ; the wells
Of the great waters moan.
0 death ! O sea ! O tide !
The waters moan like bells ;
No light, no mark.
The soul goes out alone
On seas unknown.
Stripped of all purple robes,
Stripped of all golden lies,
1 will not be afraid.
Truth will preserve through death.
Perhaps the stars will rise —
The stars like globes;
The ship my striving made
May see night fade.
THE WANDERER
All day they loitered by the resting ships.
Telling their beauties over, taking stock ;
At night the verdict left my messmates' lips,
" The Wanderer is the finest ship in dock."
367
368 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I had not seen her, but a friend, since drowned,
Drew her, with painted ports, low, lovely, lean,
Saying, " The Wanderer, clipper, outward bound,
The loveliest ship my eyes have ever seen —
" Perhaps to-morrow you will see her sail.
She sails at sunrise " : but the morrow showed
No Wanderer setting forth for me to hail ;
Far down the stream men pointed where she rode,
Rode the great trackway to the sea, dim, dim,
Already gone before the stars were gone.
I saw her at the sea-line's smoky rim
Grow swiftly vaguer as they towed her on.
Soon even her masts were hidden in the haze
Beyond the city ; she was on her course
To trample billows for a hundred days ;
That afternoon the norther gathered force,
Blowing a small snow from a point of east.
" Oh, fair for her," we said, " to take her south."
And in our spirits, as the wind increased,
We saw her there, beyond the river mouth,
Setting her side-lights in the wildering dark,
To glint upon mad water, while the gale
Roared like a battle, snapping like a shark,
And drunken seamen struggled with the sail.
While with sick hearts her mates put out of mind
Their little children left astern, ashore,
And the gale's gathering made the darkness blind.
Water and air one intermingled roar.
Then we forgot her, for the fiddlers played,
Dancing and singing held our merry crew ;
The old ship moaned a little as she swayed.
It blew all night, oh, bitter hard it blew !
So that at midnight I was called on deck
To keep an anchor-watch : I heard the sea
Roar past in white procession filled with wreck ;
Intense bright frosty stars burned over me,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 369
And the Greek brig beside us dipped and dipped,
White to the muzzle Hke a half-tide rock,
Drowned to the mainmast with the seas she shipped ;
Her cable-swivels clanged at every shock.
And like a never-dying force, the wind
Roared till we shouted with it, roared until
Its vast vitality of wrath was thinned,
Had beat its fury breathless and was still.
By dawn the gale had dwindled into flaw,
A glorious morning follow^ed : with my friend
I climbed the fo'c's'le-head to see ; we saw
The waters hurrying shorewards without end.
Haze blotted out the river's lowest reach ;
Out of the gloom the steamers, passing by,
Called with their sirens, hooting their sea-speech ;
Out of the dimness others made reply.
And as we watched, there came a rush of feet
Charging the fo'c's'le till the hatchway shook.
Men all about us thrust their way, or beat.
Crying, " The Wanderer ! Down the river ! Look ! "
I looked with them towards the dimness ; there
Gleamed like a spirit striding out of night,
A full-rigged ship unutterably fair.
Her masts like trees in winter, frosty-bright.
Foam trembled at her bows like wisps of wool ;
She trembled as she towed, I had not dreamed
That work of man could be so beautiful,
In its own presence and in what it seemed.
" So, she is putting back again," I said.
" How white with frost her yards are on the fore ! "
One of the men about me answer made,
" That is not frost, but all her sails are tore,
" Torn into tatters, youngster, in the gale ;
Her best foul- weather suit gone." It was true.
Her masts were white with rags of tattered sail
Many as gannets when the fish are due.
370 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Beauty in desolation was her pride,
Her crowned array a glory that had been ;
She faltered tow'rds us like a swan that died,
But although ruined she was still a queen.
" Put back with all her sails gone," went the word ;
Then, from her signals flying, rumour ran,
" The sea that stove her boats in killed her third ;
She has been gutted and has lost a man,"
So, as though stepping to a funeral march.
She passed defeated homewards whence she came
Ragged with tattered canvas white as starch,
A wild bird that misfortune had made tame.
She was refitted soon : another took
The dead man's office ; then the singers hove
Her capstan till the snapping hawsers shook ;
Out, with a bubble at her bows, she drove.
Again they towed her seawards, and again
We, watching, praised her beauty, praised her trim,
Saw her fair house-flag flutter at the main.
And slowly saunter seawards, dwindling dim ;
And wished her well, and wondered, as she died.
How, when her canvas had been sheeted home,
Her quivering length would sweep into her stride.
Making the greenness milky with her foam.
But when we rose next morning, we discerned
Her beauty once again a shattered thing ;
Towing to dock the Wanderer returned,
A wounded sea-bird Avith a broken wing.
'&•
A spar was gone, her rigging's disarray
Told of a worse disaster than the last ;
Like draggled hair dishevelled hung the stay.
Drooping and beating on the broken mast.
Half-mast upon her flagstaff hung her flag ;
Word went among us how the broken spar
Had gored her captain like an angry stag,
And killed her mate a half-day from the bar.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 371
She passed to dock upon the top of flood.
An old man near me shook his head and swore :
" Like a bad woman, she has tasted blood — -
There'll be no trusting in her any more."
We thought it truth, and when we saw her there
Lying in dock, beyond, across the stream,
We would forget that we had called her fair.
We thought her murderess and the past a dream.
And when she sailed again, we watched in awe.
Wondering what bloody act her beauty planned.
What evil lurked behind the thing we saw.
What strength was there that thus annulled man's hand,
How next its triumph would compel man's will
Into compliance with external Fate,
How next the powers would use her to work ill
On suffering men ; we had not long to wait.
For soon the outcry of derision rose,
" Here comes the Wanderer ! " the expected cry.
Guessing the cause, our mockings joined with those
Yelled from the shipping as they towed her by.
She passed us close, her seamen paid no heed
To what was called : they stood, a sullen group.
Smoking and spitting, careless of her need,
Mocking the orders given from the poop.
Her mates and boys were working her ; we stared.
What was the reason of this strange return,
This third annulling of the thing prepared ?
No outward evil could our eyes discern.
Only like one who having formed a plan
Beyond the pitch of common minds, she sailed.
Mocked and deserted by the common man,
Made half divine to me for having failed.
We learned the reason soon ; below the town
A stay had parted like a snapping reed,
*' Warning," the men thought, " not to take her down."
They took the omen, they would not proceed.
372 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Days passed before another crew would sign.
The Wanderer lay in dock alone, unmanned,
Feared as a thing possessed by powers malign.
Bound under curses not to leave the land.
But under passing Time fear passes too ;
That terror passed, the sailors' hearts grew bold.
We learned in time that she had found a crew
And was bound out and southwards as of old.
And in contempt we thought, " A little while
Will bring her back again, dismantled, spoiled.
It is herself ; she cannot change her style ;
She has the habit now of being foiled."
So when a ship appeared among the haze,
We thought, " The Wanderer back again " ; but no,
No Wanderer showed for many, many days,
Her passing lights made other waters glow.
But we would often think and talk of her,
Tell newer hands her story, wondering, then.
Upon what ocean she was Wanderer,
Bound to the cities built by foreign men.
And one by one our little conclave thinned,
Passed into ships and sailed and so away,
To drown in some great roaring of the wind,
Wanderers themselves, unhappy fortune's prey.
And Time went by me making memory dim,
Yet still I wondered if the Wanderer fared
Still pointing to the unreached ocean's rim.
Brightening the water where her breast was bared.
And much in ports abroad I eyed the ships,
Hoping to see her well-remembered form
Come with a curl of bubbles at her lips
Bright to her berth, the sovereign of the storm.
I never did, and many years went by.
Then, near a Southern port, one Christmas Eve,
I watched a gale go roaring through the sky.
Making the caldrons of the clouds upheave.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 373
Then the wrack tattered and the stars appeared,
Millions of stars that seemed to speak in fire ;
A byre cock cried aloud that morning neared,
The swinging wind-vane flashed upon the spire.
And soon men looked upon a glittering earth,
Intensely sparkling like a world new-born ;
Only to look was spiritual birth,
So bright the raindrops ran along the thorn.
So bright they were, that one could almost pass
Beyond their twinkling to the source, and know
The glory pushing in the blade of grass,
That hidden soul which makes the flowers grow.
0-"
That soul was there apparent, not revealed,
Unearthly meanings covered every tree,
That wet grass grew in an immortal field.
Those waters fed some never-wrinkled sea.
The scarlet berries in the hedge stood out
Like revelations but the tongue unknown ;
Even in the brooks a joy was quick : the trout
Rushed in a dumbness dumb to me alone.
All of the valley was aloud with brooks ;
I walked the morning, breasting up the fells.
Taking again lost childhood from the rooks,
Whose cawing came above the Christmas bells.
I had not walked that glittering world before.
But up the hill a prompting came to me,
" This line of upland runs along the shore :
Beyond the hedgerow I shall see the sea."
And on the instant from beyond away
That long familiar sound, a ship's bell, broke
The hush below me in the unseen bay.
Old memories came : that inner prompting spoke.
And bright above the hedge a seagull's wings
Flashed and were steady upon empty air,
" A Power unseen," I cried, " prepares these things ;
Those are her bells, the Wanderer is there."
374 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So, hurrying to the hedge and looking down,
I saw a mighty bay's wind-crinkled blue
Ruffling the image of a tranquil town.
With lapsing waters glittering as they grew.
And near me in the road the shipping swung,
SOjStately and so still in such great peace
That like to drooping crests their colours hung,
Only their shadows trembled without cease.
I did but glance upon those anchored ships.
Even as my thought had told, I saw her plain ;
Tense, like a supple athlete with lean hips,
Swiftness at pause, the Wanderer come again —
Come as of old a queen, untouched by Time,
Resting the beauty that no seas could tire,
Sparkling, as though the midnight's rain were rime,
Like a man's thought transfigured into fire.
And as I look, one of her men began
To sing some simple tune of Christmas day ;
Among her crew the song spread, man to man,
Until the singing rang across the bay ;
And soon in other anchored ships the men
Joined in the singing with clear throats, until
The farm-boy heard it up the windy glen.
Above the noise of sheep-bells on the hill.
Over the water came the lifted song —
Blind pieces in a mighty game we swing ;
Life's battle is a conquest for the strong ;
The meaning shows in the defeated thing.
AUGUST, 1914
How still this quiet cornfield is to-night !
By an intenser glow the evening falls, —
Bringing, not darkness, but a deeper light
Among the stooks a partridge covey calls.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 375
The windows glitter on the distant hill ;
Beyond the hedge the sheep-bells in the fold
Stumble on sudden music and are still ;
The forlorn pinewoods droop above the wold.
An endless quiet valley reaches out
Past the blue hills into the evening sky ;
Over the stubble, cawing, goes a rout
Of rooks from harvest, flagging as they fly.
So beautiful it is, I never saw
So great a beauty on these English fields,
Touched by the twilight's coming into awe,
Ripe to the soul and rich with summer's yields.
*aj^ *l> utr «t> •t
^ ^ ^ I* ^
These homes, this valley spread below me here,
The rooks, the tilted stacks, the beasts in pen.
Have been the heartfelt things, past-speaking dear
To unknown generations of dead men,
Who, century after century, held these farms.
And, looking out to watch the changing sky.
Heard, as we hear, the rumours and alarms
Of war at hand and danger pressing nigh.
And knew, as we know, that the message meant
The breaking off of ties, the loss of friends.
Death, like a miser getting in his rent.
And no new stones laid where the trackway ends.
The harvest not yet won, the empty bin.
The friendly horses taken from the stalls.
The fallow on the hill not yet brought in,
The cracks unplastered in the leaking walls.
Yet heard the news, and went discouraged home.
And brooded by the fire with heavy mind.
With such dumb loving of the Berkshire loam
As breaks the dumb hearts of the English kind.
*o'
Then sadly rose and left the well-loved Downs,
And so by ship to sea, and knew no more
The fields of home, the byres, the market towns.
Nor the dear outline of the English shore.
376 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
But knew the misery of the soaking trench,
The freezing in the rigging, the despair
In the revolting second of the wrench
When the bhnd soul is flung upon the air.
And died (uncouthly, most) in foreign lands
For some idea but dimly understood
Of an English city never built by hands
Which love of England prompted and made good.
4: 4: * 4c 4: ^
If there be any life beyond the grave,
It must be near the men and things we love,
Some power of quick suggestion how to save,
Touching the living soul as from above.
An influence from the Earth from those dead hearts
So passionate once, so deep, so truly kind.
That in the living child the spirit starts.
Feeling companioned still, not left behind.
Surely above these fields a spirit broods
A sense of many watchers muttering near
Of the lone Downland with the forlorn woods
Loved to the death, inestimably dear.
A muttering from beyond the veils of Death
From long-dead men, to whom this quiet scene
Came among blinding tears with the last breath.
The dying soldier's vision of his queen.
All the unspoken worship of those lives
Spent in forgotten wars at other calls
Glimmers upon these fields where evening drives
Beauty like breath, so gently darkness falls.
Darkness that makes the meadows holier still,
The elm-trees sadden in the hedge, a sigh
Moves in the beech-clump on the haunted hill,
The rising planets deepen in the sky,
And silence broods like spirit on the brae,
A glimmering moon begins, the moonlight runs
Over the grasses of the ancient way
Rutted this morning by the passing guns.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 377
BIOGRAPHY
When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts
Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts,
And long before this wandering flesh is rotten
The dates which made me will be all forgotten ;
And none will know the gleam there used to be
About the feast-days freshly kept by me,
But men will call the golden hour of bliss
" About this time," or " shortly after this."
Men do not heed the rungs by which men climb
Those glittering steps, those milestones upon Time,
Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth
Those moments of the soul in years of earth.
They mark the height achieved, the main result,
The power of freedom in the perished cult,
The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds,
Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds.
By many waters and on many ways
I have known golden instants and bright days ;
The day on which, beneath an arching sail,
I saw the Cordilleras and gave hail ;
The summer day on which in heart's delight
I saw the Swansea Mumbles bursting white ;
The glittering day when all the waves wore flags,
And the ship Wanderer came with sails in rags ;
That curlevz-calling time in Irish dusk,
When life became more splendid than its husk,
When the rent chapel on the brae at Slains
Shone with a doorway opening beyond brains ;
The dawn when, with a brace-block's creaking cry,
Out of the mist a little barque slipped by,
Spilling the mist with changing gleams of red,
Then gone, with one raised hand and one turned head ;
The howling evening when the spindrift's mists
Broke to display the Four Evangelists,
Snow-capped, divinely granite, lashed by breakers.
Wind-beaten bones of long since buried acres ;
378 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The night alone near water when I heard
All the sea's spirit spoken by a bird ;
The English dusk when I beheld once more
(With eyes so changed) the ship, the citied shore,
The lines of masts, the streets so cheerly trod
(In happier seasons), and gave thanks to God.
All had their beauty, their bright moments' gift.
Their something caught from Time, the ever-swift.
All of those gleams were golden ; but life's hands
Have given more constant gifts in changing lands.
And when I count those gifts, I think them such
As no man's bounty could have bettered much :
The gift of country life, near hills and woods,
Where happy waters sing in solitudes ;
The gift of being near ships, of seeing each day
A city of ships with great ships under weigh ;
The great street paved with water, filled with shipping.
And all the world's flags flying and seagulls dipping.
Yet when I am dust my penman may not know
Those water-trampling ships which made me glow.
But think my wonder mad and fail to find
Their glory, even dimly, from my mind,
And yet they made me. Not alone the ships,
But men hard-palmed from tallying-on to whips,
The two close friends of nearly twenty years,
Sea-followers both, sea-wrestlers and sea-peers,
Whose feet with mine wore many a bolthead bright
Treading the decks beneath the riding light.
Yet death will make that warmth of friendship cold.
And who'll know what one said and what one told,
Our hearts' communion and the broken spells
When the loud call blew at the strike of bells ?
No one, I know, yet let me be believed,
A soul entirely known is life achieved.
Years blank with hardship never speak a word,
Live in the soul to make the being stirred ;
Towns can be prisons, where the spirit dulls
Away from mates and ocean-wandering hulls.
Away from all bright water and great hills
And sheep-walks, where the curlews cry their fills ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 379
Away in towns, where eyes have nought to see
But dead museums and miles of miserj'",
And floating Ufe unrooted from man's need,
And miles of fish-hooks baited to catch greed.
And life made ^^Tetched out of human ken,
And miles of shopping women served by men.
So, if the penman sums my London days.
Let him but say that there were holy ways,
DuU Bloomsbury streets of dull brick mansions old,
With stinking doors, where women stood to scold,
And drunken waits at Christmas with their horn.
Droning the news, in snow, that Christ was born ;
And windy gas-lamps and the wet roads shining.
And that old carol of the midnight whining,
And that old room (above the noisy slum),
Where there was wine and fire and talk with some
Under strange pictures of the wakened soul.
To whom this earth was but a burnt-out coal.
O Time, bring back those midnights and those friends.
Those glittering moments that a spirit lends.
That all may be imagined from the flash,
The cloud-hid god-game through the lightning gash,
Those hours of stricken sparks from which men took
Light to send out to men in song or book.
Those friends who heard St. Pancras's bells strike two
Yet stayed until the barber's cockerel crew,
Talking of noble styles, the Frenchman's best.
The thought beyond great poets not expressed,
The glory of mood where human frailty failed.
The forts of human light not yet assailed,
Till the dim room had mind, and seemed to brood.
Binding our wills to mental brotherhood.
Till we became a college, and each night
Was discipline and manhood and delight,
Till our farewells, and winding down the stairs
At each grey dawn had meaning that Time spares.
That we, so linked, should roam the whole world round
Teaching the ways our brooding minds had found.
Making that room our Chapter, our one mind,
Where all that this world soiled should be refined.
380 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Often at night I tread those streets again,
And see the alley glimmering in the rain ;
Yet now I miss that sign of earlier tramps,
A house with shadows of plane-boughs under lamps,
The secret house where once a beggar stood
Trembling and blind to show his woe for food.
And now I miss that friend who used to walk
Home to my lodgings with me, deep in talk,
Wearing the last of night out in still streets
Trodden by us and policemen on their beats
And cats, but else deserted. Now I miss
That lively mind and guttural laugh of his.
And that strange way he had of making gleam,
Like something real, the art we used to dream.
London has been my prison ; but my books,
Hills and great waters, labouring men and brooks.
Ships and deep friendships, and remembered days.
Which even now set all my mind ablaze,
As that June day when, in the red bricks' chinks,
I saw the old Roman ruins white with pinks,
And felt the hillside haunted even then
By not dead memory of the Roman men.
And felt the hillside thronged by souls unseen.
Who knew the interest in me, and were keen
That man alive should understand man dead,
So many centuries since the blood was shed.
And quickened with strange hush because this comer
Sensed a strange soul alive behind the summer.
That other day on Ercall when the stones
Were sunbleached white, like long unburied bones,
While the bees droned and all the air was sweet
From honey buried underneath my feet.
Honey of purple heather and white clover
Sealed in its gummy bags till summer 's over.
Then other days by water, by bright sea.
Clear as clean glass and my bright friend with me.
The cove clean bottomed where we saw the brown
Red spotted plaice go skimming six feet down
And saw the long fronds waving, white with shells.
Waving, unfolding, drooping, to the swells ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 381
That sadder day when we beheld the great
And terrible beauty of a Lammas spate
Roaring white-mouthed in all the great cliff's gaps
Headlong, tree-tumbling fury of collapse,
While drenching clouds drove by and every sense
Was water roaring or rushing or in offence
And mountain sheep stood huddled and blown gaps
gleamed
Where torn white hair of torrents shook and streamed.
That sadder day when we beheld again
A spate going down in sunshine after rain,
When the blue reach of water leaping bright
Was one long ripple and clatter, flecked with white,
And that far day, that never blotted page
When j'-outh was bright like flowers about old age.
Fair generations bringing thanks for life
To that old kindly man and trembling wife
After their sixty years : Time never made
A better beauty since the Earth was laid.
Than that thanksgiving given to grey hair
For the great gift of life which brought them there.
Days of endeavour have been good : the days
Racing in cutters for the comrade's praise.
The day they led my cutter at the turn
Yet could not keep the lead and dropped astern
The moment in the spurt when both boats' oars
Dipped in each other's wash and throats grew hoarse
And teeth ground into teeth and both strokes quickened
Lashing the sea, and gasps came, and hearts sickened
And coxswains damned us, dancing, banking stroke.
To put our weights on, though our hearts were broke
And both boats seemed to stick and sea seemed glue.
The tide a mill-race we were struggling through
And every quick recover gave us squints
Of them still there and oar tossed water-glints.
And cheering came, our friends, our foemen cheering,
A long, wild, rallying murmur on the hearing
" Port Fore ! " and " Starboard Fore ! " " Port Fore ! "
" Port Fore ! "
" Up with her, Starboard," and at that each oar
382 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Lightened, though arms were bursting, and eyes shut
And the oak stretchers grunted in the strut
And the curse quickened from the cox, our bows
Crashed, and drove talking water, we made vows,
Chastity vows and temperance ; in our pain
We numbered things we'd never eat again
If we could only win ; then came the yell
" Starboard," " Port Fore," and then a beaten bell
Rung as for fire to cheer us. " Now." Oars bent
Soul took the looms now body's bolt was spent,
" Give way, come on now ! " " On now ! " " On now ! "
" Starboard."
" Port Fore ! " " Up with her, Port ! " each cutter
harboured
Ten eye-shut painsick strugglers, " Heave, oh, heave ! "
Catcalls waked echoes like a shrieking sheave.
" Heave ! " and I saw a back, then two. " Port Fore."
" Starboard ! " " Come on ! " I saw the midship oar
And knew we had done them. " Port Fore ! " " Star-
board ! " " Now ! ". .
I saw bright water spurting at their bow.
Their cox' full face an instant. They were done.
The watchers' cheering almost drowned the gun.
We had hardly strength to toss our oars ; our cry
Cheering the losing cutter was a sigh.
Other bright days of action have seemed great :
Wild days in a pampero off the Plate ;
Good swimming days, at Hog Back or the Coves
Which the young gannet and the corbie loves ;
Surf-swimming between rollers, catching breath
Between the advancing grave and breaking death.
Then shooting up into the sunbright smooth
To watch the advancing roller bare her tooth,
And days of labour also, loading, hauling ;
Long days at winch or capstan, heaving, pawling ;
The days with oxen, dragging stone from blasting,
And dusty days in mills, and hot days masting.
Trucking on dust-dry deckings smooth like ice,
And hunts in mighty wool-racks after mice ;
Mornings with buckwheat when the fields did blanch
With White Leghorns come from the chicken ranch.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 383
Days near the spring upon the sunburnt hill,
Plying the maul or gripping tight the drill.
Delights of work most real — delights that change
The headache life of towns to rapture strange
Not known by townsmen, nor imagined ; health
That puts new glory upon mental wealth
And makes the poor man rich. But that ends, too.
Health with its thoughts of life ; and that bright view,
That sunny landscape from life's peak, that glory,
And all a glad man's comments on life's story.
And thoughts of marvellous towns and living men,
And what pens tell and all beyond the pen,
End, and are summed in words so truly dead,
They raise no image of the heart and head.
The life, the man alive, the friend we knew.
The mind ours argued with or listened to.
None ; but are dead, and all life's keenness, all.
Is dead as print before the funeral.
Even deader after, when the dates are sought,
And cold minds disagree with what we thought.
This many pictured world of many passions
Wears out the nations as a woman fashions,
And what life is is much to very few,
Men being so strange, so mad, and what men do
So good to watch or share ; but when men count
Those hours of life that were a bursting fount.
Sparkling the dusty heart with living springs.
There seems a world, beyond our earthly things,
Gated by golden moments, each bright time
Opening to show the city white like lime,
High-towered and many-peopled. This made sure.
Work that obscures those moments seems impure,
Making our not-returning time of breath
Dull with the ritual and records of death.
That frost of fact by which our wisdom gives
Correctly stated death to all that lives.
Best trust the happy moments. What they gave / /
Makes man less fearful of the certain grave, /
And gives his work compassion and new eyes, '
The days that make us happy make us wise.
884 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
SONG
One sunny time in May
When lambs were sporting,
The sap ran in the spray
And I went courting,
And all the apple-boughs
Were bright with blossom,
I picked an early rose
For my love's bosom.
And then I met her friend,
Down by the water,
Who cried, " She's met her end,
That grey-eyed daughter,
That voice of hers is stilled.
Her beauty broken."
Oh, me ! my love is killed.
My love unspoken.
She was too sweet, too dear.
To die so cruel.
O Death, why leave me here
And take my jewel ?
Her voice went to the bone,
So true, so ringing.
And now I go alone
Winter or springing.
SHIPS
I CANNOT tell their wonder nor make known
Magic that once thrilled through me to the bone,
But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale,
Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale
Pour their heart's blood to flourish one green leaf,
Follow some Helen for her gift of grief.
And fail in what they mean, whate'er they do :
You should have seen, man cannot tell to you
The beauty of the ships of that my city.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 385
That beauty now is spoiled by the sea's pity :
For one may haunt the pier a score of times
Hearing St. Nicholas' bells ring out the chimes,
Yet never see those proud ones swaying home,
With mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam.
Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine
Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine.
As once, long since, when all the docks were filled
With that sea beauty man has ceased to build.
Yet though their splendour may have ceased to be,
Each played her sovereign part in making me ;
Now I return my thanks with heart and lips
For the great queenliness of all those ships.
And first the first bright memory, still so clear,
An autumn evening in a golden year,
When in the last lit moments before dark
The Chepica, a steel-gray lovely barque.
Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.
Came to an anchor near us on the flood.
Then come so many ships that I could fill
Three docks with their fair hulls remembered still,
Each with her special memory's special grace.
Riding the sea, making the waves give place
To delicate high beauty ; man's best strength,
Noble in every line in all their length.
Ailsa, Genista, ships, with long jib-booms,
The Wanderer with great beauty and strange dooms,
Liverpool (mightiest then) superb, sublime,
The California huge, as slow as Time.
The Cutty Sark, the perfect J. T. North,
The loveliest barque my city has sent forth.
Dainty Redgauntlet, well remembered yet,
The splendid Argus with her sky sail set.
Stalwart Drumcliff, white-blocked majestic Sierras^
Divine bright ships, the water's standard bearers.
Melpomene, Euphrosyne, and their sweet
Sea-troubling sisters of the Fernie Fleet.
Corunna (in whom my friend died) and the old
Long since loved Esmeralda long since sold.
13
886 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Centurion passed in Rio, Glaucus spoken,
Aladdin burnt, the Bidston water broken,
Yola in whom my friend sailed, Dawpool trim,
Fierce-bowed Egeria plunging to the swim,
Stanmore wide-stern ed, sweet Cupica, tall Bard
Queen in all harbours with her moonsail yard.
Though I tell many there must still be others,
M'Vickar Marshall's ships and Fernie Brothers'
Lochs, Counties, Shires, Drums, the countless lines
Whose house-flags all were once familiar signs
At high main trucks on Mersey's windy ways
When sun made all the wind-white water blaze.
Their names bring back old mornings when the docks
Shone with their house-flags and their painted blocks
Their raking masts below the Custom House
And all the marvellous beauty of their bows.
Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers,
Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to steamers
Umbria, Etruria, noble, still at sea,
The grandest, then, that man had brought to be.
Majestic, City of Paris, City of Borne
Forever jealous racers, out and home.
The Alfred Holt's blue smokestacks down the stream.
The fair Arabian with her bows a-cream.
Booth liners. Anchor liners, Red Star liners.
The marks and styles of countless ship designers.
The Magdalena, Puno, Potosi,
Lost Cotopaxi, all well known to me.
These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory.
Her memory of old song or comrade's story,
Still in my mind the image of life's need,
Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed.
" They built great ships and sailed them " sounds most
brave,
Whatever arts we have or fail to have ;
I touch my country's mind, I come to grips
With half her purpose thinking of these ships.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 387
That art untouched by softness, all that line
Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine ;
That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty
Born of a manly life and bitter duty ;
That splendour of fine bows which yet could stand
The shock of rollers never checked by land.
That art of masts, sail-crowded, fit to break,
Yet stayed to strength, and back-stayed into rake,
The life demanded by that art, the keen
Eye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean,
They are grander things than all the art of towns,
Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns.
They are my country's line, her great art done
By strong brains labouring on the thought unwon.
They mark our passage as a race of men.
Earth will not see such ships as those agen.
SONNET
(from the SPANISH OF DON FRANCISCO A. QUEVEDO)
I SAW the ramparts of my native land,
One time so strong, now dropping in decay,
Their strength destroyed by this new age's way,
That has worn out and rotted what was grand.
I went into the fields : there I could see
The sun drink up the waters newly thawed,
And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed ;
Their miseries robbed the day of light for me.
I went into my house : I saw how spotted.
Decaying things made that old home their prize.
My withered walking-staff had come to bend.
I felt the age had won ; my sword was rotted.
And there was nothing on which to set my eyes
That was not a reminder of the end.
388 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
SONNET ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE
(from the PORTUGUESE OF ANTONIO DI FERREIRO)
That blessed sunlight, that once showed to me
My way to heaven more plain, more certainly.
And with her bright beams banished utterly
All trace of mortal sorrow far from me,
Has gone from me, has left her prison sad,
And I am blind and alone and gone astray,
Like a lost pilgrim on a desert way
Wanting the blessed guide that once he had.
Thus with a spirit bowed and mind a blur
I trace the holy steps where she has gone
By valleys and by meadows and by mountains,
And everywhere I catch a glimpse of her,
She takes me by the hand and leads me on.
And my eyes follow her — my eyes made fountains.
THEY CLOSED HER EYES
(from the SPANISH OF DON GUSTAVO A. BECQUER)
They closed her eyes,
They were still open ;
They hid her face
With a white linen,
And some sobbing.
Others in silence,
From the sad bedroom
All came away.
The nightlight in a dish
Burned on the floor ;
It threw on the wall
The bed's shadow,
And in that shadow
One saw some times
Drawn in sharp line
The body's shape.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 389
The dawn appeared.
At its first whiteness,
With its thousand noises,
The town awoke.
Before that contrast
Of light and darkness.
Of hfe and strangeness,
I thought a moment —
My God, how lonely
The dead are!
On the shoulders of men
To church they bore her.
And in a chapel
They left her bier.
There they surrounded
Her pale body
With yellow candles
And black stuffs.
At the last stroke
Of the ringing for the souls
An old crone finished
Her last prayers.
She crossed the narrow nave,
The doors moaned,
And the holy place
Remained deserted.
From a clock one heard
The measured ticking,
And from a candle
The guttering.
All things there
Were so dark and mournful,
So cold and rigid.
That I thought a moment —
My God, how lonely
The dead are !
390 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
From the high belfry
The tongue of iron
Clanged, giving out
A last farewell.
Crape on their clothes,
Her friends and kindred
Passed by in line
In homage to her.
In the last vault,
Dark and narrow.
The pickaxe opened
A niche at one end ;
They laid her away there.
Soon they bricked the place up.
And with a gesture
Bade grief farewell.
Pickaxe on shoulder,
The gravedigger,
Singing between his teeth
Passed out of sight
The night came down
It was all silent.
Alone in darkness,
I thought a moment —
My God, how lonely
The dead are !
In the dark nights
Of bitter winter,
When the wind makes
The rafters creak,
When the violent rain
Lashes the windows,
Lonely I remember
That poor girl.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 391
There falls the rain
With its noise eternal
There the north wind
Fights with the rain.
Stretched in the hollow
Of the damp bricks,
Perhaps her bones
Freeze with the cold.
Does the dust return to dust ?
Does the soul fly to heaven ?
Or is all vile matter,
Rottenness, filthiness ?
I know not, but
There is something — something —
Something which gives me
Loathing, terror,
To leave the dead
So alone, so wretched.
THE RIVER
All other waters have their time of peace.
Calm, or the turn of tide or summer drought ;
But on these bars the tumults never cease.
In violent death this river passes out.
Brimming she goes, a bloody-coloured rush
Hurrying her heaped disorder, rank on rank,
Bubbleless speed so still that in the hush
One hears the mined earth dropping from the bank,
Slipping in little falls whose tingeings drown.
Sunk by the waves for ever pressing on.
Till with a stripping crash the tree goes down,
Its washing branches flounder and are gone.
Then, roaring out aloud, her water spreads,
Making a desolation where her waves
Shriek and give battle, tossing up their heads,
Tearing the shifting sandbanks into graves,
392 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Changing the raddled ruin of her course
So swiftly, that the pilgrim on the shore
Hears the loud whirlpool laughing like a horse
Where the scurfed sand was parched an hour before.
And always underneath that heaving tide
The changing bottom runs, or piles, or quakes,
Flinging immense heaps up to wallow wide.
Sucking the surface into whirls like snakes.
If anything should touch that shifting sand,
All the blind bottom svicks it till it sinks ;
It takes the clipper ere she comes to land,
It takes the thirsting tiger as he drinks.
And on the river pours — it never tires ;
Blind, hungry, screaming, day and night the same
Purposeless hurry of a million ires.
Mad as the wind, as merciless as flame.
******
There was a full-rigged ship, the Travancore,
Towing to port against that river's rage —
A glittering ship made sparkling for the shore,
Taut to the pins in all her equipage.
Clanging, she topped the tide ; her sails were furled,
Her men came loitering downwards from the yards ;
They who had brought her half across the world,
Trampling so many billows into shards.
Now looking up, beheld their duty done.
The ship approaching port, the great masts bare.
Gaunt as three giants striding in the sun.
Proud, with the colours tailing out like hair.
So, having coiled their gear, they left the deck ;
Within the fo'c's'le's gloom of banded steel.
Mottled like wood with many a painted speck,
They brought their plates and sat about a meal.
Then pushing back the tins, they lit their pipes,
Or slept, or played at cards, or gently spoke,
Light from the portholes shot in dusty stripes
Tranquilly moving, sometimes blue with smoke.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 393
These sunbeams sidled when the vessel rolled,
Their lazy yellow dust-strips crossed the floor,
Lighting a man-hole leading to the hold,
A man-hole leaded down the day before.
Like gold the solder on the man-hole shone ;
A few flies threading in a drowsy dance
Slept in their pattern, darted, and were gone.
The river roared against the ship's advance.
And quietly sleep came upon the crew,
Man by man drooped upon his arms and slept ;
Without, the tugboat dragged the vessel through.
The rigging whined, the yelling water leapt.
Till blindly a careering wave's collapse
Rose from beneath her bows and spouted high,
Spirting the fo'c's'le floor with noisy slaps ;
A sleeper at the table heaved a sigh.
And lurched, half-drunk with sleep, across the floor,
Muttering and blinking like a man insane,
Cursed at the river's tumult, shut the door.
Blinked, and lurched back and fell asleep again.
Then there was greater silence in the room.
Ship's creakings ran along the beams and died.
The lazy sunbeams loitered up the gloom,
Stretching and touching till they reached the side.
Yet something jerking in the vessel's course
Told that the tug was getting her in hand
As, at a fence, one steadies down a horse.
To rush the whirlpool on Magellan Sand ;
And in the uneasy water just below
Her Mate inquired " if the men should stir
And come on deck ? " Her Captain answered " No,
Let them alone, the tug can manage her."
Then, as she settled down and gathered speed.
Her Mate inquired again " if they should come
Just to be ready there in case of need,
Since, on such godless bars, there might be some."
13*
394 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
But " No," the Captain said, " the men have been
Boxing about since midnight, let them be.
The pilot 's able and the ship 's a queen.
The hands can rest until we come to quay."
They ceased, they took their stations ; right ahead
The whirlpool heaped and sucked ; in tenor tone
The steady leadsman chanted at the lead.
The ship crept forward trembling to the bone.
And just above the worst a passing wave
Brought to the line such unexpected stress
That as she tossed her bows her towrope gave.
Snapped at the collar like a stalk of cress.
Then, for a ghastly moment, she was loose,
Blind in the whirlpool, groping for a guide.
Swinging adrift without a moment's truce.
She struck the sand and fell upon her side.
And instantly the sand beneath her gave
So that she righted and again was flung.
Grinding the quicksand open for a grave.
Straining her masts until the steel was sprung.
The foremast broke ; its mighty bulk of steel
Fell on the fo'c's'le door and jammed it tight ;
The sand-rush heaped her to an even keel.
She settled down, resigned, she made no fight.
But, like an overladen beast, she lay
Dumb in the mud with billows at her lips.
Broken, where she had fallen in the way.
Grinding her grave among the bones of ships.
4c * 4t 4: :(: 4i
At the first crashing of the mast, the men
Sprang from their sleep to hurry to the deck ;
They found that Fate had caught them in a pen,
The door that opened out was jammed with wreck.
Then, as with shoulders down, their gathered strength
Hove on the door, but could not make it stir,
They felt the vessel tremble through her length ;
The tug, made fast again, was plucking her.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 395
Plucking, and causing motion, till it seemed
That she would get her off ; they heard her screw
Mumble the bubbled rip-rap as she steamed ;
" Please God, the tug will shift her ! " said the crew.
" She 's off ! " the seamen said ; they felt her glide.
Scraping the bottom with her bilge, until
Something collapsing clanged along her side ;
The scraping stopped, the tugboat's screw was still.
" She 's holed ! " a voice without cried ; " holed and
jammed —
Holed on the old Magellan, sunk last June.
I lose my ticket and the men are damned ;
They'll drown like rats unless we free them soon.
" My God, they shall not ! " and the speaker beat
Blows with a crow upon the foremast's wreck ;
Minute steel splinters fell about his feet,
No tremor stirred the ruin on the deck.
And as their natures bade, the seamen learned
That they were doomed within that buried door ;
Some cursed, some raved, but one among them turned
Straight to the manhole leaded in the floor.
And sitting down astride it, drew his knife.
And staidly dug to pick away the lead,
While at the ports his fellows cried for life :
" Burst in the door, or we shall all be dead ! "
For like a brook the leak below them clucked.
They felt the vessel settling ; they could feel
How the blind bog beneath her gripped and sucked.
Their fingers beat their prison walls of steel.
And then the gurgling stopped — the ship was still.
She stayed ; she sank no deeper — an arrest
Fothered the pouring leak ; she ceased to fill.
She trod the mud, drowned only to the breast.
And probing at the well, the captain found
The leak no longer rising, so he cried :
" She is not sinking — you will not be drowned ;
The shifting sand has silted up her side.
396 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Now there is time. The tug shall put ashore
And fetch explosives to us from the town ;
I'll burst the house or blow away the door
(It will not kill you if you all lie down).
" Be easy in your minds, for you'll be free
As soon as we've the blast." The seamen heard
The tug go townwards, butting at the sea ;
Some lit their pipes, the youngest of them cheered.
But still the digger bent above the lid.
Gouging the solder from it as at first.
Pecking the lead, intent on what he did ;
The other seamen mocked at him or cursed.
And some among them nudged him as he picked.
He cursed them, grinning, but resumed his game ;
His knife-point sometimes struck the lid and clicked.
The solder-pellets shone like silver flame.
And still his knife-blade clicked like ticking time
Counting the hour till the tug's return.
And still the ship stood steady on the slime.
While Fate above her fingered with her urn.
* ^ ilf 4i 'It' *
Then from the tug beside them came the hail :
" They have none at the stores, nor at the dock,
Nor at the quarry, so I tried the gaol.
They thought they had, but it was out of stock.
" So then I telephoned to town ; they say
They've sent an engine with some to the pier ;
I did not leave till it was on its way,
A tug is waiting there to bring it here :
" It can't be here, though, for an hour or more ;
I've lost an hour in trying, as it is.
For want of thought commend me to the shore.
You'd think they'd know their river's ways by this."
" So there is nothing for it but to wait,"
The Captain answered, fuming. " Until then,
We'd better go to dinner, Mr. Mate."
The cook brought dinner forward to the men.
••• •!• ?p •!• ^5 •!•
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 397
Another hour of prison loitered by ;
The strips of sunlight stiffened at the port,
But still the digger made the pellets fly,
Paying no heed to his companions' sport.
While they, about him, spooning at their tins,
Asked if he dug because he found it cold,
Or whether it was penance for his sins,
Or hope of treasure in the forward hold.
He grinned and cursed, but did not cease to pick.
His sweat dropped from him when he bent his head
His knife-blade quarried down, till with a click
Its grinded thinness snapped against the lead.
Then, dully rising, brushing back his sweat,
He asked his fellows for another knife.
" Never," they said ; " man, what d'ye hope to get ? "
" Nothing," he said, " except a chance for life."
'* Havers," they said, and one among them growled,
" You'll get no knife from any here to break.
You've dug the manhole since the door was fouled.
And now your knife 's broke, quit, for Jesus' sake."
But one, who smelt a bargain, changed his tone,
Offering a sheath-knife for the task in hand
At twenty times its value, as a loan
To be repaid him when they reached the land.
And there was jesting at the lender's greed
And mockery at the digger's want of sense,
Closing with such a bargain without need,
Since in an hour the tug would take them thence.
But " Right," the digger said. The deal was made.
He took the borrowed knife, and sitting down
Gouged at the channelled solder with the blade.
Saying, " Let be, it 's better dig than drown."
And nothing happened for a while ; the heat
Grew in the stuffy room, the sunlight slid.
Flies buzzed about and jostled at the meat,
The knife-blade clicked upon the manhole lid :
398 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And one man said, " She takes a hell of time
Bringing the blaster," and another snored ;
One, between pipe-puffs, hummed a smutty rhyme.
One, who was weaving, thudded with his sword.
It was as though the ship were in a dream,
Caught in a magic ocean, calm like death,
Tranced, till a presence should arise and gleam,
Making the waters conscious with her breath.
It was so drowsy that the river's cries,
Roaring aloud their ever-changing tune,
Came to those sailors like the drone of flies,
Filling with sleep the summer afternoon.
So that they slept, or, if they spoke, it was
Only to worry lest the tug should come :
Such power upon the body labour has
That prison seemed a blessed rest to some.
Till one man leaning at the port-hole, stared,
Checking his yawning at the widest stretch.
Then blinked and swallowed, while he muttered, scared,
" That blasting-cotton takes an age to fetch."
Then swiftly passing from the port he went
Up and then down the fo'c's'le till he stayed,
Fixed at the port-hole with his eyes intent,
Round-eyed and white, as if he were afraid,
And muttered as he stared, " My God ! . she is.
She 's deeper than she was, she 's settling down.
That palm-tree top was steady against this,
And now I see the quay below the town.
" Look here at her. She 's sinking in her tracks.
She 's going down by inches as she stands ;
The water 's darker and it stinks like flax.
Her going down is churning up the sands."
And instantly a panic took the crew.
Even the digger blenched ; his knife-blade's haste
Cutting the solder witnessed that he knew
Time on the brink with not a breath to waste.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 399
While far away the tugboat at the quay
Under her drooping pennon waited still
For that explosive which would set them free,
Free, with the world a servant to their will.
Then from a boat beside them came a blare,
Urging that tugboat to be quick ; and men
Shouted to stir her from her waiting there,
" Hurry the blast, and get us out of pen.
" She 's going down. She 's going down, man ! Quick ! "
The tugboat did not stir, no answer came ;
They saw her tongue-like pennon idly lick
Clear for an instant, lettered with her name.
Then droop again. The engine had not come.
The blast had not arrived. The prisoned hands
Saw her still waiting though their time had come,
Their ship was going down among the sands,
Going so swiftly now, that they could see
The banks arising as she made her bed ;
Full of sick sound she settled deathward, she
Gurgled and shook, the digger picked the lead.
And, as she paused to take a final plunge,
Prone like a half-tide rock, the men on deck
Jumped to their boats and left, ere like a sponge
The river's rotten heart absorbed the wreck ;
And on the perilous instant ere Time struck
The digger's work was done, the lead was cleared^
He cast the manhole up ; below it muck
Floated, the hold was full, the water leered.
All of his labour had but made a hole
By which to leap to death ; he saw black dust
Float on the bubbles of that brimming bowl.
He drew a breath and took his life in trust,
And plunged head foremost into that black pit,
Where floating cargo bumped against the beams.
He groped a choking passage blind with grit,
The roaring in his ears was shot with screams.
400 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So, with a bursting heart and roaring ears
He floundered in that sunk ship's inky womb,
Drowned in deep water for what seemed hke years
Buried ahve and groping through the tomb.
Till suddenly the beams against his back
Gave, and the water on his eyes was bright ;
He shot up through a hatchway foul with wrack
Into clean air and life and dazzling light.
And striking out, he saw the fo'c's'le gone.
Vanished, below the water, and the mast
Standing columnar from the sea ; it shone
Proud, with its colours flying to the last.
And all about, a many-wrinkled tide
Smoothed and erased its eddies, wandering chilled.
Like glutted purpose, trying to decide
If its achievement had been what it willed.
And men in boats were there ; they helped him in.
He gulped for breath and watched that patch of smooth
Shaped like the vessel, wrinkle into grin.
Furrow to waves and bare a yellow tooth.
Then the masts leaned until the shroud- screws gave.
All disappeared — her masts, her colours, ail.
He saw the yardarms tilting to the grave ;
He heard the siren of a tugboat call.
And saw her speeding, foaming at the bow.
Bringing the blast-charge that had come too late.
He heard one shout, " It isn't wanted now."
Time's minute-hand had been the hand of Fate.
Then the boats turned ; they brought him to the shore.
Men crowded round him, touched him, and were kind ;
The Mate walked with him, silent, to the store.
He said, " We've left the best of us behind.
5>
Then, as he wrung his sodden clothes, the Mate
Gave him a drink of rum, and talked awhile
Of men and ships and unexpected Fate ;
And darkness came and cloaked the river's guile,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 401
So that its huddled hurry was not seen,
Only made louder, till the full moon climbed
Over the forest, floated, and was queen.
Within the town a temple-belfry chimed.
Then, upon silent pads, a tiger crept
Down to the river-brink, and crouching there
Watched it intently, till you thought he slept
But for his ghastly eye and stiffened hair.
Then, trembling at a lust more fell than his,
He roared and bounded back to coverts lone,
Where, among moonlit beauty, slaughter is,
Filling the marvellous night with myriad groan.
WATCHING BY A SICK-BED
I HEARD the wind all day.
And what it was trying to say.
I heard the wind all night
Rave as it ran to fight ;
After the wind the rain,
And then the wind again
Running across the hill
As it runs still.
And all day long the sea
Would not let the land be.
But all night heaped her sand
On to the land ;
I saw her glimmer white
All through the night,
Tossing the horrid hair
Still tossing there.
And all day long the stone
Felt how the wind was blown ;
And all night long the rock
Stood the sea's shock ;
While, from the window, I
Looked out, and wondered why.
Why at such length
Such force should fight such strength.
LOLLINGDON DOWNS
AND OTHER POEMS, WITH SONNETS
m
J
LOLLINGDON DOWNS
SO I have known this life,
These beads of coloured days,
This self the string.
What is this thing ?
Not beauty, no ; not greed,
Oh, not indeed ;
Not all, though much ;
Its colour is not such.
It has no eyes to see,
It has no ears ;
It is a red hour's war
Followed by tears.
It is an hour of time,
An hour of road,
Flesh is its goad ;
Yet, in the sorrowing lands.
Women and men take hands.
O earth, give us the corn,
Come rain, come sun ;
We men who have been born
Have tasks undone.
Out of this earth
Comes the thing birth,
The thing unguessed. unwon,
40S
406 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
II
O WRETCHED man, that for a little mile
Crawls beneath heaven for his brother's blood,
Whose days the planets number with their style,
To whom all earth is slave, all living, food !
O withering man, within whose folded shell
Lies yet the seed, the spirit's quickening corn.
That Time and Sun will change out of the cell
Into green meadows, in the world unborn !
If Beauty be a dream, do but resolve
And fire shall come, that in the stubborn clay
Works to make perfect till the rocks dissolve,
The barriers burst, and Beauty takes her way :
Beauty herself, within whose blossoming Spring
Even wretched man shall clap his hands and sing.
Ill
Out of the special cell's most special sense
Came the suggestion when the light was sweet ;
All skill, all beauty, all magnificence.
Are hints so caught, man's glimpse of the complete.
And, though the body rots, that sense survives ;
Being of life's own essence, it endures
(Fruit of the spirit's tillage in men's lives)
Round all this ghost that wandering flesh immures.
That is our friend, who, when the iron brain
Assails, or the earth clogs, or the sun hides,
Is the good God to whom none calls in vain,
Man's Achieved Good, which, being Life, abides :
The man-made God, that man in happy breath
Makes in despite of Time and dusty Death.
IV
You are the link which binds us each to each.
Passion, or too much thought, alone can end
Beauty, the ghost, the spirit's common speech,
Which man's red longing left us for our friend.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 407
Even in the blinding war I have known this,
That flesh is but the carrier of a ghost
Who, through his longing, touches that which is
Even as the sailor knows the foreign coast.
So by the bedside of the dying black
I felt our uncouth souls subtly made one :
Forgiven, the meanness of each other's lack ;
Forgiven, the petty tale of ill things done.
We were but Man, who for a tale of days
Seeks the one city by a million ways.
I COULD not sleep for thinking of the sky,
The unending sky, with all its million suns
Which turn their planets everlastingly
In nothing, where the fire-haired comet runs.
If I could sail that nothing, I should cross
Silence and emptiness with dark stars passing ;
Then, in the darkness, see a point of gloss
Burn to a glow, and glare, and keep amassing,
And rage into a sun with wandering planets,
And drop behind ; and then, as I proceed,
See his last light upon his last moon's granites
Die to a dark that would be night indeed :
Night where my soul might sail a million years
In nothing, not even Death, not even tears.
VI
How did the nothing come, how did these fires,
These million-leagues of fires, first toss their hair.
Licking the moons from heaven in their ires,
Flinging them forth for them to wander there ?
What was the Mind ? Was it a mind which thought ?
Or chance ? or law ? or conscious law ? or power ?
Or a vast balance by vast clashes wrought ?
Or Time at trial with Matter for an hour ?
Or is it all a body where the cells
Are living things supporting something strange,
Whose mighty heart the singing planet swells
As it shoulders nothing in unending change ?
Is this green earth of many-peopled pain
Part of a life, a cell within a brain ?
408 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
VII
It may be so ; but let the unknown be.
We, on this earth, are servants of the sun :
Out of the sun comes all the quick in me,
His golden touch is life to everyone.
His power it is that makes us spin through space ;
His youth is April and his manhood bread ;
Beauty is but a looking on his face ;
He clears the mind, he makes the roses red.
What he may be, who knows ? But we are his ;
We roll through nothing round him, year by year.
The withering leaves upon a tree which is.
Each with his greed, his little power, his fear,
What we may be, who knows ? But every one
Is dust on dust a servant of the sun.
VIII
The Kings go by with jewelled crowns ;
Their horses gleam, their banners shake, their spears are
many.
The sack of many-peopled towns
Is all their dream ;
The way they take
Leaves but a ruin in the brake.
And, in the furrow that the ploughmen make,
A stampless penny : a tale, a dream.
The merchants reckon up their gold ;
Their letters come, their ships arrive, their freights are
glories ;
The profits of their treasures sold
They tell and sum ;
Their foremen drive
The servants starved to half-alive,
Whose labours do but make the earth a hive
Of stinking stories : a tale, a dream.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 409
The priests are singing in their stalls ;
Their singing lifts, their incense burns, their praying
clamours ;
Yet God is as the sparrow falls ;
The ivy drifts,
The votive urns
Are all left void when Fortune turns ;
The god is but a marble for the kerns
To break with hammers : a tale, a dream.
O Beauty, let me know again
The green earth cold, the April rain, the quiet waters
figuring sky,
The one star risen.
So shall I pass into the feast
Not touched by King, merchant, or priest ;
Know the red spirit of the beast,
Be the green grain ;
Escape from prison.
IX
What is this life which uses living cells
It knows not how nor why, for no known end,
; This soul of man upon whose fragile shells
I Of blood and brain his very powers depend ?
Pour out its little blood or touch its brain,
' The thing is helpless, gone, no longer known ;
The carrion cells are never man again,
No hand relights the little candle blown.
It comes not from Without, but from the sperm
Fed in the womb ; it is a man-made thing
That takes from man its power to live a term,
Served by live cells of which it is the King.
Can it be blood and brain ? It is most great.
Through blood and brain alone it wrestles Fate.
X
Can it be blood and brain, this transient force
Which, by an impulse, seizes flesh and grows
To man, the thing less splendid than the horse,
More blind than owls, less lovely than the rose ?
410 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Oh, by a power unknown it works the cells
Of blood and brain ; it has the power to see
Beyond the apparent thing the something else
Which it inspires dust to bring to be.
Both blood and brain are its imperfect tools,
Easily wrecked, soon worn, slow to attain ;
Only by years of toil the master rules
To lovely ends those servants, blood and brain.
And Death, a touch, a germ, has still the force
To make him ev'n as the rose, the owl, the horse.
XI
Not only blood and brain its servants are ;
There is a finer power that needs no slaves.
Whose lovely service distance cannot bar.
Nor the green sea with all her hell of waves ;
Nor snowy mountains, nor the desert sand,
Nor heat, nor storm, it bends to no control ;
It is a stretching of the spirit's hand
To touch the brother's or the sister's soul ;
So that from darkness in the narrow room
I can step forth and be about her heart,
Needing no star, no lantern in the gloom,
No word from her, no pointing on the chart,
Only red knowledge of a window flung
Wide to the night, and calling without tongue.
XII
Drop me the seed, that I even in my brain
May be its nourishing earth. No mortal knows
From what immortal granary comes the grain.
Nor how the earth conspires to make the rose ;
But from the dust and from the wetted mud
Comes help, given or taken ; so with me.
Deep in my brain the essence of my blood
Shall give it stature until Beauty be.
It will look down, even as the burning flower
Smiles upon June, long after I am gone.
Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour,
Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on,
Through dusty Time its beauty will make plain
Man, and. Without, a spirit-scattering grain.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 411
XIII
Ah, but Without there is no spirit scattering ;
Nothing but Life, most fertile but unwise,
Passing through change in the sun's heat and cloud's
watering,
Pregnant with self, unlit by inner eyes.
There is no sower, nor seed for any tillage ;
Nothing but the grey brain's pash, and the tense will.
And that poor fool of the Being's little village
Feeling for the truth in the little veins that thrill.
There is no Sowing, but digging, year by year.
In a hill's heart, now one way, now another.
Till the rock breaks and the valley is made clear,
And the poor Fool stands, and knows the sun for his
brother,
And the Soul shakes wings like a bird escaped from cage,
And the tribe moves on to camp in its heritage.
XIV
You are too beautiful for mortal eyes.
You the divine unapprehended soul ;
The red worm in the marrow of the wise
Stirs as you pass, but never sees you whole.
Even as the watcher in the midnight tower
Knows from a change in heaven an unseen star.
So from your beauty, so from the summer flower,
So from the light, one guesses what you are.
So in the darkness does the traveller come
To some lit chink, through which he cannot see.
More than a light, nor hear, more than a hum,
Of the great hall where Kings in council be.
So, in the grave, the red and mouthless worm
Knows of the soul that held his body firm.
XV
Is it a sea on which the souls embark
Out of the body, as men put to sea ?
Or do we come like candles in the dark
In the rooms in cities in eternity ?
412 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Is it a darkness that our powers can light ?
Is this, our Uttle lantern of man's love,
A help to find friends wandering in the night
In the unknown country with no star above ?
Or is it sleep, unknowing, outlasting clocks
That outlast men, that, though the cockcrow ring,
Is but one peace, of the substance of the rocks ;
Is but one space in the now unquiekened thing ;
Is but one joy, that, though the million tire,
Is one. always the same, one life, one fire ?
XVI
THE SHIP
THE ORE
Before Man's labouring wisdom gave me birth
I had not even seen the light of day ;
Down in the central darkness of the earth.
Crushed by the weight of continents I lay.
Ground by the weight to heat, not knowing then
The air, the light, the noise, the world of men.
THE TREES
We grew on mountains where the glaciers cry,
Infinite sombre armies of us stood
Below the snow-peaks which defy the sky ;
A song like the gods moaning filled our wood ;
We knew no men ; our life was to stand stanch.
Singing our song, against the avalanche.
THE HEMP AND FLAX
We were a million grasses on the hill,
A million herbs which bowed as the wind blew.
Trembling in every fibre, never still ;
Out of the summer earth sweet life we drew.
Little blue-flowered grasses up the glen.
Glad of the sun. what did we know of men ?
1
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 413
THE WORKERS
We tore the iron from the mountain's hold,
By blasting fires we smithied it to steel ;
Out of the shapeless stone we learned to mould
The sweeping bow, the rectilinear keel ;
We hewed the pine to plank, we split the fir,
We pulled the myriad flax to fashion her.
Out of a million lives our knowledge came,
A million subtle craftsmen forged the means ;
Steam was our handmaid, and our servant flame,
Water our strength, all bowed to our machines.
Out of the rock, the tree, the springing herb,
We built this wandering beauty so superb.
THE SAILORS
We, who were born on earth and live by air,
Make this thing pass across the fatal floor.
The speechless sea ; alone we commune there.
Jesting with Death, that ever-open door.
Sun, moon, and stars are signs by which we drive
This wind-blown iron like a thing alive.
THE SHIP
I march across great waters like a queen,
I whom so many wisdoms helped to make ;
Over the uncruddled billows of seas green
I blanch the bubbled highway of my wake.
By me my wandering tenants clasp the hands
And know the thoughts of men in other lands.
XVII
THE BLACKSMITH
The blacksmith in his sparky forge
Beat on the white-hot softness there ;
Ever as he beat he sang an air
To keep the sparks out of his gorge.
414 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So many shoes the blacksmith beat,
So many shares and links for traces,
So many builders' struts and braces,
Such tackling for the chain-fore-sheet,
That, in his pride, big words he spake :
" I am the master of my trade ;
What iron is good for I have made,
I make what is in iron to make."
Daily he sang thus by his fire,
Till one day, as he poised his stroke
Above his bar, the iron spoke ;
" You boaster, drop your hammer, liar ! "
The hammer dropped out of his hand,
The iron rose, it gathered shape.
It took the blacksmith by the nape
It pressed him to the furnace, and
Heaped fire upon him till his form
Was molten, flinging sparks aloft,
Until his bones were melted soft.
His hairs crisped in a fiery storm.
The iron drew him from the blaze
To place him on the anvil ; then
It beat him from the shape of men.
Like drugs the apothecary brays ;
Beat him to ploughing coulters, beat
Body and blood to links of chain,
With endless hammerings of pain
Unending torment of white heat ;
And did not stop the work, but still
Beat on him while the furnace roared.
The blacksmith suffered and implored.
With iron bonds upon his will.
And, though he could not die nor shrink,
He felt his being beat by force
To horseshoes stamped on by the horse,
And into troughs whence cattle drink.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 415
He felt his blood, his dear delight,
Beat into shares, he felt it rive
The green earth red ; he was alive.
Dragged through the earth by horses' might
He felt his brain, that once had planned
His daily life, changed to a chain
Which curbed a sail or dragged a wain.
Or hoisted shiploads to the land.
He felt his heart, that once had thrilled
With love of wife and little ones.
Cut out and mingled with his bones
To pin the bricks where men rebuild.
He felt his very self impelled
To common uses, till he cried :
" There 's more within me than is tried,
More than you ever think to weld.
" For all my pain I am only used
To make the props for daily labour ;
I burn, I am beaten like a tabour
To make men tools : I am abused.
" Deep in the white heat where I gasp
I see the unmastered finer powers.
Iron by cunning wrought to flowers,
File-worked, not tortured by the rasp.
" Deep in this fire-tortured mind
Thought bends the bar in subtler ways ;
It glows into the mass, its rays
Purge, till the iron is refined.
"' Then, as the full moon draws the tide
Out of the vague uncaptained sea.
Some moony-power there ought to be
To work on ore ; it should be tried.
" By this fierce fire in which I ache
I see new fires not yet begun,
A blacksmith smithying with the sun.
At unmade things man ought to make.
416 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Life is not fire and blows, but thought,
Attention kindling into joy ;
Those who make nothing new destroy :
O me, what evil I have wrought !
" O me ! " and as he moaned he saw
His iron master shake ; he felt
No blow, nor did the fire melt
His flesh, he was released from law.
He sat upon the anvil top
Dazed, as the iron was dazed ; he took
Strength, seeing that the iron shook ;
He said : " This cruel time must stop."
He seized the iron and held him fast
With pincers, in the midmost blaze ;
A million sparks went million ways,
The cowhorn handle plied the blast.
" Burn, then," he cried ; the fire was white,
The iron was whiter than the fire.
The fireblast made the embers twire ;
The blacksmith's arm began to smite.
First vengeance for old pain, and then
Beginning hope of better things ;
Then swordblades for the sides of Kings
And corselets for the breasts of men ;
And crowns and such-like joys and gems,
And stars of honour for the pure,
Jewels of honour to endure.
Beautiful women's diadems ;
And coulters, sevenfold-twinned, to rend,
And girders to uphold the tower.
Harness for unimagined power.
New ships to make the billows bend ;
And stores of fire-compelling things
By which men dominate and pierce
The iron-imprisoned universe,
Where angels lie with banded wings.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 417
XVIII
THE FRONTIER
CoTTA. Lucius. Their Chief
CoTTA. Would God the route would come for home.
My God ! this place, day after day,
A month of heavy march from Rome !
This camp, the troopers' huts of clay,
The horses tugging at their pins.
The roaring brook and then the whins.
And nothing new to do or say !
Lucius. They say the tribes are up.
CoTTA. Who knows !
Lucius. Our scouts say that they saw their fires.
CoTTA. Well, if we fight it 's only blows
And bogging horses in the mires.
Lucius. Their raiders crossed the line last night,
Eastward from this, to raid the stud ;
They stole our old chief's stallion. Kite.
He 's in pursuit.
CoTTA. That looks like blood.
Lucius. Well, better that than dicing here
Beside this everlasting stream.
CoTTA. My God ! I was in Rome last year.
Under the sun ; it seems a dream.
Lucius. Things are not going well in Rome ;
This frontier war is wasting men
Like water, and the Tartars come
In hordes.
CoTTA. We beat them back agen.
Lucius. So far we have, and yet I feel
The empire is too wide a bow
For one land's strength.
CoTTA. The stuff 's good steel.
Lucius. Too great a strain may snap it, though.
If we were ordered home . . .
CoTTA. Good Lord ! . . .
Lucius. If . . . then our friends, the tribesmen there,
Would have glad days.
14
418 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
CoTTA. This town would flare
To warm old Foxfoot and his horde.
Lucius. We have not been forethoughtful here,
Pressing the men to fill the ranks ;
Centurions sweep the province clear.
CoTTA. Rightly.
Lucius. Perhaps.
CoTTA. We get no thanks.
Lucius. We strip the men for troops abroad,
And leave the women and the slaves
For merchants and their kind. The graves
Of half each province line the road ;
These people could not stand a day
Against the tribes, with us away.
CoTTA. Rightly.
Lucius. Perhaps.
CoTTA. Here comes the Chief.
Lucius. Sir, did your riders catch the thief ? j
Chief. No ; he got clear and keeps the horse.
But bad news always comes with worse :
The frontier 's fallen, we're recalled,
Our army 's broken, Rome 's appalled !
My God ! the whole world 's in a blaze.
So now we've done with idle days.
Fooling on frontiers. Boot and start.
It gives a strange feel in the heart
To think that this, that Rome has made,
Is done with. Yes, the stock 's decayed.
