Noon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town, —Beauty she was statue cold—there's blood upon her gown: Noon of my dreams, O noon! Proud and godly kings had built her, long ago, With her towers and tombs and statues all arow, With her fair and floral air and the love that lingers there, And the streets where the great men go.

Evening on the olden, the golden sea of Wales, When the first star shivers and the last wave pales: O evening dreams! There's a house that Britons walked in, long ago, Where now the springs of ocean fall and flow, And the dead robed in red and sea-lilies overhead Sway when the long winds blow.

Sleep not, my country: though night is here, afar Your children of the morning are clamorous for war: Fire in the night, O dreams!

Though she send you as she sent you, long ago, South to desert, east to ocean, west to snow, West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go Where the fleet of stars is anchored, and the young Star-captains glow.



* * * * *



WILFRID WILSON GIBSON



THE GORSE

In dream, again within the clean, cold hell Of glazed and aching silence he was trapped; And, closing in, the blank walls of his cell Crushed stifling on him ... when the bracken snapped, Caught in his clutching fingers; and he lay Awake upon his back among the fern, With free eyes travelling the wide blue day, Unhindered, unremembering; while a burn Tinkled and gurgled somewhere out of sight, Unheard of him; till suddenly aware Of its cold music, shivering in the light, He raised himself, and with far-ranging stare Looked all about him: and with dazed eyes wide Saw, still as in a numb, unreal dream, Black figures scouring a far hill-side, With now and then a sunlit rifle's gleam; And knew the hunt was hot upon his track: Yet hardly seemed to mind, somehow, just then ... But kept on wondering why they looked so black On that hot hillside, all those little men Who scurried round like beetles—twelve, all told ... He counted them twice over; and began A third time reckoning them, but could not hold His starved wits to the business, while they ran So brokenly, and always stuck at 'five' ... And 'One, two, three, four, five,' a dozen times He muttered ... 'Can you catch a fish alive?' Sang mocking echoes of old nursery rhymes Through the strained, tingling hollow of his head. And now, almost remembering, he was stirred To pity them; and wondered if they'd fed Since he had, or if, ever since they'd heard Two nights ago the sudden signal-gun That raised alarm of his escape, they too Had fasted in the wilderness, and run With nothing but the thirsty wind to chew, And nothing in their bellies but a fill Of cold peat-water, till their heads were light ...

The crackling of a rifle on the hill Rang in his ears: and stung to headlong flight, He started to his feet; and through the brake He plunged in panic, heedless of the sun That burned his cropped head to a red-hot ache Still racked with crackling echoes of the gun.

Then suddenly the sun-enkindled fire Of gorse upon the moor-top caught his eye: And that gold glow held all his heart's desire, As, like a witless, flame-bewildered fly, He blundered towards the league-wide yellow blaze, And tumbled headlong on the spikes of bloom; And rising, bruised and bleeding and adaze, Struggled through clutching spines; the dense, sweet fume Of nutty, acrid scent like poison stealing Through his hot blood; the bristling yellow glare Spiking his eyes with fire, till he went reeling, Stifled and blinded, on—and did not care Though he were taken—wandering round and round, 'Jerusalem the Golden' quavering shrill, Changing his tune to 'Tommy Tiddler's Ground': Till, just a lost child on that dazzling hill, Bewildered in a glittering golden maze Of stinging scented fire, he dropped, quite done, A shrivelling wisp within a world ablaze Beneath a blinding sky, one blaze of sun.



HOOPS

[Scene: The big tent-stable of a travelling circus. On the ground near the entrance GENTLEMAN JOHN, stableman and general odd-job man, lies smoking beside MERRY ANDREW, the clown. GENTLEMAN JOHN is a little hunched man with a sensitive face and dreamy eyes. MERRY ANDREW, who is resting between the afternoon and evening performances, with his clown's hat lying beside him, wears a crimson wig, and a baggy suit of orange-coloured cotton, patterned with purple cats. His face is chalked dead-white, and painted with a set grin, so that it is impossible to see what manner of man he is. In the back-ground are camels and elephants feeding, dimly visible in the steamy dusk of the tent.]