We march at once. You mark my words :
We're done, we're crumbled into sherds ;
We shall not see this place again
When once we go.
Lucius. Do none remain ?
Chief. No, none ; all march. Here ends the play.
March, and burn camp. The order 's gone ;
Your men have sent your baggage on.
CoTTA. My God ! hark how the trumpets bray !
Chief. They do. You see the end of things.
The power of a thousand kings
Helped us to this, and now the power
Is so much hay that was a flower.
Lucius. We have been very great and strong.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 419
Chief. That 's over now.
Lucius. It will be long
Before the world will see our like.
Chief. We've kept these thieves beyond the dyke
A good long time, here on the Wall.
Lucius. Colonel, we ought to sound a call
To mark the end of this.
Chief. We ought.
Look, there 's the hill-top where we fought
Old Foxfoot. Look, there in the whin.
Old ruffian knave ! Come on ! Fall in !
XIX
Night is on the downland, on the lonely moorland.
On the hills where the wind goes over sheep-bitten turf.
Where the bent grass beats upon the unploughed poorland
And the pine-woods roar like the surf.
Here the Roman lived on the wind-barren lonely,
Dark now and haunted by the moorland fowl ;
None comes here now but the peewit only.
And moth-like death in the owl.
Beauty was here, on this beetle-droning downland ;
The thought of a Caesar in the purple came
From the palace by the Tiber in the Roman townland
To this wind-swept hill with no name.
Lonely Beauty came here and was here in sadness,
Brave as a thought on the frontier of the mind,
In the camp of the wild upon the march of madness,
The bright-eyed Queen of the Blind.
Now where Beauty was are the wind-withered gorses,
Moaning like old men in the hill-wind's blast ;
The flying sky is dark with running horses.
And the night is full of the past.
420 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
XX
MIDNIGHT
The fox came up by Stringer's Pound ;
He smelt the south-west warm on the ground,
From west to east a feathery smell
Of blood on the wing-quills tasting well.
A buck's hind-feet thumped on the sod,
The whip-like grass snake went to clod,
The dog-fox put his nose in the air
To taste what food was wandering there.
Under the clover down the hill
A hare in form that knew his will.
Up the hill the warren awake
And the badger showing teeth like a rake.
Down the hill the two twin thorpes
Where the crying night owl waked the corpse,
And the moon on the stilly windows bright
Instead of a dead man's waking light.
The cock on his perch that shook his wing
When the clock struck for the chimes to ring,
A duck that muttered, a rat that ran.
And a horse that stamped, remembering man.
XXI
Up on the downs the red-eyed kestrels hover,
Eyeing the grass.
The field-mouse flits like a shadow into cover
As their shadows pass.
Men are burning the gorse on the down's shoulder ;
A drift of smoke
Glitters with fire and hangs, and the skies smoulder,
And the lungs choke.
Once the tribe did thus on the downs, on these downs,
burning
Men in the frame,
Crying to the gods of the downs till their brains were
turning
And the gods came.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 421
And to-day on the downs, in the wind, the hawks the
grasses,
In blood and air,
Something passes me and cries as it passes,
On the chalk downland bare.
XXII
No man takes the farm,
Nothing grows there ;
The ivy's arm
Strangles the rose there.
Old Farmer Kyrle
Farmed there the last ;
He beat his girl
(It 's seven years past).
After market it was
He beat his girl ;
He liked his glass,
Old Farmer Kyrle.
Old Kyrle's son
Said to his father :
" Now, dad, you ha' done,
I'll kill you rather !
" Stop beating sister.
Or by God I'll kill you ! "
Kyrle was full of liquor —
Old Kyrle said : " Will you ? "
Kyrle took his cobb'd stick
And beat his daughter ;
He said : " I'll teach my chick
As a father oughter."
Young Will, the son.
Heard his sister shriek ;
He took his gun
Quick as a streak.
422 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He said : " Now, dad,
Stop, once for all ! "
He was a good lad.
Good at kicking the ball.
His father clubbed
The girl on the head.
Young Will upped
And shot him dead.
" Now, sister," said Will,
" I've a-killed father.
As I said I'd kill.
O my love, I'd rather
" A-kill him again
Than see you suffer.
O my little Jane,
Kiss good-bye to your brother.
" I won't see you again.
Nor the cows homing,
Nor the mice in the grain.
Nor the primrose coming,
" Nor the fair, nor folk,
Nor the summer flowers
Growing on the wold,
Nor ought that 's ours.
*t5*
" Not Tib the cat.
Not Stub the mare.
Nor old dog Pat,
Never anywhere.
" For I'll be hung
In Gloucester prison
When the bell 's rung
And the sun 's risen."
Thev hanged Will
As Will said ;
With one thrill
They choked him dead.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 423
Jane walked the wold
Like a grey gander ;
All grown old
She would wander.
She died soon :
At high-tide,
At full moon,
Jane died.
The brook chatters
As at first ;
The farm it waters
Is accurst.
No man takes it,
Nothing grows there ;
Blood straiks it,
A ghost goes there.
XXIII
A HUNDRED years ago they quarried for the stone here ;
The carts came through the wood by the track still plain ;
The drills show in the rock where the blasts were blown
here,
They show up dark after rain.
Then the last cart of stone went away through the wood,
To build the great house for some April of a woman,
Till her beauty stood in stone, as her man's thought made
it good,
And the dumb rock was made human.
The house still stands, but the April of its glory
Is gone, long since, with the beauty that has gone ;
She wandered away west, it is an old sad story :
It is best not talked upon.
424 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And the man has gone, too, but the quarry that he made,
Whenever April comes as it came in old time,
Is a dear delight to the man who loves a maid.
For the primrose comes from the lime. . . .
And the blackbird builds below the catkin shaking.
And the sweet white violets are beauty in the blood,
And daffodils are there, and the blackthorn blossom
breaking
Is a wild white beauty in bud.
XXIV
Here the legion halted, here the ranks were broken.
And the men fell out to gather wood ;
And the green wood smoked, and bitter words were
spoken,
And the trumpets called to food.
And the sentry on the rampart saw the distance dying
In the smoke of distance blue and far,
And heard the curlew calling and the owl replying
As the night came cold with one star;
And thought of home beyond, over moorland, over
marshes.
Over hills, over the sea, across the plains, across the pass,
By a bright sea trodden by the ships of Tarshis,
The farm, with cicadae in the grass.
And thought, as I : " Perhaps, I may be done with
living
To-morrow, when we fight. I shall see those souls no
more.
O beloved souls, be beloved in forgiving
The deeds and the words that make me sore."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 425
XXV
We danced away care till the fiddler's eyes blinked,
And at supper, at midnight, our wine glasses chinked ;
Then we danced till the roses that hung round the wall
Were broken red petals that did rise and did fall
To the ever-turning couples of the bright-eyed and gay
Singing in the midnight to dance care away.
Then the dancing died out and the carriages came,
And the beauties took their cloaks and the men did the
same,
And the wheels crunched the gravel and the lights were
turned down.
And the tired beauties dozed through the cold drive to
town.
Nan was the belle, and she married her beau.
Who drank, and then beat her, and she died long ago ;
And Mary, her sister, is married, and gone
To a tea-planter's lodge, in the plains, in Ceylon.
And Dorothy's sons have been killed out in France,
And May lost her man in the August advance.
And Em the man jilted, and she lives all alone
In the house of this dance which seems burnt in my bone.
Margaret and Susan and Marian and Phyllis,
With red lips laughing and the beauty of lilies,
And the grace of wild-swans and a wonder of bright hair,
Dancing among roses with petals in the air —
All, all are gone, and Hetty's little maid
Is so hke her mother that it makes me afraid.
And Rosalind's son, whom I passed in the street,
Clinked on the pavement with the spurs on his feet.
XXVI
Long, long ago, when all the glittering earth
Was heaven itself, when drunkards in the street
Were like mazed kings shaking at giving birth
To acts of war that sickle men like wheat ;
14*
426 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
When the white clover opened Paradise
And God lived in a cottage up the brook,
Beauty, you lifted up my sleeping eyes
And filled my heart with longing with a look.
And all the day I searched but could not find
The beautiful dark-eyed who touched me there.
Delight in her made trouble in my mind.
She was within all nature, everywhere.
The breath I breathed, the brook, the flower, the grass,
Were her, her word, her beauty, all she was.
XXVII
Night came again, but now I could not sleep ;
The owls were watching in the yew, the mice
Gnawed at the wainscot. The mid dark was deep.
The death-watch knocked the dead man's summons
thrice.
The cats upon the pointed housetops peered
About the chimneys, with lit eyes which saw
Things in the darkness, moving, which they feared ;
The midnight filled the quiet house with awe.
So, creeping down the stair, I drew the bolt
And passed into the darkness, and I knew
That beauty was brought near by my revolt.
Beauty was in the moonlight, in the dew.
But more within myself, whose venturous tread
Walked the dark house where death-ticks called the dead.
XXVIII
Even after all these years there comes the dream
Of lovelier life than this in some new earth.
In the full summer of that unearthly gleam
Which lights the spirit when the brain gives birth ;
Of a perfected I, in happy hours.
Treading above the sea that trembles there,
A path through thickets of immortal flowers
That only grow where sorrows never were ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 427
And, at a turn, of coming face to face
With Beauty's self, that Beauty I have sought
In women's hearts, in friends, in many a place,
In barren hours passed at grips with thought,
Beauty of woman, comrade, earth and sea,
Incarnate thought come face to face with me.
XXIX
If I could come again to that dear place
Where once I came, where Beauty lived and moved,
Where, by the sea, I saw her face to face.
That soul alive by which the world has loved ;
If, as I stood at gaze among the leaves,
She would appear again as once before.
While the red herdsman gathered up his sheaves
And brimming waters trembled up the shore ;
If, as I gazed, her Beauty that was dumb,
In that old time, before I learned to speak.
Would lean to me and revelation come.
Words to the lips and colour to the cheek,
Joy with its searing-iron would burn me wise ;
I should know all, all powers, all mysteries.
XXX
Here in the self is all that man can know
Of Beauty, all the wonder, all the power,
All the unearthly colour, all the glow.
Here in the self which withers like a flower ;
Here in the self which fades as hours pass.
And droops and dies and rots and is forgotten
Sooner, by ages, than the mirroring glass
In which it sees its glory still unrotten.
Here in the flesh, within the flesh, behind.
Swift in the blood and throbbing on the bone,
Beauty herself, the universal mind.
Eternal April wandering alone ;
The God, the holy Ghost, the atoning Lord,
Here in the flesh, the never yet explored.
428 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
XXXI
Flesh, I have knocked at many a dusty door,
Gone down full many a windy midnight lane.
Probed in old walls and felt along the floor,
Pressed in blind hope the lighted window-pane.
But useless all, though sometimes when the moon
Was full in heaven and the sea was full.
Along my body's alleys came a tune
Played in the tavern by the Beautiful.
Then for an instant I have felt at point
To find and seize her, whosoe'er she be.
Whether some saint whose glory doth anoint
Those whom she loves, or but a part of me,
Or something that the things not understood
Make for their uses out of flesh and blood.
XXXII
But all has passed, the tune has died away.
The glamour gone, the glory ; is it chance ?
Is the unfeeling mud stabbed by a ray
Cast by an unseen splendour's great advance ?
Or does the glory gather crumb by crumb
Unseen, within, as coral islands rise.
Till suddenly the apparitions come
Above the surface, looking at the skies ?
Or does sweet Beauty dwell in lovely things
Scattering the holy hintings of her name
In women, in dear friends, in flowers, in springs.
In the brook's voice, for us to catch the same ?
Or is it we who are Beauty, we who ask ?
We by whose gleams the world fulfils its task.
XXXIII
These myriad days, these many thousand hours,
A man's long life, so choked with dusty things.
How little perfect poise with perfect powers,
Joy at the heart and Beauty at the springs.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 429
One hour, or two, or three, in long years scattered
Sparks from a smithy that have fired a thatch.
Are all that life has given and all that mattered ;
The rest, all heaving at a moveless latch.
For these, so many years of useless toil.
Despair, endeavour, and again despair,
Sweat, that the base machine may have its oil.
Idle delight to tempt one everywhere.
A hfe upon the cross. To make amends.
Three flaming memories that the deathbed ends.
XXXIV
There, on the darkened deathbed, dies the brain
That flared three several times in seventy years.
It cannot lift the silly hand again.
Nor speak, nor sing, it neither sees nor hears ;
And muffled mourners put it in the ground
And then go home, and in the earth it lies
Too dark for vision and too deep for sound,
The million cells that made a good man wise.
Yet for a few short years an influence stirs,
A sense or wraith or essence of him dead,
Which makes insensate things its ministers
To those beloved, his spirit's daily bread ;
Then that, too, fades ; in book or deed a spark
Lingers, then that, too, fades ; then all is dark.
XXXV
So in the empty sky the stars appear,
Are bright in heaven marching through the sky.
Spinning their planets, each one to his year,
Tossing their fiery hair until they die ;
Then in the tower afar the watcher sees
The sun, that burned, less noble than it was.
Less noble still, until by dim degrees
No spark of him is specklike in his glass.
430 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Then blind and dark in heaven the sun proceeds,
Vast, dead and hideous, knocking on his moons.
Till crashing on his like creation breeds,
Striking such life, a constellation swoons ;
From dead things striking fire a new sun springs.
New fire, new life, new planets with new wings.
XXXVI
It may be so with us, that in the dark,
When we have done with time and wander space,
Some meeting of the blind may strike a spark,
And to Death's empty mansion give a grace.
It may be, that the loosened soul may find
Some new delight of living without limbs.
Bodiless joy of flesh-untrammelled mind.
Peace like a sky where starlike spirit swims.
It may be, that the million cells of sense,
Loosed from their seventy years' adhesion, pass
Each to some joy of changed experience,
Weight in the earth or glory in the grass.
It may be, that we cease ; we cannot tell.
Even if we cease, life is a miracle.
XXXVII
What am I, Life ? A thing of watery salt
Held in cohesion by unresting cells
Which work they know not why, which never halt.
Myself unwitting where their master dwells.
I do not bid them, yet they toil, they spin :
A world which uses me as I use them.
Nor do I know which end or which begin.
Nor which to praise, which pamper, which condemn.
So, like a marvel in a marvel set,
I answer to the vast, as wave by wave
The sea of air goes over, dry or wet,
Or the full moon comes swimming from her cave.
Or the great sun comes north, this myriad I
Tingles, not knowing how, yet wondering why.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 431
XXXVIII
If I could get within this changing I,
This ever altering thing which yet persists,
Keeping the features it is reckoned by,
While each component atom breaks or twists,
If, wandering past strange groups of shifting forms,
Cells at their hidden marvels hard at work.
Pale from much toil, or red from sudden storms,
I might attain to where the Rulers lurk.
If, pressing past the guards in those grey gates.
The brains most folded, intertwisted shell,
I might attain to that which alters fates.
The King, the supreme self, the Master Cell ;
Then, on Man's earthly peak, I might behold
The unearthly self beyond, unguessed, untold.
XXXIX
What is the atom which contains the whole,
This miracle which needs adjuncts so strange,
This, which imagined God and is the soul.
The steady star persisting amid change ?
What waste, that smallness of such power should need
Such clumsy tools so easy to destroy,
Such wasteful servants difficult to feed.
Such indirect dark avenues to joy.
Why, if its business is not mainly earth,
Should it demand such heavy chains to sense ?
A heavenly thing demands a swifter birth,
A quicker hand to act intelligence ;
An earthly thing were better like the rose.
At peace with clay from which its beauty grows.
XL
Ah, we are neither heaven nor earth, but men ;
Something that uses and despises both,
That takes its earth's contentment in the pen,
Then sees the world's injustice and is wroth.
432 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And flinging off youth's happy promise, flies
Up to some breach, despising earthly things.
And, in contempt of hell and heaven, dies
Rather than bear some yoke of priests or kings.
Our joys are not of heaven nor earth, but man's,
A woman's beauty, or a child's delight.
The trembling blood when the discoverer scans
The sought-for world, the guessed-at satellite ;
The ringing scene, the stone at point to blush
For unborn men to look at and say " Hush.
55
XLI
Roses are beauty, but I never see
Those blood drops from the burning heart of June
Glowing like thought upon the living tree
Without a pity that they die so soon.
Die into petals, like those roses old.
Those women, who were summer in men's hearts
Before the smile upon the Sphinx was cold
Or sand had hid the Syrian and his arts.
O myriad dust of beauty that lies thick
Under our feet that not a single grain
But stirred and moved in beauty and was quick
For one brief moon and died nor lived again ;
But when the moon rose lay upon the grass
Pasture to living beauty, life that was.
XLII
Over the church's door they moved a stone.
And there, unguessed, forgotten, mortared up,
Lay the priest's cell where he had lived alone.
There was his ashy hearth, his drinking cup,
There was his window whence he saw the Host,
The God whose beauty quickened bread and wine
The skeleton of a religion lost,
The ghostless bones of what had been divine.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 433
O many a time the dusty masons come
Knocking their trowels in the stony brain
To cells where perished priests had once a home,
Or where devout brows pressed the window pane,
Watching the thing made God, the God whose bones
Bind underground our soul's foundation stones.
XLIII
Out of the clouds come torrents, from the earth
Fire and quakings, from the shrieking air
Tempests that harry half the planet's girth.
Death's unseen seeds are scattered everywhere.
Yet in his iron cage the mind of man
Measures and braves the terrors of all these.
The blindest fury and the subtlest plan
He turns, or tames, or shows in their degrees.
Yet in himself are forces of like power.
Untamed, unreckoned ; seeds that brain to brain
Pass across oceans bringing thought to flower,
New worlds, new selves, where he can live again
Eternal beauty's everlasting rose
Which casts this world as shadow as it goes.
XLIV
O LITTLE self, within whose smallness lies
All that man was, and is, and will become.
Atom unseen that comprehends the skies
And tells the tracks by which the planets roam ;
That, without moving, knows the joys of wings,
The tiger's strength, the eagle's secrecy.
And in the hovel can consort with kings,
Or clothe a God with his own mystery.
O with what darkness do we cloak thy light,
What dusty folly gather thee for food.
Thou who alone art knowledge and delight,
The heavenly bread, the beautiful, the good.
O living self, O God, O morning star,
Give us thy light, forgive us what we are.
484 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
XLV
I WENT into the fields, but you were there
Waiting for me, so all the summer flowers
Were only glimpses of your starry powers ;
Beautiful and inspired dust they were.
I went down by the waters, and a bird
Sang with your voice in all the unknown tones
Of all that self of you I have not heard,
So that my being felt you to the bones.
I went into the house, and shut the door
To be alone, but you were there with me ;
All beauty in a little room may be,
Though the roof lean and muddy be the floor.
Then in my bed I bound my tired eyes
To make a darkness for my weary brain ;
But like a presence you were there again,
Being and real, beautiful and wise.
So that I could not sleep, and cried aloud,
" You strange grave thing, what is it you would say ?
The redness of your dear lips dimmed to grey,
The waters ebbed, the moon hid in a cloud.
XLVI
This is the living thing that cannot stir.
Where the seed chances there it roots and grows,
To suck what makes the lily or the fir
Out of the earth and from the air that blows,
Great power of Will that little thing the seed
Has, all alone in earth, to plan the tree,
And, though the mud oppresses, to succeed
And put out branches where the birds may be.
Then the wind blows it, but the bending boughs
Exult like billows, and their million green
Drink the all-living sunlight in carouse.
Like dainty harts where forest wells are clean.
While it, the central plant, which looks o'er miles,
Draws milk from the earth's breast, and sways, and smiles.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 435
XLVII
Here, where we stood together, we three men.
Before the war had swept us to the East,
Three thousand miles away, I stand agen
And hear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast.
We trod the same path, to the self-same place.
Yet here I stand, having beheld their graves,
Skyros whose shadows the great seas erase.
And Sedd-el-Bahr that ever more blood craves.
So, since we communed here, our bones have been
Nearer, perhaps, than they again will be.
Earth and the world-wide battle lie between.
Death lies between, and friend-destroying sea.
Yet here, a year ago, we talked and stood
As I stand now, with pulses beating blood.
XLVIII
I SAW her like a shadow on the sky
In the last light, a blur upon the sea ;
Then the gale's darkness put the shadow by.
But from one grave that island talked to me ;
And in the midnight, in the breaking storm,
I saw its blackness and a blinding light.
And thought " So death obscures your gentle form,
So memory strives to make the darkness bright ;
And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies.
Part of the island till the planet ends.
My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise.
Part of this crag this bitter surge offends.
While I, who pass, a little obscure thing.
War with this force, and breathe, and am its king."
XLIX
Look at the grass, sucked by the seed from dust,
Whose blood is the spring rain, whose food the sun.
Whose life the scythe takes ere the sorrels rust.
Whose stalk is chaff before the winter 's done.
486 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Even the grass its happy moment has
In May, when glistening buttercups make gold ;
The exulting millions of the meadow-grass
Give out a green thanksgiving from the mould.
Even the blade that has not even a blossom
Creates a mind, its joy's persistent soul
Is a warm spirit on the old earth's bosom
When April's fire has dwindled to a coal ;
The spirit of the grasses' joy makes fair
The winter fields when even the wind goes bare.
There is no God, as I was taught in youth.
Though each, according to his stature, builds
Some covered shrine for what he thinks the truth,
Which day by day his reddest heart-blood gilds.
There is no God ; but death, the clasping sea.
In which we move like fish, deep over deep.
Made of men's souls that bodies have set free.
Floods to a Justice though it seems asleep.
There is no God ; but still, behind the veil,
The hurt thing works, out of its agony.
Still like the given cruse that did not fail
Return the pennies given to passers-by.
There is no God ; but we, who breathe the air,
Are God ourselves, and touch God everywhere.
LI
Wherever beauty has been quick in clay
Some effluence of it lives, a spirit dwells.
Beauty that death can never take away
Mixed with the air that shakes the flower bells ;
So that by waters where the apples fall.
Or in lone glens, or valleys full of flowers.
Or in the streets where bloody tidings call,
The haunting waits the mood that makes it ours.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 437
Then at a turn, a word, an act, a thought.
Such difference comes ; the spirit apprehends
That place's glory ; for where beauty fought
Under the veil the glory never ends ;
But the still grass, the leaves, the trembling flower
Keep, through dead time, that everlasting hour.
LII
Beauty, let be ; I cannot see your face,
I shall not know you now, nor touch your feet,
Only within me tremble to your grace,
Tasting this crumb vouchsafed which is so sweet.
Even when the full-leaved summer bore no fruit
You gave me this, this apple of man's tree ;
This planet sings when other spheres were mute,
This light begins when darkness covered me.
Now, though I know that I shall never know
All, through my fault, nor blazon with my pen
That path prepared where only I could go.
Still, I have this, not given to other men :
Beauty, this grace, this spring, this given bread,
This life, this dawn, this wakening from the dead.
LIII
You are more beautiful than women are.
Wiser than men, stronger than ribbed death,
Juster than Time, more constant than the star.
Dearer than love, more intimate than breath,
Having all art, all science, all control
Over the still unsmithied, even as Time
Cradles the generations of man's soul.
You are the light to guide, the way to climb.
So, having followed beauty, having bowed
To wisdom and to death, to law, to power,
I like a blind man stumble from the crowd
Into the darkness of a deeper hour,
Where in the lonely silence I may wait
The prayed-for gleam — your hand upon the gate.
438 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
LIV
Beauty retires ; the blood out of the earth
Shrinks, the stalk dries, lifeless November still
Drops the brown husk of April's greenest birth.
Through the thinned beech clump I can see the hill.
So withers man, and though his life renews
In Aprils of the soul, an autumn comes
Which gives an end, not respite, to the thews
That bore his soul through the world's martyrdoms.
Then all the beauty will be out of mind,
Part of man's store, that lies outside his brain,
Touch to the dead and vision to the blind,
Drink in the desert, bread, eternal grain.
Part of the untilled field that beauty sows
With flowers untold, where quickened spirit goes.
LV
Not for the anguish suffered is the slur,
Not for the woman's taunts, the mocks of men ;
No, but because you never welcomed her,
Her of whose beauty I am only the pen.
There was a dog, dog-minded, with dog's eyes,
Damned by a dog's brute-nature to be true.
Something within her made his spirit wise ;
He licked her hand, he knew her ; not so you.
When all adulterate beauty has gone by,
When all inanimate matter has gone down.
We will arise and walk, that dog and I,
The only two who knew her in the town.
We'll range the pleasant mountain side by side.
Seeking the blood-stained flowers where Christs have died.
LVI
Beauty was with me once, but now, grown old,
I cannot hear nor see her : thus a King
In the high turret kept him from the cold
Over the fire with his magic ring,
J
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 439
Which, as he wrought, made pictures come and go
Of men and times, past, present, and to be ;
Now Hke a smoke, now flame-hke, now a glow,
Now dead, now bright, but always fantasy.
While, on the stair without, a faithful slave
Stabbed to the death, crawled bleeding, whispering, " Sir,
They come to kill you, fly : I come to save,
O you great gods, for pity let him hear."
Then, with his last strength tapped, and muttered, " Sire."
While the King smiled and drowsed above the fire.
LVII
So beauty comes, so with a failing hand
She knocks, and cries, and fails to make me hear,
She who tells futures in the falling sand.
And still, by signs, makes hidden meanings clear ;
She, who behind this many peopled smoke,
Moves in the light and struggles to direct,
Through the deaf ear and by the baffled stroke.
The wicked man, the honoured architect.
Yet at a dawn before the birds begin,
In dreams, as the horse stamps and the hound stirs.
Sleep slips the bolt and beauty enters in
Crying aloud those hurried words of hers.
And I awake and, in the birded dawn.
Know her for Queen, and own myself a pawn.
LVIII
You will remember me in days to come.
With love, or pride, or pity, or contempt.
So will my friends (not many friends, yet some).
When this my life will be a dream out-dreamt ;
And one, remembering friendship by the fire.
And one, remembering love time in the dark,
And one, remembering unfulfilled desire.
Will sigh, perhaps, yet be beside the mark ;
For this my body with its wandering ghost
Is nothing solely but an empty grange.
Dark in a night that owls inhabit most.
Yet when the King rides by there comes a change,
The windows gleam, the cresset's fiery hair
Blasts the blown branch and beauty lodges there.
440 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
LIX
If Beauty be at all, if, beyond sense,
There be a wisdom piercing into brains,
Why should the glory wait on impotence.
Biding its time till blood is in the veins ?
There is no beauty, but, when thought is quick,
Out of the noisy sickroom of ourselves
Some flattery comes to try to cheat the sick,
Some drowsy drug is groped for on the shelves.
There is no beauty, for we tread a scene
Red to the eye with blood of living things ;
Thought is but joy from murder that has been.
Life is but brute at war upon its kings.
There is no beauty, nor could beauty care
For us, this dust, that men make everywhere.
LX
If all be governed by the moving stars.
If passing planets bring events to be.
Searing the face of Time with bloody scars.
Drawing men's souls even as the moon the sea.
If as they pass they make a current pass
Across man's life and heap it to a tide,
We are but pawns, ignobler than the grass
Cropped by the beast and crunched and tossed aside.
Is all this beauty that doth inhabit heaven
Train of a planet's fire ? Is all this lust
A chymic means by warring stars contriven
To bring the violets out of Caesar's dust ?
Better be grass, or in some hedge unknown
The spilling rose whose beauty is its own.
LXI
In emptiest furthest heaven where no stars are.
Perhaps some planet of our master sun
Still rolls an unguessed orbit round its star,
Unthought, unseen, unknown of anyone.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 441
Roving dead space according to its law,
Casting our light on burnt-out suns and blind,
Singing in the frozen void its word of awe.
One wandering thought in all that idiot mind.
And, in some span of many a thousand year,
Passing through heaven its influence may arouse
Beauty unguessed in those who habit here,
And men may rise with glory on their brows
And feel new life like fire, and see the old
Fall from them dead, the bronze's broken mould.
LXII
Perhaps in chasms of the wasted past.
That planet wandered within hail of ours.
And plucked men's souls to loveliness and cast
The old, that was, away, like husks of flowers ;
And made them stand erect and bade them build
Nobler than hovels plaited in the mire,
Gave them an altar and a God to gild.
Bridled the brooks for them and fettered fire ;
And, in another coming, forged the steel
Which, on life's scarlet wax, for ever set
Longing for beauty bitten as a seal
That blood not clogs nor centuries forget,
That built Atlantis, and, in time, will raise
That grander thing whose image haunts our days.
Lxm
For, like an outcast from the city, I
Wander the desert strewn with travellers' bones,
Having no comrade but the starry sky
Where the tuned planets ride their floating thrones.
I pass old ruins where the kings caroused
In cups long shards from vines long since decayed,
I tread the broken brick where queens were housed
In beauty's time ere beauty was betrayed.
442 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And in the ceaseless pitting of the sand
On monolith and pyle, I see the dawn
Making those skeletons of beauty grand
By fire that comes as darkness is withdrawn,
And, in that fire, the art of men to come
Shines with such glow I bless my martyrdom.
LXIV
Death lies in wait for you, you wild thing in the wood,
Shy-footed beauty dear, half-seen, half-understood.
Glimpsed in the beech-wood dim and in the dropping fir,
Shy like a fawn and sweet and beauty's minister.
Glimpsed as in flying clouds by night the little moon,
A wonder, a delight, a paleness passing soon.
Only a moment held, only an hour seen.
Only an instant known in all that life has been.
One instant in the sand to drink that gush of grace,
The beauty of your way, the marvel of your face.
Death lies in wait for you, but few short hours he gives ;
I perish even as you by whom all spirit lives.
Come to me, spirit, come, and fill my hour of breath
With hours of life in life that pay no toll to death.
LXV
They called that broken hedge The Haunted Gate.
Strange fires (they said) burnt there at moonless times.
Evil was there, men never went there late.
The darkness there was quick with threatened crimes.
And then one digging in that bloodied clay
Found, but a foot below, a rotted chest.
Coins of the Romans, tray on rusted tray.
Hurriedly heaped there by a digger prest.
So that one knew how, centuries before.
Some Roman flying from the sack by night,
Digging in terror there to hide his store.
Sweating his pick, by windy lantern light,
Had stamped his anguish on that place's soul,
So that it knew and could rehearse the whole.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 443
LXVI
There was an evil in the nodding wood
Above the quarry long since overgrown,
Something which stamped it as a place of blood
Where tortured spirit cried from murdered bone.
Then, after years, I saw a rusty knife
Stuck in a woman's skull, just as 'twas found,
Blackt with a centuried crust of clotted life.
In the red clay of that unholy ground.
So that I knew the unhappy thing had spoken.
That tongueless thing for whom the quarry spoke.
The evil seals of murder had been broken
By the red earth, the grass, the rooted oak.
The inarticulate dead had forced the spade.
The hand, the mind, till murder was displayed.
LXVII
Go, spend your penny. Beauty, when you will,
In the grave's darkness let the stamp be lost.
The water still will bubble from the hill.
And April quick the meadows with her ghost ;
Over the grass the daffodils will shiver.
The primroses with their pale beauty abound,
The blackbird be a lover and make quiver
With his glad singing the great soul of the ground ;
So that if the body rot, it will not matter ;
Up in the earth the great game will go on,
The coming of spring and the running of the water,
And the young things glad of the womb's darkness gone.
And the joy we felt will be a part of the glory
In the lover's kiss that makes the old couple'^; story.
LXVIII
Though in life's streets the tempting shops have lured
Because all beauty, howsoever base,
Is vision of you, marred, I have endured.
Tempted or fall'n, to look upon your face.
444 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Now through the grinning death's-head in the paint,
Within the tavern-song, hid in the wine.
In many-kinded man, emperor and saint,
I see you pass, you breath of the divine.
I see you pass, as centuries ago
The long dead men with passionate spirit saw.
O brother man, whom spirit habits so.
Through your red sorrows Beauty keeps her law,
Beauty herself, who takes your dying hand.
To leave through Time the Memnon in the sand.
LXIX
When all these million cells that are my slaves
Fall from my pourried ribs and leave me lone,
A living speck among a world of graves,
What shall I be, that spot in the unknown ?
A glow-worm in a night that floats the sun ?
Or deathless dust feeling the passer's foot ?
An eye undying mourning things undone ?
Or seed for quickening free from prisoning fruit ?
Or an eternal jewel on your robe.
Caught to your heart, one with the April fire
That made me yours as man upon the globe,
One with the spring, a breath in all desire,
One with the primrose, present in all joy ?
Or pash that rots, which pismires can destroy ?
LXX
Let that which is to come be as it may,
Darkness, extinction, justice, life intense,
The flies are happy in the summer day.
Flies will be happy many summers hence.
Time with his antique breeds that built the Sphinx,
Time with her men to come whose wings will tower.
Poured and will pour, not as the wise man thinks.
But with blind force, to each his little hour.
And when the hour has struck, comes death or change,
Which, whether good or ill we cannot tell,
But the blind planet will wander through her range
Bearing men like us who will serve as well.
The sun will rise, the winds that ever move
Will blow our dust that once were men in love.
GOOD FRIDAY
A PLAY IN VERSE
44S
PERSONS
Pontius Pilate
Procula ....
longinus ....
A Jew ....
A Madman.
A Sentry.
Joseph of Ramah.
Herod.
Soldiers, Servants, the Jewish Rabble, Loiterers,
Idlers.
Procurator of Judcea.
His Wife.
A Centurion.
Leader of the Rabble.
446
THE SCENE
The Pavement, or Paved Court, outside the Roman Citadel in
Jerusalem.
At the back is the barrack wall, pierced in the centre with a double
bronze door, weathered to a green colour.
On the right and left sides of the stage are battlemented parapets
overlooking the city.
The stage or pavement is approached by stone steps from the front,
and by narrow stone staircases in the wings, one on each side, ivell
forward. These steps are to suggest that the citadel is high up above
the town, and that the main barrack gate is below. The Chief Citizen,
The Rabble, Joseph, The Madman, Herod, and The Loiterers,
etc., enter by these steps.
Pilate, Procula, Longinus, The Soldiers and Servants enter
by the bronze door.
i*i
GOOD FRIDAY
Pilate.
Longinus.
LONGINUS.
Lord.
Pilate.
[Giving scroll.] Your warrant. Take the key.
Go to Barabbas' cell and set him free,
The mob has chosen him.
Longinus.
And Jesus ?
Pilate.
Wait.
He can be scourged and put outside the gate,
With warning not to make more trouble here.
See that the sergeant be not too severe.
I want to spare him.
Longinus.
And the Jew, the Priest,
Outside ?
Pilate.
I'll see him now.
Longinus.
Passover Feast
Always brings trouble, lord. All shall be done.
Dismiss ?
15
450 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Pilate.
Dismiss.
[Exit LONGINUS.
There 's blood about the sun,
This earthquake weather presses on the brain.
[Enter Procula.I
Yes?
Procula.
Dear, forgive me, if I come again
About this Jesus, but I long to know
What Herod said. Did he dismiss him ?
Pilate.
He sent him back to me for me to trj^^,
The charge being local.
No.
Procula.
Have you tried him ?
Pilate.
Av
Henceforth he will be kept outside the walls.
Now, listen, wife : whatever dream befalls,
Never again send word to me in Court
To interrupt a case. The Jews made sport
Of what you dreamed and what you bade me fear
About this Jesus man. The laws are clear.
I must apply them, asking nothing more
Than the proved truth. Now tell me of your dream
^Vhat was it ? Tell me then.
Procula.
I saw a gleam
Reddening the world out of a blackened sky,
Then in the horror came a hurt thing's cry
Protesting to the death what no one heard.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 451
Pilate.
What did it say ?
Procula.
A cry, no spoken word
But crying, and a horror, and a sense
Of one poor man's naked intelHgence,
Pitted against the world and being crushed.
Then, waking, there was noise ; a rabble rushed
Following this Jesus here, crjdng for blood,
Like beasts half-reptile in a jungle mud.
And all the horror threatening in the dim,
In what I dreamed of, seemed to threaten him. . . ,
So in my terror I sent word to you,
Begging you dearly to have nought to do
With that wise man.
Pilate.
I grant he says wise things.
Too wise by half, and too much wisdom brings
Trouble, I find. It disagrees with men.
We must protect him from his wisdom then.
Procula.
What have you done to him ?
Pilate.
Made it more hard
For him to wrangle in the Temple yard
Henceforth, I hope.
[Enter Longinus.]
Procula.
You have not punished him ?
Pilate.
Warned him.
452 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
LONGINUS.
The envoy from the Sanhedrim
Is here, my lord.
Pilate.
Go. I must see him. Stay.
You and your women, keep within to-day.
It is the Jewish Feast and blood runs high
Against us Romans when the zealots cry
Songs of their old Deliverance through the land.
Stay, yet. Lord Herod says that he has planned
To visit us to-night, have all prepared.
Procula.
I would have gone to Herod had I dared.
To plead for this man Jesus. All shall be
Made ready. Dear, my dream oppresses me.
[Exit.
Pilate.
It is this earthquake weather : it will end
After a shock. Farewell.
[Enter Chief Citizen.]
Chief Citizen.
Hail, lord and friend,
I come about a man in bonds with you
One Jesus, leader of a perverse crew
That haunts the Temple.
Pilate.
Yes, the man is here.
Chief Citizen.
Charged with sedition ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 453
Pilate.
It did not appear
That he had been seditious. It was proved
That he had mocked at rites which people loved.
No more than that. I have just dealt with him.
You wish to see him ?
Chief Citizen.
No, the Sanhedrim
Send me to tell you of his proved intent.
You know how, not long since, a prophet went
Through all Judaea turning people's brains
With talk of One coming to loose their chains ?
Pilate.
John the Baptiser, whom old Herod killed.
Chief Citizen.
The Jews expect that word to be fulfilled.
They think that One will come. This Jesus claims
To be that Man, Son of the Name of Names,
The Anointed King who will arise and seize
Israel from Rome and you. Such claims as these
Might be held mad in other times than ours.
Pilate.
He is not mad.
Chief Citizen.
But when rebellion lowers
As now, from every hamlet, every farm.
One word so uttered does unreckoned harm.
Pilate.
How do you know this ?
Chief Citizen.
From a man, his friend,
Frightened by thought of where such claims would end.
There had been rumours, yet we only heard
The fact but now. We send you instant word.
454 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Pilate.
Yes. This is serious news. Would I had known.
But none the less, this Jesus is alone.
A common country preacher, as men say,
No more than that, he leads no big array ;
No one believes his claim ?
Chief Citizen.
At present, no.
He had more friends a little while ago,
Before he made these claims of bein" Kinor.
Pilate.
You know about him, then ?
Chief Citizen.
His ministering
Was known to us, of course.
Pilate. .
And disapproved ?
Chief Citizen.
Not wholly, no ; some, truly ; some we loved.
At first he only preached. He preaches well.
Pilate.
What of ?
Chief Citizen.
Of men, and of escape from hell
By good deeds done. But when he learned his power
And flatterers came, then, in an evil hour,
As far as I can judge, his head was turned.
A few days past, from all that we have learned.
He made this claim, and since persists tlicrein.
Deluders are best checked when thev begin.
So, Avhen we heard it from this frightened friend,
We took this course to bring it to an end.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 455
Pilate.
Rightly. I thank you. Do I understand
That friends have fallen from him since he planned
To be this King ?
Chief Citizen.
They have, the most part.
Pilate.
Why?
What makes them turn ?
Chief Citizen.
The claim is blasphemy
Punished by death under the Jewish laws.
Pilate.
And under ours, if sufficient cause
Appear, and yet, if all the Jews despise
This claimant's folly, would it not be wise
To pay no heed, not make important one
Whom all contemn ?
Chief Citizen.
His evil is not done.
His claim persists, the rabble's mind will turn.
Better prevent him. Lord, by being stern.
The man has power.
Pilate.
That is true, he has.
Chief Citizen.
His is the first claim, since the Baptist was.
Better not let it thrive.
Pilate.
It does not thrive.
456 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Chief Citizen.
All ill weeds prosper, lord, if left alive.
The soil is ripe for such a weed as this.
The Jews await a message such as his,
The Anointed Man, of whom our Holy Books
Prophesy much. The Jewish people looks
For Him to come.
Pilate.
These ancient prophecies
Are drugs to keep crude souls from being wise.
Time and again Rome proves herself your friend,
Then some mad writing brings it to an end.
Time and again, until my heart is sick.
Dead prophets spreading madness in the quick.
And now this Jesus whom I hoped to save.
Have you the depositions ?
Chief Citizen.
Yes, I have,
Pilate.
Give me.
Chief Citizen.
This is the docquet.
Pilate.
This is grave.
Chief Citizen.
I thought that you would think so.
Pilate.
I will learn
What he can say to this and then return.
Wait, I must speak. Although I shall not spare
Anyone, man or woman, who may dare
To make a claim that threatens Roman rule,
I do not plan to be a priestly tool.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 457
I know your Temple plots ; pretend not here
That you, the priest, hold me, the Roman, dear.
You, like the other Jews, await this King
Who is to set you free, who is to ding
Rome down to death, as your priests' brains su^Dpose.
This case of Jesus shows it, plainly shows.
He and his claim were not at once disowned ;
You waited, while you thought " He shall be throned,
We will support him, if he wins the crowd."
You would have, too. He would have been endowed
With all your power to support his claim
Had he but pleased the rabble as at first.
But, since he will not back the priestly aim,
Nor stoop to lure the multitude, you thirst
To win my favour by denouncing him.
This rebel does not suit the Sanhedrim.
I know. . . . The next one may.
Chief Citizen.
You wrong us, Sire.
Pilate.
Unless he blench, you 'comphsh your desire
With Jesus, though ; there is no king save Rome
Here, while I hold the reins. Wait till I come.
[Exit Pilate.
The Madman.
Only a penny, a penny.
Lilies brighter than any.
White lilies picked for the Feast.
[He enters, tapping with his stick.]
I am a poor old man who cannot see,
Will the great noble present tell to me
If this is the Paved Court ?
Chief Citizen.
It is.
15*
458 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Madman.
Where men
Beg for a prisoner's freedom ?
Chief Citizen.
Yes. What then ?
Madman.
I come to help the choosing.
Chief Citizen.
Yon can go.
Madman.
Where, lord ?
Chief Citizen.
Why, home. You hear that noise below
Or are you deaf ?
Madman.
No, lordship, only blind.
Chief Citizen.
Come this-day-next-year if you have the mind.
This year you come too late, go home again.
Madman.
Lord, is the prisoner loosed ?
Chief Citizen.
Yes, in the lane.
Can you not hear them cry " Barabbas " there ?
Madman.
Barabbas, lord ?
Chief Citizen.
The prisoner whom they bear
In triumph home.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 459
Madman.
Barabbas ?
Chief Citizen.
Even he.
Madman.
Are not you wrong, my lord ?
Chief Citizen.
Why should^Kbe ?
Madman.
There was another man in bonds, most kind
To me, of old, who suffer, being blind.
Surely they called for him ? One Jesus ? No ?
Chief Citizen.
The choice was made a little while ago.
Barabbas is set free, the man you name
Is not to be released.
Madman.
And yet I came
Hoping to see him loosed.
Chief Citizen,
He waits within
Till the just pain is fitted to his sin.
It will go hard with him, or I mistake.
Pray God it may.
Madman.
I sorrow for his sake.
Chief Citizen.
God's scathe.
[Enter more Jews.]
460 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Madman.
A penny for the love of Heaven.
A given penny is a sin forgiven.
Only a penny, friends.
1st Citizen.
The case was proved. He uttered blasphemy.
Yet Pilate gives him stripes : the man should die.
3rd Citizen.
Wait here awhile. It is not over yet.
This is the door, the man shall pay his debt.
After the beating they will let him go
And we shall catch him.
2nd Citizen.
We will treat him so
That he will not be eager to blaspheme
So glibly, soon.
3rd Citizen.
We will.
1st Citizen.
Did Pilate seem
To you, to try to spare him ?
2nd Citizen.
Ay, he did.
The Roman dog.
3rd Citizen.
We will not.
2nd Citizen.
God forbid.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 461
1st Citizen.
Well, we'll stay here.
2nd Citizen.
We will anoint this King.
Chief Citizen.
You talk of Jesus ?
1st Citizen.
Yes.
Chief Citizen.
I had to bring
News from the Temple but a minute past,
To-day is like to be King Jesus' last.
1st Citizen.
So?
Chief Citizen.
It is sure. Wait here a little while.
1st Citizen.
We mean to, lord. His tongue shall not defile
Our Lord again, by God.
Chief Citizen.
By happy chance
There came a hang-dog man with looks askance,
Troubled in mind, who wished to speak with us.
He said that he had heard the man speak thus
That he was the Messiah, God in man.
He had believed this, but his doubts began
When Jesus, not content, claimed further things ;
To be a yoke upon the necks of Kings.
Emperor and Priest. Then, though he found him kind
In friendship, he was troubled. With bowed mind
He came to us and swore what Jesus claimed.
This Emperor over Kings will now be tamed.
462 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Voices.
Will Pilate back the priests ?
Chief Citizen.
He cannot fail.
It threatens Roman power.
A Voice,
Listen, friends,
Pilate is coming ; hark ! the sitting ends.
No. 'Tis the Bench.
\Tlie Bench is set by Slaves.]
What will Lord Pilate do ?
[The Slaves do not atiswer.]
You Nubian eunuchs answer to the Jew.
Is the man cast ?
A Slave.
The circumcised will see
When Rome is ready.
[Goes in and shuts the door.]
A Voice.
There. They nail a tree.
They make a cross, for those are spikes being driven.
He 's damned.
A Voice.
Not so, he still may be forgiven.
The cross may be for one of those two thieves.
A Voice.
I had forgotten them.
A Voice.
This man believes
That Pilate was inclined to let him go.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 463
2nd Citizen.
That was before this charge came.
A Voice.
Even so
This Roman swine is fond of swine like these.
A Voice.
Come, Pilate, come.
A Voice.
He will not have much ease
This Paschal Feast, if Jesus is not cast.
A Voice.
There is the door. Lord Pilate comes at last.
No. 'Tis the trumpet.
[A Trumpeter comes out.]
Voices.
Blow the trumpet, friend.
A Voice.
Roman. Recruit. When will the sitting end ?
Voices.
Fling something at him. Roman.
A Voice.
O, have done.
He will not hang until the midday sun
And we shall lose our sleeps. Let sentence pass.
A Voice.
[Singing.] As I came by the market I heard a woman
sing :
" My love did truly promise to wed me with a ring,
But, oh, my love deceived me and left me here forlorn
With my spirit full of sorrow, and my baby to be born."
464 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A Voice.
Why are you standing here ?
A Voice.
I came to see.
A Voice.
O, did you so ?
A Voice.
Why do you look at me ?
A Voice.
You were his friend ; You come from Galilee.
A Voice.
I do not.
A Voice.
Yes, you do.
A Voice.
I tell you, No.
A Voice.
You know this man quite well.
A Voice.
I do not know
One thing about him.
A Voice.
Does he know the cur ?
A Voice.
Ay, but denies. He was his follower
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 465
A Voice.
I was not.
A Voice.
Why, I saw you in the hall,
I watched you.
A Voice.
I was never there at all.
A Voice.
So you would be a King.
A Voice.
That was the plan.
A Voice.
I swear to God I never saw the man.
A Voice.
He did ; you liar ; fling him down the stair.
A Voice.
I did not, friends. I hate the man, I swear.
Voices.
You swear too much for truth, down with him, sons.
Leave him, here 's Pilate.
[Enter Longinus and Soldiers.]
LONGINUS.
Stand back. Keep further back. Get down the stair,
Stop all this wrangling. Make less babble there.
Keep back yet further. See you keep that line.
Silence. These Jewish pigs.
The Jews.
The Roman swine.
[Enter Pilate.]
466 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Pilate.
Longinus.
LONGINUS.
Lord.
Pilate.
No Jew here thinks him King,
They want his blood.
Longinus.
They would want anything
That would beguile the hours until the Feast.
Pilate.
I would be glad to disappoint the priest.
I like this Jesus man. A man so wise
Ought not to end through crazy prophecies.
Still, he persists.
Longinus.
They are a stubborn breed.
The medicine Cross is what they mostly need.
Pilate.
Still, this man is, in fact, a kind of king,
A God beside these beasts who spit and sting.
The best Jew I have known.
Longinus.
He had his chance.
Pilate.
Oh yes, he had. We'll let the Jews advance
Into the court. I tried to set him free.
Still, if he will persist, the thing must be.
And yet I am sorry.
Longinus.
I am sorry, too.
He seemed a good brave fellow, for a Jew.
Still, when a man is mad there is no cure
But death, like this.
Shall I begin ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 467
Pilate.
I fear so.
LONGINUS.
I am sure.
Pilate.
Yes.
LONGINUS.
Sound the Assembly. [Trumpet.] Sovmd
The Imperial call. [Trumpet.]
Pilate.
You people, gathered round,
Behold your King.
Voices.
Our King, I see him. Where ?
That heap of clothes behind the soldiers there.
He has been soundly beaten. Look, he bleeds.
A cross on Old Skull Hill is what he needs.
•
Pilate.
What would you, then, that I should do to him ?
Voices.
Stone the blasphemer, tear him limb from limb,
Kill him with stones, he uttered blasphemy.
Give him to us, for us to crucify.
Crucify !
Pilate.
Would you crucify your King ?
Voices.
He is no King of ours ; we have no King
But Caesar. Crucify !
468 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Pilate.
Bring pen and ink.
LONGINUS.
Hold up the prisoner, Lucius ; give him drink.
Pilate.
I come to sentence.
Servant.
Writing things, my lord.
Pilate.
Fasten the parchment to the piece of board.
So. I will write.
Voices.
What does his writing mean ?
It is the sentence of this Nazarene,
Condemning him to death. A little while
And he'll be ours. See Lord Pilate smile.
Why does he smile ?
Pilate.
Longinus.
LONGINUS.
Lord.
Pilate.
Come here.
Go to that man, that upland targeteer,
I want this writ in Hebrew. Bid him write
Big easy letters that will catch the sight.
Longinus.
I will, my lord. Make way.
[Exit Longinus.
i
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 469
A Voice.
What 's on the scroll ?
A Voice.
It gives the prisoner into his control
To nail to death, the foul blaspheming beast.
A Voice.
D'you think he will be dead before the Feast ?
A Voice.
They'll spear him if he lingers until dark.
A Voice.
When Feast begins he will be stiff and stark.
There 's little life left in him as it is.
Voices.
We'll hammer iron through those hands of his,
And through his feet, and when the cross is set
Jolt it ; remember. I will not forget.
A Voice.
Here comes the sentence.
[Enter Longinus.]
A Voice.
Wait ; it is not signed.
A Voice.
Come to the hill, you will be left behind.
I want a good place at the cross's foot.
470 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A Voice.
I've got a stone for when they move the brute.
Besides, I mean to bait him on the way.
I'll spatter him with filth.
A Voice.
No, come away.
Pilate.
Imperial finding in the High Priest's suit.
In the name of Cassar and of Rome. . . .
LONGINUS.
Salute.
Pilate.
I, Procurator of Jud?ea, say
That Jesus, called the King, be led away
To death by crucifixion, here and now.
In the name of Csesar and of Rome. . . .
LONGINUS.
To the sentence of the court.
We bow
This is your warrant.
Pilate.
See sentence done.
LONGINUS.
Sentence shall be done.
Voices.
Away, friends, hurry. Keep a place for me.
Get there before they come, then we shall see
All of the nailing and the fixing on.
Pilate.
Longinus.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 471
LONGINUS.
Lord.
Pilate.
Display this scroll upon
The head of Jesus' cross, that men may read.
Wait ; I'll declare it pubHcly. Take heed. . . .
I add this word, that over Jesus' head
This scroll shall be displayed till he is dead.
Show it, Longinus. Read it if you choose.
Voices.
" Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews."
We'll make him King, we'll set him up in state,
At Golgotha. Come ; drag him through the gate.
Give him his cross. Come, soldiers.
Chief Citizen.
Israel, wait.
Wait. I must speak. Lord Pilate.
Voices.
Stand aside. . . .
Are we to miss his being crucified ?
Chief Citizen.
Wait. Only wait. One word.
Madman.
Lord Pilate. Lord.
Sentry.
Stand back.
Madman.
I'll speak.
Sentry.
I'll tame you with the sword.
472 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Madman.
Lord Pilate, Jesus is an upright man,
I heard his teaching since it first began.
You are mistaken, lord, you are misled.
Spare him, great King,
Sentry.
Get down.
Madman.
Kill me instead.
He never said this thing. [He is beaten aside.]
LONGINUS.
The company,
Attention. Front. Take up the prisoner. By
The left, quick wheel. Down to the courtyard, wheel.
[The Troops go out by the doors, into the barracks,
so as to reach the main gate from within. The Prisoner
is not shown, but only suggested.]
A Voice.
He cannot lift his cross, I saw him reel.
A Voice.
We'll find a man to bring it. Hurry, friends.
Three to be nailed.
A Voice.
The thieves will make good ends.
They always do. This fellow will die soon.
A Voice.
The troops will spear them all before full moon.
Come ; watch them march them out. Get mud to fling.
[They hurry down the staircase O.P. side.]
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 473
Chief Citizen.
[To Pilate.] Lord Pilate, do not write " Jesus the King,"
But that " He called himself ' Jesus the King.' "
Pilate.
Empty this water here. [Servant does.]
Remove this board.
Take in the Bench.
Chief Citizen.
I have to ask, my lord.
That you will change the wording of your scroll.
My lord, it cuts my people to the soul.
Pilate.
Tell Caius Scirrus that I want him. [Exit Servant.]
So. [To Chief Citizen.]
What I have written, I have written. Go. [Exit Chief
Citizen. Pilate watches him.
A yell below as the Troops march out from the main gate.
LoNGiNUs' voice is heard shouting.]
LONGINUS.
Right wheel. Quick march. Close up. Keep your files
close.
[A march is played, oboe and trumpet. Pilate goes
in, the Troops salute, the bronze doors are closed, but a
Sentry stands outside them. The Madman remains.]
Madman.
They cut my face, there 's blood upon my brow.
So, let it run, I am an old man now,
An old, blind beggar picking filth for bread.
Once I wore silk, drank wine,
Spent gold on women, feasted, all was mine ;
But this uneasy current in my head
Burst, one full moon, and cleansed me, then I saw
Truth like a perfect crystal, life its flaw.
I told the world, but I was mad, they said. .
474 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I had a valley farm above a brook,
My sheep bells there were sweet,
And in the summer heat
My mill wheels turned, yet all these things they took ;
Ah, and I gave them, all things I forsook
But that green blade of wheat,
My own soul's courage, that they did not take.
I will go on, although my old heart ache.
Not long, not long.
Soon I shall pass behind
This changing veil to that which does not change,
My tired feet will range
In some green valley of eternal mind
Where Truth is daily like the water's song
[Enter the Chief Citizen.]
Chief Citizen.
Where is Lord Pilate ?
Madman.
Gone within.
Chief Citizen.
You heard
The way he spoke to me ?
Madman.
No, not a word.
The dogs so bayed for blood, I could not hear.
Ask the tall sentry yonder with the spear.
Chief Citizen.
I wish to see Lord Pilate.
Sentry.
Stand aside.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 475
Chief Citizen.
Send word to him ; I cannot be denied.
I have to see him ; it concerns the State
Urgently, too, I tell you.
Sentry.
It can wait.
* Chief Citizen.
It may mean bloodshed.
Sentry.
Bloodshed is my trade.
A sentry's orders have to be obeyed
The same as God's that you were talking of.
Chief Citizen.
I tell 5^ou, I must see him.
Sentry.
That 's enough.
You cannot now.
Madman.
The soldier's words are true.
Chief Citizen.
Could you send word ?
Sentry.
Sir, I have answered you.
Chief Citizen.
Those words that Pilate wrote, the Hebrew screed.
May cause a riot.
476 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Madman.
Yes?
Chief Citizen.
And death.
Sentry.
Indeed.
You got the poor man's hfe, what would you more ?
Chief Citizen,
Means to see Pilate.
Sentry.
As I said before,
You cannot. Stand away. A man hke you
Ought to know better than to lead a crew
To yell for a man's blood. God stop my breath,
What does a man like you with blood and death ?
Go to.
Chief Citizen.
You will not send ?
Sentry.
I will not send.
Chief Citizen.
[Going.] You shall regret this.
Sentry.
Right. Good-bye, my friend.
Chief Citizen.
Means will be found.
[Exit.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 477
Sentry.
These priests, these preaching folk.
[Pause. Sings.]
" Upon a summer morning, I bade my love good-bye,
In the old green glen so far away,
To go to be a soldier on biscuits made of rye."
It is darker than it was.
Madman.
It is falling dark.
Sentry.
It feels like earthquake weather. Listen.
Madman.
Hark.
Sentry.
It sounded like a shock inside the walls.
Madman.
God celebrates the madman's funeral.
Sentry.
The shouts came from the Temple.
Madman.
Yes, they sing
Glory to God there, having killed their King.
Sentry.
You knew that man they are hanging ?
Madman.
Yes. Did you ?
478 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Sentry.
Not till I saw him scourged. Was he a Jew ?
Madman.
No. Wisdom comes from God, and he was wise.
I have touched wisdom since they took my eyes.
Sentry.
So you Avere blinded ? Why ?
Madman.
Thinking aloud,
One Passover.
Sentry.
How so ?
Madman.
I told the crowd
That only a bloody God would care for blood.
The crowd kill kids and smear the lintel wood,
To honour God, who lives in the pure stars.
Sentry.
You must have suffered ; they are angry scars.
Madman.
There is no scar inside.
Sentry.
That may be so ;
Still, it was mad ; men do not wish to know
The truth about their customs, nor aught else.
[Cries off.]
Madman.
They have nailed the teacher Jesus by those yells.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 479
Sentry.
It is darker. There'll be earthquake before night.
What sort of man was he ?
Madman.
He knew the right
And followed her, a stony road, to this.
Sentry. ^
I find sufficient trouble in what is
Without my seeking what is right or wrong.
Madman.
All have to seek her, and the search is long.
i-4
Maybe.
And hard.
Sentry.
Madman.
Sentry.
Maybe. [Pause.'
[Sings.]
" T mean to be a captain before I do return.
Though the winters they may freeze and the summers they
may burn,
I mean to be a captain and command a hundred men
And the women who . . . [A bugle call off.]
There is recall.
[The doors are open and the Sentry goes.]
Madman.
The wild duck, stringing through the sky.
Are south away.
Their green necks glitter as they fly.
The lake is gray.
So still, so lone, the fowler never heeds.
The wind goes rustle, rustle, through the reeds.
480 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
There they find peace to have their own wild souls.
In that still lake,
Only the moonrise or the wind controls
The way they take,
Through the gray reeds, the cocking moor-hen's lair,
Rippling the pool, or over leagues of air.
******
Not thus, not thus are the wild souls of men.
No peace for those
Who step beyond the blindness of the pen
To where the skies unclose.
For them the spitting mob, the cross, the crown of thorns
The bull gone mad, the Saviour on his horns.
Beauty and peace have made,
No peace, no still retreat.
No solace, none.
Only the unafraid
Before life's roaring street
Touch Beauty's feet.
Know Truth, do as God bade.
Become God's son. .
[Pause.]
Darkness, come down, cover a brave man's pain,
Let the bright soul go back to God again.
Cover that tortured flesh, it only serves
To hold that thing which other power nerves.
Darkness, come down, let it be midnight here,
In the dark night the untroubled soul sings clear.
[It darkens.]
I have been scourged, blinded and crucified,
My blood burns on the stones of every street
In every town ; wherever people meet
I have been hounded down, in anguish died.
[It darkens.]
The creaking door of flesh rolls slowly back ;
Nerve by red nerve the links of living crack.
Loosing the soul to tread another track.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 481
Beyond the pain, beyond the broken clay,
A glimmering country lies
Where life is being wise,
All of the beauty seen by truthful eyes
Are lilies there, growing beside the way.
Those golden ones will loose the torted hands.
Smooth the scarred brow, gather the breaking soul,
Whose earthly moments drop like falling sands
To leave the spirit whole.
Now darkness is upon the face of the earth.
[He goes.
Pilate [entering, as the darkness reddens to a glare],
Pilate.
This monstrous day is in the pangs of birth.
There was a shock. I wish the troops were back
From Golgotha. The heavens are more black
Than in the great shock in my first year's rule.
Please God these zealot pilgrims will keep cool
Nor think this done by God for any cause.
The lightning jags the heaven in bloody scraws
Like chronicles of judgment. Now it breaks.
Now rain.
[Entering.] O Pilate.
Procula.
Pilate.
What ?
Speak. Where
is
Procula.
Jesus ?
Pilate.
He is
For all our
crucified.
sakes
Crucified ?
i6
Procula.
482 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Pilate.
Put to death. My wife, I tried
To save him, but such men cannot be saved.
Truth to himself till death was all he craved.
He has his will.
Procula.
So what they said is true.
0 God, my God. But when I spoke to you
You said that you had warned him.
Pilate.
That is so.
Another charge was brought some hours ago,
That he was claiming to be that great King
Foretold by prophets, who shall free the Jews.
This he persisted in. I could not choose
But end a zealot claiming such a thing.
Procula.
He was no zealot.
Pilate.
Yes, on this one poinl.
Had he recanted, well. But he was firm.
So he was cast.
Procula.
The gouts of gore anoint
That temple to the service of the worm.
It is a desecration of our power.
A rude poor man who pitted his pure sense
Against what holds the world its little hour.
Blind force and fraud, priests' mummery and pretence.
Could you not see that this is what he did ?
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 483
Pilate.
Most clearly, wife. But Roman laws forbid
That I should weigh, like God, the worth of souls.
I act for Rome, and Rome is better rid
Of these rare spirits whom no law controls.
He broke a statute, knowing from the first
Whither his act would lead, he was not blind.
Procula.
No, friend, he followed hungry and athirst
The lonely exaltation of his mind.
So Rome, our mother, profits by his death,
You think so ?
Pilate.
Ay.
Procula.
We draw securer breath,
We Romans, for his gasping on the cross ?
Pilate.
Some few will be the calmer for his loss.
Many, perhaps ; he made a dangerous claim.
Even had I spared it would have been the same
A year, or two, from now. Forget him, friend.
Procula.
I have no part nor parcel in his end.
Rather than have it thought I buy my ease,
My body's safety, honour, dignities.
Life and the rest at such a ])rice of pain
There [she stabs her arm with her dagger] is my blood,
to wash away the stain.
There. There once more. It fetched too dear a price.
O God, receive that soul in paradise.
Pilate.
What have you done ?
484 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Procula.
No matter ; it atones.
His blood will clamour from the city stones.
Pilate.
Go in. No, let me bind it.
Procula.
Someone comes.
A councillor, I think. Ask what he wants.
[Enter Joseph.]
Joseph.
Greetings, Lord Pilate.
Pilate.
And to you.
Joseph.
[To Procula.]
And you.
[To Pilate.]
I have a boon to ask,
Procula.
What can we do ?
Joseph.
Lord Pilate, may I speak ?
Pilate.
[To Procula,] Go in. [She goes in.]
[To Joseph.]
Go on.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 485
Joseph.
The man called Christ, the follower of John,
Was crucified to-day by your decree.
[Pilate bows.]
He was my master, very dear to me.
I will not speak of that. I only crave
Leave to prepare his body for the grave,
And then to bury him. May I have leave ?
Pilate.
Yes, you may have him when the guards give leave.
Wait. In a case like this, men may believe
That the dead master is not really dead.
This preaching man, this King, has been the head
Of men who may be good and mean no harm,
Whose tenets, none the less, have caused alarm
First to the priests, and through the priests to me.
I wish this preacher's followers to see
That teaching of the kind is to be curbed.
I mean, established truths may be disturbed,
But not the Jews, nor Rome. You understand ?
Joseph.
I follow ; yes.
Pilate.
A riot might be fanned.
Such things have been, over the martyr's grave.
Joseph.
His broken corpse is all his followers crave.
Pilate.
Why, very well then.
Joseph.
Will you give your seal ?
486 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Pilate.
My seal ? What for ?
Joseph.
That I may show the guard
And have the body.
Pilate.
Gladly ; but I feel . . .
Not yet ; not until dark.
Joseph.
It will be hard
To bury him to-night . . . the feast begins.
Pilate.
I know, but still, when men are crucified . . .
Joseph.
There is no hope of that. The man has died.
Pilate.
Died ? Dead already ?
Joseph.
Yes.
Pilate.
'Tis passing soon.
Joseph.
God broke that bright soul's body as a boon.
He died at the ninth hour.
Pilate.
Are you sure ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 487
Joseph.
I saw him, lord.
Pilate.
\
I thought he would endure
Longer than that ; he had a constant mind.
Joseph.
The great soul burns the body to a rind.
Pilate.
But dead, already ; strange. [Calling.]
You in the court,
Send me Longinus here with his report.
I will, my lord.
A Voice.
Pilate.
This teacher was your friend ?
Joseph.
Was, is, and will be, till the great world end :
Which God grant may be soon.
Pilate.
I disagree
With teachers of new truth. For men like me
There is but one religion, which is Rome.
No easy one to practise, far from home.
You come from Ramah ?
Joseph.
Yes.
Of olives being good ?
Pilate.
What chance is there
488 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Joseph.
They should be fair.
Pilate.
You will not use Italian presses ? No ?
Joseph.
Man likes his own, my lord, however slow ;
What the land made, we say, it ought to use.
Pilate.
Your presses waste ; oil is too good to lose.
But I shall not persuade.
Servant.
Longinus, lord.
Pilate. .
Make your report, centurion. Where 's your sword ;
What makes you come thus jangled ? Are you ill ?
Longinus.
There was a shock of earthquake up the hill.
I have been shaken. I had meant to come
Before ; but I was whirled . . . was stricken dumb.
I left my sword within. , . .
Pilate.
Leave it. Attend.
Is the man, Jesus, dead ? This is his friend
Who wants to bury him ; he says he is.
Longinus.
Jesus is out of all his miseries.
Yes, he is dead, my lord.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 489
Pilate.
Already ?
LONGINUS.
Yes.
The men who suffer most endure the less.
He died without our help.
Joseph.
Then may I have
His body, lord, to lay it in the grave ?
Pilate.
A sentry 's there ?
LONGINUS.
Yes, lord.
Pilate.
Have you a scroll ?
[Takes paper.] Right. Now some wax.
[Writes.] " Give into his control
The body of the teacher ; see it laid
Inside the tomb and see the doorway made
Secure with stones and sealed, then bring me word."
This privilege of burial is conferred
On the conditions I have named to you.
See you observe them strictly.
Joseph.
I will do
All that himself would ask to show my sense
Of this last kindness. I shall go from hence
Soon, perhaps far ; I give you thanks, my lord.
Now the last joy the niggard fates afford ;
One little service more, and then an end
Of that divineness touched at through our friend.
[Exit,
i6*
490 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Pilate.
See that the tomb is sealed by dark to-night.
Where were you hurt, Longinus ? You are white.
What happened at the cross ?
Longinus.
We nailed him there
Aloft between the thieves, in the bright air.
The rabble and the readers mocked with oaths.
The hangman's squad were dicing for his clothes.
The two thieves jeered at him. Then it grew dark.
Till the noon sun was dwindled to a spark,
And one by one the mocking mouths fell still.
We were alone on the accursed hill
And we were still, not even the dice clicked,
Only the heavy blood-gouts dropped and ticked
On to the stone ; the hill is all bald stone.
And now and then the hangers gave a groan.
Up in the dark, three shapes with arms outspread.
The blood-drops spat to show how slow they bled.
They rose up black against the ghastly sky.
God, lord, it is a slow way to make die
A man, a strong man, who can beget men.
Then there would come another groan, and then
One of those thieves (tough cameleers those two)
Would curse the teacher from lips bitten through,
And the other bid him let the teacher be.
I have stood much, but this thing daunted me :
The dark, the livid light, and long, long groans
One on another, coming from their bones.
And it got darker and a glare began
Like the sky burning up above the man.
The hangman's squad stood easy on their spears
And the air moaned, and women were in tears,
While still between his groans the robber cursed.
The sky was grim : it seemed about to burst.
Hours had passed : they seemed like awful days.
Then . . . what was that ?
Pilate.
What ? Where ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 491
LONGINUS.
Fire descending.
A kind of blaze,
Pilate.
No.
LONGINUS.
I saw it.
Pilate.
Yes?
What was it that you saw ?
LOXGINUS.
A fiery tress
Making red letters all across the heaven.
Lord Pilate, pray to God we be forgiven.
Pilate.
" The sky was grim," you said, there at the cross.
What happened next ?
LONGINUS.
The towers bent like moss
Under the fiery figures from the sky.
Horses were in the air, there came a cry.
Jesus was calling God : it struck us dumb.
One said " He is calling God. Wait. Will God come^?
Wait." And we listened in the glare. O Sir,
He was God's son, that man, that minister,
For as he called, fire tore the sky in two,
The sick earth shook and tossed the cross askew,
The earthquake ran like thunder, the earth's bones
Broke, the graves opened, there were falling stones.
Pilate.
I felt the shock even here. So !
492 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
LONGINUS.
Jesus cried
Once more and drooped, I saw that he had died.
Lord, in the earthquake God had come for him.
The thought oft shakes me sick, my eyes are dim.
Pilate.
Tell Scirrus to relieve you.
LONGINUS.
Lord . . .
Pilate.
Dismiss.
Lie down and try to sleep ; forget all this,
Tell Scirrus I command it. Rest to-night.
Go in, Longinus, go.
LONGINUS.
Thank you, Lord Pilate.
[Exit Longinus.
Pilate.
lAlo}ie.] No man can stand an earthquake. Men can
bear
Tumults of water and of fire and air,
But not of earth, man's grave and standing ground ;
When that begins to heave the will goes round.
Longinus, too. [Noise below.] Listen.
Does Herod come ?
I heard his fifes.
[The doors open. Servants enter.]
Servant.
Lord Herod is at hand ;
Will it please your lordship robe ?
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 493
Pilate.
Sprinkle fresh sand.
For blood was shed to-day, here, under foot.
[He robes.]
Well, that ; the other clasp. [Music off.]
A Voice.
Cohort. Salute.
Pilate.
Leave torches at the door. Dismiss. [Servants go.]
He comes
Welcomed by everyone ; the city hums
With joy when Herod passes. Ah, not thus
Do I go through the town. They welcome us
With looks of hate, with mutterings, curses, stones.
[Enter Procula.]
Come, stand with me. Welcome, Lord Herod, here.
Welcome must make amends for barrack cheer.
[The Nubians hold torches at the door. Herod enters.]
Come in, good welcome, Herod.
Procula.
Welcome, sir.
Herod.
To Rome, to Pilate, and to Beauty, greeting ;
Give me your hands. What joy is in this mef'ting
Pilate, again. You, you have hurt your hand ?
Pilate.
It is nothing, sir.
Herod.
Beauty has touched this hand,
A wound has followed.
494 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Procula.
What you please to call
Beauty, my lord, did nothing of the kind.
An earthen vessel tilted with a wall.
Herod.
May it soon mend. Now let me speak my mind.
Pilate, since you have ruled here, there have been
Moments of . . . discord, shall we say ? between
Your government and mine. I am afraid
That I, the native here, have seldom made
Efforts for friendship with you.
Pilate.
Come.
Herod.
I should
Have done more than I have, done all I could,
Healed the raw wound between the land and Rome,
Helped you to make this hellish town a home.
Not left it, as I fear it has been, hell
To you and yours cooped in a citadel
Above rebellion brewing. For the past
I offer deep regret, grief that will last,
And shame ; your generous mind leaves me ashamed.
Pilate.
Really, my lord.
Procula.
These things must not be named.
Pilate.
It is generous of you to speak like this,
But, Herod, hark.
Procula.
If things have been amiss,
The fault was ours.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 495
Herod.
No, the fault was mine.
Your generous act this morning was a sign
Of scrupulous justice done to me by you
Unrecognized, unthanked. I thank you now.
Give me your hand . . . so . . . thus.
Pilate.
Herod, Ij^bow
To what you say. To think that I have done
Something (I know not what) that has begun
A kindher bond between us, touches home.
I have long grieved lest I have injured Rome
By failing towards yourself, where other men
Might have been wiser. . . . That is over, then ?
Our differences henceforth may be discussed
In friendly talk together.
Herod.
So I trust.
Pilate.
Give me your hand ; I have long hoped for this.
I need your help, and you, perhaps, need mine.
The tribes are restless on the border-line,
The whole land seethes : the news from Rome is bad.
But this atones.
Procula.
Oh, fully.
Herod.
I am glad.
Pilate.
Let us go in.
Herod.
You lead.
496 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Procula.
A moment, one. . . .
You named a generous act that he had done . . . ?
Herod.
This morning, yes ; you sent that man to me
Because his crime was laid in Gahlee.
A Httle thing, but still it touched me close ;
It made me think how our disputes arose
When thieves out of your province brought to me
Were punished with a fine, perhaps set free,
Not sent to you to judge, as you sent him.
In future you will find me more a friend.
Or so I hope.
Pilate.
Thanks. May the gods so send
That this may lead to happier days for us.
Voices of the Crowd
[who are now flocking in, among them the Madman].
Herod the good, Herod the glorious.
Long life to Herod.
Pilate.
Come, the crowd begin . . .
Voices.
Herod for ever.
Pilate.
Let us go within. ...
Herod.
Yes. By the by, what happened to the man ?
I sent him back to j^ou ; a rumour ran
That he was crucified.
Pilate.
He was.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 497
Herod.
The priests
Rage upon points of doctrine at the feasts.
Voices.
God bless you, Herod ; give you length of days, Herod.
Herod,
[To the Crowd.] Go home. To God alone give praise.
This is Deliverance Night ; go home, for soon
Over the dusty hill will come the moon,
And you must feast, with prayer to the Adored.
[To Pilate.] He well deserved his deatlj.
God bless you, lord.
I'll lead the way. . .
Voices.
Pilate.
Voices.
Herod.
Herod.
[To Procula,] Lady, your hand.
Procula.
There is a just man's blood upon the sand.
Mind how you tread.
[They go in. The bronze doors are closed. The crowd
remains for an instant watching the doors.^
A Voice.
Herod the Fox makes friends with Pilate. Why ?
A Voice.
He needs a Roman loan.
498 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A Voice.
Look at the sky,
The Paschal moon has risen.
A Voice.
God is great.
Why did I Hnger here ? I shall be late. [Going.
A Voice.
Good-night and blessing.
A Voice.
[Going.] Pilate's colour changed
When we cheered Herod.
A Voice.
They have been estranged
A long while now ; but now they will be friends. [Going.
A Voice.
What joy it is when Preparation ends.
Now to our Feast. Do you go down the stair ?
A Voice.
Yes, past the pools ; will you come with me there ?
A Voice.
I love to walk by moonlight ; let us go. [They go.
A Voice.
[Singing.] Friends, out of Egypt, long ago,
Our wandering fathers came.
Treading the paths that God did show
By pointing cloud and flame.
By land and sea His darkness and His light
Led us into His peace. . . . [The voice dies away.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 499
A Voice.
[Off.] Good-night.
A Voice.
Good-night.
[Only the Madman remains. He takes lilies from a
box and begins to tie them in hunches.]
Madman.
Only a penny, a penny,
Lihes brighter than any,
LiHes whiter than snow. [He feels that he is alone.]
Beautiful lilies grow
Wherever the truth so sweet
Has trodden with bloody feet,
Has stood with a bloody brow.
Friend, it is over now,
The passion, the sweat, the pains.
Only the truth remains, [He lays lilies down.]
:jc :{: ;): ^ ^ :|:
I cannot see what others see ;
Widsom alone is kind to me,
Wisdom that comes from Agony.
* * * * ^- *
Wisdom that lives in the pure skies,
The untouched star, the spirit's eyes :
O Beauty, touch me, make me wise.
Curtain.
ROSAS
501
A
\
ROSAS
THERE was an old lord in the Argentine,
Named Rosas, of the oldest blood in Spain ;
His wife was the proud last of a proud line,
She ruled his house for him and farmed his plain :
They had one child, a tameless boy called John,
Who was a little lad a century gone.
This little boy, the Rosas' only child,
Was not like other children of his age,
His body seemed a trap to something wild
That bit the trap-bars bloody in his rage.
He had mad eyes which glittered and were grim ;
Even as a child men were afraid of him.
And once, when old Lord Rosas at a Fair
Talked with his friends, this little boy being by,
An old man called the child and touched his hair,
And watched the wild thing trapping in his eye.
Then bade the child " Go play," and being gone
Wept bitter tears in sight of everyone.
And when Lord Rosas asked him, why he cried.
He said " Because I see, round that child's head,
A sign of evil things that will betide
Through him, being man. There is a blur of red,
A blur of blood, a devil, at his side ;
I see his future. That was why I cried.
" I am an old, old man limping to death,
And many a wicked thing have I seen done.
Bloody and evil as the Preacher saith
Are ill men's dealings underneath the sun.
But this bright child is fated to such crime
As will make mark a bloody smear on Time."
SOI
504 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So he went weeping, while the gossips bade
Lord Rosas not to heed the poor old loon.
Lord Rosas died soon after and was laid
Deep in the pit where all lie late or soon.
Under the flagstone in the chancel dim
Evil and happy fate were one to him.
After his death, his widow ruled the son
Some few short years ; some bitter bouts they hadj
That old hot proud un-understanding one
Roused night and day the devil in the lad,
She with her plans, and he with all his dreams
Of the great world washed by the ocean streams.
*******
It was the custom in that outland plain,
That young men, nobly born, should serve awhile
Under some merchant, keeping store for gain.
So to learn commerce, and by service vile.
Sweeping the floors, to sense (with gritted teeth)
Man and this world of his from underneath.
And seeing life, because those merchants' stores
Were clubs and markets used by everyone
For plots and bargains and the test of ores.
Senora Rosas ordered that her son
Should like his father, enter, being of age,
A country storehouse as the merchant's page.
" I do as father did ? " he answered, " I ?
Sweep out a cheater's office with a broom.
And peddle sardines ? I had rather die.
While there 's a cow to brand or horse to groom
I'll be a man. So let your merchant find
Some priest or eunuch with my father's mind."
She spoke again. He said, " I will not go."
" Then," she replied, " my son, you shall not eat,
Nor drink, until you do. You tell me. No.
A resty calf that quarrels with the teat
Shall starve, for me. Men, lock this braggart lad
Into his room." They did as they were bade.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 505
They left him in his room all through the day,
With neither food nor drink ; they asked him thrice,
" John, here is dinner ; will you not obey ? "
They brought him raisin biscuits to entice
Him to obey. His friend the horse-herd came.
But John would neither answer nor be tame.
When twilight fell, his mother asked again,
" John, be advised, be wise and do my will.
Why be so headstrong, giving me such pain ?
Are you not hungry ? There is dinner still.
Say you will go, then come and eat with me."
" I won't," he said. " Then you may starve," said she.
So when the night was dark, the mother said,
" Leave him to-night, to-morrow we shall find
His fal-lals cured and I shall be obeyed.
No cure like hunger to a stubborn mind."
Then through the keyhole to her son she cried
" Good-night, my son." None answered from inside.
Then, when the morning came, they knocked the door,
" John, will you go ? " they asked. No answer came.
One said, " I see him lying on the floor.
He is asleep or playing at some game.
Come, Master John, don't treat our lady so.
Look, here are eggs, be good and say you'll go."
No answer came, so then they craned, and peered
Into the keyhole at the room beyond.
" Pray God," said one, " it be not as I feared.
A lad so proud should never be in bond.
He had his Indian lance-head on the shelf.
John, Master John. He may have killed himself.
" John, God, he has. He 's lying on the floor.
Look, there 's his body. Fetch the crowbars here.
Yes, he is dead, God help us ; burst the door,
Run for a doctor, one. A dear, a dear.
He was the likeliest lad there ever was.
Now, Ramon, heave. Now Martin, now Tomas.
506 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Heave." So they hove and entered with the heave;
What they had thought was John was but a pile
Of clothing, rolled to man's shape to deceive.
John was not there, he had been gone awhile.
His bed was cold, a pencilled letter lay
There on his clothes, but John had run away.
" Dear Mother," said the letter, " you and I,
With different souls must live by different laws.
I give back all you gave me, now good-bye.
If I go naked hence, you know the cause.
I keep my father's name. When I am gone
I shall be gone forever. I am, John."
He had gone naked into the night air.
He and his Mother never met again.
He wandered southwards, many leagues from there,
Past the last ranches to the Indian plain.
South to the ranges where the spirits brood,
To daunt wild horses for his livelihood.
*******
There on the ranges with a half-wild crew
Of Gauchos, cut-throats, thieves, and broken rakes
He caught and broke wild horses. There he knew
Death as the bloody pay of all mistakes.
There, in the Indian forays he was bred
To capture colts and squaws and scalp the dead.
There he got strength and skill, till all men there,
Even the Indians, spoke of him as fey.
He beat the unbacked stallion from his mare,
And mounted him, and made the beast obey.
And bitted him and broke, and rode him home
Tame as a gelding, staring, white with foam.
There was no horse so wild he could not break him
By hands and one small thong ; no Gaucho brave
Wrestling him xiaked, knee to knee, could shake him,
Or in the knife game give him what he gave,
Or in the midnight's thundering cattle hunt
Pass the mad herd, Hke him, to turn their front.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 507
But most of all, men saw him take the lead
In war time, when the Indian tribes were out ;
Then he paid bloody threat by bloody deed,
And many a painted Indian in his clout
Swung from the oak-tree branches at his order.
The forays ended while he kept the Border.
Then, when the March was quiet, he became
A rancher there, and wed, and gat a child,
A little girl (Manuela was her name).
Then, as the darling of that frontier wild,
He moved and ruled and glittered and was grim
Among the Gaucho troops who worshipped him.
There was a little child (an old man now)
Who saw him pass once in those Indian days,
" Lean, quick and cruel, with a panther-brow
And wandering eyes that glittered to a blaze.
Eyes of a madman, yet you knew him then
The one man there, a natural king of men."
And cantering with him rode the frontier band
Whooping and swearing as they plied the quirt,
The thousand rake-hells of the South Command
With tossing bit-cups bright and flying dirt
And Rosas far in front ; his long red cloak
Streaming like flame before the thunder stroke.
*******
There were two parties in that distant state.
The Whites and Reds, who, for long years, had filled
The lives of all the country with their hate,
The graves of all their churchyards with their killed.
There was no White or Red with hands not brued
Or smutched in blood in that old party feud.
This feud made havoc in the land ; yet still
Stopped at the ranges where Lord Rosas rode.
There the wild Indians were enough to kill.
Christians were friends, men held the common code,
" Death to the Indians " ; but within the pale
Red against White made murder an old tale.
508 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And in the city where the Senate sat
So violent this bloody quarrel was
That men stole to their business like the cat
By silent streets where pavements sprouted grass,
And at the corners crouched with stealthy eyes,
Peered, and drew back, or flashed upon their prize.
This state of daily murder, nightly plot.
Killing and burning of the White and Red,
Lasted three years, till in the land was not
One home of man without some victim dead ;
Then, in the guilty Senate, someone sane
Cried, " Whites and Reds, let us have peace again.
"This quarrel makes us beasts in the world's eyes.
Anarchs and worse. O let this murder end,
Before God smites us down to make us wise.
Let us forget our pride and condescend ;
Forget the past, and let some leader make
Order among us for the great God's sake."
Then someone said, " What leader ? What man here
Could both sides trust ? All here are Red or White.
This bloodshed will go on another year.
Or ten more years, until we Reds requite
Some of our wrongs, until the Whites restore
Their blooded spoils ; then peace comes ; not before."
Then there was tumult ; but the first took heart,
And spoke again, " We are all sick with blood.
Let be old sins and spoilings. Let us start
Another page. Have done with flinging mud.
Bury the wicked past. Let both sides strive.
Since both sides care, to save this land alive."
Then an old White began : "We Whites have striven
Against injustice ; not for lust of gain.
You Reds no less. Now in the name of Heaven
Let not our fellow sufferer plead in vain.
Life makes us neither Red nor White, but men
Self-bound in hell. Let wisdom free us then ! "
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 509
Then the first speaker answered, " It is clear,
Since this great city is so racked with feud,
And we so stained with blood, that no one here
Can bring back quiet to the multitude.
All here have taken part. Peace cannot come
But by pure hands, into this devildom.
" What I propose is, that we straightway call
Young General Rosas and the South Command
(Men of no clique, but trusted soldiers all)
Here to make peace, that so this groaning land
May, with the help of one whom all can trust,
Finish with feud and rise up from the dust."
There was much talking, but since all were tired
Of murder in the streets, and no way shewed
Save this, to bring the quiet long-desired.
It was decreed ; and so a horseman rode
To summon Rosas north. It was not long
Ere Rosas came, with troops, a thousand strong.
Then Rosas wrote to tell them : " I have come,
I and my men, obeying your request ;
I shall remain until the morning drum.
Then I go back, unless your House invest
Me with the absolute command, to deal
As I think fit to save the Commonweal."
Much as they longed for peace, this bid for power
Startled the House ; they cavilled ; they demurred.
At dawn Lord Rosas wrote : "In one more hour
I return South, so send me instant word."
" It makes him King," they thought, yet in their lust
For party vengeance, all agreed they must.
So, with both parties hoping for the lives
Of all their foes, through Rosas, there was calm,
And Reds and Whites both went to whet their knives
Licking their lips for blood. Without a qualm
The Senate voted, " Let it be agreed
That Rosas come " ; and so it was decreed.
510 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So Rosas entered in and took command
And ruled the city to a Roman peace.
For three long days the cut-throats in his band
Killed at his nod, and when he bade them cease
The town was tame, for those who could not flee
Were killed or crushed. " I rule henceforth," said he.
«|« ?(5 *j* ^n <l> *|* 5p
So Rosas came to power. Soon his hold
Gripped the whole land as though it were a horse.
Church, Money, Law, all yielded. He controlled
That land's wild passions with his wilder force.
And through their tears men heard from time to time
His slaves at worship of his clever crime.
And if the city, terrified to awe,
Loathed him, as slaves their masters, he was still
The Gaucho's darling captain ; he could draw
Their hearts at pleasure with his horseman's skill.
None ever rode like Rosas ; none but he
Could speak their slang or knew their mystery.
So that, in all his bloodiest daysj a crowd
Of Gauchos himg about his palace-gate.
And when he went or came they shouted loud j
" Long life to Captain Rosas." Thc}^ would wait
For hours to catch his nod. Their patient rags
Were brighter to his soul than flowers or flags.
And with this Gaucho power he ruled his slaves
By death alone ; within his audience halls
Stretched end to end on Indian lances' staves.
Were long red streamers propped against the walls
Crowned by these words " Death to the Whites " ; but he
Dealt death to Reds and Whites impartially.
Death was his god, his sword, his creed of power,
Death was his pleasure, for he took delight
To make his wife and daughter shrink and cower
By tales of murder wreaked on Red or White,
And while these women trembled and turned pale,
He shrieked with laughter at the witty tale.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 511
Those two alone could counter Rosas' will ;
His wife and daughter ; they could bend his mind
To mercy (sometimes) from a purposed ill ;
So, when his heart some bloody deed designed,
With merry cunning he would order one
To jail those women till the deed was done.
He had one jest, which was, to bid to feast
Someone most staid, some bishop without speck,
Some city-lord, some widow-soothing priest.
And then to drop red !ire-ants down his neck ;
Then, as his victim flinched and tried to hide
His pains. Lord Rosas laughed until he cried.
He held no Council ; but a Gaucho fool,
Dressed like a British general, played the clown
About the palace, and was used to rule.
Vice-regent for him, when he left the town.
No other colleague had he, but at hand
He kept some twelve, his chosen murder-band.
These twelve were picked young nobles, choicely bred
Sworn in a gang, the Thugs or Gallowsbirds,
A club of Death, of which he was the head.
That saved the State great cost in lawyer's words ;
Writs, prosecutions, bails, defences, pleas,
Were over-ruled by judges such as these.
For, if he wished a person killed, he bade
The victim and the chosen murderer dine
In palace with him, while the minstrels played,
And he was host and joked and passed the wine,
And at the midnight he would see them start
Like friends for home, and all the time the cart
Stood waiting for the corpse at the street-end.
And then the murderer, warming to his man
In the dark alley's chill, would say, " My friend,
I love this talk," and then would jerk a span
Of knife into his throat and leave him dead ;
Then tell the dead-cart-gang and go to bed.
512 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Thus Rosas ruled ; yet still, he feared the Church
That outlasts men, so, on a day, he cried
" Martin, our patron Saint, shall quit his perch ;
No dirty foreign saint shall be our guide.
Priests of those churches which have Martin's head
Over their altars, shall put mine instead."
This the priests did, with many a pious phrase
About obedience. When the deed was done
His haters gave up hope. They could not raise
Any rebellion against such an one.
He was like god, a prying god, who saw
Even in their souls the breakers of his law.
The terror of his rule hung like a ghost
Thirsty for blood, about men's haunted minds.
Those who dared whisper what they felt were lost ;
He ground their fortunes as the miller grinds ;
And in their hate men heard the Gauchos sing
" God-given Rosas is indeed a king."
4: 4c 4: ^ * *
There was a soldier in the city there,
Colonel O'Gorman, with an only child,
A girl, Camilla, worshipped everywhere
For merry sweet young beauty dear and wild.
So dear and merry she was like the sun
Shining and bringing life to everyone.
And in the Bishop's house, there lived a priest.
The Chaplain Laurence, who was sick with shame
At all his Church's sitting at the feast
With bloody-handed men who went and came
Unchecked, unbraved, condoned ; he longed to break
With such a Church, for his religion's sake.
But, being bent, by training, to obey,
And having hope and an appointed task.
He held his tongue, and wrought, and went his way.
And hid his weary heart behind a mask,
Though it was hard. As City Chaplain he
Was widely known throughout the Bishop's see.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 513
And being fond of music, it so fell
That he and that Camilla sometimes met
In quires and singing places ; ah, too well
For those two souls their red and white was set.
For love went winging through their hearts, and then
What else could matter in this world of men ?
They became lovers, but by secret ways.
With single words, with looks, in public rooms,
Among a world of spies, in a great blaze.
They hid this splendid secret of their dooms.
Often a week of longing had to end
Without one word or look from friend to friend.
So months of passionate trouble passed them by
Making them happy with intensest pain
That brought them down all heaven from the sky
And by sharp travail made them born again.
Could they but speak, their passionate souls made blind
Trod the high stars in the eternal mind.
Till, in the Spring, Camilla's father planned
To take Camilla to the country, there
(So he informed her) he would plight her hand
To young Lord Charles, his neighbour's son and heir ;
" For it is time, my dear, that you should wed
One like Don Charles, a friend and lord," he said.
Yet, seeing white dismay upon her face —
He said, " Be calm ; the wedding cannot be
For some weeks more ; you have a little grace,
But still, to-morrow you must start with me,
For you must meet Lord Charles, and come to know
Your luck, dear child, that you should marr} so."
All through that day she entertained the guests ;
All through the evening, as her father's slave.
She sang and played ; but when men sought their rests,
Even as the thin ghost treads the church's nave
She crept out of the house to tell her man,
Laurence, her loved one, of her father's plan.
17
514 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
She reached the Bishop's house in the dead night.
Far off, the dogs barked ; then a noise of bells
Chimed, and the abbey quire shewed a light
Where sleepy monk to monk the office tells.
Lorenzo's lamp still burned ; he paced his room ;
His shadow like a great bat flitted gloom.
There she stood crouched. Two drunken friends went by
Singing, " I fell inclined." She drew her breath.
All the bright stars were merry in the sky.
She called to Laurence, then, as white as death.
She yearned and prayed. His feet upon the stair
Creaked, a bolt clocked and then her man was there.
She told her tale (a bitter tale to both).
Then Laurence said, " Since it has come to this,
This must decide me, and my priestly oath
Must now be broken. I have done amiss
Loving you thus in secret ; now our sin
Must front the world ; a new time must begin.
" I have long known that such a break would come.
I cannot longer serve this Church of ours.
That sees red crime committed and is dumb.
And strows an atheist's path with holy flowers.
We two will fly, to start another life
Far from this wicked town, as man and wife.
'* And if the life be hard, it still will be
A life together, and our own, and all
That life can offer me is you with me.
If you are with me, let what may befall."
" I, too, say that," Camilla said. " Where two
Love to the depths, what evil can men do ? "
They looked a long look in each other's eyes ;
Then hand in hand they put aside the past.
Father, and priestly vows ; for love is wise,
Love plays for life, love stakes upon the cast,
Love is both blind and brave, love only knows
Beauty in the night a little flame that blows.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 515
When the great gates were opened, and the carts
Set out upon the road, those two were there
Bound for the West with quiet in their hearts.
The beauty on them made the carters stare.
There in the West they taught a httle school ;
And she was glad, poor soul, and he, poor fool.
*******
This flight, being known, amused the town awhile.
Camilla's father raged and begged that both
Might be arraigned, she for unfilial guile.
He for the breaking of his priestly oath.
The Bishop sighed. Lord Rosas laughed, and soon
The interest died ; it did not live a moon.
But in a neighbouring state some men there were,
Exiled by Rosas, or his refugees,
Who, safe but starving, lived and plotted there.
Losing no chance of working him disease ;
These heard the tale and in their hate they cried
" Here is a weapon that shall bate his pride."
So, in a journal printed at their cost,
They wrote, how public morals had decayed
Since Rosas came, how the land's soul was lost,
" Witness this priest who has seduced a maid,
Child of a noble, yet is not pursued,
Punished nor chid by lord or multitude.
" This (so they wrote) is only due to him
Whose bloody rule defiles the suffering land ;
By his example is our honour dim,
Church, maiden virtue, nothing, can withstand
His power for evil. By this single crime
The world will know us rotting in our slime."
This, being read, was quoted far and wide
In many lands, with many details more
Of this rebelling chaplain and his bride,
" Lord Rosas' shame, the country's running sore,"
Till, having walked the world, the story came
Back to Lord Rosas like a ravening flame.
516 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He, who had laughed to hear it, foamed with rage
To see it counted as his own disgrace ;
But, having read it through, he turned the page,
Sighed, as though sad, and with a smihng face
Called on the Bishop with a gift of gold
" For orphan babes, the lamblings of your fold."
And, as his way was when he chose, his talk
Was sweet and gentle, and the Bishop shewed
His English lilies flowering in the walk.
Which Rosas praised : the Bishop overflowed
With holy joy when Rosas deigned to say
" Oh, that our souls might be as white as they."
Then, after vespers, when his coach was called
Lord Rosas said, " About this erring priest
Your chaplain Laurence ; you are doubtless galled,
Nay, deeply pained ; but men will soon have ceased
To mock about it ; for itself, let be —
But they are both so young, it touches me.
" You Hked the lad ? " " All like him." " And the
girl ? "
" All loved Camilla." " Could not two old friends
Help two young souls whose hearts are in a whirl ?
Their future lives may make complete amends
For any error now, if you and I
Help them in this their trouble. Shall we try ? "
The Bishop said that he was deeply touched
To hear such Christian words, that he would strive
To reach these children whom mistakes had smutched,
" To bring them peace and save their souls alive."
" I, too, will strive," said Rosas ; " let us learn
First, where they are, and urge them to return.
" Now that their first hour's madness must be over
They must a little crave for what was life
Before their fall, and hunger to recover
Comrade or friend, even as man and wife.
Who were your chaplain's friends before the fall ? "
" A priest," the Bishop said, " from Donegal.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 517
" The priest Concannon was Lorenzo's friend ;
He may have heard where they have pitched their tent ;
He lodges in the parish : shall I send ? "
" No, I will write," said Rosas ; so he went
Home to his palace, and in a little space
Concannon was before him face to face.
And what with wine and flattery and deceit
He turned Concannon's head and made him tell
The name of those young runaways' retreat
Where they taught school beneath the Mission bell.
Lord Rosas said, " When they return to town
We two will back them till they live it down."
So thinking that the pair were now forgiven,
But for some penance and a reprimand,
Concannon left him, giving thanks to heaven
That mercy's spirit governed in the land.
" They will return," he said, " and wed, and make
Amends for all this passion of mistake."
But when he left, Lord Rosas called his guard
To jail his daughter ; then, when she was fast,
He sent a troop of lancers riding hard
To seize those lovers ; ere the night was past
Those two poor souls on whom the world had risen
W^ere chained like thieves and carted to a prison.
But there their guardian, seeing their estate.
Two gently nurtured souls of no proved crime.
Knocked off their irons, and let women wait
On poor Camilla who was near her time.
He lent her music, and with fruit and flowers
And pleasant talk amused some bitter hours.
But in the midnight, as he slept, there came
A man from Rosas, with a sealed command
Which ran, " Take out those lovers without shame,
Before the dawn, and shoot them out of hand.
This is your warrant. Rosas." This he read
Shocked to the heart, but tumbling from his bed
518 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He called his men to change the courier's horse,
Then risking place and life, he wrote to say
" I have your lordship's order, but perforce
Wait confirmation, ere I can obey.
These two are boy and girl ; you cannot mean
To kill these two, whatever they have been."
He sent this letter to his lord, and then
Took horse himself, because he hoped to plead
With Rosas' daughter, for full many men
Had wrought that gentle soul to intercede
For them, in trouble ; but he rode in vain ;
She was imprisoned and he lost his pain.
But writing down his news, he bribed her guard
To carry it to her ; they took the bribe.
Then tore his note and flung it in the yard
Under his eyes, and mocked him with a gibe,
" No messages will go to her," they said,
" Until your friend, the dirty White, is dead."
When this had failed, he bribed a man to bear
A letter to Lord Rosas in his room,
Pleading Camilla's state. To his despair
The answer came, " Baptize the woman's womb ;
Let her drink holy water and then die.
Shoot them at dawn, or hang for mutinv."
o
One of the Stranglers' Gang, who once had known
Camilla's father, brought this final word.
Adding, " Be wise ; let sleeping dogs alone.
Do as he bids, for it would be absurd
To disobey, it could not save the two,
Even for a day, and he would murder you."
So, giving up all hope, he took his horse ;
But, as he rode, another scheme seemed fair,
" Even now," he said, " things need not take their course ;
Her father may appeal," but coming there
He found her father gone, two days before.
To France (they told him) to return no more.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 519
He turned away, but then, one other chance
Remained, to beg the Bishop to appeal ;
But some great suit of church inheritance
Had taken him from town. The whetted steel
Wanted its blood. " So they must die," he cried.
And as he rode he felt death run beside.
So in the dawn, the drummers beat the call,
And those poor children, wakened to be killed.
Were taken out and placed against a wall
Facing the soldiers ; then the bell was stilled
That had been tolling, and a minute's space
Was given for their farewells and last embrace.
And Laurence said, " Camilla, we shall be
In death together. In some other life.
If not in this, dear, you will be with me.
0 my sweet soul, O my beloved wife.
You come to this through me. O my sweet friend,
My love has brought you to this shameful end."
" Not shameful," said Camilla. " All I did
1 have done proudly. As I have begun.
So let me end. What human laws forbid
By love's intenser canon we have done.
Let love's intenser purpose heal the smart
At having done with this poor timorous heart.
" I would have loved this little child in me
To suck my breast and clap its little hands.
And rest its little body on my knee,
And be like you ; but now the running sands
Come to an end, and we must die, my own.
So be it ; we have loved unto the bone."
Then hand in hand they faced the firing squad,
Who shot them dead into their waiting graves.
Love for each other was all the wealth they had.
Love that atones, the steady star that saves,
Love that, when shattering bullets broke them blind,
Lit them a path and linked them mind to mind.
520 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
When the dog's pity of their death was told.
Lord Rosas straight proclaimed, " I have upheld
This country's morals, as I shall uphold.
There they lie dead, those wicked who rebelled.
I have made pure the country's spotted fame."
The country read the story and was tame.
But man by man, they crept out of the land
Day after day, till there were thousands fled
Who in their exile, swore them to a band
Not to return save over Rosas dead.
Though they lodged earthen like the naked worm
This tale of those poor lovers kept them firm.
Thousands they were and daily they increased
With arms and faith, until their multitude
Fell on Lord Rosas as the supping east
Falls on the barrens where the spirits brood.
They came resolved to kill him or to die,
" Remember those poor lovers," was their cry.
When Rosas heard their clamour he prepared
His Gaucho lancers. From a rolling hill
Outside the city, all the plain lies bared,
Cornfields, and waters turning many a mill,
Cities and woodlands, and a distance dim ;
There Rosas watched his Gauchos fight for him.
But from the sworn attackers came a shout
" Remember those poor lovers," and their charge
Scattered the Gaucho lancers in a rout.
And chased their remnants to the river marge.
Then Rosas turned his horse and rode alone
To some mean dockyard where he was not known.
There, casting loose his horse, he bought a coat
Fit for a sailor, and in this new dress
Shipped as a seaman in a cargo-boat
Then leaving port, for England, as I guess.
There on her deck that night he took his stand
And looked his last upon his native land.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 521
He died in England many a year ago ;
His daughter, too ; both lie in English soil.
They say that great moon-daisies love to grow
Over Camilla, and with loving toil
Soldiers who drill there train the rose-tree boughs
Over the daisies on their narrow house.
A white rose on Camilla and a red
Over Don Laurence, and the branches meet
Mingling their many blossoms overhead
Drawing the bees, and when the sun is sweet
In April there, the little children lay
" Gifts for the pretty lovers " on the clay.
17*
REYNARD THE FOX
OR
THE GHOST HEATH RUN
S23
%.
REYNARD THE FOX
OR
THE GHOST HEATH RUN
Part I
THE meet was at " The Cock and Pye
By Charles and Martha Enderby,"
The grey, three-hundred-year-old inn
Long since the haunt of Benjamin
The highwayman, who rode the bay.
The tavern fronts the coaching way,
The mail changed horses there of old.
It has a strip of grassy mould
In front of it, a broad green strip.
A trough, where horses' muzzles dip.
Stands opposite the tavern front.
And there that morning came the hunt,
To fill that quiet width of road
As full of men as Framilode
Is full of sea when tide is in.
The stables were alive with din
From dawn until the time of meeting.
A pad-groom gave a cloth a beating,
Knocking the dust out with a stake.
Two men cleaned stalls with fork and rake,
And one went whistling to the pump,
The handle whined, ker-lump, ker-lump,
The water splashed into the pail.
And, as he went, it left a trail.
Lipped over on the yard's bricked paving.
Two grooms (sent on before) were shaving
There in the yard, at glasses propped
On jutting bricks ; they scraped and stropped,
525
526 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And felt their chins and leaned and peered,
A woodland day was what they feared
(As second horseman), shaving there.
Then, in the stalls where hunters were,
Straw rustled as the horses shifted,
The hayseeds ticked and haystraws drifted
From racks as horses tugged their feed.
Slow gulping sounds of steady greed
Came from each stall, and sometimes stampings.
Whinnies (at well-known steps) and rampings,
To see the horse in the next stall.
Outside, the spangled cock did call
To scattering grain that Martha flung.
And many a time a mop was wrung
By Susan ere the floor was clean.
The harness-room, that busy scene,
Clinked and chinked from ostlers brightening
Rings and bits with dips of whitening,
Rubbing fox-flecks out of stirrups,
Dumbing buckles of their chirrups
By the touch of oily feathers.
Some, with stag's bones rubbed at leathers.
Brushed at saddle-flaps or hove
Saddle-linings to the stove.
Blue smoke from strong tobacco drifted
Out of the yard, the passers snifft it.
Mixed with the strong ammonia flavour
Of horses' stables and the savour
Of saddle-paste and polish spirit
Which put the gleam on flap and tirrit.
The grooms in shirts with rolled-up sleeves.
Belted by girths of coloured weaves.
Groomed the clipped hunters in their stalls.
One said : " My dad cured saddle-galls,
He called it Dr. Barton's cure —
Hog's lard and borax, laid on pure."
And others said : " Ge' back, my son,"
" Stand over, girl ; now, girl, ha' done."
" Now, boy, no snapping ; gently. Crikes !
He gives a rare pinch when he likes."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 527
" Drawn blood ? I thought he looked a biter."
*' I give 'em all sweet spit of nitre
For that, myself : that sometimes cures."
" Now, Beauty, mind them feet of yours."
They groomed, and sissed with hissing notes
To keep the dust out of their throats.
*****
There came again and yet again
The feed-box lid, the swish of grain,
Or Joe's boots stamping in the loft.
The hay-fork's stab and then the soft
Hay's scratching slither down the shoot.
Then with a thud some horse's foot
Stamped, and the gulping munch again
Resumed its lippings at the grain.
*****
The road outside the inn was quiet
Save for the poor, mad, restless pyat
Hopping his hanging wicker-cage.
No calmative of sleep or sage
Will cure the fever to be free.
He shook the wicker ceaselessly
Now up, now down, but never out,
On wind-waves, being blown about,
Looking for dead things good to eat.
His cage was strewn with scattered wheat.
*****
At ten o'clock, the Doctor's lad
Brought up his master's hunting pad
And put him in a stall, and leaned
Against the stall, and sissed, and cleaned
The port and cannons of his curb.
He chewed a sprig of smelling herb.
He sometimes stopped, and spat, and chid
The silly things his master did.
*****
At twenty past, old Baldock strode
His ploughman's straddle down the road.
An old man with a gaunt, burnt face.
His eyes rapt back on some far place
528 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Like some starved, half-mad saint in bliss
In God's world through the rags of this.
He leaned upon a stake of ash
Cut from a sapling : many a gash
Was in his old, full-skirted coat.
The twisted muscles in his throat
Moved, as he swallowed, like taut cord.
His oaken face was seamed and gored ;
He halted by the inn and stared
On that far bliss, that place prepared,
Beyond his eyes, beyond his mind.
4^ :)c :|: :): ^
Then Thomas Copp, of Cowfoot's Wynd,
Drove up ; and stopped to take a glass.
" I hope they'll gallop on my grass,"
He said ; " my little girl does sing
To see the red coats galloping.
It 's good for grass, too, to be trodden
Except they poach it, where it 's sodden."
* ^5 * !|! S|5
Then Billy Waldrist, from the Lynn,
With Jockey Hill, from Pitts, came in
And had a sip of gin and stout
To help the jockey's sweatings out.
" Rare day for scent," the jockey said.
A pony like a feather bed
On four short sticks, took place aside.
The little girl who rode astride
Watched everything with eyes that glowed
With glory in the horse she rode.
* * * * !ii
At half-past ten some lads on foot
Came to be beaters to a shoot
Of rabbits on the Warren Hill.
Rough sticks they had, and Hob and Jill,
Their ferrets, in a bag, and netting.
They talked of dinner-beer and betting.
And jeered at those who stood around.
They rolled their dogs upon the ground.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 529
And teased them : " Rats," they cried, " go fetch ! "
" Go seek, good Roxer ; 'z bite, good betch.
What dinner-beer'll they give us, lad ?
Sex quarts the lot last year we had.
They'd ought to give us seven this.
Seek, Susan ; what a betch it is."
'fC 9(S 9{C !f£ SfC
A pommle cob came trotting up,
Round-bellied like a drinking-cup.
Bearing on back a pommle man,
Round-bellied like a drinking-can,
The clergyman from Condicote.
His face was scarlet from his trot.
His white hair bobbed about his head
As halos do round clergy dead.
He asked Tom Copp, " How long to wait ? "
His loose mouth opened like a gate,
To pass the wagons of his speech.
He had a mighty voice to preach,
Though indolent in other matters.
He let his children go in tatters.
*****
His daughter Madge on foot, flush-cheekt,
In broken hat and boots that leakt,
With bits of hay all over her,
Her plain face grinning at the stir
(A broad pale face, snub-nosed, with speckles
Of sandy eyebrows sprinkt with freckles),
Came after him and stood apart
Beside the darling of her heart,
Miss Hattie Dyce from Baydon Dean,
A big young fair one, chiselled clean
Brow, chin and nose, with great blue eyes
All innocence and sweet surprise,
And golden hair piled coil on coil.
Too beautiful for time to spoil.
They talked in undertones together —
Not of the hunting, nor the weather.
* * * * *
Old Steven from Scratch Steven Place
(A white beard and a rosy face)
580
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Came next on his stringhalty grey.
" I've come to see the hounds away,"
He said, " and ride a field or two.
We old have better things to do
Than breaking all our necks for fun."
He shone on people like the sun,
And on himself for shining so.
•!» "i» 't^ T* ^»
Three men came riding in a row :
John Pym, a bull-man, quick to strike,
Gross and blunt-headed like a shrike,
Yet sweet-voiced as a piping flute ;
Tom See, the trainer, from the Toot,
Red, with an angry, puzzled face
And mouth twitched upward out of place,
Sucking cheap grapes and spitting seeds ;
And Stone, of Bartle's Cattle Feeds,
A man whose bulk of flesh and bone
Made people call him Twenty Stone.
He was the man who stood a pull
At Tencombe with the Jersey bull,
And brought the bull back to his stall.
:(: 4= % ^ 4:
Some children ranged the tavern-wall.
Sucking their thumbs and staring hard ;
Some grooms brought horses from the yard.
Jane Selbie said to Ellen Tranter,
" A lot on 'em come doggin', ant her ? "
" A lot on 'em," said Ellen. " Look,
There'm Mr. Gaunt of Water's Hook.
They say he . . ." (whispered). " LaAv ! " said Jane.
Gaunt flung his heel across the mane.
And slithered from his horse and stamped.
" Boots tight," he said, " my feet are cramped."
A loose-shod horse came clicking-clack ;
Nick Wolvesey on a hired hack
Came tittup, like a cup and ball.
One saw the sun, moon, stars, and all
The great green earth twixt him and saddle
Then Molly Wolvesey riding straddle,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 581
Red as a rose with eyes like sparks ;
Two boys from college out for larks
Hunted bright Molly for a smile,
But were not worth their quarry's while.
"n "P "i* •!* "I*
Two eye-glassed gunners dressed in tweed
Came with a spaniel on a lead
And waited for a fellow-gunner.
The parson's son, the famous runner,
Came dressed to follow hounds on foot.
His knees were red as yew-tree root
From being bare, day in, day out.
He wore a blazer, and a clout
(His sweater's arms) tied round his neck.
His football shorts had many a speck
And splash of mud from many a fall
Got as he picked the slippery ball
Heeled out behind a breaking scrum.
He grinned at people, but was dumb,
Not like these lousy foreigners.
The otter-hounds and harriers
From Godstow to the Wye all knew him.
And with him came the stock which grew him,
The parson and his sporting ^^^fe.
She was a stout one, full of life.
With red, quick, kindly, manly face.
She held the knave, queen, king and ace.
In every hand she played with men.
She was no sister to the hen,
But fierce and minded to be queen.
She wore a coat and skirt of green,
A waistcoat cut of hunting red,
Her tiepin was a fox's head.
The parson was a manly one,
His jolly eyes were bright with fun.
His jolly mouth was well inclined
To cry aloud his jolly mind
To everyone, in jolly terms.
He did not talk of churchyard worms.
532 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
But of our privilege as dust
To box a lively bout with lust
Ere going to heaven to rejoice.
He loved the sound of his own voice,
His talk was like a charge of horse,
His build was all compact, for force.
Well-knit, well-made, well-coloured, eager.
He kept no Lent to make him meagre.
He loved his God, himself and man.
He never said, " Life's wretched span ;
This wicked world," in any sermon.
This body that we feed the worm on,
To him, was jovial stuff that thrilled.
He liked to see the foxes killed ;
But most he felt himself in clover
To hear, " Hen left, hare right, cock over,"
At woodside, when the leaves are brown.
Some grey cathedral in a town
Where drowsy bells toll out the time
To shaven closes sweet with lime,
And wallflower roots rive out the mortar
All summer on the Norman dortar
Was certain some day to be his ;
Nor would a mitre go amiss
To him, because he governed well.
His voice was like the tenor bell
When services were said and sung.
And he had read in many a tongue,
Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, Greek.
"!• "F •F "I* ^
Two bright young women, nothing meek,
Rode up on bicycles and propped
Their wheels in such wise that they dropped
To bring the parson's son to aid.
Their cycling suits were tailor-made.
Smart, mannish, pert, but feminine.
The colour and the zest of wine
Were in their presence and their bearing ;
Like spring, they brought the thought of pairing,
The parson's lady thought them pert.
And they could mock a man and flirt,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 533
Do billiard tricks with corks and pennies,
Sing ragtime songs and win at tennis
The silver cigarette-case prize.
They had good colour and bright eyes,
Bright hair, bright teeth and pretty skin.
Which many lads had longed to win
On darkened stairways after dances.
Their reading was the last romances.
And they were dashing hockey players.
Men called them " Jill and Joan, the slayers."
They were bright as fresh sweet-peas.
Old Farmer Bennett followed these
Upon his big-boned savage black,
Whose mule-teeth yellowed to bite back
Whatever came within his reach.
Old Bennett sat him like a leech.
The grim old rider seemed to be
As hard about the mouth as he.
* * * * H:
The beaters nudged each other's ribs
With " There he goes, his bloody Nibs.
He come on Joe and Anty Cop,
And beat 'em with his hunting-crop
Like tho' they'd bin a sack of beans.
His pickers were a pack of queans,
And Joe and Anty took a couple.
He caught 'em there, and banged 'em supple.
Women and men, he didn't care
(He'd kill 'em some day, if he dare),
He beat the whole four nearly dead :
' I'll learn 'ee rabbit in my shed ;
That 's how my ricks get set afire."
That 's what he said, the bloody liar ;
Old oaf ! I'd like to burn his ricks,
Th' old swine 's too free with fists and sticks.
He keeps that Mrs. Jones himselve."
* * ^ 4: 4:
Just like an axehead on its helve
Old Bennett sat and watched the gathering.
He'd given many a man a lathering
584 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
In field or barn, and women too.
His cold eye reached the women through
With comment, and the men with scorn.
He hated women gently born,
He hated all beyond his grasp.
For he was minded like the asp,
That strikes whatever is not dust.
* ^ !¥ * *
Charles Copse, of Copse Hold Manor, thrust
Next into view. In face and limb
The beauty and the grace of him
Were like the Golden Age returned.
His grave eyes steadily discerned
The good in men and what was wise.
He had deep blue, mild-coloured eyes
And shocks of harvest-coloured hair
Still beautiful with youth. An air
Or power of kindness went about him ;
No heart of youth could ever doubt him
Or fail to follow where he led.
He was a genius, simply bred,
And quite unconscious of his power.
He was the very red rose flower
Of all that coloured countryside.
Gauchos had taught him how to ride.
He knew all arts, but practised most
The art of bettering flesh and ghost
In men and lads down in the mud.
He knew no class in flesh and blood.
He loved his kind. He spent some pith,
Long since, relieving Ladysmith.
Many a horse he trotted tame
Heading commandos from their aim
In those old days upon the veldt.
An old bear in a scarlet pelt
Came next, old Squire Harridew,
His eyebrows gave a man the grue,
So bushy and so fierce they were ;
He had a bitter tongue to swear.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 585
A''fierce, hot, hard, old, stupid squire,
With all his liver made of fire.
Small brain, great courage, mulish will.
The hearts in all his house stood still
When someone crossed the Squire's path.
For he was terrible in wrath.
And smashed whatever came to hand.
Two things he failed to understand.
The foreigner and what was new.
His daughters, Carrie, Jane and Lou,
Rode with him, Carrie at his side.
His son, the ne'er-do-weel, had died
In Arizona long before.
The Squire set the greatest store
By Carrie, youngest of the three,
And lovely to the blood was she ;
Blonde, with a face of blush and cream,
And eyes deep violet in their gleam.
Bright blue when quiet in repose.
She was a very golden rose.
And many a man when sunset came
Would see the manor windows flame.
And think, " My beauty's home is there."
Queen Helen had less golden hair.
Queen Cleopatra paler lips.
Queen Blanche's eyes were in eclipse
By golden Carrie's glancing by.
She had a wit for mockery
And sang mild, pretty, senseless songs
Of sunsets, Heav'n and lovers' wrongs,
Sweet to the Squire when he had dined.
A rosebud need not have a mind.
A lily is not sweet from learning.
Jane looked like a dark-lantern, burning,
Outwardly dark, unkempt, uncouth.
But minded like the living truth,
A friend that nothing shook nor wearied.
She was not " Darling Jane'd " nor " Dearie'd."
586 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
She was all prickles to the touch,
So sharp that many feared to clutch,
So keen that many thought her bitter.
She let the little sparrows twitter.
She had a hard, ungracious way.
Her storm of hair was iron-grey.
And she was passionate in her heart
For women's souls that burn apart,
Just as her mother's had, with Squire.
She gave the sense of smouldering fire.
She was not happy being a maid.
At home, with Squire, but she stayed.
Enduring life, however bleak,
To guard her sisters, who were weak.
And force a life for them from Squire.
And she had roused and stood his fire
A hundred times, and earned his hate.
To win those two a better state.
Long years before the Canon's son
Had cared for her, but he had gone
To Klondyke, to the mines, for gold.
To find, in some strange way untold,
A foreign grave that no men knew.
*****
No depth, nor beauty, was in Lou,
But charm and fun, for she was merry.
Round, sweet and little, like a cherry,
With laughter like a robin's singing ;
She was not kitten-like and clinging.
But pert and arch and fond of flirting,
In mocking ways that were not hurting,
And merry ways that women pardoned.
Not being married yet she gardened.
She loved sweet music ; she would sing
Songs made before the German King
Made England German in her mind.
She sang " My Lady is unkind,"
" The Hunt is up," and those sweet things
Which Thomas Campion set to strings,
"Thrice toss," and " What," and "Where are now ?"
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 537
The next to come was Major Howe
Driv'n in a dog-cart by a groom.
The testy major was in fume
To, find no hunter standing waiting ;
The groom who drove him caught a rating,
The groom who had the horse in stable
Was. damned in half the tongues of Babel,
The Major being hot and heady
When horse or dinner was not ready.
He was a lean, tough, liverish fellow,
With pale blue eyes (the whites pale yellow),
Moustache clipped toothbrush-wise, and jaws
Shaved bluish like old partridge claws.
When he had stripped his coat he made
A speckless presence for parade,
New pink, white cords, and glossy tops,
New gloves, the newest thing in crops,
Worn with an air that well expressed
His sense that no one else was dressed.
*****
Quick trotting after Major Howe
Came Doctor Frome of Quickemshow,
A smiling silent man whose brain
Knew all of every secret pain
In every man and woman there.
Their inmost lives were all laid bare
To him, because he touched their lives
When strong emotions sharp as knives
Brought out what^sort of soul each;, was.
As secret as the graveyard grass
He was, as he had need to be.
At some time he had had to see
Each person there, sans clothes, sans mask,
Sans lying even, when to ask
Probed a tamed spirit into truth.
*****
Richard, his son, a jolly youth,
Rode with him, fresh from Thomas's,
As merry as a yearling is
In May-time in a clover patch.
He was a gallant chick to hatch.
588 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Big, brown and smiling, blithe and kind,
With all his father's love of mind
And greater force to give it act.
To see him when the scrum was packt,
Heave, playing forward, was a sight.
His tackling was the crowd's delight
In many a danger close to goal.
The pride in the three-quarter's soul
Dropped, like a wet rag, when he collared.
He was as steady as a bollard,
And gallant as a skysail yard.
He rode a chestnut mare which sparred.
In good St, Thomas' Hospital
He was the crown imperial
Of all the scholars of his year.
The Harold lads, from Tencombe Weir,
Came all on foot in corduroys,
Poor widowed Mrs. Harold's boys,
Dick, Hal and Charles, whose father died.
(Will Masemore shot him in the side
By accident at Masemore Farm.
A hazel knocked Will Masemore's arm
In getting through a hedge ; his gun
Was not half-cocked, so it was done,
And those three boys left fatherless.)
Their gaitered legs were in a mess
With good red mud from twenty ditches,
Hal's face was plastered like his breeches,
Dick chewed a twig of juniper.
They kept at distance from the stir.
Their loss had made them lads apart.
Next came the Colways' pony-cart
From Coin St. Evelyn's with the party.
Hugh Col way, jovial, bold and hearty,
And Polly Colway's brother, John
(Their horses had been both sent on).
And Polly Colway drove them there.
Poor pretty Polly Colway's hair !
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 589
The grey mare killed her at the brook
Down seven springs mead at Water Hook
Just one month later, poor sweet woman.
Her brother was a rat-faced Roman,
Lean, puckered, tight-skinned from the sea.
Commander in the Canace,
Able to drive a horse, or ship.
Or crew of men without a whip
By will, as long as they could go.
His face would wrinkle, row on row,
From mouth to hair-roots when he laught.
He looked ahead as though his craft
Were with him still, in dangerous channels.
He and Hugh Colway tossed their flannels
Into the pony-cart and mounted.
Six foiled attempts the watchers counted,
The horses being bickering things
That so much scarlet made like kings.
Such sidling and such pawing and shifting.
When Hugh was up his mare went drifting
Sidelong and feeling with her heels
For horses' legs and poshay wheels,
While lather creamed her neat dipt skin.
Hugh guessed her foibles with a grin.
He was a rich town-merchant's son,
A wise and kind man, fond of fun,
Who loved to have a troop of friends
At Coin St. Eves for all week-ends.
And troops of children in for tea.
He gloried in a Christmas-Tree.
And Polly was his heart's best treasure.
And Polly was a golden pleasure
To everyone, to see or hear.
*****
Poor Polly's dying struck him queer.
He was a darkened man thereafter,
Cowed, silent, he would wince at laughter
And be so gentle it was strange
Even to see. Life loves to change.
540 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Now Coin St. Evelyn's hearths are cold.
The shutters up, the hunters sold,
And green mould damps the locked front door.
But this was still a month before,
And Polly, golden in the chaise.
Still smiled, and there were golden days,
Still thirty days, for those dear lovers.
The Riddens came, from Ocle Covers,
Bill Ridden riding Stormalong
(By Tempest out of Love-me-Long),
A proper handful of a horse
That nothing but the Aintree course
Could bring to terms, save Bill perhaps.
All sport, from bloody war to scraps.
Came well to Bill, that big-mouthed smiler.
They nicknamed him " the mug-beguiler,"
For Billy lived too much with horses.
In copers' yards and sharpers' courses.
To lack the sharper-coper streak.
He did not turn the other cheek
When struck (as English Christians do) ;
He boxed like a Whitechapel Jew,
And many a time his knuckles bled
Against a racecourse-gipsy's head.
For " hit him first and argue later "
Was truth at Billy's Alma Mater,
Not love, not any bosh of love.
His hand was like a chamois glove.
And riding was his chief delight.
He bred the chaser Chinese- White
From Lilybud by Mandarin.
And when his mouth tucked corners in,
And scent was high and hounds were going.
He went across a field like snowing
And tackled anything that came.
His wife, Sal Ridden, was the same,
A loud, bold, blonde, abundant mare
With white horse-teeth and stooks of hair
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 541
(Like polished brass) and such a manner
It flaunted from her Hke a banner.
Her father was Tom See the trainer.
She rode a lovely earth-disdainer
Which she and Billy wished to sell.
*****
Behind them rode her daughter Belle,
A strange, shy, lovely girl, whose face
Was sweet with thought and proud with race,
And bright with joy at riding there.
She was as good as blowing air,
But shy and difficult to know.
The kittens in the barley-mow,
The setter's toothless puppies sprawling,
The blackbird in the apple calling.
All knew her spirit more than we.
So delicate these maidens be
In loving lovely helpless things.
The Manor set, from Tencombe Rings,
Came with two friends, a set of six.
Ed Manor with his cockerel chicks,
Nob, Cob and Bunny, as they called them
(God help the school or rule which galled them ;
They carried head), and friends from town.
Ed Manor trained on Tencombe Down,
He once had been a famous bat ;
He had that stroke, " the Manor-pat,"
Which snicked the ball for three, past cover.
He once scored twenty in an over.
But now he cricketed no more.
He purpled in the face and swore
At all three sons, and trained, and told
Long tales of cricketing of old,
When he alone had saved his side.
Drink made it doubtful if he lied.
Drink purpled him, he could not face
The fences now, nor go the pace
He brought his friends to meet ; no more.
542 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
His big son Nob, at whom he swore,
Swore back at him, for Nob was surly,
Tall, shifty, sullen-smiHng, burly,
Quite fearless, built with such a jaw
That no man's rule could be his law
Nor any woman's son his master.
Boxing he relished. He could plaster
All those who boxed out Tencombe way.
A front tooth had been knocked away
Two days before, which put his mouth
A little to the east of south.
And put a venom in his laughter.
*****
Cob was a hghter lad, but dafter,
Just past eighteen, while Nob was twenty.
Nob had no nerves but Cob had plenty.
So Cobby went where Nobby led.
He had no brains inside his head.
Was fearless, just like Nob, but put
Some clog of folly round his foot,
Where Nob put will of force or fraud.
He spat aside and muttered Gawd
When vext ; he took to whisky kindly
And loved and followed Nobby blindly,
And rode as in the saddle born.
*****
Bun looked upon the two with scorn.
He was the youngest, and was wise.
He too was fair, with sullen eyes,
He too (a year before) had had
A zest for going to the bad,
With Cob and Nob. He knew the joys
Of drinking with the stable-boys.
Or smoking while he filled his skin
With pints of Guinness dashed with gin
And Cobby yelled a bawdy ditty,
Or cutting Nobby for the kitty.
And damning people's eyes and guts.
Or drawing evening-church for sluts ;
He knew them all and now was quit.
*****
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 543
Sweet Polly Colway managed it
And Bunny changed. He dropped his drink
(The pleasant pit's seductive brink),
He started working in the stable,
And well, for he was shrewd and able.
He left the doubtful female friends
Picked up at Evening-Service ends,
He gave up cards and swore no more.
Nob^called him " the Reforming Whore,"
" The Soul's Awakening," or " The Text,"
Nob being always coarse when vext.
*****
Ed Manor's friends were Hawke and Sladd,
Old college friends, the last he had,
Rare horsemen, but their nerves were shaken
By all the whisky they had taken.
Hawke's hand was trembling on his rein.
His eyes were dead-blue like a vein.
His peaked, sad face was touched with breeding,
His querulous mind was quaint from reading,
His piping voice still quirked with fun.
Many a mad thing he had done,
Riding to hounds and going to races.
A glimmer of the gambler's graces.
Wit, courage, devil, touched his talk.
*****
Sladd's big fat face was white as chalk,
His mind went wandering, swift yet solemn,
Twixt winning-post and betting-column.
The weights and forms and likely colts.
He said, " This road is full of jolts.
I shall be seasick riding here.
Oh, damn last night with that liqueur ! "
Len Stokes rode up on Peterkin ;
He owned the downs by Baydon Whin ;
And grazed some thousand sheep ; the boy
Grinned round at men with jolly joy
At being alive and being there.