Gentleman John:

And then consider camels: only think Of camels long enough, and you'ld go mad— With all their humps and lumps; their knobbly knees, Splay feet, and straddle legs; their sagging necks, Flat flanks, and scraggy tails, and monstrous teeth. I've not forgotten the first fiend I met: 'Twas in a lane in Smyrna, just a ditch Between the shuttered houses, and so narrow The brute's bulk blocked the road; the huge green stack Of dewy fodder that it slouched beneath Brushing the yellow walls on either hand, And shutting out the strip of burning blue: And I'd to face that vicious bobbing head With evil eyes, slack lips, and nightmare teeth, And duck beneath the snaky, squirming neck, Pranked with its silly string of bright blue beads, That seemed to wriggle every way at once, As though it were a hydra. Allah's beard! But I was scared, and nearly turned and ran: I felt that muzzle take me by the scruff, And heard those murderous teeth crunching my spine, Before I stooped—though I dodged safely under. I've always been afraid of ugliness. I'm such a toad myself, I hate all toads; And the camel is the ugliest toad of all, To my mind; and it's just my devil's luck I've come to this—to be a camel's lackey, To fetch and carry for original sin, For sure enough, the camel's old evil incarnate. Blue beads and amulets to ward off evil! No eye's more evil than a camel's eye. The elephant is quite a comely brute, Compared with Satan camel,—trunk and all, His floppy ears, and his inconsequent tail. He's stolid, but at least a gentleman. It doesn't hurt my pride to valet him, And bring his shaving-water. He's a lord. Only the bluest blood that has come down Through generations from the mastodon Could carry off that tail with dignity, That tail and trunk. He cannot look absurd, For all the monkey tricks you put him through, Your paper hoops and popguns. He just makes His masters look ridiculous, when his pomp's Butchered to make a bumpkin's holiday. He's dignity itself, and proper pride, That stands serenely in a circus-world Of mountebanks and monkeys. He has weight Behind him: aeons of primeval power Have shaped that pillared bulk; and he stands sure, Solid, substantial on the world's foundations. And he has form, form that's too big a thing To be called beauty. Once, long since, I thought To be a poet, and shape words, and mould A poem like an elephant, huge, sublime, To front oblivion; and because I failed, And all my rhymes were gawky, shambling camels, Or else obscene, blue-buttocked apes, I'm doomed To lackey it for things such as I've made, Till one of them crunches my backbone with his teeth, Or knocks my wind out with a forthright kick Clean in the midriff, crumpling up in death The hunched and stunted body that was me— John, the apostle of the Perfect Form! Jerusalem! I'm talking like a book— As you would say: and a bad book at that, A maundering, kiss-mammy book—The Hunch-back's End Or The Camel-Keeper's Reward—would be its title. I froth and bubble like a new-broached cask. No wonder you look glum, for all your grin. What makes you mope? You've naught to growse about. You've got no hump. Your body's brave and straight— So shapely even that you can afford To trick it in fantastic shapelessness, Knowing that there's a clean-limbed man beneath Preposterous pantaloons and purple cats. I would have been a poet, if I could: But better than shaping poems 'twould have been To have had a comely body and clean limbs Obedient to my bidding.

Merry Andrew:

I missed a hoop This afternoon.

Gentleman John:

You missed a hoop? You mean ...

Merry Andrew:

That I am done, used up, scrapped, on the shelf, Out of the running—only that, no more.

Gentleman John:

Well, I've been missing hoops my whole life long; Though, when I come to think of it, perhaps There's little consolation to be chewed From crumbs that I can offer.

Merry Andrew:

I've not missed A hoop since I was six. I'm forty-two. This is the first time that my body's failed me: But 'twill not be the last. And ...

Gentleman John:

Such is life! You're going to say. You see I've got it pat, Your jaded wheeze. Lord, what a wit I'ld make If I'd a set grin painted on my face. And such is life, I'ld say a hundred times, And each time set the world aroar afresh At my original humour. Missed a hoop! Why, man alive, you've naught to grumble at. I've boggled every hoop since I was six. I'm fifty-five; and I've run round a ring Would make this potty circus seem a pinhole. I wasn't born to sawdust. I'd the world For circus ...

Merry Andrew:

It's no time for crowing now. I know a gentleman, and take on trust The silver spoon and all. My teeth were cut Upon a horseshoe: and I wasn't born To purple and fine linen—but to sawdust, To sawdust, as you say—brought up on sawdust. I've had to make my daily bread of sawdust: Ay, and my children's,—children's, that's the rub, As Shakespeare says ...

Gentleman John:

Ah, there you go again! What a rare wit to set the ring aroar— As Shakespeare says! Crowing? A gentleman? Man, didn't you say you'd never missed a hoop? It's only gentlemen who miss no hoops, Clean livers, easy lords of life who take Each obstacle at a leap, who never fail. You are the gentleman.

Merry Andrew:

Now don't you try Being funny at my expense; or you'll soon find I'm not quite done for yet—not quite snuffed out. There's still a spark of life. You may have words: But I've a fist will be a match for them. Words slaver feebly from a broken jaw. I've always lived straight, as a man must do In my profession, if he'ld keep in fettle: But I'm no gentleman, for I fail to see There's any sport in baiting a poor man Because he's losing grip at forty-two, And sees his livelihood slipping from his grasp— Ay, and his children's bread.