His big round face and mop of hair
544 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Shone, his great teeth shone in his grin.
The clean blood in his clear tanned skin
Ran merry, and his great voice mocked
His young friends present till they rocked.
Steer Harpit came from Rowell Hill,
A small, frail man, all heart and will,
A sailor, as his voice betrayed.
He let his whip-thong droop and played
At snicking off the grass-blades with it.
John Hankerton, from Compton Lythitt,
Was there with Pity Hankerton,
And Mike, their good-for-little son.
Back, smiling, from his seventh job.
Joan Urch was there upon her cob,
Tom Sparsholt on his lanky grey,
John Restrop from Hope Goneaway,
And Vaughan, the big black handsome devil,
Loose-lipped with song and wine and revel.
All rosy from his morning tub.
The Godsdown tigress with her cub
(Lady and Tommy Crowmarsh) came.
The great eyes smouldered in the dame.
Wit glittered, too, which few men saw.
There was more beauty there than claw.
Tommy in bearing, horse and dress.
Was black, fastidious handsomeness.
Choice to his trimmed soul's finger-tips,
Heredia's sonnets on his lips.
A line undrawn, a plate not bitten,
A stone uncut, a phrase unwritten
That would be perfect, made his mind.
A choice pull from a rare print, signed,
Was Tommy. He collected plate
(Old Sheffield), and he owned each state
Of all the Meryon Paris etchings.
Colonel Sir Button Budd of Fletchings
Was there ; Long Robert Thrupp was there
(Three yards of him men said there were),
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 545
Long as the King of Prussia's fancy.
He rode the long-legged Necromancy,
A useless racehorse that could canter.
George Childrey with his jolly banter
Was there, Nick Childrey, too, come down
The night before from London town
To hunt and have his lungs blown clean.
The Ilsley set from Tuttocks Green
Was there (old Henry Ilsley drove).
Carlotta Ilsley brought her love,
A flop-jowled broker from the city.
Men pitied her, for she was pretty.
* * * If *
Some grooms and second horsemen mustered.
A lot of men on foot were clustered
Round the inn-door all busy drinking,
One heard the kissing glasses clinking
In passage as the tray was brought.
Two terriers (which they had there) fought
There on the green, a loud, wild whirl.
Bell stopped them like a gallant girl.
The hens behind the tavern clucked.
Then on a horse which bit and bucked
(The half-broke four-year-old Marauder)
Came Minton-Price of th' Afghan border.
Lean, puckered, yellowed, knotted, scarred,
Tough as a hide-rope twisted hard.
Tense tiger-sinew knit to bone.
Strange-wayed from having lived alone
With Kafir, Afghan and Beloosh,
In stations frozen in the Koosh
Where nothing but the bullet sings.
His mind had conquered many things —
Painting, mechanics, physics, law.
White-hot, hand-beaten things to draw
Self-hammered from his own soul's stithy.
His speech was blacksmith-sparked and pithy.
Danger had been his brother bred ;
The stones had often been his bed
In bickers with the border-thieves.
4: * 4: 4: 4:
i8
546 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A chestnut mare with swerves and heaves
Came plunging, scattered all the crowd,
She tossed her head and laughed aloud
And bickered sideways past the meet.
From pricking ears to mincing feet
She was all tense with blood and quiver,
You saw her dipt hide twitch and shiver
Over her netted cords of veins.
She carried Cothill, of the Sleins,
» A tall, black, bright-eyed, handsome lad.
Great power and great grace he had.
Men hoped the greatest things of him.
His grace made people think him slim,
But he was muscled like a horse,
A sculptor would have wrought his torse
In bronze or marble for Apollo.
He loved to hurry like a swallow
For miles on miles of short-grassed sweet,
Blue, hare-belled downs where dewyj,feet
Of pure winds hurry ceaselessly.
He loved the downland like a sea.
The downland where the kestrels hover —
The downland had him for a lover.
And every other thing he loved
In which a clean free spirit moved.
So beautiful he was, so bright.
He looked to men like young delight
Gone courting April maidenhood,
That has the primrose in her blood,
He on his mincing lady mare.
H: 4i * * '^
Ock Gurney and old Pete were there
Riding their bonny cobs and swearing ;
Ock's wife had giv'n them both a fairing,
A horse-rosette, red, white and blue.
Their cheeks were brown as any brew.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 547
And every comer to the meet
Said, " Hello, Ock," or " Morning, Pete,
Be you a-going to a wedding ? "
" Why, noa," they said, " we'm going a-bedding,
Now ben't us, uncle, ben't us, Ock ? "
Pete Gurney was a lusty cock
Turned sixty-three, but bright and hale,
A dairy-farmer in the vale.
Much like a robin in the face,
Much' character in little space,
With little eyes like burning coal ;
His mouth was like a slit or hole
In leather that was seamed and lined.
He had the russet-apple mind
That betters as the weather worsen.
He was a manly English person,
Kind to the core, brave, merry, true.
One grief he had, a grief still new.
That former Parson joined with Squire
In putting down the Playing Quire
In church, and putting organ in.
" Ah, boys, that was a pious din,
That Quire was ; a pious praise
The noise was that we used to raise,
I and my serpent, George with his'n,
On Easter Day in ' He is risen,'
Or blessed Christmas in ' Venite.'
And how the trombone came in mighty
In Alleluias from the heart !
Pious, for each man played his part.
Not like.'tis now." Thus he, still sore
For changes forty years before
When all (that could) in time and tune
Blew trumpets to the newe moon.
He was a bachelor from choice.
He and his nephew farmed the Boyce
Prime pasture-land for thirty cows
Ock's wife, Selina Jane, kept house,
And jolly were the three together.
648 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Ock had a face like summer weather,
A broad red sun, spht by a smile.
He mopped his forehead all the while
And said " By damn," and " Ben't us, Unk ? "
His eyes were close and deeply sunk.
He cursed his hunter like a lover :
" Now blast your soul, my dear, give over.
Woa, now, my pretty, damn your eyes."
Like Pete, he was of middle size.
Dean-oak-like, stuggy, strong in shoulder.
He stood a wrestle like a boulder,
He had a back for pitching hay.
His singing voice was like a bay.
In talk he had a sideways spit.
Each minute to refresh his wit.
He cracked Brazil-nuts with his teeth.
He challenged Cobbet of the Heath
(Weight-lifting champion) once, but lost.
Hunting was what he loved the most
Next to his wife and Uncle Pete.
With beer to drink and cheese to eat
And rain in May to fill the grasses.
This life was not a dream that passes
To Ock, but like the summer flower.
«P 9|C sp ^ ^p
But now the clock had struck the hour,
And round the corner down the road
The bob-bob-bobbing serpent flowed
With three black knobs upon its spine,
Three bobbing black caps in a line.
A glimpse of scarlet at the gap
Showed underneath each bolsbing cap.
And at the corner by the gate
One heard Tom Dansey give a rate :
" Hep, drop it, Jumper ; have a care ! "
There came a growl, half -rate, half-swear
A spitting crack, a tuneful whimper
And sweet religion entered Jumper.
^ ^. :^ ^ *
There was a general turn of faces.
The men and horses shifted places.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 549
And round the corner came the Hunt,
Those feathery things, the hounds, in front.
Intent, wise, dipping, trotting, straying,
Smihng at people, shoving, playing,
Nosing to children's faces, waving
Their feathery sterns, and all behaving,
One eye to Dansey on Maroon.
Their padding cat-feet beat a tune,
And though they trotted up so quiet
Their noses brought them news of riot.
Wild smells of things with living blood,
Hot smells, against the grippers good.
Of weasel, rabbit, cat and hare,
Whose feet had been before them there,
Whose taint still tingled every breath ;
But Dansey on Maroon was death.
So, though their noses roved, their feet
Larked and trit-trotted to the meet.
4: :): ^ ^ ^
Bill Tall and Ell and Mirtie Key
(Aged fourteen years between the three)
Were flooded by them at the bend.
They thought their little lives would end ;
The grave, sweet eyes looked into theirs,
Cold noses came, and clean short hairs,
And tails all crumpled up like ferns,
A sea of moving heads and sterns,
All round them, brushing coat and dress,
One paused, expecting a caress.
The children shrank into each other.
Shut eyes, clutched tight, and shouted " Mother ! "
With mouths wide open, catching tears.
* * ^ * itf
Sharp Mrs. Tall allayed their fears,
" Err out the road, the dogs won't hurt 'ee.
There now, you've cried your faces dirty.
More cleaning up for me to do.
What ? Cry at dogs, great lumps like you ? "
She licked her handkerchief and smeared
Their faces where the dirt appeared.
550 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The hunt trit-trotted to the meeting,
Tom Dansey touching cap to greeting,
Slow Hfting crop-thong to the rim.
No hunter there got more from him
Except some brightening of the eye.
He halted at the Cock and Pye,
The hounds drew round him on the green.
Arrogant, Daffodil and Queen,
Closest, but all in little space.
Some lolled their tongues, some made grimace.
Yawning, or tilting nose in quest,
All stood and looked about with zest,
They were uneasy as they waited.
Their sires and dams had been well-mated.
They were a lovely pack for looks ;
Their forelegs drumsticked without crooks,
Straight, without over-tread or bend,
Muscled to gallop to the end,
With neat feet round as any cat's.
Great-chested, muscled in the slats,
Bright, clean, short-coated, broad in shoulder,
With stag-like eyes that seemed to smoulder.
The heads well-cocked, the clean necks strong,
Brows broad, ears close, the muzzles long.
And all like racers in the thighs ;
Their noses exquisitely wise,
Their minds being memories of smells ;
Their voices like a ring of bells ;
Their sterns all spirit, cock and feather ;
Their colours like the English weather.
Magpie and hare, and badger-pye.
Like minglings in a double dye.
Some smutty-nosed, some tan, none bald ;
Their manners were to come when called.
Their flesh was sinew knit to bone,
Their courage like a banner blown.
Their joy to push him out of cover,
And hunt him till they rolled him over.
They were as game as Robert Dover.
Tom Dansey was a famous whip,
Trained as a child in horsemanship,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 551
Entered, as soon as he was able,
As boy at Caunter's racing-stable ;
There, like the other boys, he slept
In stall beside the horse he kept,
Snug in the straw ; and Caunter's stick
Brought morning to him all too quick.
He learned the high, quick gingery ways
Of thoroughbreds ; his stable days
Made him a rider, groom and vet.
He promised to be too thick-set
For jockeying, so left it soon.
Now he was whip and rode Maroon.
He was a small, lean, wiry man,
With sunk cheeks weathered to a tan
Scarred by the spikes of hawthorn sprays
Dashed thro' head down, on going days,
In haste to see the line they took.
There was a beauty in his look,
It was intent. His speech was plain.
Maroon's head, reaching to the rein,
Had half his thought before he spoke.
His " Gone away ! " when foxes broke
Was like a bell. His chief delight
Was hunting fox from noon to night.
His pleasure lay in hounds and horses ;
He loved the Seven Springs water-courses,
Those flashing brooks (in good sound grass.
Where scent would hang like breath on glass).
He loved the English countryside :
The wine-leaved bramble in the ride,
The lichen on the apple-trees,
The poultry ranging on the lees.
The farms, the moist earth-smelling cover,
His wife's green grave at Mitcheldover,
Where snowdrops pushed at the first thaw.
Under his hide his heart was raw
With joy and pity of these things.
The second whip was Kitty Myngs,
Still but a lad but keen and quick
(Son of old Myngs, who farmed the Wick),
552 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A horse-mouthed lad who knew his work.
He rode the big black horse, the Turk,
And longed to be a huntsman bold.
He had the horse-look, sharp and old,
With much good-nature in his face.
His passion was to go the pace,
His blood was crying for a taming.
He was the Devil's chick for gaming,
He was a rare good lad to box.
He sometimes had a main of cocks
Down at the Flags. His job with hounds
At present kept his blood in bounds
From rioting and running hare.
Tom Dansey made him have a care.
He worshipped Dansey heart and soul.
To be a huntsman was his goal ;
To be with hounds, to charge full tilt
Blackthorns that made the gentry wilt
Was his ambition and his hope.
He was a hot colt needing rope.
He was too quick to speak his passion
To suit his present huntsman's fashion.
The huntsman, Robin Dawe, looked round,
He sometimes called a favourite hound,
Gently, to see the creature turn.
Look happy up and wag his stern.
He smiled and nodded and saluted
To those who hailed him, as it suited.
And patted Pip's, his hunter's neck.
His new pink was without a speck.
He was a red-faced smiling fellow,
His voice clear tenor, full and mellow.
His eyes, all fire, were black and small.
He had been smashed in many a fall.
His eyebrow had a white curved mark
Left by the bright shoe of The Lark
Down in a dilch by Seven Springs.
His coat had all been trod to strings.
His ribs laid bare and shoulder broken,
Being jumped on down at Water's Oaken
THE POEMS OF J0HN2.MASEFIELD 558
The time his horse came down and rolled.
His face was of the country mould
Such as the mason sometimes cutted
On English moulding-ends which jutted
Out of the church walls, centuries since.
And as you never know the quince,
How good he is, until you try,
So, in Dawe's face, what met the eye
Was only part ; what lay behind
Was English character and mind,
Great kindness, delicate sweet feeling
(Most shy, most clever in concealing
Its depth) for beauty of all sorts,
Great manliness and love of sports,
A grave, wise thoughtfulness and truth,
A merry fun outlasting youth,
A courage terrible to see.
And mercy for his enemy.
He had a clean-shaved face, but kept
A hedge of whisker neatly dipt,
A narrow strip or picture-frame
(Old Dawe, the woodman, did the same).
Under his chin from ear to ear.
But now the resting hounds gave cheer,
Joyful and Arrogant and Catch-him
Smelt the glad news and ran to snatch him ;
The Master's dogcart turned the bend.
Damsel and Skylark knew their friend,
A thrill ran through the pack like fire
And little whimpers ran in quire.
The horses cocked and pawed and whickered,
Young Cothill's chaser kicked and bickered
And stood on end and struck out sparks,
Joyful and Catch-him sang like larks.
There was the Master in the trap,
Clutching old Roman in his lap.
Old Roman, crazy for his brothers.
And putting frenzy in the others,
1 8*
554 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
To set them at the dogcart wheels,
With thrusting heads and httle squeals.
The Master put old Roman by,
And eyed the thrusters heedfully.
He called a few pet hounds and fed
Three special friends with scraps of bread,
Then peeled his wraps, climbed down and strode
Through all those clamourers in the road,
Saluted friends, looked round the crowd,
Saw Harridew's three girls and bowed.
Then took White Rabbit from the groom.
He was Sir Peter Bynd, of Coombe ;
Past sixty now, though hearty still,
A living picture of good-will,
An old, grave soldier, sweet and kind,
A courtier with a knightly mind.
Who felt whatever thing he thought.
His face was scarred, for he had fought
Five wars for us. Within his face
Courage and power had their place,
Rough energy, decision, force.
He smiled about him from his horse.
He had a welcome and salute
For all, on horse or wheel or foot,
Whatever kind of life each followed.
His tanned, drawn cheeks looked old and hollowed,
But still his bright blue eyes were young.
And when the pack crashed into tongue,
And stanch White Rabbit shook like fire.
He sent him at it like a flier.
And lived with hounds while horses could.
" They'm lying in the Ghost Heath Wood,
Sir Peter," said an earth-stopper
(Old Baldy Hill), " you'll find 'em there.
'Z I come'd across I smell 'em plain.
There 's one up back, down Tuttock's drain,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 555
But, Lord, it 's just a bog, the Tuttocks,
Hounds would be swallered to the buttocks.
Heath Wood, Sir Peter 's best to draw."
Sir Peter gave two minutes' law
For Kingston Challow and his daughter ;
He said, " They're late. We'll start the slaughter.
Ghost Heath, then, Dansey. We'll be going."
Now, at his word, the tide was flowing.
Off went Maroon, off went the hounds,
Down road, then off, to Chols Elm Grounds,
Across soft turf with dead leaves cleaving
And hillocks that the mole was heaving,
Mild going to those trotting feet.
After the scarlet coats the meet
Came clopping up the grass in spate ;
They poached the trickle at the gate,
Their horses' feet sucked at the mud,
Excitement in the horses' blood.
Cocked forward every ear and eye.
They quivered as the hounds went by.
They trembled when they first trod grass.
They would not let another pass,
They scattered wide up Chols Elm Hill.
The wind was westerly but still,
The sky a high fair-weather cloud,
Like meadows ridge-and-furrow ploughed,
Just glinting sun but scarcely moving.
Blackbirds and thrushes thought of loving.
Catkins were out ; the day seemed tense
It was so still. At every fence
Cow-parsley pushed its thin green fern.
White-violet leaves showed at the burn.
Young Cothill let his chaser go
Round Chols Elm Field a turn or so
To soothe his edge. The riders went
Chatting and laughing and content
556 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
In groups of two or three together,
The hounds, a flock of shaking feather,
Bobbed on ahead, past Chols Elm Cop,
The horses' shoes went chp-a-clop.
Along the stony cart-track there,
The little spinney was all bare.
But in the earth-moist winter day
The scarlet coats twixt tree and spray
The glistening horses pressing on,
The brown-faced lads. Bill, Dick and John,
And all the hurry to arrive.
Were beautiful like spring alive.
4: 4: iK 4c *
The hounds melted away with Master,
The tanned lads ran, the field rode faster,
The chatter joggled in the throats
Of riders bumping by like boats,
" We really ought to hunt a bye day."
" Fine day for scent," " A fly or die day."
" They chopped a bagman in the check,
He had a collar round his neck."
" Old Ridden's girl 's a pretty flapper."
" That Vaughan 's a cad, the whippersnapper."
" I tell 'ee, lads, I seed 'em plain
Down in the Rough at Shifford's Main,
Old Squire stamping like a Duke,
So red with blood I thought he'd puke
In appleplexie, as they do.
Miss'' Jane stood just as white as dew
And heard him out in just white heat.
And then she trimmed him down a treat.
About Miss Lou it was, or Carrie
(She'd be a pretty peach to marry)."
*****
" Her'U draw up-wind, so us'll go
Down by the furze, we'll see 'em so."
*****
" Look, there they go, lad ! "
There they went
Across the brook and up the bent.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 557
Past Primrose Wood, past Brady Ride,
Along Ghost Heath to cover side.
The bobbing scarlet, trotting pack,
Turf scatters tossed behind each back,
Some horses blowing with a whinny,
A jam of horses in the spinney.
Close to the ride-gate ; leather straining,
Saddles all creaking, men complaining,
Chaffing each other as they past,
On Ghost Heath turf they trotted fast.
Now as they neared the Ghost Heath Wood
Some riders grumbled, " What 's the good ?
It 's shot all day and poached all night.
We shall draw blank and lose the light,
And lose the scent and lose the day.
Why can't he draw Hope Goneaway,
Or Tuttocks Wood, instead of this ?
There 's no fox here, there never is."
But as he trotted up to cover
Robin was watching to discover
What chance there was, and many a token
Told him that though no hound had spoken,
Most of them stirred to something there.
The old hounds' muzzles searched the air,
Thin ghosts of scents were in their teeth
From foxes which had crossed the Heath
Not very many hours before.
" We'll find," he said, " I'll bet, a score."
4; 4c « * ii:
Along Ghost Heath they trotted well.
The hoof-cuts made the bruised earth smell,
The shaken brambles scattered drops.
Stray pheasants kukkered out of copse,
Cracking the twigs down with their knockings
And planing out of sight with cockings ;
A scut or two lopped white to bramble.
* * * * *
558 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And now they gathered to the gamble
At Ghost Heath Wood on Ghost Heath Down,
The hounds went crackhng through the brown
Dry stalks of bracken killed by frost.
The wood stood silent in its host
Of halted trees all winter bare.
The boughs, like veins that suck the air,
Stretched tense, the last leaf scarcely stirred,
There came no song from any bird ;
The darkness of the wood stood still
Waiting for fate on Ghost Heath Hill.
*****
The whips crept to the sides to view,
The Master gave the nod, and " Leu,
Leu in. Ed-hoick, ed-hoick. Leu in ! "
Went Robin, cracking through the whin
And through the hedge-gap into cover.
The binders crashed as hounds went over,
And cock-cock-cock the pheasants rose.
Then up went stern and down went nose.
And Robin's cheerful tenor cried,
Through hazel-scrub and stub and ride :
" Oh, wind him ! beauties, push him out,
Yooi, on to him, Yahout, Yahout,
Oh, push him out, Yooi, wind him, wind him ! "
The beauties burst the scrub to find him ;
They nosed the warren's clipped green lawn,
The bramble and the broom were drawn,
The covert's northern end was blank.
They turned to draw along the bank
Through thicker cover than the Rough,
Through three-and-four-year understuff
Where Robin's forearm screened his eyes ;
" Yooi, find him, beauties," came his cries.
" Hark, hark to Daffodil," the laughter
Fal'n from his horn, brought whimpers after,
For ends of scents were everywhere.
He said, " This Hope 's a likely lair.
And there 's his billets, grey and furred.
And George, he 's moving, there 's a bird."
*****
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 559
A blue uneasy jay was chacking
(A swearing screech, like tearing sacking)
From tree to tree, as in pursuit,
He said, " That 's it. There 's fox afoot.
And there, they're feathering, there she speaks.
Good Daffodil, good Tarrybreeks,
Hark there to Daffodil, hark, hark ! "
The mild horn's note, the soft-flaked spark
Of music fell on that rank scent.
From heart to wild heart magic went.
The whimpering quivered, quavered, rose.
" Daffodil has it. There she goes.
Oh, hark to her 1 " With wild high crying
From frantic hearts the hounds went flying
To Daffodil, for that rank taint.
A waft of it came warm but faint
In Robin's mouth, and faded so.
" First find a fox, then let him go,"
Cried Robin Dawe. " For anj^ sake
Ring, Charley, till you're fit to break."
He cheered his beauties like a lover
And charged beside them into cover.
Part II
On old Cold Crendon's windy tops
Grows wintrily Blown Hilcote Copse,
Wind-bitten beech with badger barrows.
Where brocks eat wasp-grubs with their marrows,
And foxes lie on short-grassed turf.
Nose between paws, to hear the surf
Of wind in the beeches drowsily.
There was our fox bred lustily
Three years before, and there he berthed,
Under the beech-roots snugly earthed,
With a roof of flint and a floor of chalk
And ten bitten hens' heads each on its stalk,
Some rabbits' paws, some fur from scuts,
A badger's corpse and a smell of guts.
560 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And there on the night before my tale
He trotted out for a point in the vale.
*****
He saw, from the cover edge, the valley-
Go trooping down with its droops of sally
To the brimming river's lipping bend.
And a light in the inn at Water's End.
He heard the owl go hunting by
And the shriek of the mouse the owl made die.
And the purr of the owl as he tore the red
Strings from between his claws and fed ;
The smack of joy of the horny lips
Marbled green with the blobby strips.
He saw the farms where the dogs were barking,
Cold Crendon Court and Copsecote Larking ;
The fault with the spring as bright as gleed.
Green-slash-laced with water-weed.
A glare in the sky still marked the town,
Though all folk slept and the bhnds were down.
The street lamps watched the empty square.
The night-cat sang his evil there.
*****
The fox's nose tipped up and round,
Since smell is a part of sight and sound.
Delicate smells were drifting by,
The sharp nose flaired them heedfuUy ;
Partridges in the clover stubble.
Crouched in a ring for the stoat to nubble.
Rabbit bucks beginning to box ;
A scratching place for the pheasant cocks,
A hare in the dead grass near the drain,
And another smell like the spring again.
4: * * * *
A faint rank taint like April coming,
It cocked his ears and his blood went drumming,
For somewhere out by Ghost Heath Stubs
Was a roving vixen wanting cubs.
Over the valley, floating faint
On a warmth of windflaw, came the taint ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 561
He cocked his ears, he upped his brush,
And he went upwind hke an April thrush.
4; ^ ^ :): :(:
B}^ the Roman Road to Braiches Ridge,
Where the fallen willow makes a bridge,
Over the brook by White Hart's Thorn
To the acres thin with pricking corn,
Over the sparse green hair of the wheat,
By the Clench Brook Mill at Clench Brook Leat,
Through Cowfoot Pastures to Nonely Stevens,
And away to Poltrewood St. Jevons.
Past Tott Hill Down all snaked with meuses,
Past Clench St. Michael and Naunton Crucis,
Past Howie's Oak Farm where the raving brain
Of a dog who heard him foamed his chain ;
Then off, as the farmer's window opened.
Past Stonepits Farm to Upton Hope End,
Over short sweet grass and worn flint arrows
And the three dumb hows of Tencombe Barrows.
And away and away with a rolling scramble.
Through the sally and up the bramble.
With a nose for the smells the night wind carried,
And his red fell clean for being married ;
For clicketting time and Ghost Heath Wood
Had put the violet in his blood.
*****
At Tencombe Rings near the Manor Linney
His foot made the great black stallion whinny,
And the stallion's whinny aroused the stable
And the bloodhound bitches stretched their cable,
And the clink of the bloodhounds' chain aroused
The sweet-breathed kye as they chewed and drowsed,
And the stir of the cattle changed the dream
Of the cat in the loft to tense green gleam.
The red-wattled black cock hot from Spain
Crowed from his perch for dawn again.
His breast-pufft hens, one-legged on perch.
Gurgled, beak-down, like men in church,
They crooned in the dark, lifting one red eye
In the raftered roost as the fox went by.
562 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
By Tencombe Regis and Slaughters Court,
Through the great grass square of Roman Fort,
By Nun's Wood Yews and the Hungry Hill,
And the Corpse Way Stones all standing still.
By Seven Springs Mead to Deerlip Brook,
And a lolloping leap to Water Hook.
Then with eyes like sparks and his blood awoken,
Over the grass to Water's Oaken,
And over the hedge and into ride
In Ghost Heath Wood for his roving bride.
4: :): ^ ^ <):
Before the dawn he had loved and fed
And found a kennel, and gone to bed
On a shelf of grass in a thick of gorse
That would bleed a hound and blind a horse.
There he slept in the mild west weather
With his nose and brush well tuckt together.
He slept like a child, who sleeps yet hears
With the self who needs neither eyes nor ears.
*****
He slept while the pheasant cock untucked
His head from his wing, flew doWn and kukked.
While the drove of the starlings whirred and wheeled
Out of the ash-trees into field.
While with great black flags that flogged and paddled
The rooks went out to the plough and straddled,
Straddled wide on the moist red cheese
Of the furrows driven at Uppat's Leas.
*****
Down in the village men awoke.
The chimneys breathed with a faint blue smoke.
The fox slept on, though tweaks and twitches,
Due to his dreams, ran down his flitches.
*****
The cows were milked and the yards were sluict,
And the cocks and hens let out of roost,
Windows were opened, mats were beaten,
Alb men's breakfasts were cooked and eaten ;
But out in the gorse on the grassy shelf
The sleeping fox looked after himself.
*****
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 563
Deep in his dream he heard the life
Of the woodland seek for food or wife.
The hop of a stoat, a buck that thumped,
The squeal of a rat as a weasel jumped,
The blackbird's chackering scattering crying,
The rustling bents from the rabbits flying,
Cows in a byre, and distant men.
And Condicote church-clock striking ten.
*****
At eleven o'clock a boy went past.
With a rough-haired terrier following fast.
The boy's sweet whistle and dog's quick yap
Woke the fox from out of his nap.
•F ^ ^ ^p ^p
He rose and stretched till the claws in his pads
Stuck hornily out like long black gads.
He listened a while, and his nose went round
To catch the smell of the distant sound.
*****
The windward smells came free from taint —
They were rabbit, strongly, with lime-kiln, faint,
A wild-duck, likely, at Sars Holt Pond,
And sheep on the Sars Holt Down beyond.
The leeward smells were much less certain,
For the Ghost Heath Hill was like a curtain.
Yet vague, from the leeward, now and then,
Came muffled sounds like the sound of men.
*****
He moved to his right to a clearer space,
And all his soul came into his face.
Into his eyes and into his nose,
As over the hill a murmur rose.
His ears were cocked and his keen nose flaired,
He sneered with his lips till his teeth were bared,
He trotted right and lifted a pad
Trying to test what foes he had.
* * * * *
On Ghost Heath turf was a steady drumming
Which sounded like horses quickly coming.
564 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
It died as the hunt went down the dip,
Then Malapert yelped at Myngs's whip.
A bright iron horseshoe clinkt on stone,
Then a man's voice spoke, not one alone,
Then a burst of laughter, swiftly still,
Muffled away by Ghost Heath Hill.
Then, indistinctly, the clop, clip, clep,
On Brady Ride, of a horse's step.
Then silence, then, in a burst, much clearer,
Voices and horses coming nearer,
And another noise, of a pit-pat beat
On the Ghost Hill grass, of foxhound feet.
He sat on his haunches listening hard.
While his mind went over the compass card.
Men were coming and rest was done.
But he still had time to get fit to run ;
He could outlast horse and outrace hound,
But men were devils from Lobs's Pound.
Scent was burning, the going good.
The world one lust for a fox's blood,
The main earths stopped and the drains put to,
And fifteen miles to the land he knew.
But of all the ills, the ill least pleasant
Was to run in the light when men were present.
Men in the fields to shout and sign
For a lift of hounds to a fox's line.
Men at the earth, at the long point's end.
Men at each check and none his friend,
Guessing each shift that a fox contrives ;
But still, needs must Avhen the devil drives.
)j
He readied himself, then a soft horn blew.
Then a clear voice carolled, " Ed-hoick ! Eleu !
Then the wood-end rang with the clear voice crying
And the cackle of scrub where hounds were trying.
Then the horn blew nearer, a hound's voice quivered.
Then another, then more, till his body shivered,
He left his kennel and trotted thence
With his ears flexed back and his nerves all tense.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 565
He trotted down with his nose intent
For a fox's line to cross his scent,
It was only fair (he being a stranger)
That the native fox should have the danger.
Danger was coming, so swift, so swift,
That the pace of his trot began to lift
The blue-winged Judas, a jay began
Swearing, hounds whimpered, air stank of man.
He hurried his trotting, he now Iclt frighted.
It was his poor body made hounds excited.
He felt as he ringed the great wood through
That he ought to make for the land he knew.
* * * * *
Then the hounds' excitement quivered and quickened,
Then a horn blew death till his marrow sickened.
Then the wood behind was a crash of cry
ForTthe blood in^his veins ; it made him fly.
* * * * ^
They were on his line ; it was death to stay.
He must make for home by the shortest way,
But with all this yelling and all this wrath
And all these devils, how find a path ?
4t * « 4: 4c
He ran like a stag to the wood's north corner,
Where the hedge was thick and the ditch a yawner,
But the scarlet glimpse of Myngs on Turk,
Watching the woodside, made him shirk.
*****
He ringed the wood and looked at the south.
What wind there was blew into his mouth.
But close to the woodland's blackthorn thicket
Was Dansey, still as a stone, on picket.
At Dansey's back were a twenty more
Watching the cover and pressing fore.
* * * * *
The fox drew in and flaired with his muzzle.
Death was there if he messed the puzzle.
566 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
There were men without and hounds within,
A crying that stiffened the hair on skin,
Teeth in cover and death without.
Both deaths coming, and no way out.
*****
His nose ranged swiftly, his heart beat fast,
Then a crashing cry rose up in a blast.
Then horse-hooves trampled, then horses' flitches
Burst their way through the hazel switches.
Then the horn again made the hounds like mad,
And a man, quite near, said, " Found, by Gad ! "
And a man, quite near, said, " Now he'll break.
Larks Leybourne Copse is the hue he'll take."
And men moved up with their talk and stink
And the traplike noise of the horseshoe clink.
Men whose coming meant death from teeth
In a worrying wrench, with him beneath.
*****
The fox sneaked down by the cover side
(With his ears flexed back) as a snake would glide ;
He took the ditch at the cover-end.
He hugged the ditch as his only friend.
The blackbird cock with the golden beak
Got out of his way with a jabbering shriek,
And the shriek told Tom on the raking bay
That for eighteenpence he was gone away.
* * * * * .
He ran in the hedge in the triple growth
Of bramble and hawthorn, glad of both.
Till a couple of fields were past, and then
Came the living death of the dread of men.
*****
Then, as he hstened, he heard a " Hoy ! "
Tom Dansey's horn and " Awa-wa-woy ! "
Then all hounds crying with all their forces,
Then a thundering 'down of seventy horses.
Robin Dawe's horn and haUoos of " Hey
Hark Hoflar, Hoik ! " and " Gone away ! "
" Hark Hollar Hoik ! " and a smack of the whip ,
A yelp as a tail hound caught the clip.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 567
" Hark Hollar, Hark Hollar ! " then Robin made
Pip go crash through the cut and laid.
Hounds were over and on his line
With a head like bees upon Tipple Tine.
The sound of the nearness sent a flood
Of terror of death through the fox's blood.
He upped his brush and he cocked his nose,
And he went upwind as a racer goes.
Bold Robin Dawe was over first,
Cheering his hounds on at the burst ;
The field were spurring to be in it.
" Hold hard, sirs, give them half a minute,"
Came from Sir Peter on his white.
The hounds went romping with delight
Over the grass and got together,
The tail hounds galloped hell-for-leather
After the pack at Myngs's yell.
A cry like every kind of bell
Rang from these rompers as they raced.
The riders, thrusting to be placed,
Jammed down their hats and shook their horses ;
The hounds romped past with all their forces,
They crashed into the blackthorn fence.
The scent was heavy on their sense,
So hot, it seemed the living thing,
It made the blood within them sing ;
Gusts of it made their hackles rise,
Hot gulps of it were agonies
Of joy, and thirst for blood and passion.
" Forrard ! " cried Robin, " that 's the fashion."
He raced beside his pack to cheer.
The field's noise died upon his ear,
A faint horn, far behind, blew thin
In cover, lest some hound were in.
Then instantly the great grass rise
Shut field and cover from his eyes,
568 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He and his racers were alone.
" A dead fox or a broken bone,"
Said Robin, peering for his prey.
41 * 4: * 4:
The rise, which shut the field away,
Showed him the vale's great map spread out,
The down's lean flank and thrusting snout.
Pale pastures, red-brown plough, dark wood,
Blue distance, still as solitude.
Glitter of water here and there.
The trees so delicately bare,
The dark green gorse and bright green holly.
" O glorious God," he said, " how jolly ! "
And there downhill two fields ahead
The lolloping red dog-fox sped
Over Poor Pastures to the brook.
He grasped these things in one swift look,
Then dived into the bullfinch heart
Through thorns that ripped his sleeves apart
And skutched new blood upon his brow.
" His point 's Lark's Leybourne Covers now,"
Said Robin, landing with a grunt.
" Forrard, my beautifuls ! "
The hunt
Followed downhill to race with him,
White Rabbit, with his swallow's skim,
Drew within hail. " Quick burst, Sir Peter."
" A traveller. Nothing could be neater.
Making for Godsdown Clumps, I take it ? "
" Lark's Leybourne, sir, if he can make it.
Forrard ! "
Bill Ridden thundered down.
His big mouth grinned beneath his frown.
The hounds were going away from horses.
He saw the glint of watercourses,
Yell Brook and Wittold's Dyke, ahead.
His horseshoes sliced the green turf red.
Young Cothill's chaser rushed and past him.
Nob Manor, running next, said " Blast him !
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 569
The poet chap who thinks he rides."
Hugh Colway's mare made straking strides
Across the grass, the Colonel next,
Then Squire, volleying oaths, and vext,
Fighting his hunter for refusing ;
Bell Ridden, like a cutter cruising,
Sailing the grass ; then Cob on Warder,
Then Minton Price upon Marauder ;
Ock Gurney with his eyes intense,
Burning as with a different sense,
His big mouth muttering glad " By damns ! "
Then Pete, crouched down from head to hams,
Rapt like a saint, bright focussed flame ;
Bennett, with devils in his wame.
Chewing black cud and spitting slanting ;
Copse scattering jests and Stukely ranting ;
Sal Ridden taking line from Dansey ;
Long Robert forcing Necromancy ;
A dozen more with bad beginnings ;
Myngs riding hard to snatch an innings.
A wild last hound with high shrill yelps
Smacked forrard with some whipthong skelps.
Then last of all, at top of rise.
The crowd on foot, all gasps and eyes ;
The run up hill had winded them.
* * * » *
They saw the Yell Brook like a gem
Blue in the grass a short mile on ;
They heard faint cries, but hounds were gone
A good eight fields and out of sight,
Except a rippled glimmer white
Going away with dying cheering.
And scarlet flappings disappearing,
And scattering horses going, going.
Going like mad, White Rabbit snowing I
Far on ahead, a loose horse taking
Fence after fence with stirrups shaking,
And scarlet specks and dark specks dwindling.
*****
Nearer, were twigs knocked into kindling,
A much bashed fence still dropping stick.
Flung clods still quivering from the kick ;
570 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Cut hoof-marks pale in cheesy clay,
The horse-smell blowing clean away ;
Birds flitting back into the cover.
One last faint cry, then all was over.
The hunt had been, and found, and gone,
*****
At Neaking's Farm three furlongs on,
Hounds raced across the Waysmore Road,
Where many of the riders slowed
To tittup down a grassy lane
Which led as hounds led in the main.
And gave no danger of a fall.
There as they tittupped one and all.
Big Twenty Stone came scattering by,
His great mare made the hoof-casts fly.
" By leave ! " he cried. " Come on ! Come up !
This fox is running like a tup ;
Let's leave this lane and get to terms,
No sense in crawling here like worms.
Come, let me pass and let me start.
This fox is running like a hart,
And this is going to be a run.
Come on, I want to see the fun.
Thanky. By leave ! Now, Maiden, do it."
He faced the fence and put her through it,
Shielding his eyes lest spikes should blind him ;
The crashing blackthorn closed behind him.
Mud-scatters chased him as he scudded ;
His mare's ears cocked, her neat feet thudded.
*****
The kestrel cruising over meadow
Watched the hunt gallop on his shadow,
Wee figures, almost at a stand.
Crossing the multicoloured land,
Slow as a shadow on a dial.
*****
Some horses, swerving at a trial.
Balked at a fence : at gates they bunched.
The mud about the gates was dunched
Like German cheese ; men pushed for places,
And kicked the mud into the faces
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 571
Of those who made them room to pass.
The half-mile's gallop on the grass
Had tailed them out and warmed their blood.
" His point 's the Banner Barton Wood."
" That, or Goat's Gorse." " A stinger, this."
" You're right in that ; by Jove, it is."
" An upwind travelling fox, by George ! "
" They say Tom viewed him at the forge."
" Well, let me pass and let's be on."
4e 4: * * *
They crossed the lane to Tolderton,
The hill-marl died to valley clay.
And there before them ran the grey
Yell Water, swirling as it ran,
The Yell Brook of the hunting man.
The hunters eyed it and were grim.
*****
They saw the water snaking slim
Ahead, like silver ; they could see
(Each man) his pollard willow-tree
Firming the bank ; they felt their horses
Catch the gleam's hint and gather forces ;
They heard the men behind draw near.
Each horse was trembling as a spear
Trembles in hand when tense to hurl.
They saw the brimmed brook's eddies curl ;
The willow-roots like water-snakes ;
The beaten holes the ratten makes.
They heard the water's rush ; they heard
Hugh Colway's mare come like a bird ;
A faint cry from the hounds ahead,
Then saddle-strain, the bright hooves' tread,
Quick words, the splash of mud, the launch,
The sick hope that the bank be staunch.
Then Souse, with Souse to left and right.
Maroon across. Sir Peter's white
Down but pulled up, Tom over, Hugh
Mud to the hat but over too.
Well splashed by Squire, who was in.
*****
With draggled pink stuck close to skin
/
572 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The Squire leaned from bank and hauled
His mired horse's rein ; he bawled
For help from each man racing by.
" What, help you pull him out ? Not I.
What made you pull him in ? " They said.
Nob Manor cleared and turned his head,
And cried, " Wade up. The ford 's upstream."
g^^QQ^Gurney m a cloud of steam
The taste i'^^^^^PP^"g ^ob and wrung
And scraped hTs^o^ mud from his tongue,
" Lord, what a cro^°'' ^^^ s pasterns clean.
This jumjiing brook 'sl^ ^^^ ^f a-been.
He muttered, grinning, "mucky job.
Now, sir, let me." He turn?rd, poor cob !
And cleared his hunter from tii Squire
By skill and sense and strength o.^^^^
arm.
4: * H: «
*
Meanwhile the fox passed Nonesuch 1,
Keeping the spinney on his right. arm.
Hounds raced him here with all their m.
Along the short firm grass, like fire. 'S"^
The cowman viewed him from the byre
Lolloping on, six fields ahead,
Then hounds, still carrying such a head
It made him stare, then Rob on Pip,
Sailing the great grass like a ship,
Then grand Maroon in all his glory,
Sweeping his strides, his great chest hoary
With foam fleck and the pale hill-marl.
They strode the Leet, they flew the Snarl,
They knocked the nuts at Nonesuch Mill,
Raced up the spur of Gallows Hill
And viewed him there. The line he took
Was Tineton and the Pantry Brook,
Going like fun and hounds like mad.
Tom glanced to see what friends he had
Still within sight, before he turned
The ridge's shoulder ; he discerned,
One field away, young Cothill sailing ^
Easily up. Pete Gurney failing, \ A
t
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 573
Hugh Colway quartering on Sir Peter,
Bill waiting on the mare to beat her,
Sal Ridden skirting to the right.
A horse, with stirrups flashing bright
Over his head at every stride,
Looked like the Major's ; Tom espied
Far back a scarlet speck of man
Running, and straddling as he ran.
Charles Copse was up, Nob Manor followed,
Then Bennett's big-boned black that wallowed.
Clumsy, but with the strength of ten.
Then black and brown and scarlet men,
Brown horses, white and black and grey.
Scattered a dozen fields away.
The shoulder shut the scene away.
4: 4: 4: * *
From the Gallows Hill to the Tineton Copse
There were ten ploughed fields, like ten full-stops,
All wet red clay, where a horse's foot
Would be swathed, feet thick, like an ash-tree root.
The fox raced on, on the headlands firm,
Where his swift feet scared the coupling worm ;
The rooks rose raving to curse him raw.
He snarled a sneer at their swoop and caw.
Then on, then on, down a half-ploughed field
Where a ship-like plough drove glitter-keeled.
With a bay horse near and a white horse leading.
And a man saying " Zook," and the red earth bleeding.
He gasped as he saw the ploughman drop
The stilts and swear at the team to stop.
The ploughman ran in his red:fclay clogs,
Crying, " Zick un, Towzer ; zick, good dogs ! "
A couple of wire-haired lurchers lean
Arose from his wallet, nosing keen ;
With a rushing swoop they were on his track,
Putting chest to stubble to bite his back.
He swerved from his line with the curs at heel.
The teeth as they missed him clicked like steel.
With a worrying snarl, they quartered on him,
While the ploughman shouted, " Zick ; upon him."
574 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The lurcher dogs soon shot their bolt,
And the fox raced on by the Hazel Holt,
Down the dead grass tilt to the sandstone gash
Of the Pantry Brook at Tineton Ash.
The loitering water, flooded full.
Had yeast on its lip like raddled wool,
It was wrinkled over with Arab script
Of eddies that twisted up and slipt.
The stepping-stones had a rush about them,
So the fox plunged in and swam without them.
*****
He crossed to the cattle's drinking shallow.
Firmed up with rush and the roots of mallow ;
He wrung his coat from his draggled bones
And romped away for the Sarsen Stones.
*****
A sneaking glance with his ears flexed back
Made sure that his scent had failed the pack.
For the red clay, good for corn and roses.
Was cold for scent and brought hounds to noses.
He slackened pace by the Tineton Tree
(A vast hollow ash-tree grown in three).
He wriggled a shake and padded slow,
Not sure if the hounds were on or no.
A horn blew faint, then he heard the sounds
Of a cantering huntsman, lifting hounds ;
The ploughman had raised his hat for sign,
And the hounds were lifted and on his line.
He heard the splash in the Pantry Brook,
And a man's voice : " Thiccy 's the line he took.
And a clear " Yoi doit ! " and a whimpering quaver,
Though the lurcher dogs had dulled the savour.
****:):
The fox went off while the hounds made halt.
And the horses breathed and the field found fault,
But the whimpering rose to a crying crash
By the hollow ruin of Tineton Ash.
>>
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 575
Then again the kettledrum horsehooves beat,
And the green blades bent to the fox's feet,
And the cry rose keen not far behind
Of the " Blood, blood, blood," in the foxhounds' mind.
4t 4: * )(: 4:
The fox was strong, he was full of running,
He could run for an hour and then be cunning.
But the cry behind him made him chill,
They were nearer now and they meant to kill.
They meant to run him until his blood
Clogged on his heart as his brush with mud,
Till his back bent up and his tongue hung flagging.
And his belly and brush were filthed from dragging.
Till he crouched stone-still, dead-beat and dirty,
With nothing but teeth against the thirty.
And all the way to that blinding end
He would meet with men and have none his friend :
Men to holloa and men to run him.
With stones to stagger and yells to stun him ;
Men to head him, with whips to beat him.
Teeth to mangle and mouths to eat him.
And all the way, that wild high crying.
To cold his blood with the thought of dying,
The horn and the cheer, and the drum-like thunder
Of the horsehooves stamping the meadows under.
He upped his brush and went with a will
For the Sarsen Stones on Wan Dyke Hill.
i|E * * :(: 4:
As he ran the meadow by Tineton Church
A christening party left the porch ;
They stood stock still as he pounded by,
They wished him luck but they thought he'd die.
The toothless babe in his long white coat
Looked delicate meat, the fox took note ;
But the sight of them grinning there, pointing finger,
Made him put on steam till he went a stinger.
4: 4: * * *
Past Tineton Church, over Tineton Waste,
With the lolloping ease of a fox's haste,
The fur on his chest blown dry with the air.
His brush still up and his cheek-teeth bare.
576 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Over the Waste, where the ganders grazed,
The long swift lilt of his loping lazed,
His ears cocked up as his blood ran higher.
He saw his point, and his eyes took fire.
The Wan Dyke Hill with its fir-tree barren,
Its dark of gorse and its rabbit-warren,
The Dyke on its heave like a tightened girth,
And holes in the Dyke where a fox might earth. .
He had rabbited there long months before.
The earths were deep and his need was sore ;
The way was new, but he took a bearing,
And rushed like a blown ship billow-sharing.
*****
Off Tineton Common to Tineton Dean,
Where the wind-hid elders pushed with green ;
Through the Dean's thin cover across the lane,
And up Midwinter to King of Spain.
Old Joe, at digging his garden grounds,
Said : " A fox, being hunted ; where be hounds ?
O lord, my back, to be young again,
'Stead a zellin' zider in King of Spain !
O hark ! I hear 'em, O sweet, O sweet.
Why there be redcoat in Gearge's wheat.
And there be redcoat, and there they gallop.
Thur go a browncoat down a wallop.
Quick, Ellen, quick ! Come, Susan, fly !
Here'm hounds. I zeed the fox go by,
Go by like thunder, go by like blasting,
With his girt white teeth all looking ghasting.
Look, there come hounds ! Hark, hear 'em crying ?
Lord, belly to stubble, ain't they flying !
There 's huntsman, there. The fox come past
(As I was digging) as fast as fast.
He 's only been gone a minute by ;
A girt dark dog as pert as pye."
Ellen and Susan came out scattering
Brooms and dustpans till all was clattering ;
They saw the pack come head-to-foot
Running like racers, nearly mute ;
Robin and Dansey quartering near.
All going gallop like startled deer.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 577
A half-dozen flitting scarlets showing
In the thin green Dean where the pines were growing.
Black coats and brown coats thrusting and spurring,
Sending the partridge coveys whirring.
Then a rattle uphill and a clop up lane,
It emptied the bar of the King of Spain.
Tom left his cider, Dick left his bitter,
Granfer James left his pipe and spitter ;
Out they came from the sawdust floor.
They said, " They'm going." They said, " O Lor' ! "
The fox raced on, up the Barton Balks,
With a crackle of kex in the nettle stalks.
Over Hammond's grass to the dark green line
Of the larch- wood smelling of turpentine.
Scratch Steven Larches, black to the sky,
A sadness breathing with one long sigh.
Grey ghosts of trees under funeral plumes,
A mist of twig over soft brown glooms.
As he entered the wood he heard the smacks,
Chip-jar, of the fir-pole feller's axe.
He swerved to the left to a broad green ride.
Where a boy made him rush for the farther side.
He swerved to the left, to the Barton Road,
But there were the timberers come to load —
Two timber-carts and a couple of carters
With straps round their knees instead of garters.
He swerved to the right, straight down the wood,
The carters watched him, the boy hallooed.
He leaped from the larch-wood into tillage,
The cobbler's garden of Barton village.
*****
The cobbler bent at his wooden foot,
Beating sprigs in a broken boot ;
He wore old glasses with thick horn rim.
He scowled at his work, for his sight was dim.
His face was dingy, his lips were grey,
From primming sparrowbills day by day.
As he turned his boot he heard a noise
At his garden-end, and he thought, " It 's boys."
19
578 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He saw his cat nip up on the shed.
Where her back arched up till it touched her head ;
He saw his rabbit race round and round
Its Uttle black box three feet from ground.
His six hens cluckered and flocked to perch,
" That 's boys," said cobbler, " so I'll go search."
He reached his stick and blinked in his wrath,
When he saw a fox in his garden path.
* * * * *
The fox swerved left and scrambled out,
Knocking crinked green shells from the brussels-sprout
He scrambled out through the cobbler's paling,
And up Pill's orchard to Purton's Tailing,
Across the plough at the top of bent,
Through the heaped manure to kill his scent,
Over to Aldam's, up to Cappell's,
Past Nursery Lot with its whitewashed apples,
Past Colston's Broom, past Gaunt's, past Shere's,
Past Foxwhelps' Oasts with their hooded ears,
Past Monk's Ash Clerewell, past Beggars' Oak,
Past the great elms blue with the Hinton smoke.
Along Long Hinton to Hinton Green,
Where the wind-washed steeple stood serene
With its golden bird still sailing air.
Past Banner Barton, past Chipping Bare,
Past Madding's Hollow, down Dundry Dip,
And up Goose Grass to the Sailing Ship.
*****
The three black firs of the Ship stood still
On the bare chalk heave of the Dundry Hill.
The fox looked back as he slackened past
The scaled red-bole of the mizen-mast.
There they were coming, mute but swift —
A scarlet smear in the blackthorn rift,
A white horse rising, a dark horse flying,
And the hungry hounds too tense for crying.
Stormcock leading, his stern spear straight,
Racing as though for a piece of plate.
Little speck horsemen field on field ;
Then Dansey viewed him and Robin squealed.
* * * * *
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 579
At the " View Halloo ! " the hounds went frantic,
Back went Stormcock and up went Antic,
Up went Skylark as Antic sped,
It was zest to blood how they carried head.
Skylark drooped as Maroon drew by.
Their hackles lifted, they scored to cry.
^» *J* ?|V »J» 3|*
The fox knew well that, before they tore him.
The}' should try their speed on the downs before him.
There were three more miles to the Wan Dyke Hill,
But his heart was high that he beat them still.
The wind of the downland charmed his bones,
So off he went for the Sarsen Stones.
4s 4: 4: 4: 4:
The moan of the three great firs in the wind
And the " Ai " of the foxhounds died behind ;
Wind-dapples followed the hill- wind's breath
On the Kill Down Gorge where the Danes found death.
Larks scattered up ; the peewits feeding
Rose in a flock from the Kill Down Steeding.
The hare leaped up from her form and swerved
Swift left for the Starveall, harebell-turved.
On the wind-bare thorn some longtails prinking
Cried sweet as though wind-blown glass were chinking.
Behind came thudding and loud halloo,
Or a cry from hounds as they came to view.
*****
The pure clean air came sweet to his lungs.
Till he thought foul scorn of those crying tongues.
In a three mile more he would reach the haven
In the Wan Dyke croaked on by the raven.
In a three mile more he would make his berth
On the hard cool floor of a Wan Dyke earth,
Too deep for spade, too curved for terrier.
With the pride of the race to make rest the merrier.
In a three mile more he would reach his dream,
So his game heart gulped and he put on steam.
* * * 4I 4i
Like a rocket shot to a ship ashore
The lean red bolt of his body tore,
580 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Like a ripple of wind running swift on grass ;
Like a shadow on wheat when a cloud blows past,
Like a turn at the buoy in a cutter sailing
When the bright green gleam lips white at the railing,
Like the April snake whipping back to sheath,
Like the gannets' hurtle on fish beneath,
Like a kestrel chasing, like a sickle reaping.
Like all things swooping, like all things sweeping.
Like a hound for stay, like a stag for swift,
With his shadow beside like spinning drift.
Past the gibbet-stock all stuck with nails.
Where they hanged in chains what had hung at jails,
Past Ashmundshowe where Ashmund sleeps.
And none but the tumbling peewit weeps.
Past Curlew Calling, the gaunt grey corner
Where the curlew comes as a summer mourner,
Past Blowbury Beacon, shaking his fleece,
Where all winds hurry and none brings peace ;
Then down on the mile-long green decline,
Where the turf 's like spring and the air 's like wine,
Where the sweeping spurs of the downland spill ■
Into Wan Brook Valley and Wan Dyke Hill. J
On he went with a galloping rally
Past Maesbury Clump for Wan Brook Valley.
The blood in his veins went romping high,
" Get on, on, on, to the earth or die."
The air of the downs went purely past
Till he felt the glory of going fast.
Till the terror of death, though there indeed,
Was lulled for a while by his pride of speed.
He was romping away from hounds and hunt,
He had Wan Dyke Hill and his earth in front.
In a one mile more when his point was made
He would rest in safety from dog or spade ;
Nose between paws he would hear the shout
Of the " Gone to earth ! " to the hounds without,
The whine of the hounds, and their cat-feet gadding.
Scratching the earth, and their breath pad-padding ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 581
He would hear the horn call hounds away,
And rest in peace till another day.
4! * * :): :):
In one mile more he would lie at rest,
So for one mile more he would go his best.
He reached the dip at the long droop's end
And he took what speed he had still to spend.
So down past Maesbury beech -clump grey
That would not be green till the end of May,
Past Arthur's Table, the white chalk boulder,
Where pasque flowers purple the down's grey shoulder,
Past Quichelm's Keeping, past Harry's Thorn,
To Thirty Acre all thin with corn.
As he raced the corn towards Wan Dyke Brook
The pack had view of the way he took ;
Robin hallooed from the downland's crest,
He capped them on till they did their best.
The quarter-mile to the Wan Brook's brink
Was raced as quick as a man can think.
^F ^p •!• "I* 3|*
And here, as he ran to the huntsman's yelling.
The fox first felt that the pace was telling ;
His body and lungs seemed all grown old.
His legs less certain, his heart less bold,
The hound-noise nearer, the hill-slope steeper.
The thud in the blood of his body deeper.
His pride in his speed, his joy in the race.
Were withered away, for what use was pace ?
He had run his best, and the hounds ran better,
Then the going worsened, the earth was wetter.
Then his brush drooped down till it sometimes dragged,
And his fur felt sick and his chest was tagged
With taggles of mud, and his pads seemed lead,
It was well for him he'd an earth ahead.
Down he went to the brook and over.
Out of the corn and into the clover,
Over the slope that the Wan Brook drains.
Past Battle Tump where they earthed the Danes,
582 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Then up the hill that the Wan Dyke rings
Where the Sarsen Stones stand grand like kings.
*****
Seven Sarsens of granite grim,
As he ran them by they looked at him ;
As he leaped the lip of their earthen paling
The hounds were gaining and he was failing.
*****
He passed the Sarsens, he left the spur,
He pressed uphill to the blasted fir,
He slipped as he leaped the hedge ; he slithered.
" He 's mine," thought Robin. " He 's done ; he 's
dithered."
At the second attempt he cleared the fence, ;
He turned half-right where the gorse was dense, ■
He was leading hounds by a furlong clear. :
He was past his best, but his earth was near. '■■
He ran up gorse to the spring of the ramp.
The steep green wall of the dead men's camp, '
He sidled up it and scampered down ]
To the deep green ditch of the Dead Men's Town. ;
\
A Sk sic sis A '
Within, as he reached that soft green turf, j
The wind, blowing lonely, moaned like surf, j
Desolate ramparts rose up steep |
On either side, for the ghosts to keep. |
He raced the trench, past the rabbit warren.
Close-grown with moss which the wind made barren ;
He passed the spring where the rushes spread.
And there in the stones was his earth ahead.
One last short burst upon failing feet —
There life lay waiting, so sweet, so sweet.
Rest in a darkness, balm for aches.
*****
The earth was stopped. It was barred with stakes.
With the hounds at head so close behind
He had to run as he changed his mind.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 583
This earth, as he saw, was stopped, but still
There was one earth more on the Wan Dyke Hill —
A rabbit burrow a furlong on,
He could kennel there till the hounds were gone.
Though his death seemed near he did not blench.
He upped his brush and he ran the trench.
if: ^ it: ^ i^
He ran the trench while the wind moaned treble,
Earth trickled down, there were falls of pebble.
Down in the valley of that dark gash
The wind-withered grasses looked like ash.
Trickles of stones and earth fell down
In that dark alley of Dead Men's Town.
A hawk arose from a fluff of feathers.
From a distant fold came a bleat of wethers.
He heard no noise from the hounds behind
But the hill-wind moaning like something blind.
He turned the bend in the hill, and there
Was his rabbit-hole with its mouth worn bare ;
But there, with a gun tucked under his arm,
Was young Sid Kissop of Purlpit's Farm,
With a white hob ferret to drive the rabbit
Into a net which was set to nab it.
And young Jack Cole peered over the wall.
And loosed a pup with a " Z'bite en, Saul ! "
The terrier pup attacked with a will.
So the fox swerved right and away downhill.
3|C *l* *jZ 5jC #j*
Down from the ramp of the Dyke he ran
To the brackeny patch where the gorse began,
Into the gorse, where the hill's heave hid
The line he took from the eyes of Sid ;
He swerved downwind and ran like a hare
For the wind-blown spinney below him there.
He slipped from the gorse to the spinney dark
(There were curled grey growths on the oak-tree bark) ;
He saw no more of the terrier pup,
But he heard men speak and the hounds come up.
584 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He crossed the spinney with ears intent
For the cry of hounds on the way he went ;
His heart was thumping, the hounds were near now,
He could make no sprint at a cry and cheer now,
He was past his perfect, his strength was faihng,
His brush sag-sagged and his legs were ailing.
He felt, as he skirted Dead Men's Town,
That in one mile more they would have him down.
it: ^ ^ ^ ^
Through the withered oak's wind-crouching tops
He saw men's scarlet above the copse.
He heard men's oaths, yet he felt hounds slacken.
In the frondless stalks of the brittle bracken.
He felt that the unseen link which bound
His spine to the nose of the leading hound
Was snapped, that the hounds no longer knew
Which way to follow nor what to do ;
That the threat of the hounds' teeth left his neck,
They had ceased to run, they had come to check.
They were quartering wide on the Wan Hill's bent.
*^u ^^ ^> ^S^
*t^ ^^ •#* 1*
The terrier's chase had killed his scent.
^ 4c ^ 4: :):
He heard bits chink as the horses shifted,
He heard hounds cast, then he heard hounds lifted.
But there came no cry from a new attack ;
His heart grew steady, his breath came back.
He left the spinney and ran its edge
By the deep dry ditch of the blackthorn hedge ;
Then out of the ditch and down the meadow.
Trotting at ease in the blackthorn shadow,
Over the track called Godsdown Road,
To the great grass heave of the gods' abode.
He was moving now upon land he knew :
Up Clench Royal and Morton Tew,
The Pol Brook, Cheddesdon, and East Stoke Church,
High Clench St. Lawrence and Tinker's Birch.
Land he had roved on night by night,
For hot blood-suckage or furry bite.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 585
The threat of the hounds behind was gone ;
He breathed deep pleasure and trotted on.
While young Sid Kissop thrashed the pup
Robin on Pip came heaving up,
And found his pack spread out at check.
" I'd like to wring your terrier's neck,"
He said, " you see ? He 's spoiled our sport.
He 's killed the scent." He broke off short,
And stared at hounds and at the valley.
No jay or magpie gave a rally
Down in the copse, no circling rooks
Rose over fields ; old Joyful's looks
Were doubtful in the gorse, the pack
Quested both up and down and back.
He watched each hound for each small sign.
They tried, but could not hit the line,
The scent was gone. The field took place
Out of the way of hounds. The pace
Had tailed them out ; though four remained ;
Sir Peter, on White Rabbit, stained
Red from the brooks. Bill Ridden cheery,
Hugh Colway with his mare dead weary,
The Colonel with Marauder beat.
They turned towards a thud of feet ;
Dansey, and then young Cothill came
(His chestnut mare was galloped tame).
" There 's Copse a field behind," he said.
" Those last miles put them all to bed.
They're strung along the downs like flies.*'
Copse and Nob Manor topped the rise.
" Thank God ! A check," they said, " at last."
" They cannot own it ; you must cast,"
Sir Peter said. The soft horn blew,
Tom turned the hounds upwind. They drew
Upwind, downhill, by spinney-side.
They tried the brambled ditch ; they tried
The swamp, all choked with bright green grass
And clumps of rush, and pools like glass,
Long since the dead men's drinking pond.
They tried the white-leaved oak beyond,
19*
-
686 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
But no hound spoke to it or feathered.
The horse-heads drooped hke horses tethered,
The men mopped brows. " An hour's hard run.
Ten miles," they said, " we must have done.
It 's all of six from Colston's Corses."
The lucky got their second horses.
*****
The time ticked by. " He 's lost," they muttered.
A pheasant rose. A rabbit scuttered.
Men mopped their scarlet cheeks and drank.
They drew downwind along the bank
(The Wan Way) on the hill's south spur,
Grown with dwarf oak and juniper,
Like dwarves alive, but no hound spoke.
The seepings made the ground one soak.
They turned the spur ; the hounds were beat.
Then Robin shifted in his seat
Watching for signs, but no signs showed.
" I'll lift across the Godsdown Road
Beyond the spinney," Robin said.
Tom turned them ; Robin went ahead.
*****
Beyond the copse a great grass fallow
Stretched towards Stoke and Cheddesdon Mallow,
A rolling grass where hounds grew keen.
" Yoi doit, then ! This is where he's been,"
Said Robin, eager at their joy.
" Yooi, Joyful, lad ! Yooi, Cornerboy !
They're on to him."
At his reminders
The keen hounds hurried to the finders.
The finding hounds began to hurry,
Men jammed their hats, prepared to scurry.
The " Ai, Ai," of the cry began.
Its spirit passed to horse and man ;
The skirting hounds romped to the cry.
Hound after hound cried " Ai, Ai, Ai,"
Till all were crying, running, closing,
Their heads well up and no heads nosing.
Jo5^ul ahead with spear-straight stern
They raced the great slope to the burn,
%
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 587
Robin beside them. Tom behind
Pointing past Robin down the wind.
For there, two furlongs on, he viewed
On Holy Hill or Cheddesdon Rood,
Just where the ploughland joined the grass,
A speck down the first furrow pass,
A speck the colour of the plough.
" Yonder he goes. We'll have him now,"
He cried. The speck passed slowly on,
It reached the ditch, paused, and was gone.
*****
Then down the slope and up the Rood
Went the hunt's gallop. Godsdown Wood
Dropped its last oak-leaves at the rally.
Over the Rood to High Clench Valley
The gallop led : the redcoats scattered,
The fragments of the hunt were tattered
Over five fields, ev'n since the check.
" A dead fox or a broken neck,"
Said Robin Dawe. " Come up, the Dane."
The hunter lent against the rein.
Cocking his ears ; he loved to see
The hounds at cry. The hounds and he
The chiefs in all that feast of pace.
*****
The speck in front began to race.
The fox heard hounds get on to his line,
And again the terror went down his spine ;
Again the back of his neck felt cold.
From the sense of the hounds' teeth taking hold.
But his legs were rested, his heart was good,
He had breath to gallop to Mourne End Wood ;
It was four miles more, but an earth at end.
So he put on pace down the Rood Hill Bend.
*****
Down the great grass slope which the oak-trees dot,
With a swerve to the right from the keeper's cot,
Over High Clench Brook in its channel deep
To the grass beyond, where he ran to sheep.
588 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The sheep formed line like a troop of horse,
They swerved, as he passed, to front his course.
From behind, as he ran, a cry arose :
" See the sheep there. Watch them. There be goes ! "
!fl 5|! H* "P •!*
He ran the sheep that their smell might check
The hounds from his scent and save his neck, i
But in two fields more he was made aware
That the hounds still ran ; Tom had viewed him there.
^ sN ^ 4< *
Tom had held them on through the taint of sheep ;
They had kept his line, as they meant to keep.
They were running hard with a burning scent,
And Robin could see which way he went.
The pace that he went brought strain to breath.
He knew as he ran that the grass was death.
:(: 4: :): 4: 4:
He ran the slope towards Morton Tew
That the heave of the hill might stop the view,
Then he doubled down to the Blood Brook red,
And swerved upstream in the brook's deep bed.
He splashed the shallows, he swam the deeps,
He crept by banks as a moorhen creeps ;
He heard the hounds shoot over his line,
And go on, on, on, towards Cheddesdon Zine.
*****
In the minute's peace he could slacken speed.
The ease from the strain was sweet indeed.
Cool to the pads the water flowed.
He reached the bridge on the Cheddesdon Road.
*****
As he came to hght from the culvert dim
Two boys on the bridge looked down on him ;
They were young Bill Ripple and Harry Meun :
" Look, there be squirrel, a-swimmin', see 'un ? "
" Noa, ben't a squirrel, be fox, be fox.
Now, Hal, get pebble, we'll give 'en socks."
" Get pebble, Billy, dub 'un a plaster ;
There 's for thy belly, I'll learn 'ee, master."
4: 4c * * *
-
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 589
The stones splashed spray in the fox's eyes,
He raced from brook in a burst of shies,
He ran for the reeds in the withy car,
Where the dead flasfs shake and the wild-duck are.
He pushed through the reeds, which cracked at his passing,
To the High Clench Water, a grey pool glassing ;
He heard Bill Ripple, in Cheddesdon Road,
Shout, " This way, huntsmen, it 's here he goed."
4c :): 4: 4: H:
Then " Leu, Leu, Leu," went the soft horn's laughter,
The hounds (they had checked) came romping after ;
The clop of the hooves on the road was plain,
Then the crackle of reeds, then cries again.
^ ^ ^ H: H<
A whimpering first, then Robin's cheer,
Then the " Ai, Ai, Ai " ; they were all too near.
His swerve had brought but a minute's rest ;
Now he ran again, and he ran his best.
H* ¥ ¥ ¥ ^
With a crackle of dead dry stalks of reed
The hounds came romping at topmost speed ;
The redcoats ducked as the great hooves skittered
The Blood Brook's shallows to sheets that glittered ;
With a cracking whip and a " Hoik, Hoik, Hoik,
Forrard ! " Tom galloped. Bob shouted " Yoick ! "
Like a running fire the dead reeds crackled ;
The hounds' heads lifted, their necks were hackled.
Tom cried to Bob, as they thundered through,
" He is running short, we shall kill at Tew."
Bob cried to Tom as they rode in team,
" I was sure, that time, that he turned upstream.
As the hounds went over the brook in stride
I saw old Daffodil fling to side,
So|I guessed at once, when they checked beyond."
4: 4: :f! :(: ^
The ducks flew up from the Morton Pond ;
The fox looked up at their tailing strings,
He wished (perhaps) that a fox had wings.
590 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Wings with his friends in a great V straining
The autumn sky when the moon is gaining ;
For better the grey sky's soHtude
Than to be two miles from the Mourne End Wood
With the hounds behind, clean-trained to run,
And your strength half spent and your breath half done.
Better the reeds and the sky and water
Than that hopeless pad from a certain slaughter.
At the Morton Pond the fields began —
Long Tew's green meadows ; he ran, he ran.
*^' *i* ^* *fe
^p ^p ^* ^^
First the six green fields that make a mile,
With the lip-ful Clench at the side the while,
With rooks above, slow-circling, showing
The world of men where a fox was going ;
The fields all empty, dead grass, bare hedges.
And the brook's bright gleam in the dark of sedges.
To all things else he was dumb and blind ;
He ran with the hounds a field behind.
At the sixth green field came the long slow climb
To the Mourne End Wood, as old as time ;
Yew woods dark, where they cut for bows,
Oak woods green with the mistletoes.
Dark woods evil, but burrowed deep
With a brock's earth strong, where a fox might sleep.
He saw his point on the heaving hill.
He had failing flesh and a reeling will ;
He felt the heave of the hill grow stiff.
He saw black woods, which would shelter — if
Nothing else, but the steepening slope
And a black line nodding, a line of hope —
The line of the yews on the long slope's brow,
A mile, three-quarters, a half-mile now.
^f ^If SJ£ Sk *J*
A quarter-mile, but the hounds had viewed ;
They yelled to have him this side the wood.
Robin capped them, Tom Dansey steered them ;
With a " Yooi ! Yooi ! Yooi ! " Bill Ridden cheered
them.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 591
Then up went hackles as Shatterer led.
" Mob him ! " cried Ridden, " the wood 's ahead.
Turn him, damn it ! Yooi ! beauties, beat him !
O God, let them get him : let them eat him !
O God ! " said Ridden, " I'll eat him stewed.
If you'll let us get him this side the wood."
^^ fc|* ^0 jl* *|jP
But the pace, uphill, made a horse like stone ;
The pack went wild up the hill alone.
!|C !fS ^ ^ Sji
Three hundred yards and the worst was past,
The slope was gentler and shorter-grassed ;
The fox saw the bulk of the woods grow tall
On the brae ahead, like a barrier-wall.
He saw the skeleton trees show sky
And the vew-trees darken to see him die,
And the line of the woods go reeling black :
There was hope in the woods — and behind, the pack.
Two hundred yards and the trees grew taller,
Blacker, blinder, as hope grew smaller ;
Cry seemed nearer, the teeth seemed gripping,
Pulling him back ; his pads seemed slipping.
He was all one ache, one gasp, one thirsting,
Heart on his chest-bones, beating, bursting ;
The hounds were gaining like spotted pards,
And the wood hedge still was a hundred yards.
4: ^ 4: ^ N<
The wood hedge black was a two-year, quick
Cut-and-laid that had sprouted thick
Thorns all over and strongly plied,
With a clean red ditch on the take-off side.
He saw it now as a redness, topped
With a wattle of thorn- work spiky cropped,
Spiky to leap on, stiff to force.
No safe jump for a failing horse ;
But beyond it darkness of yews together.
Dark green plumes over soft brown feather.
I
692 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Darkness of woods where scents were blowing —
Strange scents, hot scents, of wild things going,
Scents that might draw these hounds away.
So he ran, ran, ran to that clean red clay.
H« ^ H: ^ =):
Still, as he ran, his pads slipped back.
All his strength seemed to draw the pack.
The trees drew over him dark like Norns, I.
He was over the ditch and at the thorns.
He thrust at the thorns, which would not yield ;
He leaped, but fell, in sight of the field.
The hounds went wild as they saw him fall,
The fence stood stiff like a Bucks flint wall.
He gathered himself for a new attempt ;
His life before was an old dream dreamt,
All that he was was a blown fox quaking.
Jumping at thorns too stiff for breaking,
While over the grass in crowd, in cry.
Came the grip teeth grinning to make him die,
The eyes intense, dull, smouldering red.
The fell like a ruff round each keen head.
The pace like fire, and scarlet men
Galloping, yeUing, " Yooi, eat him, then ! "
He gathered himself, he leaped, he reached
The top of the hedge like a fish-boat beached.
He steadied a second and then leaped down
To the dark of the wood where bright things drown.
H: « « 4: 4:
He swerved, sharp right, under young green firs.
Robin called on the Dane with spurs.
He cried, " Come, Dansey ; if God 's not good,
We shall change our fox in this Mourne End Wood."
Tom cried back as he charged like spate,
" Mine can't jump that, I must ride to gate."
Robin answered, "I'm going at him.
I'll kill that fox, if it kills me, drat him !
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 598
We'll kill in covert. Gerr on, now, Dane."
He gripped him tight and he made it plain.
He slowed him down till he almost stood,
While his hounds went crash into Mourne End Wood.
Like a dainty dancer, with footing nice
The Dane turned side for a leap in twice.
He cleared the ditch to the red clay bank,
He rose at the fence as his quarters sank,
He barged the fence as the bank gave way.
And down he came in a fall of clay.
*****
Robin jumped off him and gasped for breath.
He said, " That's lost him as sure as death.
They've overrun him. Come up, the Dane.
We'll kill him yet, if we ride to Spain."
*****
He scrambled up to his horse's back,
He thrust through cover, he called his pack ;
He cheered them on till they made it good.
Where the fox had swerved inside the wood.
The fox knew well as he ran the dark,
That the headlong hounds were past their mark ;
They had missed his swerve and had overrun,
But their devilish play was not yet done.
*****
For a minute he ran and heard no sound,
Then a whimper came from a questing hound,
Then a " This way, beauties," and then " Leu, Leu,"
The floating laugh of the horn that blew.
Then the cry again, and the crash and rattle
Of the shrubs burst back as they ran to battle,
Till the wood behind seemed risen from root.
Crying and crashing, to give pursuit.
Till the trees seemed hounds and the air seemed cry,
And the earth so far that he needs but die.
Die where he reeled in the woodland dim.
With a hound's white grips in the spine of him.
594 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
For one more burst he could spurt, and then
Wait for the teeth, and the wrench, and men.
He made his spurt for the Mourne End rocks.
The air blew rank with the taint of fox ;
The yews gave way to a greener space
Of great stones strewn in a grassy place.
And there was his earth at the great grey shoulder,
Simk in the ground, of a granite boulder.
A dry, deep burrow with rocky roof,
Proof against crowbars, terrier-proof,
Life to the dying, rest for bones.
* 4i 4i 4c «
The earth was stopped ; it was filled with stones.
* * * * *
Then, for a moment, his covirage failed,
His eyes looked up as his body quailed.
Then the coming of death, which all things dread,
Made him run for the wood ahead.
The taint of fox was rank on the air.
He knew, as he ran, there were foxes there.
His strength was broken, his heart was bursting,
His bones were rotten, his throat was thirsting ;
His feet were reeling, his brush was thick
From dragging the mud, and his brain was sick.
He thought as he ran of his old delight
In the wood in the moon in an April night,
His happy hunting, his winter loving,
The smells of things in the midnight roving,
The look of his dainty-nosing, red,
Clean-felled dam with her footpad's tread ;
Of his sire, so swift, so game, so cunning.
With craft in his brain and power of running ;
Their fights of old when his teeth drew blood,
Now he was sick, with his coat all mud.
il
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 506
He crossed the covert, he crawled the bank,
To a meuse in the thorns, and there he sank.
With his ears flexed back and his teeth shown white,
In a rat's resolve for a dying bite.
1^ * * ^ *
And there, as he lay, he saw the vale,
That a struggling sunlight silvered pale :
The Deerlip Brook like a strip of steel,
The Nun's Wood Yews where the rabbits squeal,
The great grass square of the Roman Fort,
And the smoke in the elms at Crendon Court.
4t :|c * H< 4:
And above the smoke in the elm-tree tops
Was the beech-clump's blur, Blown Hilcote Copse,
Where he and his mates had long made merry
In the bloody joys of the rabbit-herry.
:): 4: :|e :|s 4:
And there as he lay and looked, the cry
Of the hounds at head came rousing by ;
He bent his bones in the blackthorn dim.
* * * * *
But the cry of the hounds was not for him.
Over the fence with a crash they went.
Belly to grass, with a burning scent ;
Then came Dansey, yelling to Bob :
*' They've changed ! Oh, damn it ! now here 's a job."
And Bob yelled back : " Well, we cannot turn 'em,
It 's Jumper and Antic, Tom, we'll learn 'em !
We must just go on, and I hope we kill."
They followed hounds down the Mourne End Hill,
*****
The fox lay still in the rabbit-meuse.
On the dry brown dust of the plumes of yews.
In the bottom below a brook went by,
Blue, in a patch, like a streak of sky.
There one by one, with a clink of stone,
Came a red or dark coat on a horse half-blown.
And man to man with a gasp for breath
Said : " Lord, what a run ! I'm fagged to death."
*****
596 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
After an hour no riders came,
The day drew by Uke an ending game ;
A robin sang from a pufft red breast,
The fox lay quiet and took his rest.
A wren on a tree-stump carolled clear,
Then the starlings wheeled in a sudden sheer,
The rooks came home to the twiggy hive
In the elm-tree tops which the winds do drive.
Then the noise of the rooks fell slowly still,
And the lights came out in the Clench Brook Mill
Then a pheasant cocked, then an owl began,
With the cry that curdles the blood of man.
The stars grew bright as the yews grew black,
The fox rose stiffly and stretched his back.
He flaired the air, then he padded out
To the valley below him, dark as doubt.
Winter-thin with the young green crops.
For old Cold Crendon and Hilcote Copse.
As he crossed the meadows at Naunton Larking
The dogs in the town all started barking.
For with feet all bloody and flanks all foam,
The hounds and the hunt were limping home ;
Limping home in the dark dead-beaten,
The hounds all rank from a fox they'd eaten.
Dansey saying to Robin Dawe :
" The fastest and longest I ever saw."
And Robin answered : " Oh, Tom, 'twas good !
I thought they'd changed in the Mourne End Wood,
But now I feel that they did not change.
We've had a run that was great and strange ;
And to kill in the end, at dusk, on grass !
We'll turn to the Cock and take a glass.
For the hounds, poor souls ! are past their forces ;
And a gallon of ale for our poor horses.
And some bits of bread for the hounds, poor things I
After all they've done (for they've done like kings).
Would keep them going till we get in.
We had it alone from Nun's Wood Whin."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 597
Then Tom replied : " If they changed or not,
There've been few runs longer and none more hot.
We shall talk of to-day until we die."
4: 4: 4: ^ ^
The stars grew bright in the winter sky,
The wind came keen with a tang of frost,
The brook was troubled for new things lost.
The copse was happy for old things found,
The fox came home and he went to ground.
:)« 4: :|: :ic ^
And the hunt came home and the hounds were fed,
They climbed to their bench and went to bed ;
The horses in stable loved their straw.
" Good-night, my beauties," said Robin Da we.
:|c :ic ^ :|c :|«
Then the moon came quiet and flooded full
Light and beauty on clouds like wool,
On a feasted fox at rest from hunting,
In the beech-wood grey where the brocks were grunting
The beech-wood grey rose dim in the night
With moonlight fallen in pools of light.
The long dead leaves on the ground were rimed ;
A clock struck twelve and the church-bells chimed.
#
I
4
ENSLAVED
AND OTHER POEMS
599
A
Bf
An
0,
So
Adc
ENSLAVED
ALL early in the April, when daylight comes at five
I went into the garden most glad to be alive ;
The thrushes and the blackbirds were singing in the thorn,
The April flowers were singing for joy of being born.
I smelt the dewy morning come blowing through the woods
Where all the wilding cherries do toss their snowy snoods ;
I thought of the running water where sweet white violets
grow.
I said : " I'll pick them for her, because she loves them
so."
So in the dewy morning I turned to climb the hill
Beside the running water whose tongue is never still.
Oh, delicate green and dewy were all the budding trees ;
The blue dog-violets grew there, and many primroses.
Out of the wood I wandered, but paused upon the heath
To watch, beyond the tree-tops, the wrinkled sea beneath';
Its blueness and its stillness were trembling as it lay
In the old un-autumned beauty that never goes away.
And the beauty of the water brought my lone into my
mind,
Because all sweet love is beauty, and the loved thing
turns to kind ;
And I thought, " It is a beauty spread for setting of your
grace,
O white violet of a woman with the April in your face."
So I gathered the white violets where young men pick
them still,
And I turned to cross the woodland to her house beneath
the hiU,
6ox
602 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And I thought of her delight in the flowers that I brought
her,
Bright Uke sunlight, sweet like singing, cool like running
of the water.
Now I noticed, as I crossed the wood towards my lady's
house,
That wisps of smoke were blowing blue in the young
green of the boughs :
But I thought, " They're burning weeds," and I felt the
green and blue
To be lovely, so, together, while the green was in its
dew.
Then I smelt the smell of burning ; but I thought :
" The bonfire takes.
And the tongues of flame are licking up below the lifting
flakes."
Though, I thought, " The fire must be big, to raise a
smoke so thick."
And I wondered for a moment if the fire were a rick.
But the love that sang Avithin me made me put the
thought away.
What do young men care for trouble if they see their
love to-day ?
And my thought kept running forward till it knelt before
my sweet.
Laying thought and joy and service in a love-gift at
her feet.
And I thought of life beside her, and of all our days
together.
Stormy days, perhaps, of courage, with our faces to the
weather.
Never any days but happy, so I thought, if passed with
her.
Then the smoke came blowing thickly till it made the
wood a blur.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 603
Still, I did not think of evil, for one could not, living
there.
But I said, " The rooks are startled," for their crying
filled the air,
And I wondered, in the meadow, why the cows were not
at grass —
Only smoke, down-blowing, bitter, that the birds were
loath to pass.
So I quickened through the meadow to the close that
hid the home.
And the smoke drove down in volleys, lifted up, and
wreathed, and clomb.
And I could not see because of it, and what one cannot
see
Holds the fear that lives in darkness, so that fear began
in me.
And the place was like a death-house save for cawings
overhead,
All the cocks and hens were silent and the dogs were
like the dead :
Nothing but the smoke seemed living, thick, and hiding
whence it came.
Bitter with the change of burning, hot upon the cheek
from flame.
Then my fear became a terror, and I knew that ill had
fallen
From the fate that comes unthought-of when the unheard
word is callen,
So I flung the little gate astray and burst the bushes
through ;
Little red-white blossoms flecked me, and my face was
dashed with dew.
Then I saw what ill had fallen, for the house had burned
to death.
Though it gleamed with running fire when a falling gave
a breath ;
All the roof was sky, the lead dripped, all the empty
windows wide
Spouted smoke, and all was silent, save the volleying
rooks that cried.
604 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
This I saw. I rocked with anguish at the flicking heap
that glowed.
She was dead among the ashes that the lead drops did
corrode ;
She was dead, that gave a meaning to the beauty of the
spring,
Yet the daffodils still nodded and the blackbirds still
did sing.
When the stunning passed, I stumbled to the house's
westward side,
Thinking there to find some neighbour that could tell
me how she died ;
Fearing, too, lest Death the devil who had dealt such
murder there
Should be hiding there behind me for to clutch me
unaware.
There was no one there alive, but my leaping heart was
stilled
By the sight of bodies lying in the grass where they were
killed ;
Drooped into the grass they lay there, pressing close
into the ground
As the dead do, in the grasses ; all my world went spin-
ning round.
Then I saw that, with the bodies, all the ground was
heaped and strown
With the litter of a house that had been gutted to the
bone ;
Split and hingeless coffers yawning, linen drooped like
people dead,
Trinkets broken for their jewels, barrels staved, and
crusts of bread.
Then a mess of feathers blowing, then the cattle's heads ;
and then,
Stunned at all this wreck, I hurried to the bodies of
the men.
Five were workers of the household, lying dead in her
defence :
Roused from sleep, perhaps, in darkness so that death
might dash them thence.
«
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 605
But the other three were strangers, swarthy, bearded,
hook-nosed, lean.
Wearing white (for night surprisal) over seamen's coats
of green ;
Moorish-coloured men, still greedy for the prize they died
to snatch ;
Clutching broken knives, or grass-blades, or some tatters
of their catch.
Then I moaned aloud, for then I knew the truth, that
these
Were the Moorish pirate raiders who had come there
from the seas,
Come upon my love defenceless, by surprise, and I not
there :
Come to burn or kill her beauty, or to drag her to their
lair.
" Dragged away to be a slave," I thought ; I saw what
she had seen.
All the good friends lying slaughtered in the young grass
dewy-green ;
All the cattle killed for provant and the gutted homestead
burning.
And the skinny Moors to drag her to the death of no
returning.
Minutes passed, yet still I stood there, when I heard
one call my name.
Amys, once my darling's woman, from her hiding-corner
came.
" Oh," she cried, " they came upon us when the light
was growing grey.
And they sacked f and burned and slaughtered, and
they've carried'her away.
" I was sleeping in the cottage when I heard the noise
of men.
And the shots ; and I could see them, for the house
was blazing then.
They were like to devils, killing ; so I hid, and then I
heard
Rollo moaning in the bushes with a face as white as curd.
606 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" He was dying from a bullet, but he said ' Saffee !
Saffee
Pirates, Amys ! They were burning, and they shot and
murdered me.
Amys, look where I was murdered ! look, they blew away
my side ;
And they burnt the cows in stable.' Then he moaned
until he died.
" It was terrible to hear them kill the beasts and pack
their prey.
Then they shouldered up their plunder, and they sang
and marched away ;
And they took my lady with them as a slave-girl to be
sold.
I saw them kill Paloma — they said that she was old.
" Then they went on board their cruiser, and she sailed
away at once.
Look there, beyond the beaches, you see her where she
runs "
3|« 3fi Sp !p 3|5 5|S ^
I saw a peaked sail pointing, and feathering oars that
flasht
In the blueness of the water that was whitened where
they gasht.
•(» -l^ H* •!» T* •!" ***
There they carried my beloved in a pirate-ship at sea
To be sold like meat for killing in the markets of Saffee.
Some fire-shrivelled oak-leaves blew lightly past my face,
A beam fell in the ruins, the fire roared apace.
I walked down to the water ; my heart was torn in two
For the anguish of her future and the nothing I could do.
The ship had leaned a little as she snouted to the spray ;
The feathering oars flashed steadily at taking her away.
I took a fisher's boat there was and dragged her down the
sand,
I set her sail and took an oar and thrust her from the
land,
•
i
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 607
I headed for the pirate, and the brown weed waved be-
neath,
And the boat trod down the bubbles of the bone between
her teeth.
I brought them down the land-wind, so from the first I
gained.
I set a tiny topsail that bowed her till she strained.
My mind was with my darling aboard that ship of fear,
In cabin close with curtains, where Moormen watched my
dear.
Now when they saw me coming they wondered what it
meant,
This young man in a fish-boat who followed where they
went.
They judged that I was coming to buy the woman free ;
So suddenly the oars stopped, they waited on the sea.
I dropped my sail close to them and ranged to easy hail ;
Her plunges shivered wrinklings along her spilling sail,
The water running by her had made her shine like gold,
The oar-blades poised in order kissed water when she
rolled.
A hundred naked rowers stared down their oars at me
With all the bitter hatred the slave has for the free.
The boatswain walked above them ; he mocked me, so
did they.
The sun had burnt their bodies, and yet their look was
grey.
So there we rocked together, while she, at every roll.
Moaned from her guns with creakings that shook her to
the soul.
I did not see my darling ; she la)^ in ward below,
Down in the green-hung cabin she first joined hands with
woe.
The galley plowtered, troubling ; the mockings of the
slaves
Passed from bench to bench, like birds' cries ; her bow-
beak slapt the waves,
608 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Then her captain came on deck, quick and hard, with
snapping force,
And a kind of cringe of terror stiffened down those banks
of oars.
The captain walked the deck ; he eyed me for a moment,
He called some Turkish words with a muttered added
comment ;
Then he called, " Well. What d'ye want ? " in the
lingua of the sea.
The boatswain leaned and spoke, then they sneered and
looked at me.
So I stood upon the thwart, and I called, " I want to
come
To be comrade to the woman whom you've dragged
away from home.
Since I cannot set her free, I want only to be near her."
" Ah," he said, " men bu)^ love dear, but by God ! you
buy it dearer.
" Well, you shall ; " he spoke in Moorish, and a seaman
tossed a cord.
So I hove myself alongside, scrambled up and climbed
aboard.
All were silent, but they watched me ; all those eyes
above the oars
Stared, and all their bitter tushes gnashed beneath them
like a boar's.
At an order, all the oars clanked aft, and checked' and
sliced the sea,
The rowers' lips twitched upward, the sheets tugged to
be free,
The wrinklings in the sail ran up as it rounded to a
breast.
The ship bowed to a billow and snouted through the crest.
My boat was tossed behind us, she bowed and swung
away.
The captain stood and mocked me : " Well, since you
would, you may.
You shall be near your lady, until we fetch to port,"
They chained me to the oar-loom upon the after-thwart.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 609
All day, until the twilight, I swung upon the oar ;
Above the dropping taffrail I sometimes saw the shore.
Behind me swung the rowers : again and yet again
A gasp, a clank of roUocks, and then a cry of pain.
The boatswain walked above us to lash us if we slack-
ened ;
With blood of many beatings the rowers' backs were
blackened :
Again and yet again came the lash, and then the cry.
Then a mutter for revenge would run round the ship and
die.
But twilight with her planet that brings quiet to the
tired,
Bringing dusk upon the water, brought the gift that I
desired ;
For they brought my well-beloved to the deck to breathe
the air.
Not a half an oar's length from me, so we spoke together
there.
" You," she said. " Yes, I, beloved, to be near you
over-sea.
I have come to be beside you and to help to set 5^ou free.
Keep your courage, and be certain that the God who
took will give.
God will dawn, and we shall prosper, for the living soul
will Uve."
Then they bade me stop my talking and to use my breath
to row.
Darkness came upon the water, and they took my love
below.
Fire in the oar-stirred water swirled in streaks that
raced away ;
Toppling up and down, the taffrail touched the red sky
and the grey.
Then the wind began to freshen till the shrouds were
twanging sharp,
Thrilling an unchanging honing like a madman with a
harp,
20
610 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Thrilling on a rising water that was hissing as it rose
To be foamed asunder by us as we struck it down with
blows.
Soon we could not row, but rested with our oar blades
triced above ;
Then my soul went from my body to give comfort to
my love,
Though, indeed, the only comfort that my mind could
find to say
Was, that God, who makes to-morrow, makes it better
than to-day.
So I yearned towards my darling while I drooped upon
my bench.
All the galley's length was shaken when the mainsail
gave a wrench ;
Always when I roused, the taffrail toppled up to touch
the stars.
And the roaring seas ran hissing, and the planks whined,
and the spars.
Day by day I rowed the galley, night by night I saw the
Pole
Sinking lower in the northward, to the sorrow of my
soul ;
Yet at night I saw my darling when she came on deck
to walk,
And our thoughts past to each other though they would
not let us talk.
Till early on a morning, before the dawn had come,
Some foreign birds came crying with strong wings wagging
home.
Then on the wind a warmness, a sweetness as of cloves,
Blew faintly in the darkness from spice and orange groves.
Then, as they set us rowing, the sun rose over land
That seemed a mist of forest above a gleam of sand.
White houses glittered on it ; the pirates cheered to see.
By noon we reached the haven, we anchored in Saffee.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 611
They cloaked my well-beloved and carried her ashore ;
She slipped a paper to me while brushing past my oar.
I took it muttering, " Courage ! " I read it when I
dared :
" They mean me for the Khalif. I have to be prepared."
They led her up the jetty, she passed out of my sight.
Then they knocked away our irons, and worked us till
the night
Unbending sails, unstepping masts, clean-scraping banks,
unshipping oars.
Rousing casks and loot and cables from the orlop into
stores.
When all the gear was warehoused, they marched us up
the street —
All sand it was, where dogs lay that sprang and snapped
our feet.
Then lancers came at gallop, they knocked us to the side.
They struck us with their lance-staves to make them
room to ride.
Then, as we cleared the roadway, with clatter, riding hard.
With foam flung from the bit-cups, there came the
bodyguard ;
Then splendid in his scarlet the Khalif's self went by,
A grand young bird of rapine with a hawk-look in his eye.
A slave said : " There 's the Khalif. He 's riding north
to-night.
To Marrakesh, the vineyard, his garden of delight.
That means a night of quiet to us poor dogs who row ;
The guards will take their pleasure, and we shall rest
below."
Then, in the dusk, they marched us to the quarries of the
slaves,
W^hich were dripping shafts in limestone giving passage
into caves.
There they left us with our rations to the night that
prisoners know.
Longing after what was happy far away and long ago.
4s 4: * * * 4: *
612 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Now often, as I rowed upon the bench,
In tugging back the oar-loom in the stroke,
A rower opposite, whose face was French,
Had signalled to me, with a cheer or joke.
Grinning askant, and tossing back his hair
To show his white, keen features debonair.
And now that I was sitting on the stone,
He came to where I sat, and sat beside.
" So," he exclaimed, " you eat your heart alone.
I did, at first ; but prison kills the pride.
It kills the heart, and all it has to give
Is hatred, daunted by the will to live.
" I was a courtier in the French King's court
Three years ago ; you would not think it now.
To see me rower in a pirate port
Rusting my chain with sweatings from my brow.
But I was once Duhamel, over-sea.
And should be still, if they would ransom me.
" I honour you for coming as you did
To save your lady. It was nobly done.
They took her for the Khalif ; she is hid
There in the woman's palace ; but, my son,
You will not look upon her face again.
Best face the fact, whatever be the pain.
" No, do not speak, for she is lost forever.
Hidden in that dark palace of the King
Not all the loving in the world would ever
Bring word to her, or help, or anything.
She will be pasture to the King's desires.
Then sold, or given in barter, when he tires.
" A woman in the Khalif's house is dead
To all the world forever ; that is truth.
And you (most gallantly) have put your head
Into the trap. Till you have done with youth
You will be slave, in prison or at sea.
Sickness or death alone will set you free."
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 613
" Surely," I said, " since people have escaped
From worser hells than this, I, too, might try.
Fate, that is given to all men partly shaped,
Is man's, to alter daily till he die.
I mean to try to save her. Things which men
Mean with their might, succeed, as this will then."
I saw him look about him with alarm.
" Oh, not so loud," he said, " for there are spies."
His look of tension passed, he caught my arm.
" I think none heard," he said, " but oh ! be wise.
Slaves have been ganched upon the hooks for less.
This place has devilries men cannot guess.
" But no man ever has escaped from here.
To talk of it is death ; your friend and you
Are slaves for life, and after many a year
(At best), M^hen you are both too old to do
The work of slaves, you may be flung abroad,
To beg for broken victuals in the road."
I saw that what he said was certainty.
I knew it even then, but answered : " Well,
I will at least be near her till I die.
And Life is change, and no man can foretell.
Even if thirty years hence we may meet
It is worth while, and prison shall be sweet."
He looked at me with pleasure ; then he sighed
And said : " Well, you deserve her." Then he stared
Across the quarry, trying to decide
If I were fit to see his spirit bared.
Quick glances of suspicion and distrust
Searched at my face, and then he said : " I must !
" I must not doubt you, lad, so listen now.
I have a plan, myself, for leaving this.
I meant to try to-night ; I'll show you how
To save your lady. And to-night there is
Hope, for the Khalif sleeps at Marrakesh.
When knots are loosened fish can burst the mesh."
614 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
>>
So eagerly I plighted faith to try-
That very night to help him. " If we fail,
He said, " it will be Fate, who flings the die
Against which nothing mortal can avail.
But we are desperate men whose throws succeed,
Being one with Fate, or Change from Passionate Need."
So we agreed, that, when the cave was still,
We would attempt, and having broken prison,
Would raid the woman's palace on the hill,
And save my lady ere the sun was risen ;
Then put to sea towards some hiding-place
North, in the shoals, where galleys could not chase.
Even as we made an end, another slave
(They called him English Gerard) joined us there.
Often, upon the toppling of a wave,
I'd seen him rowing and had heard him swear.
Forceful he was, with promise in his eye
Of rough capacity and liberty.
" Still talking of escape, I'll bet a crown,"
He said to me. " But you are young, my friend.
We oldsters know we cannot leave the town, i
We shall be here until the bitter end. \
Give up the hope, lad ; better let it be ; ;
No slave has ever broken from Saffee. r
" Inland there 's desert, westward there 's the sea, ,;
Northward the Moorish towns, and in the south ?
Swamps and the forest to eternity.
The young colt jibs at iron in his mouth
But has to take it, and the fact for us
Is, that we're slaves, and have to linger thus."
I
" Just what I told him," said Duhamel, " just |
My very words. It 's bitter but the truth.
We shall be slaves until we turn to dust :
Your lady, too, until she loses youth.
Put hope aside, and make what life you can
Being a slave, for slave you are, young man."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 615
" Perhaps," said Gerard, " you were told what comes
Of trying to escape, for men have tried.
They only added to their martyrdoms.
Two got away at Christmas, but they died.
The one they skinned and stuffed ; the other hangs
Still, near the gate, upon the ganches' fangs.
" How were they caught ? " I asked. " They were
betrayed,"
Said Gerard. " How ? By whom ? I cannot tell.
They trusted someone with the plans they made,
And he betrayed them, like a fiend from hell.
How do I know it ? Well, they left no trace.
And yet the lancers knew their hiding-place.
*' They went straight to it, straight, and caught them
there
As soon as daylight came, when they had gone
(As you'll be taken if you don't beware).
They keep great hooks to hang the bodies on
Of those who run away, or try, for none
Succeeds, nor can, so you be warned, my son."
He nodded to me, gripped my arm, and went
Back to his place, the other side the cave,
" That was a spy," Duhamel whispered, " sent
To test your spirit as a new-come slave.
I know the man, and if report speaks true
He helped in that betrayal of the two.
" Now seem to sleep, and when the cave is quiet
We two will try ; they say God helps the mad.
To be a slave to Moors is bitter diet
That poisons men ; two bitter years I've had,
But before dawn we two will end it, lad.
Now seem to sleep."
I cuddled to the stone ;
Yet Gerard's voice seemed calling to my bone.
And opening my eyes, I saw him there
Looking intently at me, and he shook
His head at me, as though to say, " Beware ! "
And frowned a passionate warning in a look.
616 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A wind-flaw, blowing through the window, took
The flame within the lantern, that it shed
Bright light on him. Again he shook his head.
******
The wind blowing in from the sea made the flame like a
plume ;
The slaves, huddled close, cursed in whispers, with
chattering teeth ;
The wolves of their spirits came stealthy to snarl in the
gloom
Over bones of their pleasures long-perished ; the sea
moaned beneath.
And my heart glowed with joy that that night I might
rescue my love ;
Glowed with joy in Duhamel, whose cunning would
conquer the guards.
The wind blew in fresher ; a sentry went shuffling above ;
Some gamblers crouched tense, while a lean hand flickered
the cards.
******
Then one by one the gamblers left their game,
The shadows shaken by the blowing flame
Winked on the wall until the lamp blew out.
Wrapping his ankle-irons in a clout
(To save his skin), each branded slave prepared
To take his sleep, his only comfort spared.
* * * * * *
A kind of clearness blowing from the night
Made sleepers' faces bonelike with its light.
A sleeper, moaning, twisted with his shoulder
Close to the limestone as the wind grew colder.
Trickles of water glistened down and splashed
Pools on the limestone into rings that flashed.
Often a stirring sleeper struck the bell
Of chain-links upon stones. Deep breathing fell
Like sighing, out of all that misery
Of vermined men who dreamed of being free.
Heavily on the beaches fell the sea.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 617
Then, as the tide came in, the water seething
Under the quarries, mingled with the breathing,
Until the prison in the rock y-hewen
Seemed like a ship that trod the water's ruin.
Trampling the toppling sea, while water creeping
Splashed from the seams in darkness on men sleeping.
Far in the city all the dogs were howling
At that white bird the moon in heaven owling.
Out in the guard-house soldiers made a dither
About the wiry titter of a zither,
Their long-drawn songs were timed with clapping hands.
^^ ^p ^p •!* ?|» ?P
The water hissed its life out on the sands.
The wheel of heaven with all her glittering turned,
The city window-lights no longer burned.
Then one by one the soldiers left their clatter ;
The moon arose and walked upon the water,
The sleepers turned to screen her from their eyes.
A fishing-boat sailed past ; the fishers' cries
Rang in the darkness of the bay without.
Her sail flapped as she creaked and stood about.
Then eased, then leaned, then strained and stood away.
Deep silence followed, save where breathers lay.
♦ * « « « 4:
So, lying there, with all my being tense.
Prepared to strike, to take my lady thence,
A prompting bade me not to trust too far
This man Duhamel as a guiding star.
Some little thing in him had jarred on me ;
A touch (the flesh being raw) hurts cruelly.
And something in his speech or in his bearing
Made me mistrust his steadiness in daring,
Or his endurance, or his faith to us.
Some smile or word made me distrustful thus.
Who knows the hidden things within our being
That prompt our brain to safety without seeing ?
Hear the unheard, and save us without sense ?
What fingers touch our strings when we are tense ?
* * * * m ^
Even at that point Duhamel crept to me,
And whispered, " Come, by morning we'll be free.
20*
618 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Creep down the passage there towards the entry ;
See what the guards do while I time the sentry.
I think that all the guards are sleeping sound,
But — there 's his foot, one sentry goes his round.
And I must time him till I know his beat."
Loitering upon the rampart came the feet
Of some loose-slippered soldier. I could hear
Him halt, humming a tune, grounding his spear.
* * ^ :!: 4: :|c
I listened, while Duhamel urged me on.
" Hurry," he said, " the night will soon be gone ;
Watch from the passage what the guards are doing :
I'll time the sentry. There'll be no pursuing
If we can pass the guards with him away.
Beyond the bend he cannot see the bay."
******
" No," I replied, " yet even if the guard
Be all asleep, it cannot but be hard
For us to pick the lock of that steel grille
Without their waking. We cannot be still
Crouched in the puddle, scraping at the lock.
The guards will wake and kill us at a knock."
******
" Hush ! " said Duhamel. " Let me whisper close.
I did not dare before for fear of those
(The rowers and the spies). I have a key
That will unlock the grating silently,
Making no noise at all in catch or ward.
Now creep along and spy upon the guard."
******
" A key ? " said I. My first suspicions died.
" Yes," said the man, " I slipped it from his side
While he was checking us this afternoon.
Courage, my son, she'll be in safety soon."
He showed a key, and urged me to be gone
Down the gaunt gashway carven in the stone,
A darkness in the else half-glimmering lime,
Where drops, each minute splashing, told the time.
There, in the darkness somewhere, lay the gate ^^
Where courage and the moment might make Fate. !
****:{:*
A
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 619
I rose, half-doubting, upon hands and knees ;
The blood within my temples sang like bees ;
I heard my heart. I saw Duhamel's face,
Dark eyes in focus in a whitish space
Watching me close. I doubted, even then.
Then, with the impulse which transfigures men,
Doubt, hesitation, terror passed. I crawled
Into the dripping tunnel limestone-walled.
4: * * 4: * 4:
A cold drop spattered on my neck ; the wet
Struck chilly where my hands and knees were set,
I crawled into a darkness like a vault.
Glimmering and sweating like a rock of salt.
I crept most thief-like till the passage turned.
There, in a barred grejmess, I discerned
The world without shut from me by the grille.
I stopped most thief-like, listening.
4li 4: ^ ^ * *
All was still ;
The quarry I had left was still as stone.
The melancholy water-drip alone
Broke silence near me, and ahead the night
Was silent in the beauty of its light.
Across which fell the black of prison bars.
4: * * 4: 4: 4:
I crawled ten paces more, and saw the stars
Above the guard-hut in the quarry pit :
The hut was still, it had no lantern lit.
I crawled again with every nerve intent.
The cleanly sea-wind bringing pleasant scent
Blew through the grille with little specks of sand.
Each second I expected the word " Stand ! "
That, or a shot ; but still no challenge came.
The twilight of the moon's unearthly flame
Burned steadily ; the palm-leaves on the hut
Rustled in gusts, the crazy door was shut.
The guards were either sleeping or not there.
4: 4: 4: 4: 4: 4:
620 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I peered out through the grille, and drank the air
For any scent that might betray a guard
Hidden in ambush near me keeping ward ;
But no scent, save the cleanness of the sea,
Blew on the night wind blowing in on me.
There was no trace of man.
^C ^C ^£ ^ts 2^ ^f
I watched and listened
The water dropped, the trickling passage glistened ;
The coldness of the iron pressed my brow.
:ic ^ ijc ^ :{: :!:
Then, as I listened (I can hear it now),
A strangled cry such as a dreamer cries
When the dream binds him that he cannot rise.
Gurgled behind me in the sleepers' cave.
A failing hand that struggled with the grave
Beat on the floor, then fluttered, then relaxed,
Limp as an altar ox a priest has axed.
No need to say that someone had been killed.
That was no dream.
Yet all the cave was stilled.
Nobody spoke, or called, or ran to aid.
The fingers of the palm-leaves ticked and played
On the hut-roof, but yet no guard appeared.
"I* "t" "I^ T* 'I^ "f* ^B
I started to crawl back, because I feared. '
I knew that someone must have heard that calling
Of the killed blood upon the midnight falling.
" 1 shall be judged the killer," so I thought.
So crawling SAviftly back like one distraught,
I groped that tunnel where the blackness made
Me feel each inch before my hand was laid.
There was no gleam, save wetness on the wall,
No noise but heart-beat or the dropping's fall.
Blackness and silence tense with murder done,
Tense with a soul that had not yet begun
To know the world without the help of clay.
I was in terror in that inky way.
4c ^ ^ :{: ^ :ic
«
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 621
Then suddenly, while stretching out my hand,
The terror brought my heart's blood to a stand.
I touched a man.
******
His face was turned to me.
He whispered : "To the grille ! I have the key."
So, without speech, I turned ; he followed after.
I trembled at the droppings from the rafter.
Each noise without seemed footsteps in pursuit.
The palm-leaves fluttered like a running foot.
The moonlight held her lantern to betray us ;
A stricken stone was as a sword to slay us.
Then at the grille we paused, that I could see
That it was not Duhamel there with me,
But English Gerard.
******
" Do not speak," he said ;
" Don't think about Duhamel ; he is dead.
This key, that should unlock, is sticking : try."
With shaking hands I took the clicket, I.
A lean cogged bolt of iron jangled bright
By shaking in the key-ring, day and night :
It stuck in the knobbed latch and would not lift.
******
All kinds of terror urged me to be swift —
Fear of the guards, and of the darkness dying,
And of Duhamel's body mutely crying
The thin red cry of murdered blood and bone.
Piping in darkness to make murder known.
But there the clicket jammed the iron socket,
Nor could my hand withdraw it or unlock it.
" Let me," said Gerard ; then with guile and skill
He coaxed the knobbed iron from the grille.
" It does not fit," he muttered, " after all."
******
Outside, within his roost, a cock did call
His warning to the ghosts, and slept again ;
The stars that glittered in the sky like grain
Seemed paler ; and the ticking time sped on
To the guard's waking and the darkness gone
With nothing done.
* * * * * *
622 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Then Gerard turned to me. f.
" Though this is wrong, Duhamel had the key,
And has it still about him, as I guess,
Tied to his flesh or hidden in his dress.
Wait here, while I go rummage through his clothes.
A sleeper, tossing, jabbered broken oaths,
Then slept, while Gerard crawled.
I was alone,
Afraid no more but anxious to the bone.
^ :{: 4: * 4: 4:
And looking out, I saw a sentry come
Slowly towards the grille. I cowered numb
Back into blackness, pressed against the wall.
I heard the measure of his footsteps fall
Along the quarry to me. I could see
The tenseness of his eyes turned full on me :
I felt that he must see me and give speech.
4: 4: 4: ^ N< *
His hand, that shook the grille, was in my reach.
He peered within to see if all were well.
Wept as though spat, a drop of water fell.
He peered into the blackness where I stood ;
Then, having tried the lock, he tossed his hood,
Crouched at the grille and struck a light, and lit
Tinder, and blew the glowing end of it
Till all his face was fierce in the strong glow ;
He sucked the rank tobacco lighted so.
And stood a moment blowing bitter smoke.
I hardly dared to breathe lest I should choke.
I longed to move, but dared not. Had I stirred
Even a finger's breadth, he must have heard.
He must have touched me had he thrust his hand
Within the grille to touch the wall he scanned.
4: ^ * 4: * *
Then, slowly, muttering to himself, he took
Three steps away, then turned for one more look
Straight at the grille and me. I counted ten.
Something within the passage moved him then.
Because he leaned and peered as though unsure.
Then, stepping to the grille-work's embrasure,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 623
He thrust his face against the iron grid,
And stared into the blackness where I hid,
And softly breathed, " Duhamel.
>j
As he spoke
A passing cloud put dimness as of smoke
Over the moon's face. No one answered him,
A drip-drop spat its wetness in the dim.
He paused to call again, then turned away.
He wandered slowly up the quarry way,
But at the bend he stopped to rest his bones ;
^ ^ S|C !|C vj! ^
He sat upon the bank and juggled stones
For long, long minutes. Gerard joined me there ;
We watched the sentry tossing stones in air
To catch them on his hand's back as they fell.
We wished him in the bottom pit of hell.
At last he rose and sauntered round the bend.
The falling of his footsteps had an end
At last, and Gerard spoke : "I have the ke}^"
^ ii: if: ^ ^ 4t
The cogs caught in the locket clickily,
The catch fell back, the heavy iron gave.
We pushed the grille and stept out of the grave
Into the moonlight where the wind was blowing.
" Hurry ! " I whispered, for the cocks were crowing
In unseen roosts, the morning being near.
We climbed the bank.
" This way," said Gerard, " here.
Now, down the slope — we dodge the sentry so.
Now through the water where the withies grow.
Now we are out of sight ; now we can talk."
We changed our crouching running to a walk.
He led me up a slope where rats carousing
Squealed or showed teeth among the tumbled housing,
Half-ruined wooden huts, or lime-washed clay.
We turned from this into a trodden way
Pale in the moonlight, where the dogs that prowled
Snarled as we passed, then eyed the moon and howled.
******
624 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Below us, to our right, the harbour gleamed ;
In front, pale with the moon, the city dreamed,
Roof upon roof, with pointing fingers white,
The minaret frost-fretted with the light,
With many a bubbled dome-top like a shell
Covering the hillside to the citadel.
" There, to the left," said Gerard, " where the trees are,
That whiteness is the palace of the Caesar,
His gardens and his fishpools. That long building
Flanked by the domes that glitter so with gilding
Is where the women are. She will be there.
But courage, comrade ! never yield to care ;
We'll set her free, before the morning breaks.
But oh ! my son, no more of your mistakes.
What made you trust Duhamel as you did ?
Well, he is dead. The world is better rid
Of men like him. He tempted and betrayed
Those two poor souls last year.
Ah, when he bade
You go to watch the guard, I studied him.
He was a bitter viper, supple-slim.
When he had judged that you had reached the entry,
He stole towards the grate and called the sentry,
" Hussein, Hussein ! " — but Hussein never heard.
He called him twice, but never called the third :
I stopped his calling, luckily for you."
" Yes, but " (I said) " what did he mean to do,
Calling the sentry ? What could that have done '
" Caught 5^ou in trying to escape, my son :
The thing they love to do from time to time.
They reckon that examples stop the crime.
One caught and skinned makes many fear to try.
They would have flayed your skin off cruelly
In face of all these slaves, to daunt them down.
Then you'd have hung a-dying in the town
Nailed to some post, two days, perhaps, or three.
With thirst and flies.
But let Duhamel be ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 625
Bad though he was, misfortune tempts a soul
Worse than we think, and few men can control
Their virtue, being slave ; and he had been
A Knight of France, a courtier to the Queen.
He must have suffered to have fallen so,
A slave, a spy on slaves ; we cannot know.
Thank God ! what power of sinking lies in us.
God keep us all."
^ :[: ^ :(: 4: 4:
So talking to me thus,
He turned me leftward from the citadel
Uphill. He said : " I know this city well ;
There is the Khalif's palace straight ahead.
How many days I've staggered, nearly dead
From thirst, and from the sun, and from the load,
Up to the palace-gates along this road,
Bearing the plunder of the cruise to store,
After a month of tugging at the oar !
But now, please God, I shall not come again."
Our talking stopped ; we turned into a lane.
High, white-washed walls rose up on either side,
The narrow gash between was four feet wide,
And there at sprawl within the narrow way.
With head in hood, a sleeping beggar lay.
We stepped across his body heedfuUy ;
Deep in his dream he muttered drowsily.
We tip-toed on. The wall-tops, high above.
White in the quiet moonlight, hid my love.
We crept like worms in darkness yard by yard,
Still as the dead, but that our hearts beat hard.
And, spite of self, my teeth clickt from the flood
Of quick excitement running in my blood.
We were so near her, and the peril came
Close, with the moment that would prove the same
The lane turned sharply twice. In shadow dark.
With shiverings of singing like a lark,
A fountain sprang, relented, sprinkled, bubbled,
In some cool garden that the moonlight troubled,
626 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Unseen by us, although a smell of roses
Warm on the wind, stole to us from its closes.
Then came a wood-smoke smell, and mixed therewith
Gums from the heart's blood of the sinnam's pith.
And Gerard touched me. We had reached the place.
The woman's palace-wall was there in face,
The garden-wall merged with it, moonlight-topped ;
Just where the two together merged, we stopped.
Then, as we stood there, breathing, we could hear, |
Beyond the wall, some footsteps loitering near,
Some garden sentry slowly paced his watch
Crooning a love-song ; I could smell his match
That smouldered in the linstock at his hand.
* :<: :j: H: * i|c
His footsteps passed away upon the sand
Slowly, with pauses, for he stopped to eat
The green buds of the staric on his beat.
When he had gone, a cock crowed in the lane.
" It will be morning when he crows again,"
Was in our thoughts : we had full little time.
* * * * iji *
Some joist-holes gave us foothold, we could climb
Without much trouble to the wall's flat top ;
There we lay still, to let the plaster drop.
And see what dangers lay below us there.
*i^ Sf! ^ ^ 2]! ^
The garden of the palace breathed sweet air
Under our perch, the fountain's leaping glitter
Shone ; a bird started with a frightened twitter.
Alleys of blossomed fruit-trees girt a cool
White marble screen about a bathing-pool,
The palace rose beyond among its trees,
Splay-fronded figs and dates and cypresses.
'P ^ ij^ ^ i^ Pfi
Close to our left hands was the Woman's House.
We crept along our wall-top perilous
Till we could touch the roof that hid my love.
A teaken joist-end jutted out above.
We swung ourselves upon the roof thereby.
•p •)* H* •(• "J* V J
\
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 627
The dewy wet, flat house-top faced the sky.
We crouched together there.
Sweet smoke was wreathing
Out of a trap-door near us ; heavy breathing
Came from a woman sleeping near the trap.
I crept to her, not kno%ving what might hap.
She was an old Moor woman with primmed lips,
And foul white hair, and hennaed finger-tips
That clutched a dark hair blanket to her chin.
******
I crept to the trap-door and peered within.
A ladder led within. A lantern burning
Showed us a passage leading to a turning.
But open to the garden at one end.
******
Even as we peered, a man came round the bend,
Walked slowly down that lamp-lit corridor.
And stood to watch the garden at the door.
We saw his back within that moonlit square.
He had a curving sword which glittered bare.
He stood three minutes still, watching the night ;
Each beating second made the east more light.
He cracked and relished nuts or melon-seeds.
******
The hoof-sparks of the morning's running steeds
Made a pale dust now in the distant east,
But still the man stood cracking at his feast,
Nut after nut ; then flinging broken shell
Into the rose-walk, clicking as it fell.
He turned towards us up the passage dim.
There at the trap we crouched right over him,
And as he passed beneath, his fingers tried
A door below us in the passage-side.
Then, slowly loitering on, he reached and passed
The passage turning ; he was gone at last,
His footsteps died away ; they struck on stone
In some far cloister ; we were left alone.
******
Then, while our leaping hearts beat like to drums.
We took the gambler's way, that takes what comes :
628 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
We slid into the trap and down the stair,
Steep, Hke a loft's ; eleven rungs there were.
We stood within the passage at the door
Tried by the guard that little while before.
4: H: 4: 4s 4: ^
Within, there was a rustling and a chinking
(Like the glass dangles that the wind sets clinking),
And something tense there was within ; the throbbing
Of hearts in a despair too deep for sobbing :
We felt it there before we pressed the latch.
The teaken bar rose stiffly from its catch.
We slipt within and closed the door again.
We were within the dwelling-place of pain,
Among the women whom the Moors had taken,
The broken-hearts, despairing and forsaken,
The desolate that cried where no man heard.
:): H« Ni 4: H< 4:
Nobody challenged, but some women stirred.
It was so dark at first, after the moon.
A smoking censer, swinging, creaked a croon ;
There was a hanging lamp of beaten brass
That gave dim light through scraps of coloured glass.
I saw a long low room with many a heap
Dark, on the floor, where women lay asleep
On silken cushions. Round the wall there ran
(Dark, too, with cushioned women) a divan.
And women stirred and little chains were shaken.
SfC •(» ^ tf^ i|ft flp
What horror 'tis, to prisoners, to waken
Out of the dreams of home back to the chain.
Back to the iron and the mill again.
In some far land among one's enemies !
I knew that then ; those women made me wise.
4c * ^ ^ :|c 4i
We stared into the twilight till our eyes
Could see more clearly ; no one challenged us.
But standing back against the doorway thus
I saw the warden of the room, asleep,
Close to me, on the cushions, breathing deep,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 629
Her hard face made like iron by the gloom.
An old grim Moor that warden of the room,
A human iron fettered on the poor.
Far down the room a fetter touched the floor.
•P ■(• •(■ I* ?p *r
Even in the gloom I knew that she was there,
My April of a woman with bright hair ;
She sat upright against the wall alone,
By burning meditation turned to stone,
Staring ahead, and when I touched her shoulder
Her body (stiffened like a corpse and colder)
Seemed not herself, her mind seemed far away.
4: 4t 4! 4c 4: ^
There was no need to talk, but to essay
The light steel chain that linked her to the wall.
We gripped it, heaving, till its links were gall
Biting across our hands, but still we drave.
She, I, and Gerard, heaving till it gave.
The leaded staple snapped across the shank.
^ 4: :{: * 4: ;^
The loosed chain struck the flooring with a clank.
We all lay still, my arm about my own.
*' Who 's moving there ? Be silent ! " snapped the crone.
^C ^fi 5j« 5ji rfi ^
Cross with the slave who had awakened her,
She stared towards us. We could hear her stir,
Craning towards us ; but she could not see
More than the cushions tumbled there with me.
She thought, perhaps : " That fair one shook her chain,"
She growled : " I'll beat you if you stir again.
A Moorish whip upon your Christian skin."
******
I saw her clutch her blanket to her chin.
Turn to her side, and settle to her rest.
The dawn, that brings the skylark from her nest.
Was flying with bright feet that ever hasted. I
Each moment there meant happy chances wasted, k
Yet still we had to stay until she slept. '•
630 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
When she had fallen to a doze we crept
Stealthily to the door on hands and knees.
All of those women came from over-seas.
We could not waken them to share our chance.
Not Peru's silver nor the fields of France
Could buy a place in our society.
One tender feeling might have made us die
All three, and been no kindness to the fourth :
Compassions perish when the wind is north.
Close to the door a woman leaned and caught ;
My darling's hand, and kissed it swift as thought,
And whispered, " Oh, good luck ! " and then was stilL ;
She had no luck, but oh ! she had goodwill. ;
We blest her in our hearts. |
The warder stirred, ^.
Growling, but dozing lightly ; then we heard i
Outside the door, within three feet of us, f
The footsteps of the sentry perilous,
The clinking of his scabbard lightly touching
Some metal button, then his fingers clutching
The teaken catch to try if it were home.
******
We stood stone-still, expecting him to come.
He did not come, he pushed the door and passed, ■
Treading this beat exactly like the last, |
To loiter at the door to crack and spit. ;
******
The time dragged by till he had done with it.
Then back he came, and once again he shook
The catch upon its socket ; then he took
His way along the passage out of hearing.
******
The room 'gan glimmer from the dawning nearing,
The warder struggled with a dream, and cried ;
The lamp-flame purred from want of oil, and died.
And she, the woman who had kissed her hand.
Whispered, " Oh, go, for God's sake ! do not stand
One moment more, but go ! God help you free."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 631
We crept out of the prison silently,
Gerard the last, who closed the door behind us.
The crowing of a cock came to remind us
That it was morning now, with daylight breaking,
The leaves all shivering and birds awaking.
We climbed the ladder.
S|C ^ ^ n* ■!■ *F
Its eleven rungs
Called to the Moors of us with all their tongues :
" Wake ! " " Wake ! " " They fly ! " " The three of
them are flying ! "
" Oh, broken house ! " " Oh, sleepers, thieves are trying
To take the Khalif's treasure ! " "Guards!" "Awake!"
" They rob the women ! " " For the prophet's sake,"
" Slaughter these Christians ! " Thus the ladder spoke
Three times aloud, yet nobody awoke.
Even the hag upon the roof was still.
******
Now the red cock of dawning triumphed shrill.
And little ends of landwind shook the leaves ;
White through the cypress gleamed the palace eaves.
The dim and dewy beauty of the blossom.
Shy with the daybreak, trembled in its bosom.
Some snowy petals loitered to the ground.
The city houses had a wakening sound.
Some smoke was rising, and we heard the stirs
Made at the gates by country marketers ;
Only a moment's twilight yet remained.
S|C ^ ^ S|C Sf! ^
The supple links that held my darling chained
Served as a rope to help her down the wall.
Our hearts stood still to hear the plaster fall,
But down we scrambled safely to the lane.
We heard the hag upon the roof complain :
She called strange names, and listened for reply.
We heard her tread the ladder heavily.
It was her rising-time, perhaps, we thought.
******
And now the dangers that the daylight brought
Came thick upon us ; for our foreign dress
Betrayed us at each step beyond a guess.
632 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Even to be seen was certain death to us.
We hid my darhng's face, and hasting thus
Kept up the narrow lane as Gerard bade.
He said : " Beyond, the city wall is laid
Heaped in the ditch, and we can cross it there.
It fell from rottenness and disrepair.
They set no guard there — or they did not set.
They will not notice us, and we can get
Out to the tombs and hide inside a vault."
In overbrimming beauty without fault
The sun brought colour to that dingy hive.
It made the black tree green, the sea alive,
The huts like palaces ; but us who fled
Like ghosts at cockcrow hasting to the dead.
ill: it: ^ ^ ^ 4^
The lane had ceased. We reached an open space,
The greenish slope, the horses' baiting-place.
Between the city and the palace wall.
The hill dipped sharply in a steepish fall
Down to the houses, and the grass was worn
With hoofs, and littered with the husks of corn.
" Now, slowly," Gerard said, " for Moors go slowly."
'r* •!» 5^ ^ •!» t*
There, trembling in its blueness dim and holy,
Lay the great water bursting on the Mole.
Her tremblings came as thoughts come in a soul.
There was our peace, there was the road to home,
That never-trodden trembling bright with foam.
" There lies the road," said Gerard ; " now, come on."
******
The high leaves in the trees above us shone,
For now the sun had climbed the eastern hill ;
The coldness of the dawn was with us still.
We walked along the grass towards an alley
Between high walls beyond a tiny valley.
Fronting this alley's mouth our sloping grass
Dipped down and up, a little gut there was
Down which we slithered and from which we climbed.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 638
And just as we emerged, exactly timed,
Just as we drew my darling to the top.
There came a noise that made our pulses stop.
******
For, down towards us, blocking all the road.
Their horses striking sparks out as they strode,
Came lancers clattering with their hands held high,
Their knees bent up, and many a sharp, quick cry ;
The pennons in their lance-heads flapped like flame.
******
Three ranks in twos, and then a swordsman came.
Then one who held a scarlet banner ; then
One in a scarlet cloak, a King of men.
^P ?n ^P 5|6 SJ! Sf<
It was the Khalif s self, returning home.
His rein had smeared his stallion's crest with foam,
I noticed that. He was not twenty yards
From us. He saw us.
At a sign his guards
Rode round us, bade us stand ; there was no hope.
******
" Our luck ! " said Gerard. Then they took a rope
And hitched our wrists together. Then they led
The three of us, downhearted like the dead.
Before the Khalif's self. The swordsman bared
His right arm to the shoulder and prepared,
******
The Khalif stared at us, and we at him ;
We were defiant at him, he was grim.
A hawk-like fellow, like a bird of prey,
A hawk to strike, a swift to get away.
His clean brown face (with blood beneath the brown)
Puckered, his thin lips tightened in a frown,
He knew without our telling what we were.
T* ^F T* 'p "JC Sf!
The swordsman looked for word to kill us there.
* * * * * 4:
634 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I saw the lancers' glances at their chief.
Death on the instant would have seemed relief
To that not knowing what her fate would be
After the sword had made an end of me.
4: 4: :|c :|c ti
* * * ^
The Khalif's face grew grimmer ; then he said :
" Bring them with us." The swordsman sheathed his
blade.
They took us to a palace, to a chamber
Smelling of bruised spice and burning amber.
There slaves were sent to fetch the newly risen
Servants and warders of the woman's prison.
The white of death was on them when they came.
* nf * * * *
The Khalif lightened on them with quick flame.
Harsh though she was, I sorrowed for the crone,
For she was old, a woman, and alone,
And came, in age, upon disgrace through me ;
I know not what disgrace, I did not see
Those crones again, I doubt not they were whipt
For letting us escape them while they slept.
Perhaps they killed the sentry. Who can tell ?
The devil ever keeps the laws in hell.
« * * 4: 4: *
They dragged them out to justice one by one.
However bitter was the justice done,
I doubt not they were thankful to be quit
(At cost of some few pangs) the fear of it.
Then our turn came.
The Khalif's fury raged
Because our eyes had seen those women caged,
Because our Christian presence had defiled
The Woman's House, and somehow had beguiled
A woman-slave, his victim, out of it,
Against all Moorish law and Holy Writ.
If we had killed his son it had been less.
:)! 4: :|i :|: :): 4:
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 635
He rose up in his place and rent his dress.
" Let them be ganched upon the hooks," he cried,
" Throughout to-day, but not till they have died.
Then gather all the slaves, and flay these three
Alive, before them, that the slaves may see
What comes to dogs who try to get away.
So, ganch the three."
4: :lt: * 4t * *
Then Gerard answered : " Stay.
Before you fling us to the hooks, hear this.
There are two laws, and men may go amiss
Either by breaking or by keeping one.
There is man's law by which man's work is done.
Your galleys rowed, your palace kept in state.
Your victims ganched or headed on the gate,
And accident has bent us to its yoke.
4: 4: 4: 4: 4: *
" We break it : death ; but it is better broke.
******
" You know, you Khalif, by what death you reign,
What force of fraud, what cruelty of pain,
What spies and prostitutes support your power.
And help your law to run its little hour :
We, who are but ourselves, defy it all.
******
" We were free people till you made us thrall.
I was a sailor whom you took at sea
While sailing home. This woman that you see
You broke upon with murder in the night,
To drag her here to die for your delight.
This young man is her lover.
When he knew
That she was taken by your pirate crew,
He followed her to save her, or at least
Be near her in her grief. Man is a beast.
And women are his pasture by your law.
This young man was in safety, and he saw
His darling taken to the slave-girls' pen
Of weeping in the night and beasts of men.
He gave up everything, risked everything.
Came to your galley, took the iron ring.
636 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Rowed at the bitter oar-loom as a slave,
Only for love of her, for hope to save
Her from one bruise of all the many bruises
That fall upon a woman when she loses
Those whom your gang of bloodhounds made her lose,
******
" Knowing another law, wc could not choose
But stamp your law beneath our feet as dust,
Its bloodshed and its rapine and its lust.
For one clean hour of struggle to be free ;
She for her passionate pride of chastity,
He for his love of her, and I because
I'm not too old to glory in the cause
Of generous souls who have harsh measure meted.
******
" We did the generous thing and are defeated.
Boast, then, to-night, when you have drunken deep,
Between the singing woman's song and sleep,
That you have tortured to the death three slaves
Who spat upon your law and found their graves
Helping each other in the generous thing.
No mighty triumph for a boast, O King."
******
Then he was silent while the Khalif stared.
Never before had any being dared
To speak thus to him. All the courtiers paled.
We, who had died, expected to be haled
To torture there and then before the crowd. .
It was so silent that the wind seemed loud
Clicking a loose slat in the open shutter.
I heard the distant breakers at their mutter
Upon the Mole, I saw my darling's face
Steady and proud ; a breathing filled the place,
Men drawing breath until the Khalif spoke. /;j
****** f
His torn dress hung upon him like a cloak.
He spoke at last. " You speak of law," he said.
" By climates and by soils the laws are made.
Ours is a hawk-law suited to the land,
This rock of hawks or eyrie among sand ;
I am a hawk, the hawk-law pleases me.
******
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 687
" But I am man, and, being man, can be
Moved, sometimes, Christian, by the law which makes
Men who are suffering from man's mistakes
Brothers sometimes.
I had not heard this tale
Of you, the lover, following to jail
The woman whom you loved. You bowed your neck
Into the iron fettered to the deck.
And followed her to prison, all for love ?
******
" Allah, who gives men courage from above.
Has surely blessed you, boy.
******
" And you, his queen ;
Without your love his courage had not been.
Your beauty and your truth prevailed on him.
Allah has blessed you, too.
K ******
T " And you, the grim
Killer of men at midnight, you who speak
To Kings as peers with colour in your cheek,
Allah made you a man who helps his friends.
******
" God made you all. I will not thwart his ends.
You shall be free.
Hear all. These folks are free.
You, Emir, fit a xebec for the sea
To let them sail at noon.
Go where you will.
And lest my rovers should molest you still,
Here is my seal that they shall let you pass."
******
Throughout the room a sudden murmur was,
A gasp of indrawn breath and shifting feet.
So life was given back, the thing so sweet.
The undrunk cup that we were longing for.
******
My darling spoke : " O Khalif, one gift more.
After this bounty that our hearts shall praise
At all our praying-times by nights and days,
I ask yet more, O raiser from the dead.
There in your woman's prison as we fled
638 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
A hopeless woman blessed us. It is said
That blessings from the broken truly bless.
Khalif, we would not leave in hopelessness
One whose great heart could bless us even then,
Even as we left her in the prison pen.
She wished us fortvme from a broken heart :
Let her come with us, Khalif, when we start."
" Go, you," the Khalif said, " and choose her forth."
H: * * :f * *
At noon the wind was blowing to the north ;
A swift felucca with a scarlet sail
Was ready for us, deep with many a bale
Of gold and spice and silk, the great King's gifts,
The banners of the King were on her lifts.
The King and all his court rode down to see
Us four glad souls put seawards from Saffee.
* if * * ^ Hf
In the last glowing of the sunset's gold
We looked our last upon that jDirate hold ;
The palace gilding shone awhile like fire.
We were at sea with all our heart's desire,
Beauty and friendship and the dream fulfilled :
The golden answer to the deeply willed.
The purely longed-for, hardly tried-for thing.
Into the dark our sea-boat dipped her wing ;
Polaris climbed out of the dark and shone,
Then came the moon, and now Saffee was gone,
With all hell's darkness hidden by the sea.
S|C «|C SjC vfC 9|C S|S
Oh, beautiful is love, and to be free
Is beautiful, and beautiful are friends.
Love, freedom, comrades, surely make amends
For all these thorns through which we walk to death !
God let us breathe your beauty with our breath.
^ •!* ^ ^ V ^
All early in the Maytime, when daylight comes at four,
We blessed the hawthorn blossom that welcomed us
ashore.
Oh, beautiful in this living that passes like the foam,
It is to go with sorrow, yet come with beauty home !
4: ^ 4: H: 4: 4c
i
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 639
THE HOUNDS OF HELL
About the crowing of the cock,
When the shepherds feel the cold,
A horse's hoofs went clip-a-clock
Along the hangman's wold.
The horse-hoofs trotted on the stone,
The hoof-sparks glittered by,
And then a hunting horn was blown
And hounds broke into cry.
There was a strangeness in the horn,
A wildness in the cry,
A power of devilry forlorn
Exulting bloodily.
A power of night that ran a prey
Along the hangman's hill.
The shepherds heard the spent buck bray
And the horn blow for the kill.
They heard the worrying of the hounds
About the dead beast's bones ;
Then came the horn, and then the sounds
Of horse-hoofs treading stones.
" What hounds are these that hunt the night ? '
The shepherds asked in fear,
" Look, there are calkins clinking bright ;
They must be coming here."
The calkins clinkered to a spark,
The hunter called the pack ;
The sheep-dogs' fells all bristled stark
And all their lips went back.
" Lord God ! " the shepherds said, " they come
And see what hounds he has :
All dripping bluish fire, and dumb,
And nosing to the grass.
640 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I
" And trotting scatheless through the gorse, 1
And bristhng in the fell.
Lord, it is Death upon the horse,
And they're the hounds of hell ! "
They shook to watch them as they sped,
All black against the sky ;
A horseman with a hooded head
And great hounds padding by.
When daylight drove away the dark
And larks went up and thrilled,
The shepherds climbed the wold to mark
What beast the hounds had killed.
They came to where the hounds had fed.
And in that trampled place
They found a pedlar lying dead,
With horror in his face.
There was a farmer on the wold
Where all the brooks begin.
He had a thousand sheep from fold
Out grazing on the whin.
The next night, as he laj'^ in bed.
He heard a canterer come
Trampling the wold-top with a tread
That sounded like a drum.
He thought it was a post that rode.
So turned him to his sleep ;
But the canterer in his dreams abode
Like horse-hoofs running sheep.
And in his dreams a horn was blown |
And feathering hounds replied, |
And all his wethers stood like stone
In rank on the hillside.
Then, while he struggled still with dreams, j'
He saw his wethers run *
Before a pack cheered on with screams.
The thousand sheep as one.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 641
So, leaping from his bed in fear,
He flung the window back.
And he heard a death-horn blowing clear
And the crying of a pack.
And the thundering of a thousand sheep.
All mad and running wild
To the stone-pit seven fathoms deep,
Whence all the town is tiled.
After them came the hounds of hell,
With hell's own fury filled ;
Into the pit the wethers fell,
And all but three were killed.
The hunter blew his horn a note
And laughed against the moon ;
The farmer's breath caught in his throat,
He fell into a swoon.
* * * * *
The next night when the watch was set
A heavy rain came down,
The leaden gutters dripped with wet
Into the shuttered town.
So close the shutters were, the chink
Of lamplight scarcely showed ;
The men at fireside heard no clink
Of horse-hoofs on the road.
They heard the creaking hinge complain.
And the mouse that gnawed the floor.
And the limping footsteps of the rain
On the stone outside the door.
And on the wold the rain came down
Till trickles streakt the grass :
A traveller riding to the town
Drew rein to let it pass.
The wind sighed in the fir-tree tops,
The trickles sobb'd in the grass,
The branches ran with showers of drops :
No other noise there was.
21
642 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Till up the wold the traveller heard
A horn blow faint and thin ;
He thought it was the curlew bird
Lamenting to the whin ;
And when the far horn blew again,
He thought an owl hallooed,
Or a rabbit gave a shriek of pain
As the stoat leapt in the wood.
But when the horn blew next, it blew
A trump that split the air,
And hounds gave cry to an Halloo ! —
The hunt of hell was there.
" Black " (said the traveller), " black and swift,
Those running devils came ;
Scoring to cry with hackles stifft,
And grin- jowls dropping flame."
They settled to the sightless scent,
And up the hill a cry
Told where the frightened quarry went.
Well knowing it would die.
Then presently a cry rang out.
And a mort blew for the kill ;
A shepherd with his throat torn out
Lay dead upon the hill.
^ :(: 4: * *
When this was known, the shepherds drove
Their flocks into the town ;
No man, for money or for love.
Would watch them on the down.
But night by night the terror ran.
The townsmen heard them still ;
Nightly the hell-hounds hunted man
And the hunter whooped the kill.
The men who lived upon the moor
Would waken to the scratch
Of hounds' claws digging at the door
Or scraping at the latch.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 643
And presently no man would go
Without doors after dark.
Lest hell's black hunting horn should blow,
And hell's black bloodhounds mark.
They shivered round the fire at home,
While out upon the bent
The hounds with black jowls dropping foam
Went nosing to the scent.
Men let the hay crop run to seed
And the corn crop sprout in ear,
And the root crop choke itself in weed —
That hell-hound hunting year.
Empty to heaven lay the wold,
Village and church grew green ;
The courtyard flagstones spread with mould.
And weeds sprang up between.
And sometimes when the cock had crowed.
And the hillside stood out grey,
Men saw them slinking up the road
All sullen from their prey.
A hooded horseman on a black,
With nine black hounds at heel,
After the hell-hunt going back
All bloody from their meal.
And in men's minds a fear began
That hell had over-hurled
The guardians of the soul of man.
And come to rule the world
With bitterness of heart by day.
And terror in the night.
And the blindness of a barren way
And withering of delight.
*****
St. Wlthiel lived upon the moor,
Where the peat-men live in holes ;
He worked among the peat-men poor,
Who only have their souls.
644 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He brought them nothing but his love
And the will to do them good,
But power filled him from above,
His very touch was food.
Men told St. Withiel of the hounds,
And how they killed their prey.
He thought them far beyond his bounds,
So many miles away.
Then one whose son the hounds had killed
Told him the tale at length ;
St. Withiel pondered why God willed
That hell should have such strength.
Then one, a passing traveller, told
How, since the hounds had come,
The church was empty on the wold
And all the priests were dumb.
St. Withiel rose at this, and said :
" This priest will not be dumb ;
My spirit will not be afraid
Though all hell's devils come."
He took his stick and out he went,
The long way to the wold,
Where the sheep-bells clink upon the bent
And every wind is cold.
He passed the rivers running red
And the mountains standing bare ;
At last the wold-land lay ahead,
Un-yellowed by the share.
All in the brown October time
He clambered to the weald ; |
The plum lay purpled into^slime, V
The harvest lay in field. £
Trampled by many-footed rain
The sunburnt corn lay dead ;
The myriad finches in the grain
Rose bothering at^his tread.
T
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 645
The myriad finches took a sheer
And settled back to food :
A man was not a thing to fear
In such a sohtude.
The hurrying of their wings died out,
A silence took the hill ;
There was no dog, no bell, no shout,
The windmill's sails were still.
The gate swung creaking on its hasp,
The pear splashed from the tree,
In the rotting apple's heart the wasp
Was drunken drowsily.
The grass upon the cart-wheel ruts
Had made the trackways dim ;
The rabbits ate and hopped their scuts
They had no fear of him.
The sunset reddened in the west ;
The distant depth of blue
Stretched out and dimmed ; to twiggy nest
The rooks in clamour drew.
The oakwood in his mail of brass
Bowed his great crest and stood :
The pine-tree saw St. Withiel pass,
His great bole blushed like blood.
Then tree and wood alike were dim,
Yet still St. Withiel strode ;
The only noise to comfort him
Were his footsteps on the road.
The crimson in the west was smoked,
The west wind heaped the wrack.
Each tree seemed like a murderer cloaked
To stab him in the back.
Darkness and desolation came
To dog his footsteps there ;
The dead leaves rustling called his name,
The death-moth brushed his hair.
I
646 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The murmurings of the wind fell still ;
He stood and stared around :
He was alone upon the hill,
On devil-haunted ground.
What was the whitish thing which stood '1
In front, with one arm raised.
Like death a-grinning in a hood ?
The saint stood still and gazed.
" What are you ? " said St. Withiel. " Speak ! "
Not any answer came
But the night-wind making darkness bleak,
And the leaves that called his name.
A glow shone on the whitish thing,
It neither stirred nor spoke :
In spite of faith, a shuddering
Made the good saint to choke.
He struck the whiteness with his staff —
It was a withered tree ;
An owl flew from it with a laugh,
The darkness shook with glee.
The darkness came all round him close
And cackled in his ear ;
The midnight, full of life none knows.
Was very full of fear.
The darkness cackled in his heart
That things of hell were there,
That the startled rabbit played a part
And the stoat's leap did prepare —
Prepare the stage of night for blood.
And the mind of night for death,
For a spirit trembling in the mud
In an agony for breath.
A terror came upon the saint.
It stripped his spirit bare ;
He was sick body standing faint,
Cold sweat and stiffened hair.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 647
He took his terror by the throat
And stamped it underfoot ;
Then, far away, the death-horn's note
Quailed like a screech-owl's hoot.
Still far away that devil's horn
Its quavering death-note blew,
But the saint could hear the crackling thorn
That the hounds trod as they drew.
" Lord, it is true," St. Withiel moaned,
" And the hunt is drawing near !
Devils that Paradise disowned,
They know that I am here.
" And there, O God, a hound gives tongue,
And great hounds quarter dim " —
The saint's hands to his body clung,
He knew they came for him.
Then close at hand the horn was loud.
Like Peter's cock of old
For joy that Peter's soul was cowed.
And Jesus' body sold.
Then terribly the hounds in cry
Gave answer to the horn ;
The saint in terror turned to fly
Before his flesh was torn.
After his body came the hounds,
After the hounds the horse ;
Their running crackled with the sounds
Of fire that runs in crorse.
o^
The saint's breath failed, but still they came
The hunter cheered them on.
Even as a wind that blows a flame
In the vigil of St. John.
'to'
And as St. Withiel's terror grew,
The crying of the pack
Bayed nearer, as though terror drew
Those grip teeth to his back.
648 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
'M
No hope was in his soul, no stay,
Nothing but screaming will
To save his terror-stricken clay
Before the hounds could kill.
The laid corn tripped, the bramble caught,
He stumbled on the stones —
The thorn that scratched him, to his thought,
Was hell's teeth at his bones.
His legs seemed bound as in a dream,
The wet earth held his feet.
He screamed aloud as rabbits scream
Before the stoat's teeth meet.
A black thing struck him on the brow,
A blackness loomed and waved ;
It was a tree — he caught a bough
And scrambled up it, saved.
Saved for the moment, as he thought.
He pressed against the bark :
The hell-hounds missed the thing they sought,
They quartered in the dark.
They panted underneath the tree,
They quartered to the call ;
The hunter cried : " Yoi doit, go see ! "
His death-horn blew a fall.
Now up, now down, the hell-hounds went
With soft feet padding wide ;
They tried, but could not hit the scent.
However hard they tried.
Then presently the horn was blown,
The hounds were called away ;
The hoof-beats glittered on the stone
And trotted on the brae.
The saint gat strength, but with it came
A horror of his fear.
Anguish at having failed, and shame,
And sense of judgment near :
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 649
Anguish at having left his charge
And having failed his trust,
At having flung his sword and targe
To save his body's dust.
He clambered down the saving tree.
" I am unclean ! " he cried.
" Christ died upon a tree for me,
I used a tree to hide.
" The hell-hounds bayed about the cross,
And tore his clothes apart ;
But Christ was gold, and I am dross.
And mud is in my heart."
He stood in anguish in the field ;
A little wind blew by,
The dead leaves dropped, the great stars wheeled
Their squadrons in the sky.
" Lord, I will try again," he said,
" Though all hell's devils tear.
This time I will not be afraid.
And what is sent I'll dare."
He set his face against the slope
Until he topped the brae ;
Courage had healed his fear, and hope
Had put his shame away.
And then, far-off, a quest-note ran,
A feathering hound replied :
The hounds still drew the night for man
Along that countryside.
Then one by one the hell-hounds spoke,
And still the horn made cheer;
Then the full devil-chorus woke
To fill the saint with fear.
He knew that they were after him
To hunt him till he fell ;
He turned and fled into the dim,
And after him came hell.
21*
650 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Over the stony wold he went,
Through thorns and over quags ;
The bloodhounds cried upon the scent,
They ran like rutting stags.
And when the saint looked round, he saw
Red eyes intently strained,
The bright teeth in the grinning jaw,
And running shapes that gained.
Uphill, downhill, with failing breath.
He ran to save his skin,
Like one who knocked the door of death,
Yet dared not enter in.
Then water gurgled in the night.
Dark water lay in front.
The saint saw bubbles running bright ;
The huntsman cheered his hunt.
The saint leaped far into the stream
And struggled to the shore.
The hunt died like an evil dream,
A strange land lay before.
He waded to a glittering land,
With brighter light than ours ;
The water ran on silver sand
By yellow water-flowers.
The fishes nosed the stream to rings
As petals floated by, |
The apples were like orbs of kings i
Against a glow of sky.
On cool and steady stalks of green
The outland flowers grew.
The ghost-flower, silver like a queen.
The queen-flower streakt with blue.
The king -flower, crimson on his stalk,
With frettings in his crown ;
The peace-flower, purple, from the chalk,
The flower that loves the down.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 651
Lilies like thoughts, roses like words,
In the sweet brain of June ;
The bees there, like the stock-dove birds,
Breathed all the air with croon.
Purple and golden hung the plums ;
Like slaves bowed down with gems
The peach-trees were ; sweet-scented gums
Oozed clammy from their stems.
And birds of every land were there,
Like flowers that sang and flew ;
All beauty that makes singing fair
That sunny garden knew.
For all together sang with throats
So tuned, that the intense
Colour and odour pearled the notes
And passed into the sense.
And as the saint drew near, he heard
The birds talk, each to each,
The fire-bird to the glory-bird.
He understood their speech.
One said : " The saint was terrified
Because the hunters came."
Another said : " The bloodhounds cried,
And all their eyes were flame."
Another said : " No shame to him.
For mortal men are blind :
They cannot see beyond the grim
Into the peace behind."
Another sang : " They cannot know,
Unless we give the clue,
The power that waits in them below
The things thev are and do."
^ts"-
Another sang : " They never guess
That deep within them stand
Courage and peace and loveliness,
Wisdom and skill of hand."
652 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Another sang : " Sing, brothers ! come
Make beauty in the air !
The saint is shamed with martyrdom
Beyond his strength to bear.
" Sing, brothers ! every bird that flies ! "
They stretcht their throats to sing,
With the sweetness known in Paradise
When the bells of heaven ring.
" Open the doors, good saint ! " they cried,
" Pass deeper to your soul ;
There is a spirit in your side
That hell cannot control.
" Open the doors to let him in,
That beauty with the sword ;
The hounds are silly shapes of sin,
They shrivel at a word.
" Come, saint ! " and as they sang, the air
Shone with the shapes of flame.
Bird after bright bird glittered there,
Crying aloud they came.
A rush of brightness and dehght.
White as the snow in drift,
The fire-bird and the glory-bright,
Most beautiful, most swift.
Sweeping aloft to show the way
And singing as they flew,
Many and glittering as the spray
When windy seas are blue.
So cheerily they rushed, so strong
Their sweep was through the flowers,
The saint was swept into their song
And gloried in their powers.
He sang, and leaped into the stream,
And struggled to the shore ;
The garden faded like a dream.
A darkness lay before.
1
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 653
Darkness Avith glimmery light forlorn
And quavering hounds in quest,
A huntsman blowing on a horn,
And lost things not at rest.
He saw the huntsman's hood show black
Against the greying east ;
He heard him hollo to the pack
And horn them to the feast.
He heard the bloodhounds come to cry
And settle to the scent ;
The black horse made the hoof-casts fly.
The sparks flashed up the bent.
The saint stood still until they came
Baying to ring him round :
A horse whose flecking foam was flame.
And hound on yelling hound.
And jaws that dripped with bitter fire
Snarled at the saint to tear.
Pilled hell-hounds, balder than the geier,
Leaped round him everywhere.
St. Withiel let the hell-hounds rave.
He cried : " Now, in this place,
Climb down, you huntsman of the grave.
And let me see your face.
" Climb down, you huntsman out of hell
And show me what you are.
The judge has stricken on the bell,
Now answer at the bar."
The baying of the hounds fell still,
Their jaws' salt fire died.
The wind of morning struck in chill
Along that countryside.
The blackness of the horse was shrunk,
His sides seemed ribbed and old.
The rider, hooded like a monk,
Was trembling with the cold.
654 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The rider bowed as though with pain ;
Then clambered down and stood,
The thin thing that the frightened brain
Had fed with hving blood.
" Show me. What are you ? " said the saint.
A hollow murmur spoke.
" This, Lord," it said ; a hand moved faint {
And drew aside the cloak. '
A Woman Death that palsy shook
Stood sick and dwindling there ;
Her fingers were a bony crook,
And blood was on her hair.
" Stretch out your hands and sign the Cross,"
W^as all St. Withiel said.
The bloodhounds moaned upon the moss,
The Woman Death obeyed.
Whimpering with pain, she made the sign.
" Go, devil-hag," said he,
" Beyond all help of bread and wine,
Beyond all land and sea,
" Into the ice, into the snow.
Where Death himself is stark !
Out, with your hounds about you, go,
And perish in the dark ! "
They dwindled as the mist that fades
At coming of the sun ;
Like rags of stuff that fire abrades
They withered and were done.
The cock, that scares the ghost from earth,
Crowed as they dwindled down ;
The red sun, happy in his girth,
Strode up above the town.
Sweetly above the sunny wold
The bells of churches rang ;
The sheep-bells clinked within the fold.
And the larks went up and sang ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 655
Sang for the setting free of men
From devils that destroyed ;
The lark, the robin, and the wren,
They joyed and over-joyed.
The chats, that harbour in the whin.
Their little sweet throats swelled,
The blackbird and the thrush joined in,
The missel-thrush excelled.
Till round the saint the singing made
A beauty in the air.
An ecstasy that cannot fade
But is for ever there.
CAP ON HEAD
A TALE OF THE o'nEILL
O'Neill took ship, O'Neill set sail,
And left his wife ashore
In the foursquare castle like a jail,
Between the Mull and the Gore.
Many a month he stayed away,
His lady sorrowed long ;
She heard the tide come twice a day,
And the sea-lark at his song ;
She watched the sun go down in the west.
And another day begin ;
At nights she made her mate a nest.
But no mate came therein.
4; :): 4: :(: :(:
One night a red light burned at sea,
A ship came into port,
A foot stirred and the horn was blown
Within the outer court.
It was all dark save up the brae
The dead moon wore her heel ;
The watchman called, " Who 's there the dav ?
A voice said, " The O'Neill."
656 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The watchman flung the great gate back ;
" Come in, lord, to your own."
O'Neill stood huddled up in black
Upon the threshold stone.
White as a riser from the dead
He passed the lintel post.
" God spare us, lord ! " the watchman said,
" I thought you were a ghost.
" I never heard you come ashore ;
And. look, your ship is gone.
Are all our fellows dead, my lord.
That you should come alone ? "
O'Neill stood grinning in the porch
A little breathing space ;
The redness blowing from the torch
Put colour in his face.
" I've left my ship behind," he said,
" To join the Scotch King's fleet.
I've left my men behind," he said,
" To haul on her fore-sheet.
" I have come home ail alone," he said,
" In a country ship from sea.
Let my lady know the news," he said,
" Then open here to me."
Then lights were lit, and men gave hail
And welcomed him ashore ;
The wife was glad within that jail
Between the Mull and the Gore.
O'Neill went swimming in the sea
And hunting up the glen ;
No one could swim or ride as he
Of all the sons of men.
His wife went happy in the lane
t?'' And singing in the tower ;
The sweet of having him again
Had ended all the sour.
1
.Hkj
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 657
But Kate, an old crone muttering dark
About that windy place,
Did not rejoice ; she said : " I mark
O'Neill has fal'n from grace.
" He has been under the dark star
Since when he went away.
Men think that when they wander far
The black thing becomes grey.
" He has been dipped in the strange vat
And dyed with the strange dye ;
And then the black thing — what is that
That dogs him, going by ?
" A dog thing, black, goes padding past
Forever at his heel :
God help us all to peace at last !
I fear for the O'Neill.
" His teeth show when the Host does come
To comfort dying men ;
And in the chapel he is dumb.
He never says Amen."
She would not speak with the O'Neill,
But when he crossed her path
She prayed, as tremblers do that feel
The devil in his wrath.
And SO the Time went by, whose hand
Upheaves the lives of men ;
The cuckoo left his burning land
To toll along the glen.
So loud the thrushes sung that spring,
So rich the hawthorn was,
The air was like a living thing
Between the sky and the grass.
O'Neill's wife bore a little son,
And set him on her knee ;
He grew apace to romp and run
And dabble in the sea.
658 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
But one thing strange about the child
The neighbours noted there :
That, even if the winds were mild,
His head was never bare.
His father made him wear a cap
At all times, night and day,
Bound round his forehead with a strap
To keep the cold away.
And up and down the little lad
Went singing at his game :
Men marvelled at the grace he had
To make the wild birds tame.
Men marvelled at the joy he took.
And at the things he said,
And at the beauty of his look,
This little Cap on Head,
And when the nights were dark between
The new moon and the old,
And fires were lit, and winds blew keen,
And old wives' tales were told.
This little son would scramble near
Beside his mother's place,
To listen to the tale and peer
With firelight on his face.
O'Neill would gather to the glow
With great eyes glittering fierce ;
Old Kate would shake to see him so,
And cross herself from curse.
It fell about hay-harvest time,
When the Lammas floods were out,
A ship all green with water-slime
Stood in and went about.
And anchored off the bight of sand.
And swam there like a seal,
With a banner of the bloody hand,
The flag of the O'Neifl.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 659
Then there was cheering in the court
And hurrying to the beach.
" A ship ! " they cried, " a ship in port,
Brought up in Castle Reach.
" It is our ship. They are our men
There, coiling up the sheet ;
It is our ship come home agen
From out the Scotch King's fleet.
'O
" And who 's the noble in the boat
Comes rowing through the sea ?
His colours are the O'Neill coat,
But what O'Neill is he ? "
4: :): 4: :(: 4:
O'Neill was in his turret tower.
With writings red and black ;
Kate crossed herself to see him glower
That tide the ship came back.
He looked long at the anchored ship,
And at the coming boat ;
The devil writhelled up his lip,
And snickered in his throat.
He strode the room and bit his nails.
He bit his flesh with rage,
As maddened felons do in jails,
And rats do in a cage.
He looked at Kate, who crossed her breast ;
He heard them cheer below.
He said : " The wicked cannot rest,
And now I have to go."
They saw him hurry up the green
And on into the rain ;
Beyond the brae he was not seen ;
He was not seen again.
* * * t *
660 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
O'Neill's wife went to watch the boat
Come driving to the sand ;
The'noble in the O'Neill coat
Stood up and waved his hand.
" That is O'Neill ! " the clansmen cried,
" Or else his very twin."
" How came he to the ship ? " they cried.
" Just now he was within."
" It is O'Neill," the lady said,
" And that 's his ship returned.
And a woman's life 's a school," she said,
" Where bitter things are learned."
O'Neill called to her through his tears :
" The bitter days are past.
I've prayed for this for seven years,
Now here I am at last."
Then, as the boat's bows cut the strand
Among the slipping foam.
He sprang to take his lady's hand ;
He said : " I have come home."
His lady fainted like the dead,
Beside the slipping sea.
" This is O'Neill," the servants said,
" What is that other he ? "
" Master," they said, " where have you been
These seven years and more ? "
" I've served the Scottish King and Queen
Along the Scottish shore."
" Master," they said, " another came,
So like in voice and face
To you, we thought it was the same.
And so he took your place.
" These seven years he 's ruled us here,
While you were still at sea.
And that 's his son that 's coming here,
Look, Master, that is he."
*****
#
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 661
O'Neill took off the wee boy's cap
And ruffled through his hair ;
He said : " A young tree full of sap,
A good shoot growing fair."
He turned the hair for men to see,
And swallowed down his tears ;
He said : " The gods be good to me,
The boy has devil's ears ! "
He took the young child by the heels
And broke him, head and breast :
The red hand ridded the O'Neills
That cuckoo in the nest.
O'Neill flung out the little limbs
To drift about the bay.
" Watch, fellows, if he sinks or swims,"
Was all they heard him say.
He said : " The wicked cannot rest.
And now I have to go."
He set his ship's head north and west
And stood into the flow.
The ship went shining like a seal,
And dimmed into the rain;
And no man saw the great O'Neill,
Nor heard of him again.
SONNETS
Like bones the ruins of the cities stand,
Like skeletons and skulls Avith ribs and eyes
Strewn in the saltness of the desert sand
Carved with the unread record of Kings' lies.
Once they were strong with soldiers, loud with voices,
The markets clattered as the carts drove through,
Where now the jackal in the moon rejoices
And the still asp draws death along the dew.
662 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
There at the gates the market men paid toll
In bronze and silver pennies, long worn thin ;
Wine was a silver penny for a bowl ;
Women they had there, and the moon, and sin.
And looking from his tower, the watchman saw
Green fields for miles, the roads, the great King's law.
Now they are gone with all their songs and sins,
Women and men, to dust ; their copper penny,
Of living, spent, among these dusty inns ;
The glittering One made level with the many.
Their speech is gone, none speaks it, none can read
The pictured writing of their conqueror's march ;
The dropping plaster of a fading screed
Ceils with its mildews the decaying arch.
The fields are sand, the streets are fallen stones ;
Nothing is bought or sold there, nothing spoken :
The sand hides all, the wind that blows it moans,
Blowing more sand until the plinth is broken.
Day in, day out, no other utterance falls ;
Only the sand, pit-pitting on the walls.
None knows what overthrew that city's pride.
Some say, the spotted pestilence arose
And smote them to the marrow, that they died
Till every pulse was dusty ; no man knows.
Some say, that foreign Kings with all their hosts
Sieged it with mine and tower till it fell,
So that the sword shred shrieking flesh from ghosts
Till every street was empty ; who can tell ?
Some think, that in the fields, or in the pit,
Out of the light, in filth, among the rotten.
Insects like sands in number, swift as wit,
Famined the city dead ; it is forgotten.
Only the city's bones stand, gaunt in air.
Pocked by the pitting sandspecks everywhere.
So shall we be ; so will our cities lie,
Unknown beneath the grasses of the summer,
Walls without roofs, naves open to the sky.
Doors open to the Avind, the only comer.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 663
And men will grub the ruins, eyes will peer,
Fingers will grope for pennies, brains will tire
To chronicle the skills we practised here,
While still we breathed the wind and trod the mire.
Oh, like the ghost at dawn, scared by the cock,
Let us make haste, to let the spirit dive
Deep in self's sea, until the deeps unlock
The depths and sunken gold of being alive,
Till, though our Many pass, a Something stands
Aloft through Time that covers all with sands.
THE PASSING STRANGE
Out of the earth to rest or range
Perpetual in perpetual change,
The unknown passing through the strange.
Water and saltness held together
To tread the dust and stand the weather.
And plough the field and stretch the tether,
To pass the wine-cup and be witty.
Water the sands and build the city,
Slaughter like devils and have pity,
Be red with rage and pale with lust,
Make beauty come, make peace, make trust,
Water and saltness mixed with dust ;
Drive over earth, swim under sea,
Fly in the eagle's secrecy.
Guess where the hidden comets be ;
Know all the deathy seeds that still
Queen Helen's beauty, Caesar's will,
And slay them even as they kill ;
Fashion an altar for a rood.
Defile a continent with blood,
And watch a brother starve for food ;
664 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Love like a madman, shaking, blind,
Till self is burnt into a kind
Possession of another mind ;
I
Brood upon beauty, till the grace f
Of beauty with the holy face
Brings peace into the bitter place ;
Prove in the lifeless granites, scan
The stars for hope, for guide, for plan ;
Live as a woman or a man ;
Fasten to lover or to friend.
Until the heart break at the end
The break of death that cannot mend :
Then to lie useless, helpless, still,
Down in the earth, in dark, to fill
The roots of grass or daffodil.
Down in the earth, in dark, alone,
A mockery of the ghost in bone.
The strangeness, passing the unknown.
Time will go by, that outlasts clocks,
Dawn in the thorps will rouse the cocks.
Sunset be glory on the rocks :
But it, the thing, will never heed
Even the rootling from the seed
Thrusting to suck it for its need.
*****
Since moons decay and suns decline,
How else should end this life of mine ?
Water and saltness are not wine.
But in the darkest hour of night.
When even the foxes peer for sight.
The byre-cock crows ; he feels the light.
So, in this water mixed with dust,
The byre-cock spirit crows from trust
That death will change because it must ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 665
For all things change, the darkness changes,
The wandering spirits change their ranges.
The corn is gathered to the granges.
The corn is sown again, it grows ;
The stars burn out, the darkness goes ;
The rhythms change, they do not close.
They change, and we, who pass like foam,
Like dust blown through the streets of Rome,
Change ever, too ; we have no home,
Only a beauty, only a power,
Sad in the fruit, bright in the flower.
Endlessly erring for its hour,
But gathering, as we stray, a sense
Of Life, so lovely and intense,
It lingers when we wander hence,
That those who follow feel behind
Their backs, when all before is blind,
Our joy, a rampart to the mind.
ANIMULA
This is the place, this house beside the sea ;
This was the setting where they played their parts.
Two men, who knew them all, have talked to me :
Beauty she had, and all had passionate hearts.
I write this in the window where she sat.
Two fields, all green with summer, lie below ;
Then the grey sea, at thought, cloud-coloured, flat,
Wind-dappled from the glen, the tide at flow.
Her portrait and her husband's hang together,
One on each side the fire ; it is close ;
The tree-tops toss, it is a change of weather.
They were most lovely and unhappy, those,
That married pair and he who loved too well ;
This was the door by which they entered hell.
666 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
This is a drawing of her as a child,
This is she wed ; the faces are the same, J
Only the beauty of the babe is wild,
The woman's beauty has been broken tame. l
Witty, bright, gentle, earnest, with great eyes,
Dark hair in heaps, pure colour, lips that smile ;
Beauty that is more wisdom than the wise
Lived in this woman for a little while.
Dressed in that beauty that our mothers wore
(So touching now), she looks out of the frame
With stag-like eyes, that wept till they were sore ;■
Many 's the time, till she was broken tame.
Witty, bright, gentle, earnest, even so,
Destiny calls and spirits come and go.
This is her husband in his youth ; and this
Is he in manhood ; this is he in age.
There is a devil in those eyes of his,
A glittering devil, restless in his cage.
A grand man, with a beauty and a pride,
A manner and a power and a fire,
With beaks of vultures eating at his side.
The great brain mad with unfulfilled desire.
" With grand ideas," they say ; tall, wicked, proud,
Cold, cruel, bitter, clever, dainty, skilled ;
Splendid to see, a head above the crowd ;
Splendid with every strength, yet unfulfilled.
Cutting himself (and all those near) with hate
From that sharp mind which should have shaped a state.
And many years ago I saw the third
Bowed in old age and mad with misery ;
Mad with the bright eyes of the eagle-bird,
Burning his heart at fires of memory.
He stood behind a chair, and bent and muttered ;
Grand still, grey, sunburnt, bright with mad eyes brown,
Burning, though dying, like a torch that guttered
That once had lit Queen Helen through the town.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 667
I only saw him once : I saw him go
Leaning uphill his body to the rain,
Too good a man for life to punish so,
Theirs were the pride and passion, his the pain.
His old coat flapped ; the httle children turned
To see him pass, that passionate age that burned.
" I knew them well, all three," the old man said ;
" He was an unused force, and she a child.
She caught him with her beauty, being a maid.
The thought that she had trapped him drove him wild.
He would not work with others, could not rest.
And nothing here could use him or engage him ;
Yet here he stayed, with devils in his breast,
To blast the woman who had dared to cage him.
Then, when the scholar came, it made the three :
She turned to him, and he, he turned to her.
They both were saints : elopement could not be ;
So here they stayed, and passion plied the spur.
Then the men fought, and later she was found
In that green pool beyond the headland, drowned.
" They carried her drowned body up the grass
Here to the house ; they laid it on the bed
(This very bed, where I have slept, it was).
The scholar begged to see her, being dead.
The husband walked downstairs, to see him there
Begging to see her as one asks an alms.
He spat at him and cut his cheek-bone bare.
' There 's pay,' he said, ' my poet, for your psalms.*
And then they fought together at the door.
Biting each other, like two dogs, while she
Lay dead, poor woman, dripping on the floor
Out of her hair the death-drops of the sea.
Later, they fought whenever they might meet.
In church, or in the fields, or in the street."
Up on the hill another aged man
Remembered them. He said : " They were afraid ;
They feared to end the passions they began.
They held the cards, and yet they never played.
668 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He should have broken from her at all cost ;
She should have loved her lover and gone free.
They all held winning cards, and yet they lost ;
So two were wrecked and one drowned in t he sea.
Some harshness or some law, or else some fear
Stifled their souls ; God help us ! when we know
Certainly, certain things, the way is clear.
And yet they paid, and one respects them so.
Perhaps they were too fine. I know not, I.
Men must have mercy, being ripe to die."
So this old house of mourning was the stage
(This house and those green fields) for all that woe.
There are her books, her writing on the page ;
In those choked beds she made the flowers grow.
Most desolate it is, the rain is pouring.
The trees all toss and drip and scatter evil.
The floods are out, the waterfall is roaring,
The bar is mad with many a leaping devil.
And in this house the wind goes whining wild.
The door blows open, till I think to see
That delicate sweet woman, like a child,
Standing with great dark stag's eyes watching me ;
Watching as though her sorrow might make plain
(Had I but wit) the meaning of such pain.
I wonder if she sang in this old room. S
Ah, never ! No ; they tell me that she stood k
For hours together staring into gloom .p
Out of the prison bars of flesh and blood.
So, when the ninth wave drowned her, haply she
Wakened, with merging senses, till she blent
Into the joy and colour of the sea,
One with the purpose of the element.
And there, perhaps, she cannot feel the woe
Passed in this rotting house, but runs like light
Over the billows where the clippers go.
One with the blue sea's pureness of delight ;
Laughing, perhaps, at that old woe of hers
Chained in the cage with fellow-prisoners.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 669
He died in that lone cottage near the sea.
In the grey morning when the tide was turning
The wards of Hfe shpt back and set him free
From cares of meat and dress, from joys and yearning.
Then Hke an old man gathering strength, he strayed
Over the beach, and strength came into him.
Beauty that never threatened nor betrayed
Made bright the eyes that sorrow had made dim ;
So that upon that stretch of barren sand
He knew his dreams ; he saw her beauty run
With Sorrowful Beauty, laughing, hand in hand ;
He heard the trumpets blow in Avalon.
He saw the golden statue stretching down
The wreath, for him, of roses, in a crown.
They say that as her husband lay a-dying
He clamoured for a chain to beat the hound.
They say that all the garden rang with crying
That came out of the air, out of the ground,
Out of the waste that was his soul, may be.
Out of the running wolf-hound of his soul,
That had been kennelled in and now broke free
Out to the moors where stags go, past control.
All through his life his will had kennelled him ;
Now he was free, and with a hackling fell
He snarled out of the bod}^ to the dim,
To run the spirits with the hounds of hell ;
To run forever at the quarry gone,
The uncaught thing a little further on.
So, one by one, Time took them to his keeping,
Those broken lanterns that had held his fire ;
Dust went to dust, and flesh had time for sleeping.
And soul the stag escaped the hound desire.
And now, perhaps, the memory of their hate
Has passed from them, and they are friends again,
Laughing at all the trouble of this state
Where men and women work each other pain.
670 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And in the wind that runs along the glen
Beating at cottage doors, they may go by,
Exulting now, and helping sorrowing men
To do some little good before they die. |
For from these ploughed-up souls the spirit brings
Harvest at last, and sweet from bitter things.
THE LEMMINGS
Once in a hundred years the Lemmings come
Westward, in search of food, over the snow ;
Westward until the salt sea drowns them dumb ;
Westward, till all are drowned, those Lemmings go.
Once, it is thought, there was a westward land
(Now drowned) where there was food for those starved
things.
And memory of the place has burnt its brand
In the little brains of all the Lemming kings.
Perhaps, long since, there was a land beyond
Westward from death, some city, some calm place
Where one could taste God's quiet and be fond
With the little beauty of a human face ;
But now the land is drowned. Yet still we press
Westward, in search, to death, to nothingness.
FORGET
Forget all these, the barren fool in power,
The madman in command, the jealous O,
The bitter world biting its bitter hour,
The cruel now, the happy long ago.
Forget all these, for, though they truly Imrt,
Even to the soul, they are not lasting things
!|Men are no gods ; we tread the city dirt,
''But in our souls we can be queens and kings.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 671
And I, O Beauty, O divine white wonder,
On whom my dull eyes, blind to all else, peer,
Have you for peace, that not the whole war's thunder,
Nor the world's wreck, can threat or take from here.
So you remain, though all man's passionate seas
Roar their blind tides, I can forget all these.
ON GROWING OLD
Be with me. Beauty, for the fire is dying ;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying.
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
I take the book and gather to the fire.
Turning old yellow leaves : minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nor share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
THebeauty of fire from the beauty of embers.
Beauty, have pity ! for the strong have power.
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace.
Summer of man its sunlight and its flower,
Spring-time of man all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud,
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd.
So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,
Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,
Let me have wisdom. Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch.
Give me but these, and, though the darkness close,
Even the night will blossom as the rose.
672 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
LYRIC
Give me a light that I may see her,
Give me a grace that I may be her,
Give me a clue that I may find her
Whose beauty shows the brain behind her.
Stars and women and running rivers,
And sunny water where a shadow shivers.
And the little brooks that lift the grasses.
And April flowers are where she passes.
And all things good and all things kind
Are glimmerings coming from her mind,
And in the may a blackbird sings
Against her very hearte springs.
RIGHT ROYAL
22
RIGHT ROYAL
Part I
AN hour before the race they talked together,
A pair of lovers, in the mild March weather,
Charles Cothill and the golden lady, Em.
Beautiful England's hands had fashioned them.
He was from Sleins, that manor up the Lithe.
Riding the Downs had made his body blithe ;
Stalwart he was, and springy, hardened, swift,
Able for perfect speed with perfect thrift,
Man to the core yet moving like a lad.
Dark honest eyes with merry gaze he had,
A fine firm mouth, and wind-tan on his skin.
He was to ride, and ready to begin.
He was to ride Right Royal, his own horse.
In the English 'Chasers' Cup on Compton Course.
Under the pale coat reaching to his spurs
One saw his colours, which were also hers.
Narrow alternate bars of blue and white,
Blue as the speedwell's eye and silver bright.
What with hard work and waiting for the race.
Trouble and strain were marked upon his face ;
Men would have said that something worried him.
*&
She was a golden lady, dainty, trim,
As like the love time as laburnum blossom.
Mirth, truth and goodness harboured in her bosom.
Pure colour and pure contour and pure grace
Made the sweet marvel of her singing face ;
67.
676 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
She was the very May-time that comes in
When hawthorns bud and nightingales begin.
To see her tread the red-tippt daisies white
In the green fields all golden with delight
Was to believe Queen Venus come again,
She was as dear as sunshine after rain ;
Such loveliness this golden lady had.
All lovely things and pure things made her glad,
But most she loved the things her lover loved,
The windy Downlands where the kestrels roved,
The sea of grasses that the wind runs over
Where blundering beetles drunken from the clover
Stumble about the startled passer-by.
There on the great grass underneath the sky
She loved to ride with him for hours on hours,
Smelling the seasoned grass and those small flowers,
Milkworts and thymes, that grow upon the Downs.
There from a chalk edge they would see the towns :
Smoke above trees, by day, or spires of churches
Gleaming with swinging wind-cocks on their perches.
Or windows flashing in the light, or trains
Burrowing below white smoke across the plains.
By night, the darkness of the valley set
With scattered lights to where the ridges met
And three great glares making the heaven dun,
Oxford and Wallingford and Abingdon.
" Dear, in an hour," said Charles, " the race begins.
Before I start I must confess my sins.
For I have sinned, and now it troubles me."
" I saw that you were sad," said Emily.
" Before I speak," said Charles, " I must premise.
You were not here to help me to be wise.
And something happened, difficult to tell.
Even if I sinned, I feel I acted well.
From inspiration, mad as that may seem.
Just at the grey of dawn I had a dream.
It was the strangest dream I ever had.
It was the dream that drove me to be mad.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 677
I dreamed I stood upon the race-course here,
Watching a blinding rainstorm blowing clear,
And as it blew away, I said aloud,
' That rain will make soft going on the ploughed.'
And instantly I saw the whole great course.
The grass, the brooks, the fences toppt with gorse,
Gleam in the sun ; and all the ploughland shone
Blue, like a marsh, though now the rain had gone.
And in my dream I said, ' That plough will be
Terrible work for some, but not for me.
Not for Right Royal.'
And a voice said, ' No,
Not for Right Rcyal.'
And I looked, and, lo !
There was Right Royal, speaking, at my side.
The horse's very self, and yet his hide
Was like, what shall I say ? like pearl on fire,
A white soft glow of burning that did twire
Like soft white-heat with every breath he drew.
A glow, with utter brightness running through ;
Most splendid, though I cannot make you see.
His great crest glittered as he looked at me
Criniered with spitting sparks ; he stamped the ground
All cock and fire, trembling like a hound,
And glad of me, and eager to declare
His horse's mind.
And I was made aware
That, being a horse, his mind could only say
Few things to me. He said, ' It is my day,
My day, to-day ; I shall not have another.'
And as he spoke he seemed a younger brother
Most near, and yet a horse, and then he grinned
And tossed his crest and crinier to the wind.
And looked down to the Water with an eye
All fire of soul to gallop dreadfully.
All this was strange, but then a stranger thing
Came afterwards. I woke all shivering
With wonder and excitement, yet with dread
Lest the dream meant that Royal should be dead,
678 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
I
Lest he had died and come to tell me so.
I hurried out ; no need to hurry, though ;
There he was shining like a morning star.
Now hark. You know how cold his manners are,
Never a whinny for his dearest friend.
To-day he heard me at the courtyard end.
He left his breakfast with a shattering call,
A View Halloo, and, swinging in his stall,
Ran up to nuzzle me with signs of joy.
It staggered Harding and the stable-boy,
And Harding said, ' What's come to him to-day ?
He must have had a dream he beat the bay.' |
Now that was strange ; and, what was stranger, this.
I know he tried to say those words of his,
' It is my day ' ; and Harding turned to me :
' It is his day to-day, that 's plain to see.'
Right Royal nuzzled at me as he spoke. |
That staggered me. I felt that I should choke.
It came so pat upon my unsaid thought,
I asked him what he meant.
He answered, ' Naught.
It only came into my head to say.
But there it is. To-day 's Right Royal's day.'
That was the dream. I cannot put the glory
With which it filled my being in a story.
No one can tell a dream.
Now to confess.
The dream made daily life a nothingness.
Merely a mould which white-hot beauty fills.
Pure from some source of passionate joys and skills.
And being flooded with my vision thus.
Certain of winning, puffed and glorious, :
Walking upon this earth-top like a king, I
My judgment went. I did a foolish thing,
I backed myself to win with all I had.
Now that it 's done I see that it was mad,
But still, I had to do it, feeling so.
That is the full confession ; now you know."
m
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 679
She. The thing is done, and being done, must be.
You cannot hedge. Would you had talked with me
Before you plunged. But there, the thing is done.
He. Do not exaggerate the risks I run.
Right Royal was a bad horse in the past,
A rogue, a cur, but he is cured at last ;
For I was right, his former owner wrong,
He is a game good 'chaser, going strong.
He and my lucky star may pull me through.
She. O grant they may ; but think what 's racing you.
Think for a moment what his chances are
Against Sir Lopez, Soyland, Kubbadar.
He. You said you thought Sir Lopez past his best.
I do, myself.
She. But there are all the rest.
Peterkinooks, Red Ember, Counter- Vair,
And then Grey Glory and the Irish mare.
He. She 's scratched. The rest are giving me a stone.
Unless the field hides something quite unknown
I stand a chance. The going favours me.
The ploughland will be bogland certainly.
After this rain. If Royal keeps his nerve,
If no one cannons me at jump or swerve,
I stand a chance. And though I dread to fail,
This passionate dream that drives me like a sail
Runs in my blood, and cries, that I shall win.
She. Please Heaven you may ; but now (for me) begin
Again the horrors that I cannot tell.
Horrors that made my childhood such a hell,
Watching my Father near the gambler's grave
Step after step, yet impotent to save.
You do not know, I never let you know.
The horror of those days of long ago
When Father raced to ruin. Every night
After my Mother took away the light,
680 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
For weeks before each meeting, I would see
Horrible horses looking down on me,
Laughing and saying, ' We shall beat your Father.'
Then when the meetings came I used to gather
Close up to Mother, and we used to pray,
' O'God, for Christ's sake, let him win to-day.'
And then we had to watch for his return.
Craning our necks to see if we could learn.
Before he entered, what the week had been.
Now I shall look on such another scene
Of waiting on the race-chance. For to-day.
Just as I did with Father, I shall say,
' Yes, he'll be beaten by a head, or break
A stirrup leather at the wall, or take
The brook too slow, and, then, all will be lost.'
Daily, in mind, I saw the Winning Post,
The Straight, and all the horses' glimmering forms
Rushing between the railings' yelling swarms,
My Father's colours leading. Every day.
Closing my eyes, I saw them die away.
In the last strides, and lose, lose by a neck.
Lose by an inch, but lose, and bring the wreck
A day's march nearer. Now begins again
The agony of waiting for the pain.
The agony of watching ruin come
Out of man's dreams to overwhelm a home.
Go now, my dear. Before the race is due
We'll meet again, and then I'll speak with you.
In a race-course box behind the Stand
Right Royal shone from a strapper's hand.
A big dark bay with a restless tread,
Fetlock deep in a wheat-straw bed ;
A noble horse of a nervy blood,
By O Mon Roi out of Rectitude.
Something quick in his eye and ear
Gave a hint that he might be queer.
i
f
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 681
In front, he was all to a horseman's mind ;
Some thought him a trifle light behind.
By two good points might his rank be known,
A beautiful head and a Jumping Bone.
He had been the hope of Sir Button Budd,
Who bred him there at the Fletchings stud,
But the Fletchings jockey had flogged him cold
In a narrow thing as a two-year-old.
After that, with his sulks and swerves,
Dread of the crowd and fits of nerves.
Like a wastrel bee who makes no honey.
He had hardly earned his entry money.
Liking him still, though he failed at racing.
Sir Button trained him for steeple-chasing.
He jumped like a stag, but his heart was cowed ;
Nothing would make him face the crowd.
When he reached the Straight where the crowds began
He would make no effort for any man.
Sir Button sold him, Charles Cothill bought him.
Rode him to hounds and soothed and taught him.
After two years' care Charles felt assured
That his horse's broken heart was cured,
And the jangled nerves in tune again.
And now, as proud as a King of Spain,
He moved in his box with a restless tread.
His eyes like sparks in his lovely head,
Ready to run between the roar
Of the stands that face the Straight once more ;
Ready to race, though blown, though beat,
As long as his will could lift his feet ;
Ready to burst his heart to pass
Each gasping horse in that street of grass.
John Harding said to his stable-boy :
" Would looks were deeds, for he looks a joy.
He 's come on well in the last ten days."
The horse looked up at the note of praise,
22*
682 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He fixed his eye upon Harding's eye,
Then he put all thought of Harding by,
Then his ears went back and he clipped all clean
The manger's well where his oats had been.
John Harding walked to the stable-yard,
His brow was worried with thinking hard.
He thought, " His sire was a Derby winner,
His legs are steel, and he loves his dinner.
And yet of old, when they made him race,
He sulked or funked like a real disgrace ;
Now for man or horse, I say, it 's plain.
That what once he 's been, he'll be again.
For all his looks, I'll take my oath
That horse is a cur, and slack as sloth.
He'll f\mk at a great big field like this.
And the lad won't cure that sloth of his.
He stands no chance, and yet Bungay says
He 's been backed all morning a hundred ways.
He was twenty to one last night, by Heaven :
Twenty to one, and now he 's seven.
Well, one of these fools whom fortune loves
Has made up his mind to go for the gloves ; _i
But here 's Dick Cappell to bring me news." ^
Dick Cappell came from a London Mews,
His fleshless face was a stretcht skin sheath
For the narrow pear of the skull beneath.
He had cold blue eyes, and a mouth like a slit,
With yellow teeth sticking out from it.
There was no red blood in his lips or skin,
He'd a sinister, hard, sharp soul within.
Perhaps, the thing that he most enjoyed
Was being rude when he felt annoyed.
He sucked his cane, he nodded to John,
He asked, " What 's brought your lambkin on ? "
John said, " I had meant to ask of you
^Vho 's backing him, Dick ; I hoped you knew."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 683
Dick said, " Pill Stewart has placed the money.
I don't know whose."
John said, " That 's funny."
" Why funny ? " said Dick ; but John said naught ;
He looked at the horse's legs and thought.
Yet at last he said, " It beats me clean,
But whoever he is, he must be green.
There are eight in this could give him a stone,
And twelve should beat him on form alone.
The lad can ride, but it 's more than riding
That will give the bay and the grey a hiding."
Dick sucked his cane and looked at the horse
With " Nothing 's certain on Compton Course.
He looks a peach. Have you tried him high ? "
John said, " You know him as well as I ;
What he has done and what he can do.
He 's been ridden to hounds this year or two.
When last he was raced, he made the running
For a stable companion twice at Sunning.
He was placed, bad third, in the Blowbury Cup
And second at Tew with Kingston up.
He sulked at Folkestone, he funked at Speen,
He baulked at the ditch at Hampton Green.
Nick Kingston thought him a slug and cur,
' You must cut his heart out to make him stir.'
But his legs are iron ; he 's fine and fit."
Dick said, " Maybe ; but he's got no grit.
With to-day's big field, on a course like this.
He will come to grief with that funk of his.
Well, it 's queer, to me, that they've brought him on.
It 's Kubbadar's race. Good morning, John."
When Dick had gone from the stable-yard,
John wrote a note on a racing card.
He said, " Since Stewart has placed the com..
It 's Mr. Cothill he got it from.
Now why should that nice young man go blind
And back his horse ? Has he lost his mind ?
Such a nice young fellow, so civil-spoken,
Should have more sense than to get him broken.
684 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
For broken he'll be as sure as eggs f
If he puts his money on horses' legs.
And to trust to this, who 's a nice old thing,
But can no more win than a cow can sing.
Well, they say that wisdom is dearly bought,
A world of pain for a want of thought ;
But why should he back what stands no chance,
No more than the Rowley Mile 's in France ?
Why didn't he talk of it first with me ?
Well, Lord, we trainers can let it be,
Why can't these owners abstain the same ?
It can't be aught but a losing game.
He'll finish ninth ; he'll be forced to sell
His horse, his stud, and his home as well ;
He'll lose his lady, and all for this —
A daft belief in that horse of his.
It 's nothing to me, a man might say.
That a rich young fool should be cast away.
Though what he does with his own, in fine,
Is certainly no concern of mine.
I'm paid to see that his horse is fit,
I can't engage for an owner's wit.
For the heart of a man may love his brother,
But who can be wise to save another ?
Souls are our own to save from burning,
We must all learn how, and pay for learning.
And now, by the clock, that bell that went
Was the Saddling Bell for the first event.
Since the time comes close, it will save some swearing
If we get beforehand, and start preparing."
The roads were filled with a drifting crowd,
Many mouth-organs droned aloud,
A couple of lads in scarlet hats,
Yellow trousers and purple spats,
Dragged their banjos, wearily eyeing
Passing brakes full of sportsmen Hi-ing.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 685
Then with a long horn blowing a glory
Came the four-in-hand of the young Lord Tory,
The young Lord's eyes on his leaders' ears
And the blood-like team going by to cheers.
Then in a brake came cheerers and hooters
Peppering folk from tin peashooters ;
The Green Man's Friendly in bright mauve caps
Followed fast in the Green Man's traps.
The crowd made way for the traps to pass,
Then a drum beat up with a blare of brass,
Medical students smart as paint
Sang gay songs of a sad complaint.
A wolf-eyed man who carried a kipe
Whistled as shrill as a man could pipe,
Then paused and grinned with his gaps of teeth,
Crying, " Here 's your colours for Compton Heath,
All the colours of all the starters,
For gentlemen's ties and ladies' garters ;
Here you have them, penny a pin.
Buy your colours and see them win.
Here you have them, the favourites' own,
Sir Lopez' colours, the blue-white roan.
For all the races and what'll win 'em.
Real jockey's silk with a pin to pin 'em."
Out of his kipe he sold to many
Bright silk buttons and charged a penny.
A bookie walked with his clerk beside him.
His stool on his shoulders seemed to ride him.
His white top-hat bore a sign which ran
" Your old pal Bunkie the working man."
His clothes were a check of three-inch squares,
" Bright brown and fawn with the pearls in pairs."
Double pearl buttons ran down the side,
The knees were tight and the ankles wide.
A bright, thick chain made of discs of tin
Secured a board from his waist to chin.
The men in the brakes that passed at trot
Read " First past Post " and " Run or Not."
The bookie's face was an angry red.
His eyes seemed rolling inside his head.
686 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
His clerk was a lean man, secret, spare,
With thin lips knowing and damp black hair.
A big black bag much weathered with rain
Hung round his neck by a leathered chain.
Seven linked dancers singing a song
Bowed and kicked as they danced along,
The middleman thrust and pulled and squeezed
A concertina to tunes that pleased.
After them, honking, with Hey, Hey, Hey,
Came drivers thrusting to clear the way,
Drivers vexed by the concertina,
Saying " Go, bury that d d hyena."
Drivers dusty with wind-red faces
Leaning out of their driving-places.
The dancers mocked them and called them names
" Look at our butler," " Drive on, James."
The cars drove past and the dust rose after,
Little boys chased them yelling with laughter,
Clambering on them when they slowed
For a dirty ride down a perch of road.
A dark green car with a smart drab lining
Passed with a stately pair reclining ;
Peering walkers standing aside
Saw Soyland's owner pass with his bride,
Young Sir Eustace, biting his lip.
Pressing his chin with his finger-tip.
Nerves on edge, as he could not choose,
From thought of the bets he stood to lose.
His lady, a beauty whom thought made pale,
Prayed from fear that the horse might fail.
A bright brass rod on the motor's bonnet
Carried her husband's colours on it.
Scarlet spots on a field of cream :
She stared ahead in a kind of dream.
Then came cabs from the railway stations.
Carrying men from all the nations,
Olive-skinned French with clipped moustaches,
Almond-eyed like Paris apaches.
Rosy French with their faces shining
From joy of living and love of dining.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 687
Silent Spaniards, merry Italians,
Nobles, commoners, saints, rapscallions ;
Russians tense with the quest of truth
That maddens manhood and saddens youth ;
Learned Norwegians hale and limber,
Brown from the barques new in with timber.
Oregon men of six feet seven
With backs from Atlas and hearts from Heaven.
Orleans Creoles, ready for duels,
Their delicate ears with scarlet jewels,
Green silk handkerchiefs round their throats.
In from sea with the cotton boats.
Portuguese and Brazilianos,
Men from the mountains, men from the Llanos,
Men from the Pampas, men from the Sierras,
Men from the mines of the Cordilleras,
Men from the flats of the tropic mud
Where the butterfly glints his mail with blood ;
Men from the pass where day by day
The sun's heat scales the rocks away ;
Men from the hills where night by night
The sheep-bells give the heart delight ;
Indians, Lascars and Bengalese,
Greeks from the mainland, Greeks from the seas ;
All kinds of bodies, all kinds of faces,
All were coming to see the races,
Coming to see Sir Lopez run
And watch the English having their fun.
The Carib boxer from Hispaniola
Wore a rose in his tilted bowler ;
He drove a car with a yellow panel,
He went full speed and he drove a channel.
Then came dog-carts and traps and wagons
Wth hampers of lunches, pies and flagons,
Bucks from city and flash young bloods
With vests " cut saucy " to show their studs.
Hawbuck Towler and Spicey Random
Tooled in style in a rakish tandem.
Blood Dick Haggit and Bertie Askins
Had dancers' skirts on their horses' gaskins ;
688 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Crash Pete Snounce with that girl of Dowser's
Drove a horse that was wearing trousers ;
The waggonette from The Old Pier Head
Drove to the tune " My Monkey 's Dead."
The costermongers as smart as sparrows
Brought their wives in their donkey barrows.
The clean-legged donkeys, clever and cunning,
Their ears cocked forward, their neat feet running,
Their carts and harness flapping with flags.
Were bright as heralds and proud as stags.
And there in pride in the flapping banners
Were the costers' selves in blue bandannas.
And the costers' wives in feathers curling,
And their sons, with their sweet mouth-organs skirling.
And from midst of the road to the roadside shifting
The crowd of the world on foot went drifting,
Standing aside on the trodden grass
To chaff as they let the traffic pass.
Then back they flooded, singing and cheering,
Plodding forward and disappearing.
Up to the course to take their places,
To lunch and gamble and see the races.
The great Grand Stand, made grey by the weather.
Flaunted colours that tugged their tether ;
Tier upon tier the wooden seats
Were packed as full as the London streets
When the King and Queen go by in state.
Click, click, clack, went the turnstile gate ;
The orange-sellers cried " Fat and fine
Seville oranges, sweet, like wine :
Twopence apiece, all juice, all juice."
The pea and the thimble caught their goose.
Two white-faced lurchers, not over-clean,
Urged the passers to " spot the queen."
They flicked three cards that the world might choose,
They cried " All prizes. You cannot lose.
Come, pick the lady. Only a shilling."
One of their friends cried out, " I'm willing."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 689
He " picked the lady " and took his pay,
And he cried, " It's giving money away."
Men came yelhng " Cards of the races " ;
Men hawked matches and studs and laces ;
Gipsy-women in green shawls dizened
Read girls' fortunes with eyes that ghstened ;
Negro minstrels on banjoes strumming
Sang at the stiles to people coming.
Like glistening beetles clustered close,
The myriad motors parked in rows,
The bonnets flashed, and the brass did clink,
As the drivers poured their motors drink.
The March wind blew the smell of the crowd.
All men there seemed crying aloud,
But over the noise a louder roar
Broke, as the wave that bursts on shore
Drowns the roar of the wave that comes,
So this roar rose on the lesser hums,
" I back the Field. I back the Field."
Man who lives under sentence sealed,
Tragical man, who has but breath
For few brief years as he goes to death,
Tragical man by strange winds blown
To live in crowds ere he die alone,
Came in his jovial thousands massing
To see Life moving and beauty passing.
They sucked their fruit in the wooden tiers
And flung the skins at the passers' ears ;
Drumming their heels on the planks below,
They sang of Dolly of Idaho.
Past, like a flash, the first race went.
The time drew by to the great event.
At a quarter to three the big bell pealed ;
The horses trooped to the Saddling Field.
690 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Covered in clothing, horse and mare
Pricked their ears at the people there ;
Some showed devil, and some, composure,
As they trod their way to the great enclosure.
When the clock struck three and the men weighed out,
Charles Cothill shook, though his heart was stout.
The thought of his bets, so gaily laid.
Seemed a stone the more when he sat and weighed.
As he swung in the scales and nursed his saddle,
It seemed to him that his brains would addle ;
For now that the plunger reached the brink,
The risk was more than he Hked to think.
In ten more minutes his future life,
His hopes of home with his chosen wife,
Would all depend on a doubtful horse
In a crowded field over Compton Course.
He had backed Right Royal for all he owned.
At thought of his want of sense he groaned.
" All for a dream of the night," he thought.
He was right for weight at eleven naught.
Then Em's sweet face rose up in his brain.
He cursed his will that had dealt her pain :
To hurt sweet Emmy and lose her love
Was madman's folly by all above.
He saw too well as he crossed the yard
That his madman's plunge had borne her hard.
" To wring sweet Em like her drunken father,
I'd fall at the Pitch and end it rather.
Oh, I hope, hope, hope, that her golden heart
Will give me a word before I start.
If I thought our love should have come to wreck,
I'd pull Right Royal and break my neck.
And Monkery's shoe might kick my brains out,
That my own heart's blood might wash my stains out.
But even if Emmy, my sweet, forgive,
I'm a ruined man, so I need not live,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 691
For I've backed my horse with my all, by Heaven,
To be first in a field of thirty-seven,
And good as he is, the dream 's a lie."
He saw no hope, but to fall and die.
As he left the room for the Saddling Paddock
He looked as white as the flesh of haddock.
But Love, all seeing, though painted blind,
Makes wisdom live in a woman's mind.
His love knew well from her own heart's bleeding
The word of help that her man was needing ;
And there she stood with her eyes most bright,
Ready to cheer her heart's delight.
She said, " My darling, I feel so proud
To see you followed by all the crowd ;
And I shall be proud as I see you win.
Right Royal, Soyland and Peterkin
Are the three I pick, first, second, third.
And oh, now listen to what I heard.
Just now in the park Sir Norman Cooking
Said, ' Harding, how well Right Royal 's looking.
They've brought him on in the ring, they say.'
John said, ' Sir Norman, to-day 's his day.'
And Sir Norman said, ' If I had a monkey
I'd put it on yours, for he looks so spunky.'
So you see that the experts think as you.
Now, my own, own, own, may your dream come true
As I know it will, as I know it must ;
You have all my prayer and my love and trust.
Oh, one thing more that Sir Norman said,
' A lot of money has just been laid
On the mare Gavotte that no one knows.'
He said, ' She 's small, but, my word, she goes.
Since she bears no weight, if she only jumps.
She'll put these cracks to their ace of trumps.
But,' he said, ' she 's slight for a course like this.'
692 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD |
That 's all my gossip, so there it is. I
Dear, reckon the words I spoke unspoken,
I failed in love and my heart is broken.
Now I go to my place to blush with pride
As the people talk of how well you ride ;
I mean to shout like a bosun's mate
When I see you lead coming up the Straight.
Now may all God's help be with you, dear."
" Well, bless you, Em, for your words of cheer.
And now is the woodcock near the gin.
Good-bye.
Now, Harding, we'd best begin."
At buckle and billet their fingers wrought.
Till the sheets were home and the bowlines taut.
As he knotted the reins and took his stand
The horse's soul came into his hand,
And up from the mouth that held the steel
Came an innermost word, half thought, half feel,
" My day to-day, O master, O master ;
None shall jump cleaner, none shall go faster,
Call till you kill me, for I'll obey,
It 's my day to-day, it 's my day to-day."
In a second more he had found his seat.
And the standers-by jumped clear of feet.
For the big dark bay all fire and fettle
Had his blood in a dance to show his mettle.
Charles soothed him down till his tricks were gone ;
Then he leaned for a final word from John.
John Harding's face was alert and grim.
From under his hand he talked to him.
" It 's none of my business, sir," he said,
" What you stand to win or the bets you've made, •
But the rumour goes that you've backed your horse. S
Now you need no telling of Compton Course. «
It 's a dangerous course at the best of times,
But on days like this some jumps are crimes ;
With a field like this, nigh forty starting,
After one time round it'll need re-charting.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 693
Now think it a hunt, the first time round ;
Don't think too much about losing ground,
Lie out of your ground, for sure as trumps
There'll be people killed in the first three jumps.
The second time round, pipe hands for boarding,
You can see what 's doing and act according.
Now your horse is a slug and a sulker too.
Your way with the horse I leave to you ;
But, sir, you watch for these jokers' tricks
And watch that devil on number Six ;
There 's nothing he likes like playing it low,
What a horse mayn't like or a man mayn't know,
And what they love when they race a toff
Is to flurry his horse at taking off.
The ways of the crook are hard to learn.
Now watch that fence at the outer turn ;
It looks so slight but it 's highly like
That it 's killed more men than the Dyers' Dyke.
It 's down in a dip and you turn to take it,
And men in a bunch, just there, mistake it.
But well to the right, it 's firmer ground.
And the quick way there is the long way round.
In Cannibal's year, in just this weather.
There were five came down at that fence together.
I called it murder, not riding races.
You've nothing to fear from the other places,
Your horse can jump.
Now I'll say no more.
They say you're on, as I said before.
It 's none of my business, sir, but still
I would like to say that I hope you will.
Sir, I wish you luck. When we two next meet
I hope to hear how you had them beat."
Charles Cothill nodded with, " Thank you, John.
We'll try ; and, oh, you're a thousand on."
He heard John's thanks, but knew at a glance
That John was sure that he stood no chance.
694 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He turned Right Royal, he drew deep breath
With the thought, " Now for it ; a ride to death.
Now come, my beauty, for dear Em's sake,
And if come you can't, may our necks both break."
And there to his front, with their riders stooping
For the final word, were the racers trooping.
Out at the gate to cheers and banter
They paced in pride to begin their canter.
Muscatel with the big white star.
The roan Red Ember, and Kubbadar,
Kubbadar with his teeth bared yellow
At the Dakkanese, his stable-fellow.
Then Forward-Ho, then a chestnut weed,
Skysail, slight, with a turn of speed.
The neat Gavotte under black and coral,
Then the Mutineer, Lord Ley bourne's sorrel,
Natuna mincing, Syringa sidling,
Stormalong fighting to break his bridling,
Thunderbolt dancing with raw nerves quick,
Trying a savage at Litter Dick.
The Ranger (winner three years before).
Now old, but ready for one try more ;
Hadrian ; Thankful ; the stable-cronies,
Peterkinooks and Dear Adonis ;
The flashing Rocket, with taking action ;
Exception, backed by the Tencombe faction ;
Old Sir Francis and young King Tony,
And gaunt Path Finder with great hips bony.
At this, he rode through the open gate
Into the course to try his fate.
He heard a roar from a moving crowd ;
Right Royal kindled and cried aloud.
There was the course, stand, rail and pen,
Peopled with seventy thousand men ;
Seventy thousand faces staring.
Carriages parked, a brass band blaring :
Over the stand the flags in billows
Bent their poles like the wands of willows.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD G95
All men there seemed trying to bawl,
Yet a few great voices topped them all :
" I back the Field ! I back the Field ! "
Right Royal trembled with pride and squealed.
Charles Cothill smiled with relief to find
This roaring crowd to his horse's mind.
He passed the stand where his lady stood,
His nerves were tense to the multitude ;
His blood beat hard and his eyes grew dim
As he knew that some were cheering him.
Then, as he turned, at his pace's end
There came a roar as when floods descend.
All down the Straight from the crowded stands
Came the yells of voices and clap of hands,
For with bright bay beauty that shone like flame
The favourite horse. Sir Lopez, came.
His beautiful hips and splendid shoulders
And power of stride moved all beholders,
Moved non-betters to try to bet
On that favourite horse not beaten yet.
With glory of power and speed he strode
To a sea of cheering that moved and flowed
And followed and heaped and burst like storm
From the joy of men in the perfect form :
Cheers followed his path both sides the course.
Charles Cothill sighed when he saw that horse.
The cheering died, then a burst of clapping
Met Soyland's coming all bright from strapping,
A big dark brown who was booted thick
Lest one of the jumps should make him click.
He moved very big, he'd a head like a fiddle.
He seemed all ends without any middle.
But ill as he looked, that outcast racer
Was a rare good horse and a perfect 'chaser.
Then The Ghost came on, then Meringue, the bay,
Then proud Grey Glory, the dapple-grey ;
696 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The splendid grey brought a burst of cheers.
Then Cimmeroon, who had tried for years
And had thrice been placed and had once been fourth.
Came trying again the proverb's worth.
Then again, like a wave as it runs a pier,
On and on, unbroken, there came a cheer
As Monkery, black as a collier-barge.
Trod sideways, bickering, taking charge.
Cross-Molin, from the Blowbury, followed,
Lucky Shot skipped, Coranto wallowed.
Then Counter- Vair, the declared-to-win,
Stable-fellow of Cross-Molin ;
Culverin last, with Cannonade,
Formed rearguard to the grand parade.
And now, as they turned to go to post,
The Skysail calfishly barged The Ghost,
The Ghost lashed out with a bitter knock
On the tender muscle of Skysail's hock,
And Skysail's hope of that splendid hour
Was cut off short like a summer flower.
From the cantering crowd he limped apart
Back to the Paddock and did not stai't.
As they cantered down, Charles Cothill's mind
Was filled with joy that his horse went kind ;
He showed no sulks, no sloth, no fear,
But leant on his rein and pricked his ear.
They lined themselves at the Post to start,
Charles took his place with a thumping heart.
Excitement running in waves took hold.
His teeth were chattered, his hands were cold
His joy to be there was mixed with dread
To be left at post when they shot ahead.
The horses sparred as though drunk with wine.
They bickered and snatched at taking line.
Then a grey-haired man with a hawk-like face
Read from a list each rider's place.
Sitting astride his pommely hack,
He ordered them up or sent them back ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 697
He bade them heed that they jump their nags
Over every jump between the flags.
Here Kubbadar, who was pulling double,
Went sideways, kicking and raising trouble,
Monkery seconded, kicking and biting.
Thunderbolt followed by starting fighting.
The starter eyed them and gave the order
That the three wild horses keep the border.
With men to hold them to keep them quiet.
Boys from the stables stopped their riot.
Out of the line to the edge of the field
The three wild biters and kickers wheeled ;
Then the rest edged up and pawed and bickered,
Reached at their reins and snatched and snickered,
Flung white foam as they stamped their hate
Of passionate blood compelled to wait.
Then the starter shouted to Charles, " Good heaven,
This isn't a circus, you on Seven."
For Royal squirmed like a box of tricks
And Coranto's rider, the number Six,
Cursed at Charles for a green young fool
Who ought to be at a riding school.
After a minute of swerves and shoving,
A line like a half-moon started moving.
Then Rocket and Soyland leaped to stride,
To be pulled up short and wheeled to side.
Then the trickier riders started thrusting.
Judging the starter's mind too trusting ;
But the starter said, " You know quite clearly
That isn't allowed ; though you'd like it dearly."
Then Cannonade made a sideways bolt
That gave Exception an ugly jolt.
Then the line, re-formed, broke all to pieces.
Then the line re-forms, and the tumult ceases.
Each man sits tense though his racer dances ;
In a slow, jerked walk the line advances.
698 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And then in a flash, more felt than seen,
The flag shot down and the course showed green,
And the Hne surged forwards and all that glory
Of speed was sweeping to make a story.
One second before, Charles Cothill's mind
Had been filled with fear to be left behind.
But now with a rush, as when hounds leave cover,
The line broke up and his fear was over.
A glimmer of bay behind The Ghost
Showed Dear Adonis still there at post.
Out to the left, a joy to his backer,
Kubbadar led the field a cracker,
The thunder of horses, all fit and foaming.
Made the blood not care whether death were coming.
A glimmer of silks, blue, white, green, red.
Flashed into his eye and went ahead ;
Then hoof-casts scattered, then rushing horses
Passed at his side with all their forces.
His blood leapt up but his mind said " No,
Steady, my darling, slow, go slow.
In the first time round this ride's a hunt."
The Turk's Grave Fence made a line in front.
Long years before, when the race began,
That first of the jumps had maimed a man ;
His horse, the Turk, had been killed and buried
There in the ditch by horse-hoofs berried ;
And over the poor Turk's bones at pace
Now, every year, there goes the race,
And many a man makes doctor's work
At the thorn-bound ditch that hides the Turk,
And every man as he rides that course
Thinks, there, of the Turk, that good old horse.
The thick thorn-fence stands five feet high,
With a ditch beyond unseen by eye.
Which a horse must guess from his urgent rider
Pressing him there to jump it wider.
And being so near both Stand and Post,
Out of all the jumps men haunt it most,
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 699
And there, with the crowd, and the undulled nerves,
The old horse balks and the young horse swerves.
And the good horse falls with the bad on top
And beautiful boldness comes to stop.
Charles saw the rush of the leading black,
And the forehands lift and the men sway back ;
He steadied his horse, then with crash and crying
The top of the Turk's Grave Fence went flying.
Round in a flash, refusing danger,
Came the Lucky Shot right into Ranger ;
Ranger swerving knocked Bitter Dick,
Who blundered at it and leaped too quick ;
Then crash went blackthorn as Bitter Dick fell,
Meringue jumped on him and rolled as well.
As Charles got over he splashed the dirt
Of the poor Turk's grave on two men hurt.
Right Royal landed. With cheers and laughter
Some horses passed him and some came after ;
A fine brown horse strode up beside him.
It was Thankful running with none to ride him ;
Thankful's rider, dizzy and sick, ,
Lay in the mud by Bitter Dick. l
In front was the curving street of Course,
Barred black by the leaps unsmashed by horse.
A cloud blew by and the sun shone bright.
Showing the guard-rails gleaming white.
Little red flags, that gusts blew tense, •*
Streamed to the wind at each black fence.
And smiting the turf to clods that scattered
Was the rush of the race, the thing that mattered,
A tide of horses in fury flowing.
Beauty of speed in glory going,
Kubbadar pulling, romping first.
Like a big black fox that had made his burst.
And away and away and away they went,
A visible song of what life meant.
700 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Living in houses, sleeping in bed,
Going to business, all seemed dead,
Dead as death to that rush in strife,
Pulse for pulse with the heart of life.
" For to all," Charles thought, " when the blood beats
high
Comes the glimpse of that which may not die ;
When the world is stilled, when the wanting dwindles,
When the mind takes light and the spirit kindles,
One stands on a peak of this old earth."
Charles eyed his horses and sang with mirth.
What of this world that spins through space ?
With red blood running he rode a race.
The beast's red spirit was one with his.
Emulous and in ecstasies ;
Joy that from heart to wild heart passes
In the wild things going through the grasses ;
In the hares in the corn, in shy gazelles
Running the sand where no man dwells ;
In horses scared at the prairie spring ;
In the dun deer noiseless, hurrying ;
In fish in the dimness scarcely seen.
Save as shadows shooting in a shaking green ;
In birds in the air, neck-straining, swift,
Wing touching wing while no wings shift,
Seen by none, but when stars appear
A reaper wandering home may hear
A sigh aloft where the stars are dim,
Then a great rush going over him :
This was his ; it had linked him close
To the force by which the comet goes.
With the rein none sees, with the lash none feels.
But with fire-mane tossing and flashing heels.
The roar of the race-course died behind them.
In front were their Fates, they rode to find them.
With the wills of men, with the strengths of horses,
They dared the minute with all their forces.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 701
Part II
Still pulling double, black Kubbadar led,
Pulling his rider half over his head ;
Soyland's cream jacket was spotted with red.
Spotted with dirt from the rush of their tread.
Bright bay Sir Lopez, the loveliest there.
Galloped at ease as though taking the air.
Well in his compass with plenty to spare-
Gavotte and The Ghost and the brown Counter- Vair
Followed him close with Syringa the mare,
And the roan horse Red Ember, who went like a hare,
And Forward-Ho bolting, though his rider did swear.
Keeping this order, they reached the next fence,
Which was living plashed blackthorn with gorse-toppings
dense ;
In the gloom of its darkness it loomed up immense.
And Forward-Ho's glory had conquered his sense
And he rushed it, not rising, and never went thence.
And down in the ditch where the gorse-spikes were
scattered
That bright chestnut's soul from his body was shattered,
And his rider shed tears on the dear head all spattered.
King Tony came down, but got up with a stumble.
His rider went sideways, but knew how to tumble,
And got up and remounted, though the pain made him
humble,
And he rode fifty yards and then stopped in a fumble.
With a rush and a crashing Right Royal went over
With the stride of a stalwart and the blood of a lover,
He landed on stubble now pushing with clover,
And just as he landed, the March sun shone bright
And the blue sky showed flamelike and the dun clouds
turned white ;
The little larks panted aloft their delight,
Trembling and singing as though one with the light.
702 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And Charles, as he rode, felt the joy of their singing,
While over the clover the horses went stringing,
And up from Right Royal the message came winging,
" It is my day to-day, though the pace may be stinging.
Though the jumps be all danger and the going aX\
clinging."
The white, square church-tower with its weather-cock
swinging
Rose up on the right above grass and dark plough,
Where the elm trees' black branches had bud on the
bough.
Riderless Thankful strode on at his side.
His bright stirrup-irons flew up at each stride ;
Being free, in this gallop, had filled him with pride.
Charles thought, " What would come, if he ran out or
shied ?
I wish from my heart that the brute would keep wide."
Coranto drew up on Right Royal's near quarter.
Beyond lay a hurdle and ditch full of water.
And now as they neared it, Right Royal took heed
Of the distance to go and the steps he would need ;
He cocked to the effort with eyes bright as gleed.
Then Coranto's wide wallow shot past him at speed :
His rider's " Hup, hup, now ! " called out quick and
cheerly,
Sent him over in style, but Right Royal jumped early,
Just a second too soon, and from some feet too far,
Charles learned the mistake as he struck the top bar ;
Then the water flashed skywards, the earth gave a jar,
And the man on Coranto looked back with " Aha !
That'll teach you, my son." Then with straining of
leather,
Grey Glory and Monkery landed together.
For a second the stunning kept Charles from his pain,
Then his sense flooded back, making everything plain'
He was down on the mud, but he still held the rein ;
Right Royal was heaving his haunch from the drain.
The field was ahead of him, going like rain.
I
W
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 703
And though the plough held them, they went like the wind
To the eyes of a man left so badly behind.
Charles climbed to his feet as Right Royal crawled out,
He said, " That 's extinction beyond any doubt."
On the plough, on and on, went the rush of the rout.
Charles mounted and rode, for his courage was stout,
And he would not give in till the end of the bout.
But plastered with poachings he rode on forsaken :
He had lost thirty lengths and his horse had been shaken.
Across the wet ploughland he took a good pull.
With the thought that the cup of his sorrow was full.
For the speed of a stag and the strength of a bull
Could hardly recover the ground he had lost.
Right Royal went dully, then snorted and tost,
Tost his head, with a whicker, went on, and went kind.
And the horse's great spirit touched Charles in the mind.
Though his bruise made him dizzy and tears made him
blind.
He would try to the finish, and so they should find.
He was last, thirty lengths. Here he took in his sails.
For the field had come crash at the white post and rails.
Here Sir Francis ran out, scaring all who stood near.
Going crash through the rail like a runaway deer.
Then the riderless Thankful upset Mutineer,
Dakkanese in refusing, wheeled round like a top
Into Culverin's shoulder, which made them both stop.
They reeled from the shock, slithered sideways, and
crashed,
Dakkanese on the guard-rail, which gave, and then
smashed.
As he rolled, the near shoes of the Culverin flashed
High in air for a moment, bright iron in strain :
Then he rose with no rider and tripped in his rein.
Right Royal came up as the Dakkanese rose
All trembling and cowed as though beaten with blows ;
The Culverin stumbled with the reins in his toes ;
On the far side the leap stood the Mutineer grazing,
His man was a heap which some fellows were raising.
704 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Right Royal strode on, through a second wet plough,
With the field far ahead (Kubbadar in the bow).
Charles thought, " Kubbadar's got away from him now.
Well, it 's little to me, for they're so far ahead
That they'll never come back, though I ride myself
dead."
Right Royal bored forward and leaned on his hand,
" Good boy," said his master. " He must understand.
You're the one friend I'll have when I've sold all my
land.
God pity my Em as we come past the Stand,
Last of all, and all muddy ; but now for Jim's Pitch."
Four feet of gorse fence, then a fifteen foot ditch.
And the fifteen foot ditch glittered bright to the brim
With the brook that ran through it where the grayling
did swim ;
In the shallows it sparkled, in the deeps it was dim.
When the race was first run it had nearly drowned Jim,
And now the bright irons of twenty-four horses
Were to flicker its ripples with knockings of gorses.
From far in the rear Charles could watch them take
hold
Of their horses and push them across the light mould ;
How their ears all cocked forward, how the drumming
hoofs rolled !
Kubbadar, far ahead, flew across like a bird,
Then Soyland, bad second, with Muscatel third.
Then Sir Lopez, and Path Finder, striding alone,
Then the good horse, Red Ember, the fleabitten roan.
Then the little Gavotte bearing less than ten stone.
Then a crowd of all colours with Peterkinooks
Going strong as a whale goes, head up and out flukes.
And there, as Charles watched, as the shoulders went back,
The riderless Thankful swerved left off the track,
Crossing just to the front of the Cimmeroon black. 1
Ere the rider could see what his horse was about, ™
Cimmeroon swerved, like Thankful, and followed him out.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 705
Across the great grass in the midst of the course
Cimmeroon ran a match with the riderless horse,
Then the rider took charge, part by skill, part by force ;
He turned Cimmeroon to re-enter the race
Seven lengths behind Charles in the post of disgrace.
Beyond the next fence, at the top of a slope,
Charles saw his field fading and gave up all hope.
Yet he said, " Any error will knot me my rope.
I wish that some power would help me to see
What would give the best chance for Right Royal and
me.
Shall I hurry downhill, to catch up when I can ?
Being last is the devil for horse and for man.
For it makes the horse slack and it makes the man sick.
Well, I've got to decide and I've got to be quick.
I had better catch up, for if I should be last.
It would kill my poor Emmy to see me come past.
I cannot leave Emmy to suffer like that.
So I'll hurry downhill and then pull on the flat."
So he thought, so he settled, but then, as he stirred,
Right Royal's ears moved like a vicious man's word ;
So he thought, " If I try it, the horse will refuse."
So he gave up the project and shook in his shoes.
Then he thought, " Since the horse will not stand inter-
ference,
I must even sit quiet and sink the appearance.
Since his nerves have been touched, it 's as well we're
alone."
He turned down the hill with his heart like a stone.
" But," he cried, " they'll come back, for they've gone
such a burst
That they'll all soon be panting, in need to be nursed,
They will surely come back, but to wait till they do,
Lord, it 's hell to the waiter, it cuts a man through."
23
706 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Then into his mind came the Avalon case,
When a man, left at post, without hope of a place.
First had suffered in patience, then had wormed his way
up.
Then had come with fine judgment, and just won the
Cup.
Hoofs thundered behind him, the Cimmeroon caught
him,
His man cursing Thankful and the sire who wrought
him.
" Did you see that brown devil ? " he cried as he passed ;
" He carried me out, but I'll never be last.
Well, I'll never be last, though I can't win the Cup.
No sense lolling here, man, you'd better pull up."
Then he roused Cimmeroon, and was off like a swallow.
Charles watched, sick at heart, with a longing to follow.
" Better follow," he thought, " for he knows more than I,
Since he rode here before, and it 's wiser to try :
Would my horse had but wings, would his feet would
but lift ;
Would we spun on this speedway as wind spins the drift.
There they go out of sight, over fence, to the Turn ;
They are going still harder, they leave me astern.
They will never come back, I am lost past recall."
So he cried for a comfort, and only gat gall.
In the glittering branches of the world without end
Were the spirits, Em's Helper and Charles Cothill's
Friend,
And the Force of Right Royal with a crinier of flame ;
There they breathed the bright glory till the summoning
came.
\
Just the wrong side the water the brute gave a swerve.
And he carried me out, half across the course-cvirve. I
Look, he's cut right across now, we'll meet him again.
Well, I hope someone knocks him and kicks out his
brain.
I
t
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 707
From the Stand where Em watched, from the field where
Charles rode,
From the mud where Right Royal in solitude strode,
Came the call of three spirits to the spirits that guard,
Crying, " Up now, and help him, for the danger bears
hard."
There they looked, those immortals, from the boughs
dropping balm.
But their powers were stirred not, and their grave brows
were calm.
For they said, " He 's despairing and the horse is still
vext."
Charles cleared Channing's Blackthorn and strode to
the next.
The next was the Turn in a bogland of rushes ;
There the springs of still water were trampled to slushes ;
The peewits lamented, flapping down, flagging far,
The riders dared deathwards each trusting his star.
The mud made them slither, the Turn made them close,
The stirrup steels clinked as they thrust in their toes,
The brown horse Exception was struck as he rose.
Struck to earth by the Rocket, then kicked by the grey,
Then Thunderbolt smote him and rolled him astray.
The man on Exception, Bun Manor, fell clear
With Monkery's shoes half an inch from his ear,
A drench of wet mud from the hoofs struck his cheek,
But the race was gone from him before he could speak.
There Exception and Thunderbolt ended their race.
Their bright flanks all smeared with the mud of the
place ;
In the green fields of Tencombe and the grey downs of
Churn
Their names had been glories till they fell at the Turn.
Em prayed in her place that her lover might know
Not to hurry Right Royal, but let him go slow :
White-lipped from her praying, she sat, with shut eyes,
Begging help from her Helper, the deathless, the wise.
708 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
From the gold of his branches her Helper took heed,
He sent forth a thought to help Charles in his need.
As the white, gleaming gannet eyes fish in the sea.
So the Thought sought a mortal to bring this to be.
By the side of Exception Bun Manor now stood,
Sopping rags on a hock that was dripping bright blood.
He had known Charles of old and defeat made him kind,
The thought from the Helper came into his mind.
So he cried to Charles Cothill, " Go easy," he cried,
" Don't hurry ; don't worry ; sit still and keep wide.
They flowed like the Severn, they'll ebb like the tide.
They'll come back and you'll catch them." His voice
died away.
In front lay the Dyke, deep as drowning, steel grey.
Charles felt his horse see it and stir at the sight.
Again his heart beat to the dream of the night ;
Once again in his heart's blood the horse seemed to say,
" I'll die or I'll do it. It 's my day to-day."
He saw the grey water in shade from its fence.
The rows of white faces all staring intense ;
All the heads straining forward, all the shoulders packt
dense. 1
Beyond, he saw Thankful, the riderless brown, *
Snatching grass, dodging capture, with reins hanging
down.
Then Thankful stopped eating and cocked up his head,
He eyed the swift horses that Kubbadar led.
His eye filled with fire at the roll of their tread ;
Then he tore down the course with a flash^of bright
shoes,
As the race's bright herald on fire with news.
As Charles neared the water, the Rocket ran out
By jumping the railings and kicking a clout
Of rotten white woodwork to startle the trout.
When Charles cleared the water, the grass stretcht
before
And the glory of going burned in to the core.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 709
Far over his head with a whicker of wings
Came a wisp of five snipe from a field full of springs ;
The gleam on their feathers went wavering past
And then some men booed him for being the last.
But last though he was, all his blood was on fire
With the rush of the wind and the gleam of the mire,
And the leap of his heart to the sk3'1arks in quire.
And the feel of his horse going onward, on, on,
Under sky with white banners and bright sun that shone.
Like a star in the night, like a spring in the waste,
The image of Emmy rose up as he raced.
Till his mind was made calm and his spirit was braced.
For the prize was bright Emmy ; his blood beat and
beat
As her beauty made music in that thunder of feet.
The wind was whirled past him, it hummed in his ears.
Right Royal's excitement had banished his fears.
For his leap was like singing, his stride was like cheers,
All his blood was in glory, all his soul was blown bare,
They were one, blood and purpose, they strode through
the air.
" What is life if I lose her, what is death if I win ?
At the end of this living the new lives begin.
Whatever life may be, whatever death is,
I am spirit eternal, I am this, I am this !
?j
Girls waved, and men shouted, like flashes, like shots.
Out of pale blurs of faces whose features were dots ;
Two fences with toppings were cleared without hitch,
Then they ran for Lost Lady's, a fence and dry ditch.
Here Monkery's rider, on seeing a chance,
Shot out beyond Soyland to lead the advance.
Then he steadied and summed up his field with a glance.
All crossed the Lost Lady's, that dry ditch of fear.
Then a roar broke about them, the race-course was
near.
710 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Right and left were the swing-boats and merry-go-
rounds,
Yellow varnish that wavered, machines making sounds,
Shots cracking like cork-pops, fifes whining with steam,
" All hot," from a pieman ; all blurred as in dream ;
Then the motors, then cheering, then the brass of a band.
Then the white rails all crowded with a mob on each
hand.
Then they swerved to the left over gorse-bush and
hurdle
And they rushed for the Water, where a man's blood
might curdle.
Charles entered the race-course and prayed in his mind
That love for the moment might make Emmy blind.
Not see him come past half a distance behind :
For an instant he thought, " I must shove on ahead,
For to pass her like this, Lord, I'd rather be dead."
Then, in crossing the hurdle, the Stand arose plain,
All the flags, horns and cheers beat like blows on his
brain.
And he thought, " Time to race when I come here again.
If I once lose my head, I'll be lost past appeal."
All the crowd flickered past, like a film on a reel.
Like a ribbon, whirled past him, all painted with eyes.
All the real, as he rode, was the horse at his thighs.
And the thought, " They'll come back, if I've luck, if
I'm wise."
Some banners uncrumpled on the blue of the skies.
The cheers became frantic, the blur of men shook.
As Thankful and Kubbadar went at the brook.
Neck and neck, stride for stride, they increased as they
neared it.
Though the danger gleamed greyly, they galloped to
beard it ;
And Kubbadar dwelt on his jump as he cleared it.
While Thankful went on with a half a length lead.
Charles thought, " Kubbadar, there, is going to seed."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 711
Then Monkery took it, then Soyland, then two,
Muscatel and Sir Lopez, who leaped not but flew.
Like a pair of June swallows going over the dew.
Like a flight of bright fishes from a field of seas blue,
Like a wisp of snipe wavering in the dusk out of view.
Then Red Ember, Path Finder, Gavotte and Coranto,
Then The Ghost going level by Syringa a-taunto.
Then Peterkinooks, then the Cimmeroon black.
Who had gone to his horses, not let them come back ;
Then Stormalong rousing, then the Blowbury crack,
Counter- Vair, going grandly beside Cross-Molin,
All charged the bright brook and Coranto went in.
Natuna, Grey Glory and Hadrian followed.
Flying clear of the water where Coranto now wallowed ;
Cannonade leaped so big that the lookers-on holloed.
Ere the splash from Coranto was bright on the grass,
The face of the water had seen them all pass.
But Coranto half scrambled, then slipped on his side,
Then churned in the mud till the brook was all dyed ;
As Charles reached the water Coranto's man cried,
" Put him at it hke blazes and give him a switch ;
Jump big, man, for God's sake, I'm down in the ditch."
Right Royal went at it and streamed like a comet,
And the next thing Charles knew, he was twenty yards
from it ;
And he thought about Em as he rushed past her place,
With a prayer for God's peace on her beautiful face.
Then he tried to keep steady. " Oh, steady," he said,
" I'm riding with judgment, not leading a raid.
And I'm getting excited, and there 's Cannonade.
What's the matter ? " he shouted as Royal swept past.
" Sprained ! " shouted the man, " over-jumped, at the
last."
" Rough luck," shouted Charles. Then the crowd
dropped away,
Then the sun shone behind him, the bright turned to
grey ;
712 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
They were round, the first time, they were streaming
away
For the second time round. There the starting-post
shone.
Then they swung round the curve and went galloping on.
All the noise died behind. Fate was waiting in front.
Now the racing began, they had done with the hunt.
With the sunlight behind him Charles saw how they
went ;
No nearer, but further, and only one spent.
Only Kubbadar dwelling, the rest going strong.
Taking jump after jump as a bird takes a song,
Their thirty lengths' lead seemed a weary way long,
It seemed to grow longer, it seemed to increase :
" This is bitter," he said. " May it be for my peace.
My dream was a glimpse of the world beyond sense,
All beauty and wisdom are messages thence.
There the difference of bodies and the strain of control
Are removed ; beast with man speaks, and spirit with
soul.
My vision was Wisdom, or the World as it Is.
Fate rules us, not AVisdom, whose ways are not his.
Fate, weaponed with all things, has willed that I fall ;
So be it. Fate orders, and we go to the wall.
Go down to the beaten, who have come to the truth
That is deeper than sorrow and stronger than youth.
That is God, the foundation, who sees and is just
To the beauty within us who are nothing but dust.
Yet, Royal, my comrade, before Fate decides.
His hand stays, uncertain, like the sea between tides.
Then a man has a moment, if he strike not too late.
When his soul shakes the world-soul, and can even
change Fate.
"&^
So you and I, Royal, before we give in.
Will spend blood and soul in our effort to win, :||
And if all be proved vain when our effort is sped,
May the hoofs of our conquerors trample us dead."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 713
Then the soul of Right Royal thrilled up through each
hand,
" We are one, for this gallop ; we both understand.
If my lungs give me breathing, if my loins stand the
strain,
You may lash me to strips and it shan't be in vain.
For to-day, in this hour, my Power will come
From my Past to my Present (and a Spirit gives some).
We have gone many gallops, we two, in the past,
When I go with my Power you will know me at last.
You remember the morning when the red leaf hung still.
When they found in the beech-clump on Lollingdon Hill,
When we led past the Sheep Fold and along the Fair
Mile?
When I go with my Power, that will not seem worth
while.
Then the day in the valley when we found in the wood,
When we led all the gallop to the river in flood,
And the sun burst out shining as the fox took the stream ;
When I go with my Power, that will all seem a dream.
Then the day on the Downland when we went like the
light
From the spring by Hurst Compton till the Clump was in
sight.
Till we killed by The Romans, where Blowbury is ;
All the best of that gallop shall be nothing to this.
If I failed in the past, with my Power away,
I was only my shadow, it was not my day,
So I sulked like my sire, or shrank, like my dam ;
Now I come to my Power you will know what I am.
I've the strength, you've the brain, we are running as one.
And nothing on earth can be lost till it 's won.
If I hve to the end naught shall put you to shame."
So he thrilled, going flame-like, with a crinier of flame.
23*
714 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Yet," he thrilled, " it may be, that before the end come
Death will touch me, the Changer, and carry me home.
For we know not, O master, when our life shall have rest,
But the Life is near change that has uttered its best.
If we grow like the grasses, we fall like the flower.
And I know, I touch Death when I come to my Power."
Now over the course flew invisible birds,
All the wants of the watchers, all the thoughts and winged
words.
Swift as floatings of fire from a bonfire's crest
When thej'^ burn leaves on Kimble and the fire streams
west,
Bright an instant, then dying, but renewed and renewed.
So the thoughts chased the racers like hounds that
pursued.
Bringing cheer to their darlings, bringing curse to their
foes.
Searching into men's spirits till their Powers arose.
Red and rigid the Powers of the riding men were,
And as seabirds on Ailsa, in the nesting time there.
Rise like leaves in a whirlwind and float like leaves blown.
So the wants chased the riders and fought for their own.
e>
Unseen by the riders, from the myriad tense brains
Came the living thoughts flying to clutch at men's reins,
Clearing paths for their darlings by running in cry
At the heads of their rivals till the darlings gat by,
As in football, when forwards heave all in a pack.
With their arms round each other and their heels heeling
back.
And their bodies all straining, as they heave, and men fall.
And the halves hover hawklike to pounce on the ball,
And the runners poise ready, while the mass of hot men
Heaves and slips, like rough bvillocks making play in a
pen.
And the crowd sees the heaving, and is still, till it break,
So the riders endeavoured as they strained for the stake.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 715
They skimmed through the grassland, they came to the
plough,
The wind rushed behind them like the waves from a prow,
The clods rose behind them with speckles of gold
From the iron-crusht coltsfoot flung up from the mould.
All green was the plough with the thrusts of young corn,
Pools gleamed in the ruts that the cart-wheels had worn,
And Kubbadar's man wished he had not been born.
Natuna was weary and dwelt on her stride,
Grey Glory's grey tail rolled about, side to side.
Then swash, came a shower, from a driving grey cloud,
Though the blue sky shone brightly and the larks sang
aloud.
As the squall of rain pelted, the coloured caps bowed.
With Thankful still leading and Monkery close,
The hoofs smacked the clayland, the flying clods rose.
They slowed on the clayland, the rain pelted by,
The end of a rainbow gleamed out in the sky ;
Natuna dropped back till Charles heard her complain.
Grey Glory's forequarters seemed hung on his rein,
Cimmeroon clearly was feeling the strain.
But the little Gavotte skimmed the clay like a witch,
Charles saw her coquet as she went at Jim's Pitch.
They went at Jim's Pitch, through the deeply dug gaps
Where the hoofs of great horses had kicked off the scraps,
And there at the water they met with mishaps,
For Natuna stopped dead and Grey Glory went in,
And a cannon on landing upset Cross-Molin.
As swallows bound northward when apple-bloom blows,
See laggards drop spent from their flight as it goes,
Yet can pause not in Heaven as they scythe the thin air
But go on to the house-eaves and the nests clinging bare.
So Charles flashed beyond them, those three men the less
Who had gone to get glory and met with distress.
716 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
He rode to the rise-top, and saw, down the slope,
The race far ahead at a steady strong lope
Going over the grassland, too well for his peace,
They were steady as oxen and strong as wild geese.
As a man by a cornfield on a windy wild day
Sees the corn bow in shadows ever hurrying away,
And wonders, in watching, when the light with bright feet
Will harry those shadows from the ears of the wheat.
So Charles, as he watched, wondered when the bright face
Of the finish would blaze on that smouldering race.
On the last of the grass, ere the going was dead,
Counter- Vair's man shot out with his horse by the head,
Like a partridge pvit up from the stubble he sped,
He dropped Kubbadar and he flew by Red Ember
Up to Monkery's girth like a leaf in November.
Then Stormalong followed, and went to the front,
And just as the find puts a flame to a hunt.
So the rush of those horses put flame to the race.
Charles saw them all shaken to quickening pace.
And Monkery moved, not to let them go by,
And the steadiest rider made ready to fly ;
Well into the wet land they leaped from the dry.
They scattered the rain-pools that mirrored the sky,
They crushed down the rushes that pushed from the
plough.
And Charles longed to follow, but muttered " Not now."
" Not now," so he thought, " yet if not " (he said) " when
Shall I come to those horses and scupper their men ?
Will they never come back ? Shall I never get up ? "
So he drank bitter gall from a very cold cup.
But he nursed his horse gently and prayed for the best, |
And he caught Cimmeroon, who was sadly distrest, |
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 717
And he passed Cimmeroon, with the thought that the
black
Was as nearly dead beat as the man on his back.
Then he gained on his field who were galled by the churn,
The plough searched them out as they came to the Turn.
But Gavotte, black and coral, went strong as a spate ;
Charles thought, " She 's a flier and she carries no weight."
And now, beyond question, the field began tailing,
For all had been tested and many were ailing,
The riders were weary, the horses were failing.
The blur of bright colours rolled over the railing,
With the grunts of urged horses, and the oaths of hot men,
" Gerr on, you," " Come on, now," agen and agen ;
They spattered the mud on the willow tree's bole
And they charged at the danger ; and the danger took
toll.
For Monkery landed, but dwelt on the fence.
So that Counter- Vair passed him in galloping thence.
Then Stormalong blundered, then bright Muscatel
Slipped badly on landing and stumbled and fell,
Then rose in the morrish, with his man on his neck
Like a nearly dead sailor afloat on a wreck,
With his whip in the mud and his stirrups both gone.
Yet he kept in the saddle and made him go on.
As Charles leaped the Turn, all the field was tailed out
Like petals of roses that wind blows about,
Like petals of colour blown back and brought near,
Like poppies in ^vind-flaws when corn is in ear ;
Fate held them or sped them, the race was beginning.
Charles said, " I must ride, or I've no chance of winning."
So gently he quickened, yet making no call ;
Right Royal replied as though knowing it all.
He passed Kubbadar, who was ready to fall.
Then he strode up to Hadrian, up to his girth.
They eyed the Dyke's glitter and picked out a berth.
Now the race reached the water and over it flew
In a sweep of great muscle strained taut and guyed true.
There Muscatel floundered and came to a halt,
Muscatel, the bay chaser without any fault.
718 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Right Royal's head hfted, Right Royal took charge,
On the left near the railings, ears cocked, going large,
Leaving Hadrian behind as a yacht leaves a barge.
Though Hadrian's rider called something unheard.
He was past him at speed like the albatross bird,
Running up to Path Finder, they leaped, side by side,
And the foam from Path Finder flecked white on his hide.
And on landing, he lifted, while Path Finder dwelt,
And his noble eye brightened from the glory he felt.
And the mud flung behind him flicked Path Finder's chest.
As he left him behind and went on to the rest.
Charles cast a glance back, but he could not divine
Why the man on Path Finder should make him a sign.
Nor why Hadrian's rider should shout, and then point,
With his head nodded forward and a jerked elbow joint.
But he looked as he pointed, both forward and down,
And he saw that Right Royal was smeared like a clown,
Smeared red and bespattered with flecks of bright blood.
From a blood-vessel laurst, as he well understood.
And just as he saw it. Right Royal went strange
As one whom Death's finger has touched to a change ;
He went with a stagger that sickened the soul,
As a force stricken feeble and out of control.
Charles thought, " He is dying, and this is the end,
I am losing my Emmy and killing my friend ;
He was hurt when we fell, as I thought at the first.
And I've forced him three miles with a blood-vessel burst !
And his game heart went on." Here a rush close behind
Made him cast a glance back with despair in his mind.
It was Cimmeroon rushing, his lips twitcht apart.
His eyes rolled back sightless, and death in his heart.
He reached to Right Royal, then fell, and was dead,
Nevermore to stretch reins with his beautiful head.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 719
A gush of bright blood filled his mouth as he sank,
And he reached out his hoofs to the heave of his flank,
And Charles, leaning forward, made certain, and cried,
" This is Cimmeroon's blood, blown in passing beside,
And Roy's going strangely was just that he felt
Death coming behind him, or blood that he smelt."
So Charles's heart hghtened and Royal went steady
As a water bound seaward set free from an eddy,
As a water sucked downward to leap at a weir
Sucked swifter and swifter till it shoot like a spear.
There, a mile on ahead, was the Stand like a cliff.
Grey wood, packed with faces, under banners blown stiff.
Where, in two minutes more, they would cheer for him —
if—
If he came to those horses still twelve lengths ahead.
" O Royal, you do it, or kill me ! " he said.
They went at the hurdle as though it weren't there,
White splinters of hurdle flew up in the air,
And down, like a rabbit, went Syringa the mare ;
Her man somersaulted right under Gavotte,
And Syringa went on but her rider did not.
But the little Gavotte tucked her feet away clear.
Just an inch to one side of the fallen man's ear,
With a flash of horse wisdom as she went on the wing
Not to tread on man's body, that marvellous thing.
As in mill-streams in summer the dark water drifts
Petals mown in the hayfield skimmed over by swifts,
Petals blue from the speedwell or sweet from the lime.
And the fish rise to test them, as they float, for a time.
Yet they all loiter sluicewards and are whirled and then
drowned,
So the race swept the horses till they glimmered the
ground.
Charles looked at those horses, and speedily guesst
That the roan horse. Red Ember, was one of the best ;
He was level and easy, not turning a hair.
But with power all ready when his rider should care.
720 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And he leaped like a lover and his coat still did shine.
Charles thought, " He 's a wonder, and he 's twelve
lengths from mine."
There were others still in it, according to looks :
Sir Lopez, and Soyland, and Peterkinooks,
Counter- Vair and Gavotte, all with plenty to spend ;
Then Monkery worn, and The Ghost at his end.
But the roan horse, Red Ember, seemed playing a game.
Charles thought, " He 's the winner ; he can run us all
tame."
The wind brought a tune and a faint noise of cheers,
Right Royal coquetted and cocked up his ears.
Charles saw his horse gaining ; the going increased ;
His touch on the mouth felt the soul of the beast.
And the heave of each muscle and the look of his eye
Said, " I'll come to those horses, and pass them, or die."
Like a thing in a dream the grey buildings drew nearer,
The babble rose louder and the organ's whine clearer,
The hurdle came closer, he rushed through its top
Like a comet in heaven that nothing can stop.
Then they strode the green grass for the Lost Lady's
grave,
And Charles felt Right Royal rise up like a wave,
Like a wave far to seaward that lifts in a line
And advances to shoreward in a slipping incline,
And climbs, and comes toppling, and advances in glory,
Mounting inwards, marching onwards, with his shoulders
all hoary.
Sweeping shorewards with a shouting to burst on the
sand,
So Right Royal sent meaning through the rein in each
hand.
Charles felt like a captain whose ship has long chased
Some ship better handled, better manned, better placed,
And has all day beheld her, that ship of his dream.
Bowing swanlike beyond him up a blue hill of gleam,
f
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 721
Yet, at dark, the wind rising makes his rival strike sail
While his own ship crowds canvas and comes within
hail ;
Till he see her, his rival, snouting into the grey,
Like a sea-rock in winter that stands and breaks spray,
And by lamplight goes past her in a roaring of song
Shouting, " Let fall your royals : stretch the halliards
along ! "
Now The Ghost dropped behind him, now his horses drew
close.
Charles watched them, in praying, while his hopes rose
and rose,
" O God, give me patience, give me luck, give me skill,
For he 's going so grandly I think that he will."
They went at Lost Lady's like Severn at flood.
With an urging of horses and a squelching of mud :
By the hot flanks of horses the toppings were bruised.
And Syringa the manless swerved right and refused,
Swerved right on a sudden, as none could expect,
Straight into Right Royal, who slithered and pecked.
Though Charles held him up and got safely across.
He was round his nag's neck within touch of a toss.
He gat to his saddle, he never knew how ;
What hope he had had was knocked out of him now.
But his courage came back as his terror declined,
He spoke to Right Royal and made up his mind.
He judged the lengths lost and the chance that remained,
And he followed his field, and he gained, and he gained.
He watched them, those horses, so splendid, so swift.
Whirled down the green roadway like leaves in the lift :
Now he measured their mettle, and said with a moan,
" They can beat me. Lord help me, though they give me
a stone.
Red Ember 's a wonder, and Soyland 's the same.
And Gavotte there 's a beauty, and she goes like a flame ;
But Peterkinooks, that I used to despise,
Is the horse that must win if his looks are not lies."
722 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Their bright colours flitted, as at dusk in Brazil
Bright birds reach the tree-tops when the land wind falls
still,
When the sky is all scarlet on the tops of the treen
Comes a whirl of birds flying, blue and orange and green.
As a whirl of notes running in a fugue that men play.
And the thundering follows as the pipe flits away,
And the laughter comes after and the hautboys begin,
So they ran at the hurdle and scattered the whin.
As they leaped to the race-course the sun burst from cloud.
And like tumult in dream came the roar of the crowd.
For to right and to left, now, were crowded men yelling.
And a great cry boomed backward like muffled bells
knelling.
And a surge of men running seemed to follow the race.
The horses all trembled and quickened their pace.
As the porpoise, grown weary of his rush through the dim
Of the unlitten silence where the swiftnesses swim,
Learns at sudden the tumult of a clipper bound home
And exults with this playmate and leaps in her foam,
Or as nightingales coming into England in May,
Coming songless at sunset, being worn with the way.
Settle spent in the twilight, drooping head under wing.
Yet are glad when the dark comes, while at moonrise
they sing ;
I
Or as fire on a hillside, by happy boys kindled, *
That has burnt black a heath-tuft, scorcht a bramble, and |
dwindled, i'
Blown by wind yet arises in a wave of flogged flame,
So the souls of those horses to the testing time came.
Now they closed on their leaders, and the running in-
creased,
They rushed down the arc curving round to the east ;
All the air rang with roaring, all the peopled loud stands
Roared aloud from tense faces, shook with hats and
waved hands.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 723
So they cleared the green gorse-bush by bursting it
through,
There was no time for thinking, there was scarce time
to do.
Charles gritted his spirit as he charged through the gorse :
" You must just grin and suffer : sit still on your horse."
There in front was a hurdle and the Distance Post M'hite,
And the long, green, broad Straight washed with wind
and blown bright ;
Now the roaring had screaming, bringing names to their
ears :
" Come, Soyland ! " "Sir Lopez ! " Then cat-calls ;
then cheers.
" Sir Lopez ! Sir Lopez ! " then the jigging brass laughter
From the yellow toss't swing-boats swooping rafter to
rafter.
Then the blare of all organs, then the roar of all throats.
And they shot past the side shows, the horses and boats.
Now the Wants of the Watchers whirled into the race
Like flames in their fury, like men in the face.
Mad-red from the Wanting that made them alive.
They fought with those horses or helped them to strive.
Like leaves blown on Hudson when maples turn gold,
They whirled in their colour, they clutched to catch hold,
They sang to the riders, they smote at their hearts
Like flakes of live fire, like castings of darts.
As a snow in Wisconsin when the darkness comes down.
Running white on the prairie, making all the air brown.
Blinding men with the hurry of its millions of feet.
So the Wants pelted on them, so they blinded and beat.
And like spirits calm shining upon horses of flame.
Came the Friends of those riders to shield them from
shame.
White as fire white-burning, rushing each by his friend,
Singing songs of the glory of the world without end ;
724 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And as men in Wisconsin driving cars in the snow
Butt against its impulsion and face to the blow,
Tossing snow from their bonnets as a ship tosses foam,
So the Friends tossed the Wantings as the}'^ brought their
friends home.
Now they charged the last hurdle that led to the Straight,
Charles longing to ride, though his spirit said " Wait."
He came to his horses as they came to the leap,
Eight hard-driven horses, eight men breathing deep.
On the left, as he leaped it, a flashing of brown
Kicking white on the grass, showed that Thankful was
down ;
Then a glance, right and left, showed that, barring all
flukes,
It was Soyland's, Sir Lopez', or Peterkinooks'.
For Stormalong blundered and dwelt as he landed,
Counter- Vair's man was beaten and Monkery stranded.
As he reached to Red Ember the man on the red
Cried, " Lord, Charlie Cothill, I thought you were dead ! "
He passed the Red Ember, he came to the flank
Of Peterkinooks, whom he reached and then sank.
There were only two others, going level alone,
First the spotted cream jacket, then the blue, white and |
roan. |
Up the street of green race-course they strained for the
prize,
While the stands blurred with waving and the air shook
with cries ;
" Now, Sir Lopez ! " " Come, Soyland ! " " Now, Sir
Lopez ! Now, now ! "
Then Charles judged his second, but he could not tell how. ,
But a glory of sureness leaped from horse into man.
And the man said, " Now, beauty," and the horse said,
" I can."
And the long weary Royal made an effort the more,
Though his heart thumped like drum-beats as he went
to the fore.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 725
Neck and neck went Sir Lopez and Soyland together,
Soyland first, a short head, with his neck all in lather ;
Both were ridden their hardest, both were doing their best,
Right Royal reached Soyland and came to his chest.
There Soyland's man saw him with the heel of his eye,
A horse with an effort that could beat him or tie ;
Then he glanced at Sir Lopez, and he bit through his lip.
And he drove in his spurs and he took up his whip.
There he lashed the game Soyland who had given his all,
And he gave three strides more, and then failed at the
call.
And he dropped behind Royal like a leaf in a tide :
Then Sir Lopez and Royal ran on side by side.
There they looked at each other, and they rode, and were
grim ;
Charles thought, " That 's Sir Lopez. I shall never beat
him."
All the yells for Sir Lopez seemed to darken the air,
They were rushing past Emmy and the White Post was
there.
He drew to Sir Lopez ; but Sir Lopez drew clear ;
Right Royal clung to him and crept to his ear.
Then the man on Sir Lopez judged the moment had come
For the last ounce of effort that would bring his horse
home.
So he picked up his whip for three swift slashing blows,
And Sir Lopez drew clear, but Right Royal stuck close.
Charles sat still as stone, for he dared not to stir,
There was that in Right Royal that needed no spur.
In the trembhng of an instant power leaped up within,
Royal's pride of high spirit not to let the bay win.
Up he went, past his withers, past his neck, to his head.
With Sir Lopez' man lashing, Charles still, seeing red.
726 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So they rushed for one second, then Sir Lopez shot out :
Charles thought, " There, he 's done me, without any
doubt.
Oh, come now. Right Royal ! "
And Sir Lopez changed feet
And his ears went back level ; Sir Lopez was beat.
Right Royal went past him, half an inch, half a head,
Half a neck, he was leading, for an instant he led ;
Then a hooped black and coral flew up like a shot.
With a lightning-like effort from little Gavotte.
The little bright mare, made of nerves and steel springs.
Shot level beside him, shot ahead as with wings.
Charles felt his horse quicken, felt the desperate beat
Of the blood in his body from his knees to his feet.
Three terrible strides brought him up to the mare,
Then they rushed to wild shouting through a whirl of
blown air ;
Then Gavotte died to nothing ; Soyland came once again
Till his muzzle just reached to the knot on his rein.
Then a whirl of urged horses thundered up, whipped and
blown,
Soyland, Peterkinooks, and Red Ember the roan.
For an instant they challenged, then they drooped and
were done ;
Then the White Post shot backwards. Right Royal had
won.
Won a half length from Soyland, Red Ember close third ;
Fourth, Peterkinooks ; fifth. Gavotte harshly spurred ;
Sixth, Sir Lopez, whose rider said " Just at the Straight
He swerved at the hurdle and twisted a plate."
Then the numbers went up ; then John Harding appeared
To lead in the Winner while the bookmakers cheered.
Then the riders weighed-in, and the meeting was over,
And bright Emmy Crowthorne could go with her lover.
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 727
For the bets on Right Royal which Cothill had made
The taker defaulted, they never were paid ;
The taker went West, whence he sent Charles's bride
Silver bit-cups and beadwork on antelope hide.
Charles married his lady, but he rode no more races :
He lives on the Downland on the blown grassy places,
Where he and Right Royal can canter for hours
On the flock-bitten turf full of tiny blue flowers.
There the Roman pitcht camp, there the Saxon kept
sheep,
There he lives out this Living that no man can keep.
That is manful but a moment before it must pass,
Like the stars sweeping westward, like the wind on the
grass.
I
>'^'
KING COLE
AND OTHER POEMS
7»9
i
KING COLE
T7' ING COLE was King before the troubles came,
J\^ The land was happy while he held the helm,
The valley-land from Condicote to Thame,
Watered by Thames and green with many an elm.
For many a year he governed well his realm.
So well-beloved, that, when at last he died.
It was bereavement to the countryside.
So good, so well-beloved, had he been
In life, that when he reached the judging-place
(There where the scales are even, the sword keen).
The Acquitting Judges granted him a grace.
Aught he might choose, red, black, from king to ace,
Beneath the bright arch of the heaven's span ;
He chose, to wander earth, the friend of man.
So, since that time, he wanders shore and shire
An old, poor, wandering man, with glittering eyes,
Helping distressful folk to their desire
By power of spirit that within him lies.
Gentle he is, and quiet, and most wise.
He wears a ragged grey, he sings sweet words,
And where he walks there flutter little birds.
And when the planets glow as dusk begins
He pipes a wooden flute to music old.
Men hear him on the downs, in lonely inns.
In valley woods, or up the Chiltern wold ;
His piping feeds the starved and warms the cold.
It gives the beaten courage ; to the lost
It brings back faith, that lodestar of the ghost.
73'
732 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And most he haunts the beech-tree-pasturing chalk,
The Downs and Chilterns with the Thames between.
There still the Berkshire shepherds see him walk,
Searching the unhelped woe with instinct keen.
His old hat stuck with never-withering green,
His flute in poke, and little singings sweet
Coming from birds that flutter at his feet.
Not long ago a circus wandered there.
Where good King Cole most haunts the public way,
Coming from Reading for St. Giles's Fair
Through rain unceasing since Augustine's Day ;
The horses spent, the waggons splashed with clay.
The men with heads bowed to the wester roaring.
Heaving the van-wheels up the hill at Goring.
Wearily plodding up the hill they went,
Broken by bitter weather and the luck.
Six vans, and one long waggon with the tent.
And piebald horses following in the muck.
Dragging their tired hooves out with a suck.
And heaving on, like some defeated tribe
Bound for Despair with Death upon their kibe.
All through the morn the circus fioimdered thus,
The nooning found them at the Crossing Roads,
Stopped by an axle splitting in its truss.
The horses drooped and stared before their loads,
Dark with the wet they were, and cold as toads.
The men were busy with the foundered van,
The showman stood apart, a beaten man.
He did not heed the dripping of the rain.
Nor the wood's roaring, nor the blotted hill.
He stood apart and bit upon his pain.
Biting the bitter meal with bitter will. f
Focussed upon himself, he stood, stock still, f
Staring unseeing, while his mind repeated, «!
" This is the end ; I'm ruined : I'm defeated."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 738
From time to time a haggard woman's face
Peered at him from a van, and then withdrew ;
Seeds from the hayrack blew about the place,
The smoke out of the waggon chimneys blew.
From wicker creel the skinny cockerel crew.
The men who set the foundered axle straight
Glanced at their chief, and each man nudged his mate.
And one, the second clown, a snub-nosed youth,
Fair-haired, with broken teeth, discoloured black,
Muttered, " He looks a treat, and that 's the truth.
I've had enough : I've given him the sack."
He took his wrench, arose, and stretched his back,
Swore at a piebald pony trying to bite.
And rolled a cigarette and begged a light.
Within, the second's wife, who leaped the hoops.
Nursed sour twins, her son and jealousy.
Thinking of love, in luckier, happier troupes
Known on the roads in summers now gone by
Before her husband had a roving eye,
Before the rat-eyed baggage with red hair
Came to do tight rope and make trouble there.
Beside the vans, the clown, old Circus John,
Growled to the juggler as he sucked his briar,
" How all the marrow of a show was gone
Since women came, to sing and walk the wire,
Killing the clown his act for half his hire,
Killing the circus trade : because," said he,
" Horses and us are what men want to see."
The juggler was a young man shaven-clean,
Even in the mud his dainty way he had.
Red-cheeked, with eyes like boxer's, quick and keen,
A jockey-looking youth with legs besprad,
Humming in baritone a ditty sad,
And tapping on his teeth his figner-nails.
The while the clown suckt pipe and spat his tales.
734 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Molly, the singer, watched him wearily
With big black eyes that love had brimmed with tears,
Her mop of short cut hair was blown awry,
Her firm mouth showed her wiser than her years.
She stroked a piebald horse and pulled his ears,
And kissed his muzzle, while her eyes betrayed
This, that she loved the juggler, not the jade.
And growling in a group the music stood
Sucking short pipes, their backs against the rain.
Plotting rebellion in a bitter mood,
" A shilling more, or never play again."
Their old great coats were foul with many a stain,
Weather and living rough had stamped their faces,
They were cast clerks, old sailors, old hard cases.
Within the cowboy's van the rat-eyed wife.
Her reddish hair in papers twisted close.
Turned wet potatoes round against the knife.
And in a bucket dropped the peeled Oes.
Her little girl was howling from her blows.
The cowboy smoked, and with a spanner whackt
The metal target of his shooting act.
And in another van more children cried
From being beaten or for being chid
By fathers cross or mothers haggard-eyed,
Made savage by the fortunes that betid.
The rain dripped from the waggons : the drops glid
Along the pony's flanks ; the thick boots stamped ^
The running muck for warmth, and hope was damped.
Yet all of that small troupe in misery stuck.
Were there by virtue of their nature's choosing
To be themselves and take the season's luck.
Counting the being artists worth the bruising.
To be themselves, as artists, even if losing
Wealth, comfort, health, in doing as they chose, j
Alone of all life's ways brought peace to those. ,
i-l
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 735
So there below the forlorn woods, they grumbled,
Stamping for warmth and shaking off the rain.
Under the foundered van the tinkers fumbled,
Fishing the splitted truss with wedge and chain.
Soon, all was done, the van could go again.
Men cracked their whips, the horses' shoulders forged
Up to the collar while the mud disgorged.
So with a jangling of their chains they went,
Lean horses, swaying vans and creaking wheels,
Bright raindrops tilting off the van roof pent
And reedy cockerels crying in the creels.
Smoke driving down, men's shouts and children's
squeals,
Whips cracking, and the hayrack sheddings blowing^;
The showman stood aside to watch them going.
What with the rain and misery making mad.
The showman never saw a stranger come
Till there he stood, a stranger roughly clad
In ragged grey of woollen spun at home.
Green sprigs were in his hat, and other some
Stuck in his coat ; he bore a wooden flute.
And redbreasts hopped and carolled at his foot.
It was King Cole, who smiled and spoke to him.
King Cole. The mend will hold until you reach a wright.
Where do you play ?
The Showman. In Walhngford to-night.
King Cole. There are great doings there.
The Showman. I know of none.
King Cole. The Prince will lay the Hall's foundation
stone
This afternoon : he and the Queen are there.
The Showman. Lord, keep this showman patient, lest
he swear.
King Cole. Why should you swear ? Be glad ; your
town is filled.
The Showman. What use are crowds to me with business
killed ?
King Cole. I see no cause for business to be crosst.
The Showman. Counter-attractions, man, at public cost.
736 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Fireworks, dancing, bonfires, soldiers, speeches.
In all my tour along the river's reaches
I've had ill-luck : I've clashed with public feasts.
At Wycombe fair, we met performing beasts.
At Henley, waxworks, and at Maidenhead
The Psvche woman talking with the dead.
At Bray, we met the rain, at Reading, flood.
At Pangbourne, politics, at Goring, mud.
Now here, at Wallingford, the Royal Pair.
Counter-attraction killing everywhere,
Killing a circus dead : God give me peace ;
If this be living, death will be release.
By God, it brims the cup ; it fills the can.
What trade are you ?
King Cole. I am a wandering man.
The Showman. You mean, a tramp who flutes for
bread and pence ?
King Cole. I come, and flute, and then I wander
thence.
The Showman. Quicksilver Tom who couldn't keep his
place.
King Cole. My race being run, I love to watch the
race.
The Showman. You ought to seek your rest.
King Cole. My rest is this.
The world of men, wherever trouble is.
The Showman. If trouble rest you, God ! your life is
rest.
King Cole. Even the sun keeps moving, east to west.
The Showman. Little he gets by moving ; less than I.
King Cole. He sees the great green world go floating
by.
The Showman. A sorry sight to see, when all is said.
Why don't you set to work ?
King Cole. I have no trade.
The Showman. Where is your home ?
King Cole. All gone, a long time past.
The Showman. Your children, then ?
Kjng Cole. All dead, sir, even the last.
I am a lonely man ; no kith nor kin.
The Showman. There is no joy in life when deaths
begin,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 737
I know it, I. How long is 't since you ate ?
King Cole. It was so long ago that I forget.
The Showman. The proverb says a man can always
find
One sorrier than himself in state and mind.
'Fore George, it 's true. Well, come, then, to the van.
Jane, can you find a meal for this poor man ?
" Yes," said his wife. " Thank God, we still are able
To help a friend ; come in, and sit to table."
" Come," said her man, " I'll help you up aboard,
I'll save your legs as far as Wallingford."
They climbed aboard and sat ; the woman spread
Food for King Cole, and watched him as he fed.
Tears trickled down her cheeks and much she sighed.
" My son," she said, " like you, is wandering wide,
I know not where ; a beggar on the street
(For all I know), without a crust to eat.
He' never could abide the circus life."
The 'Showman. It was my fault, I always tell my wife
I put too great constraint upon his will ;
Things^'would be changed if he were with us still.
I ought not to have forced him to the trade.
King Cole. " A forced thing finds a vent," my father
said ;
And yet a quickening tells me that your son
Is not far from you now ; for I am one
Who feels these things, like comfort in the heart.
The couple watched King Cole and shrank apart,
For brightness covered him with glittering.
" Tell me your present troubles," said the King,
" For you are worn. What sorrow makes you sad ? "
The Showman. Why, nothing, sir, except that times
are bad.
Rain all the season through, and empty tents,
And nothing earned for stock or winter rents.
My wife there, ill, poor soul, from very grief.
And now no hope nor prospect of relief ;
The season 's done, and we're as we began.
24
738 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Now one can bear one's troubles, being a man,
But what I cannot bear is loss of friends.
This troupe will scatter when the season ends :
My clown is going, and the Tricksey Three,
Who juggle and do turns, have split with me ;
And now, to-day, my wife 's too ill to dance,
And all my music ask for an advance.
There must be poison in a man's distress
That makes him mad and people like him less.
Well, men are men. But what I cannot bear
Is my poor Bet, my piebald Talking Mare,
Gone curby in her hocks from standing up.
That's the last drop that overfills the cup.
My Bet's been like a Christian friend for years.
King Cole. Now courage, friend, no good can come
from tears.
I know a treatment for a curby hock
Good both for inward sprain or outward knock.
Here 's the receipt ; it 's sure as flowers in spring ;
A certain cure, the Ointment of the King.
That cures your mare ; your troubles Time will right ;
A man's ill-fortune passes like the night.
Times are already mending at their worst ;
Think of Spent Simmy when his roof-beam burst.
His ruined roof fell on him in a rain
Of hidden gold that built it up again.
So, courage, and believe God's providence.
Lo, here, the city shining like new pence.
To welcome you ; the Prince is lodging there.
Lo, you, the banners flying like a fair.
Your circus will be crowded twenty deep.
This city is a field for you to reap.
For thousands must have come to see the Prince, |
And all are here, all wanting fun. And since
The grass was green, all men have loved a show.
Success is here, so let your trouble go.
The Showman. Well, blessings on your heart for speak-
ing so ;
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 739
It may be that the tide will turn at last.
But royal tours have crossed me in the past
And killed my show, and maybe will again.
One hopes for little after months of rain,
And the little that one hopes one does not get.
The Wife. Look, Will, the city gates with sentries set.
The Showman. It looks to me as if the road were
barred.
King Cole. They are some soldiers of the bodyguard.
I hope, the heralds of your fortune's change.
" Now take this frowsy circus off the range,"
The soldiers at the city entrance cried ;
" Keep clear the town, you cannot pass inside,
The Prince is here, with other things to do
Than stare at gangs of strollers such as you."
The Showman. But I am billed to play here ; and
must play.
The Soldiers. No must at all. You cannot play
to-day.
Nor pitch your tents within the city bound.
The Showman. Where can I, then ?
The Soldiers. Go, find some other ground.
A Policeman. Pass through the city. You can pitch
and play
One mile beyond it, after five to-day.
The Showman. One mile beyond, what use is that to
me ?
A Policeman. Those are the rules, here printed, you
can see.
The Showman. But let me see the Mayor, to make sure.
The Soldiers. These are his printed orders, all secure.
Pass through or back, you must not linger here,
Blocking the road with all this circus gear.
Which will you do, then ; back or pass along ?
The Showman. Pass.
The Soldiers. Then away, and save your breath for
song,
We cannot bother with your right and wrong.
George, guide these waggons through the western gate.
Now, march, d'ye hear ? and do not stop to bait
This side a mile ; for that 's the order. March !
740 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The Showman toppled Hke a broken arch.
The line squall roared upon them with loud lips.
A green-lit strangeness followed, like eclipse.
They passed within, but, when within. King Cole
SUpped from the van to head the leading team.
He breathed into his flute his very soul,
A noise like waters in a pebbly stream,
And straight the spirits that inhabit dream
Came round him, and the rain-squall roared its last.
And bright the wind-vane shifted as it passed.
And in the rush of sun and glittering cloud
That followed on the storm, he led the way,
Fluting the sodden circus through the crowd
That trod the city streets in holiday.
And lo, a marvellous thing, the gouted clay
Splashed on the waggons and the horses, glowed,
They shone like embers as they trod the road.
And round the tired horses came the Powers
That stir men's spirits, waking or asleep.
To thoughts like planets and to acts like flowers,
Out of the inner wisdom's beauty deep :
These led the horses, and, as marshalled sheep
Fronting a dog, in line, the people stared
At those bright waggons led by the bright-haired.
And, as they marched, the spirits sang, and all
The horses crested to the tune and stept
Like centaurs to a passionate festival
With shining throats that mantling criniers swept
And all the hearts of all the watchers leapt
To see those horses passing and to hear
That song that came like blessing to the ear.
And, to the crowd the circus artists seemed
Splendid, because the while that singing quired |
Each artist was the part that he had dreamed
And ghttered with the Power he desired,
Women and men, no longer wet or tired
From long despair, now shone like queens and kings,
There they were crowned with their imaginings.
i
V S:
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 741
And with them, walking by the vans, there came
The wild things from the woodland and the mead,
The red stag, with his tender-stepping dame.
Branched, and high-tongued and ever taking heed.
Nose-wrinkling rabbits nibbling at the weed,
The hares that box by moonlight on the hill,
The bright trout's death, the otter from the mill.
There, with his mask made virtuous, came the fox,
Talking of landscape while he thought of meat ;
Blood-loving weasels, honey-harrying brocks,
Stoats, and the mice that build among the wheat,
Dormice, and moles with little hands for feet,
The water-rat that gnaws the yellow flag.
Toads from the stone and merrows from the quag.
And over them flew birds of every kind.
Whose way, or song, or speed, or beauty brings
Delight and understanding to the mind ;
The bright-eyed, feathery, thready-legged things.
There they, too, sang amid a rush of wings.
With sweet, clear cries and gleams from wing and crest,
Blue, scarlet, white, gold plume and speckled breast.
And all the vans seemed grown with living leaves
And living flowers, the best September knows.
Moist poppies scarlet from the Hilcote sheaves,
Green-fingered bine that runs the barley-rows.
Pale candylips, and those intense blue blows
That trail the porches in the autumn dusk,
Tempting the noiseless moth to tongue their musk.
So, tired thus, so tended, and so sung.
They crossed the city through the marvelling crowd.
Maids with wide eyes from upper windows hung.
The children waved their toys and sang aloud.
But in his van the beaten showman bowed
His head upon his hands, and wept, not knowing
Aught of what passed except that wind was blowing.
742 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
All through the town the fluting led them on.
But near the western gate King Cole retired ;
And, as he ceased, the vans no longer shone,
The bright procession dimmed like lamps expired ;
Again with muddy vans and horses tired,
And artists cross and women out of luck,
The sodden circus plodded through the muck.
The crowd of following children loitered home ;
Maids shut the windows lest more rain should come ;
The circus left the streets of flowers and flags.
King Cole walked with it, huddling in his rags.
They reached the western gate and sought to pass.
" Take back this frowsy show to where it was,"
The sergeant of the gateway-sentry cried ;
" You know quite well you cannot pass outside."
The Showman. But we were told to pass here, by the
guard.
The Sergeant. Here are the printed orders on the
card.
No traffic, you can read. Clear out.
The Showman. But where ?
The Sergeant. Where you're not kicked from, or
there 's room to spare.
Go back and out of town the way you came.
The Showman. I've just been sent from there. Is this
a game ?
The Sergeant. You'll find it none, my son, if that 's
your tone.
The Showman. You redcoats ; ev'n your boots are not
your own.
The Sergeant. No, they're the Queen's ; I represent
the Queen.
The Showman. Pipeclay your week's accounts, you
red marine.
The Sergeant. Thank you, I will. Now vanish.
Right-about.
The Showman. Right, kick the circus in or kick it
out,
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 743
But kick us, kick us hard, we've got no friends,
We've no Queen's boots or busbies on our ends ;
We're poor, we like it, no one cares ; besides,
These dirty artists ought to have thick hides.
The dust, hke us, is fit for boots to stamp,
None but Queen's redcoats are allowed to camp
In this free country,
A Policeman. What's the trouble here ?
The Showman. A redcoat dog, in need of a thick ear.
The Policeman. The show turned back ? No, sergeant,
let them through.
They can't turn back, because the Prince is due.
Best let them pass.
The Sergeant. Then pass ; and read the rules
Another time.
The Showman. You fat, red-coated fools.
The Policeman. Pass right along.
They passed. Beyond the town
A farmer gave them leave to settle down
In a green field beside the Oxford road.
There the spent horses ceased to drag the load ;
The tent was pitched beneath a dropping sky,
The green-striped tent with all its gear awry.
The men drew close to grumble : in the van
The showman parted from the wandering man.
The Showman. You see ; denied a chance ; denied
bare bread.
King Cole. I know the stony road that artists tread.
The Showman. You take it very mildly, if you do.
How would you act if this were done to you ?
King Cole. Go to the Mayor.
The Showman. I am not that kind,
I'll kneel to no Court prop with painted rind.
You and your snivelling to them may go hang.
I say : " God curse the Prince and all his gang."
The Wife. Ah, no, my dear, for Life hurts every one.
Without our cursing. Let the poor Prince be ;
We artist folk are happier folk than he,
Hard as it is.
The Showman. I say : God let him see
744 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
And taste and know this misery that he makes.
He strains a poor man's spirit till it breaks,
And then he hangs him, while a poor man's gift
He leaves unhelped, to wither or to drift.
Sergeants at city gates are all his care.
We are but outcast artists in despair.
They dress in scarlet and he gives them gold.
King Cole. Trust still to Life, the day is not yet old.
The Showman. By God ! our lives are all we have to
trust.
King Cole. Life changes every day and ever must.
The Showman. It has not changed with us, this season,
yet.
King Cole. Life is as just as Death ; Life pays its debt.
The Showman, What justice is there in our suffering so ?
King Cole. This : that not knowing, we should try to
know.
The Showman. Try. A sweet doctrine for a broken
heart.
King Cole. The best (men say) in every manly part.
The Showman. Is it, by Heaven ? I have tried it, I.
I tell you, friend, your justice is a lie ;
Your comfort is a lie, your peace a fraud ;
Your trust a foil}" and your cheer a gaud.
I know what men are, having gone these roads.
Poor bankrupt devils, sweating under loads
While others suck their blood and smile and smile.
You be an artist on the roads awhile.
You'll know what justice comes with suffering then.
King Cole. Friend, I am one grown old with sorrowing
men.
The Showman. The old are tamed, they have not blood
to feel.
King Cole. They've blood to hurt, if not enough to
heal.
I have seen sorrow close and suffering close.
I know their ways with men, if any knows.
I know the harshness of the way they have
To loose the base and prison up the brave.
I know that some have found the depth they trod
In deepest sorrow, is the heart of God.
Up on the bitter iron there is peace.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 745
In the dark night of prison comes release,
In the black midnight still the cock will crow.
There is a help that the abandoned know
Deep in the heart, that conquerors cannot feel.
Abide in hope the turning of the wheel.
The luck will alter and the star will rise.
His presence seemed to change before their eyes.
The old, bent, ragged, glittering, wandering fellow,
With thready blood-streaks in the rided yellow
Of cheek and eye, seemed changed to one who held
Earth and the spirit hke a king of eld.
He spoke again : " You have been kind," said he.
" In your own trouble you have thovight of me.
God will repay. To him who gives is given.
Corn, water, wine, the world, the starry heaven."
Then, like a poor old man, he took his way
Back to the city, while the showman gazed
After his figure like a man amazed.
The Wife. I think that traveller was an angel sent.
The Showman. A most strange man. I wonder what
he meant.
The Wife. Comfort was what he meant, in our distress.
The Showman. No words of his can make our trouble
less.
The Wife. O, Will, he made me feel the luck would
change.
Look at him, husband ; there is something strange
About him there ; a robin redbreast comes
Hopping about his feet as though for crumbs.
And little long-tailed tits and wrens that sing
Perching upon him.
The Showman. What a wondrous thing !
I've read of such, but never seen it.
The Wife. Look,
These were the dishes and the food he took.
The Showman. Yes ; those were they. What of it ?
The Wife. Did he eat ?
The Showman. Yes ; bread and cheese ; he would not
touch the meat.
24*
746 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The'^Wife. But see, the cheese is whole, the loaf un-
broken,
And both are fresh. And see, another token : —
Those hard jcrreen apples that the farmer gave
Have grown to these gold globes, like Blenheims brave ;
And look, how came these plums of Pershore here ?
The Showman. We have been sitting with a saint, my
dear.
The Wife. Look at the butterflies !
Like floating flowers
Came butterflies, the souls of summer hours,
Fluttering about the van ; Red Admirals rich,
Scarlet and pale on breathing speeds of pitch,
Brimstones, like yellow poppy petals blown.
Brown ox-eyed Peacocks in their purpled roan,
Blue, silvered things that haunt the grassy chalk.
Green Hairstreaks bright as green shoots on a stalk.
And that dark prince, the oakwood haunting thing
Dyed with blue burnish like the mallard's wing.
" He was a saint of God," the showman cried.
Meanwhile, within the town, from man to man
The talk about the wondrous circus ran.
All were agreed, that nothing ever known
Had thrilled so tense the marrow in their bone.
All were agreed, that sights so beautiful
Made the Queen's Court with all its soldiers dull.
Made all the red-wrapped masts and papered strings
Seem fruit of death, not lovely living things.
And some said loudly that though time were short,
Men still might hire the circus for the Court.
And some, agreeing, sought the Mayor's hall.
To press petition for the show's recall.
But as they neared the hall, behold, there came
A stranger to them dressed as though in flame ;
An old, thin, grinning glitterer, decked with green,
With thready blood-streaks on his visage lean.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 747
And at his wrinkled eyes a look of mirth
Not common among men who walk the earth ;
Yet from his pocket poked a flute of wood,
And little birds were following him for food.
" Sirs," said King Cole (for it was he), " I know
You seek the Mayor, but you need not so ;
I have this moment spoken with his grace.
He grants the circus warrant to take place
Within the city, should the Prince see fit
To watch such pastime ; here is his permit.
I go this instant to the Prince to learn
His wish herein : wait here till I return."
Thej^ waited while the old man passed the sentry
Beside the door, and vanished through the entry.
They thought, " This old man shining like New Spain,
Must be the Prince's lordly chamberlain.
His cloth of gold so shone, it seemed to burn ;
Wait till he comes." They stayed for his return.
Meanwhile above, the Prince stood still to bide
The nightly mercy of the eventide,
Brought nearer by each hour that chimed and ceased.
His head was weary with the city feast
But newly risen from. He stood alone
As heavy as the day's foundation stone.
The room he stood in was an ancient hall.
Portraits of long dead men were on the wall.
From the dull crimson of their robes there stared
Passionless eyes, long dead, that judged and glared.
Above them were the oaken corbels set.
Of angels reaching hands that never met.
Where in the spring the swallows came to build.
It was the meeting chamber of the Guild.
From where he stood, the Prince could see a yard
Paved with old slabs and cobbles cracked and scarred
Where weeds had pushed, and tiles and broken glass
Had fallen and been trodden in the grass.
A gutter dripped upon it from the rain.
748 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" It puts a crown of lead upon my brain
To live this life of princes," thought the Prince.
" To be a king is to be like a quince,
Bitter himself, yet flavour to the rest.
To be a cat among the hay were best ;
There in the upper darkness of the loft,
With green eyes bright, soft-lying, purring soft,
Hearing the rain without ; not forced, as I,
To lay foundation stones until I die,
Or sign State-papers till my hand is sick.
The man who plaits straw crowns upon a rick
Is happier in his crown than I the King.
And yet, this day, a very marvellous thing
Came by me as I walked the chamber here.
Once in my childhood, in my seventh year,
I saw them come, and now they have returned.
Those strangers, riding upon cars that burned,
Or seemed to burn, with gold, while music thrilled,
Then beauty following till my heart was filled.
And life seemed peopled from eternity.
They brought down Beauty and Wisdom from the sky
Into the streets, those strangers ; I could see
Beauty and wisdom looking up at me
As then, in childhood, as they passed below.
Men would not let me know them long ago,
Those strangers bringing joy. They will not now.
I am a prince with gold about my brow ;
Duty, not joy, is all a prince's share.
And yet, those strangers from I know not where.
From glittering lands, from unknown cities far
Beyond the sea-plunge of the evening star.
Would give me life, which princedom cannot give.
They would be revelation : I should live.
I may not deal with Wisdom, being a king."
There came a noise of some one entering ;
He turned his weary head to see who came.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 749
It was King Cole, arrayed as though in flame,
Like a white opal glowing from within,
He entered there in snowy cramoisin.
The Prince mistook him for a city lord.
He turned to him and waited for his word.
" Sir," said King Cole, " I come to bring you news.
Sir, in the weary life that princes use
There is scant time for any prince or king
To taste delights that artists have and bring.
But here, to-night, no other duty calls,
And circus artists are without the walls.
Will you not see them, sir ? "
The Prince. Who are these artists ; do they paint
or write ?
King Cole. No, but they serve the arts and love delight.
The Prince. What can they do ?
Kjng Cole. They know full many a rite
That holds the watcher spell-bound, and they know
Gay plays of ghosts and jokes of long ago ;
And beauty of bright speed their horses bring,
Ridden bare-backed at gallop round the ring
By girls who stand upon the racing team.
Jugglers they have, of whom the children dream,
Who pluck live rabbits from between their lips
And balance marbles on their finger-tips.
Will you not see them, sir ? And then, they dance.
" Ay," said the Prince, " and thankful for the chance.
So thankful, that these bags of gold shall buy
Leave for all comers to be glad as I.
And yet, I know not if the Court permits.
Kings' pleasures must be sifted through the wits
Or want of wit of many a courtly brain.
I get the lees and chokings of the drain.
Not the bright rippling that I perish for."
King Cole. Sir, I will open the forbidden door,
Which, opened, they will enter all in haste.
The life of man is stronger than good taste.
The Prince. Custom is stronger than the life of man.
King Cole. Custom is but a way that life began.
750 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The Prince. A withering way that makes the leafage
fall,
Custom, like Winter, is the King of all.
King Cole. Winter makes water solid, yet the spring,
That is but flowers, is a stronger thing.
Custom, the ass man rides, will plod for years.
But laughter kills him and he dies at tears.
One word of love, one spark from beauty's fire,
And custom is a memory ; listen, sire.
Then at a window looking on the street
He played his flute like leaves or snowflakes falling.
Till men and women, passing, thought : " How sweet ;
These notes are in our hearts like flowers falling."
And then, they thought, " An unknown voice is calling
Like April calling to the seed in earth ;
Madness is quickening deadness into birth."
And then, as in the spring when first men hear.
Beyond the black-twigged hedge, the lambling's cry
Coming across the snow, a note of cheer
Before the storm-cock tells that spring is nigh.
Before the first green bramble pushes shy.
And all the blood leaps at the lambling's notes.
The piping brought men's hearts into their throats.
Till all were stirred, however old and grand ;
Generals bestarred, old statesmen, courtiers prim
(Whose lips kissed nothing but the monarch's hand),
Stirred in their courtly minds' recesses dim,
The sap of life stirred in the dreary limb.
The old eyes brightened o'er the pouncet-box.
Remembering loves, and brawls, and mains of cocks. ||
And through the town the liquid piping's gladness
Thrilled on its way, rejoicing all who heard.
To thrust aside their dulness or their sadness
And follow blithely as the fluting stirred.
They hurried to the guild like horses spurred.
There in the road they mustered to await,
They knew not what, a dream, a joy, a fate
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 751
And man to man in exaltation cried :
" Something has come to make us young again :
Wisdom has come, and Beauty, Wisdom's bride,
And youth like flowering April after rain."
But still the fluting piped and men were fain
To sing and ring the bells, they knew not why
Save that their hearts were in an ecstasy.
Then to the balcony above them came
King Cole the shining in his robe of flame ;
Behind him came the Prince, who smiled and bowed.
King Cole made silence : then addressed the crowd.
" Friends, fellow mortals, bearers of the ghost
That burns, and breaks its lamp, but is not lost,
This day, for one brief hour, a key is given
To all, however poor, to enter heaven.
The Bringers Down of Beauty from the stars
Have reached this city in their golden cars.
They ask, to bring you beauty, if you will.
You do not answer : rightly, you are still.
But you will come, to watch the image move
Of all you dreamed or had the strength to love.
Come to the Ring, the image of the path
That this our planet through the Heaven hath ;
Behold man's skill, man's wisdom, man's delight,
And woman's beauty, imaged to the height.
Come, for our rulers come ; and Death, whose feet
Tread at the door, permits a minute's sweet ;
To each man's soul vouchsafes a glimpse, a gleam,
A touch, a breath of his intensest dream.
Now, to that glimpse, that moment, come with me ;
Our rulers come.
O brother, let there be
Such welcome to our Prince as never was.
Let there be flowers under foot, not grass,
Flowers and scented rushes and the sprays
Of purple bramble reddening into blaze.
752 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Let there be bells rung backward till the tune
Be as the joy of all the bees in June.
Let float your flags, and let your lanterns rise |
Like fruit upon the trees in Paradise,
In many-coloured lights as rich as Rome
O'er road and tent ; and let the children come,
It is their world, these Beauty Dwellers bring."
Then, like the song of all the birds of spring
He played his flute, and all who heard it cried,
" Strew flowers before our rulers to the Ring."
The courtiers hurried for their coats of pride.
The upturned faces in that market wide
Glowed in the sunset to a beauty grave
Such as the faces of immortals have.
And work was laid aside on desk and bench,
The red-lined ledger summed no penny more.
From lamp-blacked fingers the mechanic's wrench
Dropped to the kinking wheel chains on the floor,
The farmer shut the hen roost : at the store
The boys put up the shutters and ran hooting
Wild with delight in freedom to the fluting.
And now the fluting led that gathered tide
Of men and women forward through the town.
And flowers seemed to fall from every side,
White starry blossoms such as brooks bow down.
White petals clinging in the hair and gown ;
And those who marched there thought that starry
flowers
Grew at their sides, as though the streets were bowers.
And all, in marching, thought, " We go to see
Life, not the daily coil, but as it is
Lived in its beauty in eternity,
Above base aim, beyond our miseries ;
Life that is speed and colour and bright bliss,
And beauty seen and strained for, and possest
Even as a star forever in the breast."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 753
The fluting led them through the western gate,
From many a tossing torch their faces glowed,
Bright-eyed and ruddy-featured and elate ;
They sang and scattered flowers upon the road,
Still in their hair the starry blossoms snowed ;
They saw ahead the green-striped tent, their mark,
Lit now and busy in the gathering dark.
There at the vans and in the green-striped tent
The circus artists growled their discontent.
Close to the gate a lighted van there was ;
The showman's wife thrust back its window glass,
And leaned her head without to see who came
To buy a ticket for the evening's game.
A roll of tickets and a plate of pence
(For change) lay by her as she leaned from thence.
She heard the crowd afar, but in her thought
She said : " That 's in the city ; it is nought.
They glorify the Queen."
Though sick at heart
She wore her spangles for her evening's part.
To dance upon the barebacked horse and sing.
Green velvet was her dress, with tinselling.
Her sad, worn face had all the nobleness
That lovely spirits gather from distress.
" No one to-night," she thought, " no one to-night."
Within the tent, a flare gave blowing light.
There, in their scarlet cart, the bandsmen tuned
Bugles that whinnied, flageolets that crooned
And strings that whined and grunted.
Near the band
Piebald and magpie horses stood at hand
Nosing at grass beneath the green-striped dome
While men caressed them with the curry-comb.
The clowns, with whited, raddled faces, heaped
Old horse cloths round them to the chins ; they peeped
Above the rugs ; their cigarette ends' light
Showing black eyes, and scarlet smears and white.
754 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
They watched the empty benches, and the wry
Green curtain door which no one entered by.
Two httle children entered and sat still
With bright wide opened eyes that stared their fill,
And red lips round in wonder smeared with tints
From hands and handkerchiefs and peppermints.
A farm lad entered. That was all the house.
" Strike up the band to give the folk a rouse,"
The showman said, " They must be all outside."
He said it boldly, though he knew he lied.
Sad as a funeral march for pleasure gone
The band lamented out, " He's got them on."
Then paused, as usual, for the crowd to come.
Nobody came, though from without a hum
Of instruments and singing slowly rose.
" Free feast, with fireworks and public shows,"
The bandsmen growled. " An empty house again.
Two children and a ploughboy and the rain.
And then a night march through the mud," they said.
Now to the gate. King Cole his piping played.
The showman's wife from out her window peering
Saw, in the road, a crowd with lanterns nearing.
And, just below her perch, a man who shone
As though white flame were his caparison ;
One upon whom the great-eyed hawk-moths tense
Settled with feathery feet and quivering sense,
Till the white, gleaming robe seemed stuck with eyes.
It was the grinning glitterer, white and wise,
King Cole, who said, " Madam, the Court is here,
The Court, the Prince, the Queen, all drawing near,
We here, the vanguard, set them on their way.
They come intent to see your circus play.
They ask that all who wish may enter free.
And in their princely hope that this may be
They send you these plump bags of minted gold."
He gave a sack that she could scarcely hold.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 755
She dropped it trembling, muttering thanks, and then
She cried : " O master, I must tell the men."
She rushed out of her van : she reached the Ring ;
Called to her husband, " Will, the Queen and King,
Here at the very gate to see the show ! "
" Light some more flares," said Will, " to make a glow.
* God save the Queen,' there, bandsmen ; lively, boys.
Come on, ' God save our gracious ' ; make a noise.
Here, John, bring on the piebalds to the centre,
We'll have the horses kneeling as they enter."
All sang, and rushed. Without, the trumpets brayed.
Now children, carrying paper lanterns, made
A glowing alley to the circus door ;
Then others scattered flowers to pave a floor.
Along the highway leading from the town.
Rust-spotted bracken green they scattered down,
Blue cornflowers and withering poppies red,
Gold charlock, thrift, the purple hardihead,
Harebells, the milfoil white, September clover.
And boughs that berry red when summer's over.
All autumn flowers, w'ith yellow ears of wheat.
Then with bruised, burning gums that made all sweet,
Came censer-bearing pages, and then came
Bearers in white with cressets full of flame.
Whose red tongues made the shadows dance like devils.
Then the blithe flutes that pipe men to the revels
Thrilled to the marrow softly as men marched.
Then, tossing leopard-skins from crests that arched,
The horses of the kettle-drummers stept.
Then with a glitter of bright steel there swept
The guard of knights, each pennon-bearer bold
Girt in a crimson cloak with spangs of gold.
Then came the Sword and Mace, and then the four
Long silver trumpets thrilling to the core
Of people's hearts their sound. Then two by two.
Proud in caparisons of kingly blue,
Bitted with bars of gold, in silver shod.
Treading like kings, cream-coloured stallions trod.
756 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Dragging the carriage with the Prince and Queen.
The Corporation, walking, closed the scene.
Then came the crowd in-surging like the wave
That closes up the gash the cHpper clave.
Swift in the path their majesties would tread
The showman flung green baize and turkey red.
Within the tent, with bunting, ropes and bags
They made a Royal Box festooned with flags.
Even as the Queen arrived, the work was done,
The seven piebald horses kneeled like one,
The bandsmen blew their best, while, red as beet,
The showman bowed his rulers to their seat.
Then, through the door, came courtiers wigged and
starred ;
The crimson glitterers of the bodyguard ;
The ladies of the Court, broad-browed and noble,
Lovely as evening stars o'er seas in trouble ;
The aldermen, in furs, with golden chains.
Old cottagers in smocks from country lanes.
Shepherds half dumb from silence on the down,
And merchants wuth their households from the town,
And, in the front, two rows of eager-hearted
Children with shining eyes and red lips parted.
Even as the creeping waves that brim the pool
One following other filled the circus full.
The showman stood beside his trembling wife.
" Never," he said, " in all our travelling hfe
Has this old tent looked thus, the front seats full
With happy little children beautiful.
Then all this glorious Court, tier after tier !
O would our son, the wanderer, were here,
Then we'd die happy ! "
" Would he were ! " said she.
" It was my preaching forced him to be free,"
The showman said.
" Ah, no," his wife replied,
" The great world's glory and the young blood's pride.
Those forced him from us, never you, my dear."
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 757
" I would be different if we had him here
Again," the showman said ; " but we must start.
But all this splendour takes away my heart,
I am not used to playing to the King."
" Look," said his wife, " the stranger, in the Ring."
There in the Ring indeed, the stranger stood,
King Cole, the shining, with his flute of wood,
Waiting until the chattering Court was stilled.
Then from his wooden flute his piping thrilled.
Till all was tense, and then the leaping fluting
Clamoured as flowering clamours for the fruiting.
And round the Ring came Dodo, the brown mare,
Pied like a tiger-moth ; her bright shoes tare
The scattered petals, while the clown came after
Like life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter.
The showman entered in and cracked his whip.
Then followed fun and skill and horsemanship,
Marvellous all, for all were at their best.
Never had playing gone with such a zest
To those good jesters ; never had the tent
So swiftly answered to their merriment
With cheers, the artist's help, the actor's life.
Then, at the end, the showman and his wife
Stood at the entrance listening to the cheers.
They were both happy to the brink of tears.
King Cole came close and whispered in their ears :
" There is a soldier here who says he knew
You, long ago, and asks to speak to you.
A sergeant in the guard, a handsome blade."
" Mother ! " the sergeant said. " What, Jack ! " she
said,
" Our son come back ! look, father, here 's our son ! "
" Bad pennies do come home to everyone,"
The sergeant said. " And if you'll have me home,
And both forgive me, I'll be glad to come."
758 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
" Why, son," the showman said, " the fault was ours."
Now a bright herald trod across the flowers
To bid the artists to the Queen and King,
Who thanked them for the joyful evening,
And shook each artist's hand with words of praise.
" Our happiest hour," they said, " for many days.
You must perform at Court at Christmastide."
They left their box : men flung the curtains wide,
The horses kneeled like one as they withdrew.
They reached the curtained door and loitered tliroiigh.
The audience, standing, sang, " God save the Quccji."
The hour of the showman's life had been.
Now once again a herald crossed the green
To tell the showman that a feast was laid,
A supper for the artists who had played
By the Queen's order, in a tent without.
In the bright moonlight at the gate the rout
Of courtiers, formed procession to be gone.
Orders were called, steel clinked, and jewels shone.
The watchers climbed the banks and took their stands.
The circus artists shook each other's hands,
Their quarrels were forgotten and forgiven.
Old friendships were restored and sinners shriven.
" We find we cannot part from Will," they said.
And while they talked, the juggler took the maid
Molly, the singer, to the hawthorn glade
Behind the green-striped tent, and told his love,
A wild delight, beyond her hope, enough
Beyond her dream to brim her eyes with tears.
Now came a ringing cry to march ; and cheers
Rose from the crowd ; the bright procession fared
Back to the city while the trumpets blared.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 759
So the night ended, and the Court retired.
Back to the town the swaying torches reeked,
Within the green-striped tent the hghts expired,
The dew dript from the canvas where it leaked.
Dark, in the showman's van, a cricket creaked,
But, near the waggons, fire was glowing red
On happy faces where the feast was spread.
Gladly they supped, those artists of the show ;
Then by the perfect moon, together timed.
They struck the green-striped tent and laid it low,
Even as the quarter before midnight chimed.
Then putting-to the piebald nags, they climbed
Into their vans and slowly stole away.
Along Blown Hilcote on the Icknield Way.
And as the rumbling of the waggons died
By Aston Tirrold and the Moretons twain.
With axle-clatter in the countryside.
Lit by the moon and fragrant from the rain.
King Cole moved softly in the Ring again.
Where now the owls and he were left alone :
The night was loud with water upon stone.
He watched the night ; then taking up his flute,
He breathed a piping of this life of ours,
The half-seen prize, the difficult pursuit,
The passionate lusts that shut us in their towers.
The love that helps us on, the fear that lowers.
The pride that makes us and the pride that mars,
The beauty and the truth that are our stars.
And man, the marvellous thing, that in the dark
Works with his little strength to make a light,
His wit that strikes, his hope that tends, a spark.
His sorrow of soul in toil, that brings delight,
His friends, who make salt sweet and blackness bright.
His birth and growth and change ; and death the wise,
His peace, that puts a hand upon his eyes.
760 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
All these his pipings breathed of, until twelve
Struck on the belfry tower with tremblings numb
(Such as will shudder in the axe's helve
When the head strikes) to tell his hour was come.
Out of the living world of Christendom
He dimmed like mist till one could scarcely note
The robins nestling to his old grey coat.
Dimmer he grew, yet still a glimmering stayed
Like light on cobwebs, but it dimmed and died.
Then there was naught but moonlight in the glade,
Moonlight and water and an owl that cried.
Far overhead a rush of birds' wings sighed.
From migrants going south until the spring.
The night seemed fanned by an immortal wing.
But where the juggler trudged beside his love
Each felt a touching from beyond our ken.
From that bright kingdom where the souls who strove,
Live now for ever, helping living men.
And as they kissed each other ; even then
Their brows seemed blessed, as though a hand unseen
Had crowned their loves with never-withering green.
I
OTHER POEMS
7^>
THE DREAM
Weary with many thoughts I went to bed,
And lay for hours staring at the night,
Thinking of all the millions of the dead
Who used man's flesh, as I, and loved the light,
Yet died, for all their power and delight,
For all their love, and never came again,
Never, for all our crying, all our pain.
There, through the open windows at my side,
I saw the stars, and all the tossing wood.
And, in the moonlight, mothy owls that cried.
Floating along the covert for their food.
The night was as a spirit that did brood
Upon the dead, those multitudes of death
That had such colour once, and now are breath.
" And all this beauty of the world," I thought,
" This glory given by God, this life that teems,
What can we know of them ? for life is nought,
A few short hours of blindness, shot by gleams,
A few short days of mastery of dreams
After long years of effort, then an end,
Then dust on good and bad, on foe and friend."
So, weary with the little time allowed
To use the power that takes so long to learn,
I sorrowed as I lay ; now low, now loud
Came music from an hautboy and zithern.
The house was dark, and yet a light did burn
There where they played, and in the wainscoting
The mice that love the dark were junketing.
763
764 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
So, what with sorrow and the noise that seemed *
Like voices speaking from the night's dark heart
To tell her secret in a tongue undreamed,
I fell into a dream and walked apart
Into the night (I thought), into the swart.
Thin, lightless air in which the planet rides ;
I trod on dark air upward with swift strides.
Though in my dream I gloried as I trod
Because I knew that I was striding there
Far from this trouble to the peace of God
Where all things glow and beauty is made bare.
A dawning seemed beginning everywhere,
And then I came into a grassy place.
Where beauty of bright heart has quiet face.
Lovely it was, and there a castle stood
Mighty and fair, with golden turrets bright,
Crowned with gold vanes that swung at the wind's mood
Full many a hundred feet up in the light.
The walls were all i'-carven with delight
Like stone become alive. I entered in.
Smoke drifted by : I heard a violin.
And as I heai'd, it seemed, that long before
That music had crept ghostly to my hearing
Even as a ghost along the corridor
Beside dark panelled walls with portraits peering ;
It crept into my brain, blessing and spearing
Out of the past, yet all I could recall
Was some dark room with firelight on the wall.
So, entering in, I crossed the mighty hall ;
The volleying smoke from firewood flew about.
The wind-gusts stirred the hangings on the wall
So that the woven chivalry stood out
Wave-like and charging, putting all to rout
The evil things they fought with, men like beasts.
Wolf soldiers, tiger kings, hyena priests.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 765
And, steadfast as though frozen, swords on hips,
Old armour stood at sentry with old spears
Clutched in steel gloves that glittered at the grips,
Yet housed the little mouse with pointed ears :
Old banners drooped above, frayed into tears
With age and moth that fret the soldier's glory.
I saw a swallow in the clerestory.
And always from their frames the eyes looked down
Of most intense souls painted in their joy.
Their great brows jewelled bright as by a crown
Of their own thoughts, that nothing can destroy,
Because pure thought is life without alloy,
Life's very essence from the flesh set free
A wonder and delight eternally.
And climbing up the stairs with arras hung,
I looked upon a court of old stones grey.
Where o'er a globe of gold a galleon swung
Creaking with age and showing the wind's way.
There, flattered to a smile, the barn cat lay
Tasting the sun with purrings drowsily
Sun-soaked, content, with drowsed green-slitted eye.
I did not know what power led me on
Save the all-living joy of what came next.
Down the dim passage doors of glory shone,
Old panels glowed with many a carven text.
Old music came in strays, my mind was vext
With many a leaping thought ; beyond each door
I thought to meet some friend, dead long before.
So on I went, and by my side, it seemed.
Paced a great bull, kept from me by a brook
Which lipped the grass about it as it streamed
Over the flagroots that the grayling shook ;
Red-felled the bull was, and at times he took
Assay ment of the red earth with his horn
And wreaked his rage upon the sod uptorn.
766 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Yet when I looked was nothing but the arras
There at my side, with woven knights who glowed
In coloured silks the running stag to harass.
There was no stream, yet in my mind abode
The sense of both beside me as I strode,
A.nd lovely faces leaned, and pictures came
Of water in a great sheet like a flame ;
Water in terror like a great snow falling,
Like wool, like smoke, into a vast abysm,
With thunder of gods figthing and death calling
And gleaming sunbeams splitted by the prism
And cliffs that rose and eagles that took chrism
Even in the very seethe, and then a cave
Where at a fire I mocked me at the wave.
Mightily rose the cliffs ; and mighty trees
Grew on them ; and the caverns, channelled deep.
Cut through them like dark veins ; and like the seas.
Roaring, the desperate water took its leap ;
Yet dim within the cave, like sound in sleep,
Came the fall's voice ; my flitting fire made
More truth to me than all the water said.
Yet when I looked, there was the arras only.
The passage stretching on, the pictured faces,
The violin below complaining lonely.
Creeping with sweetness in the mind's sad places,
And all my mind was trembling with the traces
Of long dead things, of beautiful sweet friends
Long since made one with that which never ends.
And as I went the wall seemed built of flowers,
Long, golden cups of tulips, with firm stems.
Warm-smelling, for the black bees' drunken hours ;
Striped roses for princesses' diadems ;
And butterflies there were like living gems,
Scarlet and black, blue damaskt, mottled, white,
Colour alive and happy, living light.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 767
Then through a door I passed into a room
Where Daniel stood, as I had seen him erst,
In wisest age, in all its happiest bloom,
Deep in the red and black of books immerst.
I would have spoken to him had I durst,
But might not, I, in that bright chamber strange.
Where, even as I lookt, the walls did change.
For now the walls were as a toppling sea,
Green, with white crest, on which a ship emerging,
Strained, with her topsails whining wrinklingly.
Dark with the glittermg sea fires of her surging.
And, now with thundering horses and men urging,
The walls were fields on which men rode in pride,
On horses that tossed firedust in their stride.
And now, the walls were harvest fields whose corn
Trembled beneath the wrinkling wind in waves
All golden ripe and ready to be shorn
By sickling sunburnt reapers singing staves,
And now, the walls were dark with wandering caves
That sometimes glowed with fire and sometimes burned
Where men on anvils fiery secrets learned.
And all these forms of thought and myriads more.
Passed into books and into Daniel's hand.
So that he smiled at having such great store
All red and black as many as the sand.
Studded with crystals, clasped with many a band
Of hammered steel. I saw him standing there
After I woke his pleasure filled the air.
THE WOMAN SPEAKS
This poem appeared to me in a dream one winter morning
some years ago. In the dream I was aware of a tall lady,
dressed for out-of-doors, A\'ith furs and a picture hat. I
was aware, at the same time, of the whole of her past
life, and of the fact that she was looking for the first time
south-westwards upon Lincoln's Inn Fields, early on a
calm, sunny Sunday morning. I saw the Fields as she
768 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
did, in utter calm, as from the north-eastern pavement ;
the pigeons were picking food, the sun was shining, each
brick and stone was distinct. I was aware of the fact
that she had suddenly realized that life might be quiet
like this, and that were it so, it would be wonderful.
At the same time, I was intensely aware of the whole of
this poem, which explained her past, what she saw and
what she felt. As she passed out of the dream, the
whole of the poem appeared engraven in high relief on an
oblong metal plate, from which I wrote it down.
Bitter it is, indeed, in human fate
When life's supreme temptation comes too late.
I had a ten years' schooling, where I won
Prizes for headache and caparison.
I married well ; I kept a husband warm
With twenty general years of gentle charm.
We wandered much, where'er our kind resort,
But not till Sunday to the Inns of Court.
So then imagine what a joy to see
The town's grey, vast and unappeased sea
Suddenly still, and what a hell to learn
Life might be quiet, could I but return.
THE RIDER AT THE GATE
A WINDY night was blowing on Rome,
The cressets guttered on Caesar's home.
The fish-boats, moored at the bridge, were breaking
The rush of the river to yellow foam.
The hinges whined to the shutters shaking.
When clip-clop-clep came a horse-hoof raking
The stones of the road at Caesar's gate ;
The spear-butts jarred at the guard's awaking.
" Who goes there ? " said the guard at the gate.
" What is the news, that you ride so late ? "
" News most pressing, that must be spoken
To Cjesar alone, and that cannot wait."
i
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 769
" The Caesar sleeps ; you must show a token
That the news suffice that he be awoken.
What is the news, and whence do you come ?
For no light cause may his sleep be broken."
" Out of the dark of the sands I come,
From the dark of death, with news for Rome.
A word so fell that it must be uttered
Though it strike the soul of the Caesar dumb."
CcBsar turned in his bed and muttered.
With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered ;
Calpurnia heard her husband moan :
" The house is falling,
The beaten men come into their ozvn.^'
" Speak your word," said the guard at the gate ;
" Yes, but bear it to Caesar straight,
Say, ' Your murderer's knives are honing,
Your killer's gang is lying in wait.'
" Out of the wind that is blowing and moaning
Through the city palace and the country loaning,
I cry, ' For the world's sake, Caesar, beware.
And take this warning as my atoning.
*' ' Beware of the Court, of the palace stair,
Of the downcast friend who speaks so fair.
Keep from the Senate, for Death is going
On many men's feet to meet you there.'
" I, who am dead, have ways of knowing
Of the crop of death that the quick are sowing.
I, who was Pompey, cry it aloud
From the dark of death, from the wind blowing
to'
" I, who was Pompey, once was proud.
Now I lie in the sand without a shroud ;
I cry to Caesar out of my pain,
' Caesar, beware, your death is vowed,' "
49
770 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The light grew grey on the window-pane, d
The windcocks swung in a burst of rain, 1
The window of Caesar flung unshuttered,
The horse-hoofs died into wind again.
Ccesar turned in his bed and muttered,
With a struggle for breath the lamp-flatne guttered ;
Calpurnia heard her husband moan :
" The house is falling,
The beaten men come into their own."
THE BUILDERS
Before the unseen cock had called the time,
Those workers left their beds and stumbled out
Into the street, where dust lay white as lime
Under the last star that keeps bats about.
Then blinking still from bed, they trod the street.
The doors closed up and down ; the traveller heard
Doors opened, closed, then silence, then men's feet
Moving to toil, the men too drowsed for word.
The bean-field was a greyness as they passed,
The darkness of the hedge was starred with flowers.
The moth, with wings like dead leaves, sucked his last,
The triumphing cock cried out with all his powers ;
His fire of crying made the twilight quick.
Then clink, clink, clink, men's trowels tapped the brick.
I saw the delicate man who built the tower
Look from the turret at the ground below.
The granite column wavered like a flower.
But stood in air whatever winds might blow.
Its roots were in the rock, its head stood proud,
No earthly forest reared a head so high ;
Sometimes the eagle came there, sometimes cloud,
It was man's ultimate footstep to the sky.
And in that peak the builder kept his treasure,
Books with the symbols of his art, the signs
Of knowledge in excitement, skill in pleasure.
The edge that cut, the rule that kept, the lines.
He who had seen his tower beneath the grass.
Rock in the earth, now smiled, because it was.
* 9K 4( iii 3|: 4c
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 771
How many thousand men had done his will,
Men who had hands, or arms, or strength to spend.
Or cunning with machines, or art, or skill.
All had obeyed him, working to this end.
Hundreds in distant lands had given their share
Of power, to deck it ; on its every stone
Their oddity of pleasure was laid bare.
Yet was the tower his offspring, his alone.
His inner eye had seen, his will had made it.
All the opposing army of men's minds
Had bowed, had turned, had striven as he bade it.
Each to his purpose in their myriad kinds.
Nowlt was done, and in the peak he stood
Seeing his work, and smiled to find it good.
4: * % :}: 9|i :!:
It had been stone, earth's body, hidden deep,
Lightless and shapeless, where it cooled and hardened
Now it was as the banner on man's keep
Or as the Apple in Eden where God gardened.
Lilies of stone ran round it, and like fires
The tongues of crockets shot from it and paused.
Horsemen who raced were carvcn on't, the spires
Were bright with gold ; all this the builder caused
And standing there, it seemed that all the hive
Of human skills which now it had become,
Was stone no more, nor building, but alive.
Trying to speak, this tower that was dumb.
Trying to speak, nay, speaking, soul to soul
With powers who are, to raven or control.
THE SETTING OF THE WINDCOCK
The dust lay white upon the chisel-marks,
The beams still shewed the dimplings of the grain,
Above the chancel's gloom the crimson sparks
Of Christ's blood glowed upon the window-pane.
No brass or marble of a death was there.
The painted angels on the wall whirled down
Trumpeting to man's spirit everywhere.
The spire topped the bell-tower like a crown.
772 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Now, on the tower-top, where the crockets ceased
Like lace against the sky, they set at pause
The golden wind-vane, that from west to east
Would turn his beak to tempests or to flaws.
It poised, it swung, it breasted the wind's stream,
The work was done, the hands had wrought the dream.
THE RACER
I SAW the racer coming to the jump.
Staring with fiery eyeballs as he rusht, i
I heard the blood within his body thump, *
I saw him launch, I heard the toppings crusht.
And as he landed I beheld his soul
Kindle, because, in front, he saw the Straight
With all its thousands roaring at the goal.
He laughed, he took the moment for his mate.
Would that the passionate moods on which we ride
Might kindle thus to oneness with the will ;
Would we might sec the end to which we stride.
And feel, not strain, in struggle, only thrill.
And laugh like him and know in all our nerves
Beauty, the spirit, scattering dust and turves.
THE BLOWING OF THE HORN
From " The Song of Roland."
Roland gripped his horn with might and main,
Put it to his mouth and blew a great strain.
The hills were high and the sound was very plain,
Thirty leagues thence they heard the strain,
Charles heard it, and all his train.
" Our men are fighting," said Charlemain.
And the Count Guenes answered him again,
'■' If another said that, we should think him insane."
Ahoy.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 773
Roland was broken by pain and outworn,
In great anguish he blew his horn ;
Out of his mouth the bright blood did fall,
The temples of his brain were now all torn :
He blew a great noise as he held the horn.
Charles heard it in the pass forlorn,
Naimes heard it, the Franks listened all.
Then the King said, " I hear Roland's horn,
He would never blow it if he were not overborne."
Guenes answered, " You are old and outworn,
Such words are worthy of a child new-born.
There is no battle at all, neither won nor lorn.
Ahoy,
" Moreover, you know of Roland's great pride,
It is a marvel that God lets him bide.
Without your command and knowing you would chide,
He took Noples, and killed the men inside.
With his sword Durendal he smote them hip and side.
Then with water washed the fields where the blood had
dried,
So that his killings might never be spied.
All day long he will horn a hare and ride.
Gabbing before his peers, showing his pride.
No man would dare attack him in all the world wide.
Press on your horse now. Why do you abide ?
France is still far from us over the divide."
Ahoy.
Count Roland's mouth bled from a vein,
Broken were the temples that held his brain.
He blew his horn with grief and in pain,
The Franks heard it and Charlemain.
The King said, " That horn blows a long strain."
Duke Naimes answered, " Roland is in pain.
There is a battle, by my hope of gain.
He here has betrayed him who did so feign ;
Put on your war-gear, cry your war-cry again.
Go and succour your noble train,
You hear clearly how Roland does complain."
Ahoy.
774 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
The Emperor made his trumpets blow clear,
The Franks dismounted to put on their gear.
Hawberks and hehuets and swords with gold gear,
Men had shields and many a strong spear,
And banners scarlet, white and blue in the air to rear.
On his war-horse mounted each peer,
And spurred right through the pass among the rocks
sheer :
Each man said to his comrade dear,
" If we reach Roland ere he be dead on bier,
We will strike good blows with him and make the pagans
fear."
But they had stayed too long, and they were nowhere
near.
Ahoy.
THE HAUNTED
Here, in this darkened room of this old house,
I sit beside the fire. I hear again
Within, the scutter where the mice carouse.
Without, the gutter dropping with the rain.
Opposite, are black shelves of wormy books.
To left, glazed cases, dusty with the same,
Behind, a wall, with rusty guns on hooks,
To right, the fire, that chokes one panting flame.
Over the mantel, black as funeral cloth,
A portrait hangs, a man, whose flesh the worm
Has mawed this hundred years, whose clothes the moth
A century since has channelled to a term.
I cannot see his face : I only know
He stares at me, that man of long ago.
* 4: 4s * 4: 4!
I light the candles in the long brass sticks,
I see him now, a pale-eyed, simpering man,
Framed in carved wood, wherein the death-watch ticks
A most dead face : yet when the work began
I
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 775
That face, the pale puce coat, the simpering smile,
The hands that hold a book, the eyes that gaze,
Moved to the touch of mind a little while.
The painter sat in judgment on his ways :
The painter turned him to and from the light,
Talked about art, or bade him lift his head.
Judged the lips' paleness and the temples' white.
And now his work abides ; the man is dead.
But is he dead ? This dusty study drear
Creeks in its panels that the man is here.
******
Here, beyond doubt, he lived, in that old day.
" He was a Doctor here," the student thought.
Here, when the puce was new, that now is grey.
That simpering man his daily practice wrought.
Here he let blood, prescribed the pill and drop,
The leech, the diet ; here his verdict given
Brought agonies of hoping to a stop,
Here his condemned confessioners were shriven.
What is that book he holds, the key, too dim
To read, to know ? Some little book he wrote.
Forgotten now, but still the key to him.
He sacrificed his vision for his coat.
I see the man ; a simpering mask that hid
A seeing mind that simpering men forbid.
* :|! * * * *
Those are his books no doubt, untoucht, undusted,
Unread, since last he left them on the shelves.
Octavo sermons that the fox has rusted.
Sides splitting off from brown decaying twelves.
This was his room, this darkness of old death.
This coffin-room with lights like embrasures.
The place is poisonous with him ; like a breath
On glass, he stains the spirit ; he endures.
776 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
Here is his name within the sermon book,
And verse, " When hungry Worms my Body eat " ;
He leans across my shoulder as I look,
He who is God or pasture to the wheat.
He who is Dead is still upon the soul
A check, an inhibition, a control.
******
I draw the bolts. I am alone within.
The moonlight through the coloured glass comes faint,
Mottling the passage wall like human skin.
Pale with the breathings left of withered paint.
But others walk the empty house with me.
There is no loneliness within these walls
No more than there is stillness in the sea
Or silence in the eternal waterfalls.
There in the room, to right, they sit at feast ;
The dropping grey-beard with the cold blue eye,
The lad, his son, that should have been a priest,
And he, the rake, who made his mother die.
And he, the gambling man, who staked the throw,
They look me through, they follow when I go.
They follow with still footing down the hall,
I know their souls, those fellow-tenants mine,
Their shadows dim those colours on the wall,
They point my every gesture with a sign.
That grey-beard cast his aged servant forth
After his forty years of service done,
The gambler supped up riches as the north
Sups with his death the glories of the sun.
The lad betrayed his trust ; the rake was he
Who broke two women's hearts to ease his own :
They nudge each other as they look at me,
Shadows, all four, and yet as hard as stone.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD 777
And there, he comes, that simpering man, who sold
His mind for coat of puce and penny gold.
******
O ruinous house, within whose corridors
None but the wicked and the mad go free.
(On the dark stairs they wait, behind the doors
They crouch, they watch, or creep to follow me.)
Deep in old blood your ominous bricks are red.
Firm in old bones your walls' foundations stand,
With dead men's passions built upon the dead,
With broken hearts for lime and oaths for sand.
Terrible house, whose horror I have built,
Sin after sin, unseen, as sand that slips
Telling the time, till now the heapM guilt
Cries, and the planets circle to eclipse.
You only are the Daunter, you alone
Clutch, till I feel your ivy on the bone.
CAMPEACHY PICTURE
The sloop's sails glow in the sun ; the far sky burns,
Ovei the palm-tree tops wanders the dusk.
About the bows a chuckling ripple churns ;
The land wind from the marshes smells of musk.
A star comes out ; the moon is a pale husk ;
Now, from the galley door, as supper nears.
Comes a sharp scent of meat and Spanish rusk
Fried in a pan. Far aft, where the lamp blears,
A seaman in a red shirt eyes the sails and steers.
Soon he will sight that isle in the dim bay
Where his mates saunter by the camp-fire's glow ;
Soon will the birds scream, scared, and the bucks bray,
At the rattle and splash as the anchor is let go ;
A block will pipe, and the oars grunt as they row,
He will meet his friends beneath the shadowy trees,
The moon's orb like a large lamp hanging low
Will see him stretched by the red blaze at ease,
Telling of the Indian girls, of ships, and of the seas.
778 THE POEMS OF JOHN MASEFIELD
THE EYE AND THE OBJECT
When soul's companion fails,
When flesh (that neighed once) ails,
When body shortens sails,
O soul, break through the netting " 5
Of failing and forgetting, '
See clearer for sun-setting ;
See clearer, and be cheerly.
See thou the image clearly.
Love thou the image dearly.
For out of love and seeing
Beauty herself has being,
Beauty our queen ;
Who with calm spirit guards us
And with dear love rewards us
In courts for ever green.
I
r
\
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
PAGE
A hundred years ago they quarried for the stone here . 423
A wind is brushing down the clover . . , .39
A wind is rusthng " south and soft " . . . .29
A wind 's in the heart of me, a fire 's in my heels . . 28
A windy night was blowing on Rome .... 768
About the crowing of the cock ..... 639
Ah, but Without there is no spirit scattering . . . 411
Ah, we are neither heaven nor earth, but men . . 431
All day they loitered by the resting ships . . , 367
All early in the April, when daylight comes at five . . 601
All in the feathered palm-tree tops the bright green parrots
screech . . . . . . .15
All other waters have their time of peace . . . 391
All the merry kettle-drums are thudding into rhyme . . 44
All the sheets are clacking, all the blocks are whining . 78
An' Bill can have my sea-boots. Nigger Jim can have my
knife . . . . . . .16
An hour before the race they talked together . . . 675
Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying . . . 671
Beauty, let be ; I cannot see your face . . . 437
Beauty retires ; the blood out of the earth . . . 438
Beauty was with me once, but now, grown old . . 438
Before Man's labouring wisdom gave me birth . . 412
Before the unseen cock had called the time . . . 770
Being her friend, I do not care, not I . . . .72
Between the barren pasture and the wood . . . 255
Bitter it is, indeed, in human fate .... 768
Born for nought else, for nothing but for this . . .74
But all has passed, the tune has died away . . . 428
Can it be bloud and brain, this transient force . . . 409
Clean, green, windy \billows notching out the sky . . 29
779
780
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
Death lies in wait for you, you wild thing in the wood
Down Bye Street, in a little Shropshire town .
Drop me the seed, that I even in my brain
Dunno a heap about the what an' why
Even after all these years there comes the dream
Flesh, I have knocked at many a dusty door .
For, like an outcast from the city, I .
Forget all these, the barren fool in power
Four bells were struck, the watch was called on deck .
Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed abode
From '41 to '51 .
Give me a light that I may see her
Go, spend your penny, Beauty, when you will
Going by Daly's shanty I heard the boys within
Goneys an' gullies an' all o' the birds o' the sea
He lay dead on the cluttered deck and stared at the cold skies
He lolled on a bollard, a sun-burned son of the sea
" He 's deader 'n nails," the fo'c's'le said, " 'n' gone to his Ion:
sleep ••«•••
He tottered out of the alleyway with cheeks the colour of
paste ......
Her heart is always doing lovely things
Here in the self is all that man can know
Here, in this darkened room of this old house
Here the legion halted, here the ranks were broken .
Here, where we stood together, we three men .
How did the nothing come, how did these fires
How still this quiet cornfield is to-night !
I cannot tell their wonder nor make known
I could not sleep for thinking of the sky
I have drunken the red wine and flung the dice
I have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
I heard the wind all day ....
I held that when a person dies ....
I'm going to be a pirate with a bright brass pivot-gun
I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky
I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing
I saw her like a shadow on the sky
I saw the racer coming to the jump
PAGE
442
135
410
37
426
428
441
670
193
62
89
672
443
60
14
9
6
8
10
71
427
774
424
435
407
374
384
407
37
62
401
69
31
27
57
435
772
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
781
I saw the ramparts of my native land .
" I was in a hooker once," said Karlssen
I went into the fields, but you were there
If all be governed by the moving stars
If Beauty be at all, if, beyond sense
If I could come again to that dear place
If I could get within this changing I .
In emptiest furthest heaven where no stars are
In the dark womb where I began
In the harbour, in the island, in the Spanish Seas
Is it a sea on which the souls embark
Is there anything as I can do ashore for you .
It is good to be out on the road, and going one knows not
where .....
It may be so ; but let the unknown be
It may be so with us, that in the dark
It 's a sunny pleasant anchorage, is Kingdom Come
It 's a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds' cries
It 's pleasant in Holy Mary
Jake was a dirty Dago lad, an' he gave the skipper chin
King Cole was King before the troubles came
Kneel to the beautiful women who bear us this strange brave
fruit ......
Laugh and be merry, remember, better the world with a song
Let that which is to come be as it may
Like bones the ruins of the cities stand
Loafin' around in Sailor Town, a-bluin' o' my advance
Long, long ago, when all the glittering earth .
Look at the grass, sucked by the seed from dust
Lord, I am that Philip whom Thou hast made .
Man is a sacred city, birilt of marvellous earth
Man with his burning soul
Mother Carey ? She 's the mother o' the witches
My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old
My soul has many an old decaying room
Night came again, but now I could not sleep .
Night is on the downland, on the lonely moorland
N o man takes the farm ....
No rose but fades : no glory but must pass
PAGE
387
21
434
440
440
427
431
440
77
27
411
18
40
408
430
20
35
58
22
731
85
64
444
661
11
425
435
321
85
367
23
81
75
426
419
421
78
782
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
PAGE
Not for the anguish suffered is the slur . . . 438
Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers . 3
Not only blood and brain its servants are . . . 410
Now, Bill, ain't it prime to be a-sailin' . . .30
O little self, within whose smallness lies . . . 433
O, the sea breeze will be steady, and the tall ship 's going trim . 80
O wanderer into many brains . . . . ,69
O wretched man, that for a little mile , . . 406
Oh I'll be chewing salted horse and biting flinty bread . 26
Oh London Town 's a fine town, and London sights are rare . 59
Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white . 56
Oh yesterday, I t'ink it was, while cruisin' down the street . 19
Oh yesterday the cutting edge drank thirstily and deep . 43
On the long dusty ribbon of the long city street . . 42
Once in a hundred years the Lemmings come . . 670
Once in the windy wintry weather . . . .43
One road leads to London . . . . .65
One sunny time in May . . . . . . 384
O'Neill took ship, O'Neill set sail .... 655
Out beyond the sunset, could I but find the way . . 26
Out of the clouds come torrents, from the earth . . 433
Out of the earth to rest or range .... 663
Out of the special cell's most special sense . . . 406
Over the church's door they moved a stone . . . 432
Perhaps in chasms of the wasted past . . . . 441
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir . . .56
Roland gripped his horn with might and main . . 772
Roses are beauty, but I never see .... 432
She has done with the sea's sorrow and the world's way . 41
Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are . . 41
Since I have learned Love's shining alphabet ; . .75
So beautiful, so dainty-sweet . . . . .68
So beauty comes, so with a failing hand . . . 439
So I have known this life ..... 405
So in the empty sky the stars appear .... 429
Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears . 54
Spunyarn, spunyarn, with one to turn the crank . . 38
Staggering over the running combers . . . .36
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
783
That blessed sunlight, that once showed to me
The blacksmith in his sparkj' forge
The blue laguna rocks and quivers
The cleanly rush of the mountain air .
The dawn comes cold : the haystack smokes
The dust lay white upon the chisel-marks
The fox came up by Stringer's Pound
The Kings go by with jewelled crowns .
The Loch Achray was a clipper tall
The meet was at " The Cock and Pye "
The perfect disc of the sacred moon
The sloop's sails glow in the sun ; the far sky burns
The tick of the blood is settling slow, my heart will soon be still
The toppling rollers at the harbour mouth
The twilight comes ; the sun
The watch was up on the topsail-yard a-making fast the sail
There is no God, as I was taught in youth
There '11 be no weepin' gells ashore when our ship sails
There, on the darkened deathbed, dies the brain
There 's a sea-way somewhere where all day long
There was an evil in the nodding wood
There was an old lord in the Argentine
These myriad days, these many thousand hours
They called that broken hedge Tlie Haimted Gate
They closed her eyes ....
This is the living thing that cannot stir
This is the place, this house beside the sea
This sweetness trembling from the strings
Though in life's streets the tempting shops have lured
Though we are ringed with spears, though the last hope is
gone ....
Tramping at night in the cold and wet, I passed the lighted
urn
Troy Town is covered up vvith weeds .
Twilight it is, and the far woods are dim, and the rocks
Call ••••••
Red in the west
Twihght.
Under all her topsails she trembled Uke a stag
Up on the downs the red-eyed kestrels hover .
We are far from sight of the harbour lights
We danced away care till the fiddler's eyes blinked
cry and
PAGE
388
413
61
38
63
771
420
408
4
525
66
777
44
34
64
17
436
9
429
34
443
503
428
442
388
434
665
67
443
85
39
72
68
79
69
420
83
425
784
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
We're bound for blue water where the great winds blow
We were schooner-rigged and rakish, with a long and lissome
hull .....
Weary the cry of the wind is, weary the sea
Weary with many thoughts I went to bed
What am I, Life ? A thing of watery salt
What is the atom which contains the whole
What is this life which uses living cells
When all these million cells that are my slaves
When bony Death has chilled her gentle blood
When Death has laid her in his quietude
When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts .
When I'm discharged in Liverpool 'n' draws my bit o' pay
When soul's companion fails ....
When the last sea is sailed and the last shallow charted
Wherever beauty has been quick in clay
Woman, beauty, wonder, sacred woman
Would God the route would come for home
Would I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease
You are more beautiful than women are
You are the link which binds us each to each .
You are too beautiful for mortal eyes .
You will remember me in days to come
Your nose is a red jelly, your mouth 's a toothless wreck,
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437
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Mase field, John
Collected poems
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