Gentleman John:

Why, man alive, Who's baiting you? This winded, broken cur, That limps through life, to bait a bull like you! You don't want pity, man! The beaten bull, Even when the dogs are tearing at his gullet, Turns no eye up for pity. I myself, Crippled and hunched and twisted as I am, Would make a brave fend to stand up to you Until you swallowed your words, if you should slobber Your pity over me. A bull! Nay, man, You're nothing but a bear with a sore head. A bee has stung you—you who've lived on honey. Sawdust, forsooth! You've had the sweet of life: You've munched the honeycomb till—

Merry Andrew:

Ay! talk's cheap. But you've no children. You don't understand.

Gentleman John:

I have no children: I don't understand!

Merry Andrew:

It's children make the difference.

Gentleman John:

Man alive— Alive and kicking, though you're shamming dead— You've hit the truth at last. It's that, just that, Makes all the difference. If you hadn't children, I'ld find it in my heart to pity you, Granted you'ld let me. I don't understand! I've seen you stripped. I've seen your children stripped. You've never seen me naked; but you can guess The misstitched, gnarled, and crooked thing I am. Now, do you understand? I may have words. But you, man, do you never burn with pride That you've begotten those six limber bodies, Firm flesh, and supple sinew, and lithe limb— Six nimble lads, each like young Absalom, With red blood running lively in his veins, Bone of your bone, your very flesh and blood? It's you don't understand. God, what I'ld give This moment to be you, just as you are, Preposterous pantaloons, and purple cats, And painted leer, and crimson curls, and all— To be you now, with only one missed hoop, If I'd six clean-limbed children of my loins, Born of the ecstasy of life within me, To keep it quick and valiant in the ring When I ... but I ... Man, man, you've missed a hoop; But they'll take every hoop like blooded colts: And 'twill be you in them that leaps through life, And in their children, and their children's children. God! doesn't it make you hold your breath to think There'll always be an Andrew in the ring, The very spit and image of you stripped, While life's old circus lasts? And I ... at least There is no twisted thing of my begetting To keep my shame alive: and that's the most That I've to pride myself upon. But, God, I'm proud, ay, proud as Lucifer, of that. Think what it means, with all the urge and sting, When such a lust of life runs in the veins. You, with your six sons, and your one missed hoop, Put that thought in your pipe and smoke it. Well, And how d'you like the flavour? Something bitter? And burns the tongue a trifle? That's the brand That I must smoke while I've the breath to puff. (Pause.) I've always worshipped the body, all my life— The body, quick with the perfect health which is beauty, Lively, lissom, alert, and taking its way Through the world with the easy gait of the early gods. The only moments I've lived my life to the full And that live again in remembrance unfaded are those When I've seen life compact in some perfect body, The living God made manifest in man: A diver in the Mediterranean, resting, With sleeked black hair, and glistening salt-tanned skin, Gripping the quivering gunwale with tense hands, His torso lifted out of the peacock sea, Like Neptune, carved in amber, come to life: A stark Egyptian on the Nile's edge poised Like a bronze Osiris against the lush, rank green: A fisherman dancing reels, on New Year's Eve, In a hall of shadowy rafters and flickering lights, At St Abbs on the Berwickshire coast, to the skirl of the pipes, The lift of the wave in his heels, the sea in his veins: A Cherokee Indian, as though he were one with his horse, His coppery shoulders agleam, his feathers aflame With the last of the sun, descending a gulch in Alaska; A brawny Cleveland puddler, stripped to the loins, On the cauldron's brink, stirring the molten iron In the white-hot glow, a man of white-hot metal: A Cornish ploughboy driving an easy share Through the grey, light soil of a headland, against a sea Of sapphire, gay in his new white corduroys, Blue-eyed, dark-haired, and whistling a careless tune: Jack Johnson, stripped for the ring, in his swarthy pride Of sleek and rippling muscle ...

Merry Andrew:

Jack's the boy! Ay, he's the proper figure of a man. But he'll grow fat and flabby and scant of breath. He'll miss his hoop some day.

Gentleman John:

But what are words To shape the joy of form? The Greeks did best To cut in marble or to cast in bronze Their ecstasy of living. I remember A marvellous Hermes that I saw in Athens, Fished from the very bottom of the deep Where he had lain two thousand years or more, Wrecked with a galleyful of Roman pirates, Among the white bones of his plunderers Whose flesh had fed the fishes as they sank— Serene in cold, imperishable beauty, Biding his time, till he should rise again, Exultant from the wave, for all men's worship, The morning-spring of life, the youth of the world, Shaped in sea-coloured bronze for everlasting. Ay, the Greeks knew: but men have forgotten now. Not easily do we meet beauty walking The world to-day in all the body's pride. That's why I'm here—a stable-boy to camels— For in the circus-ring there's more delight Of seemly bodies, goodly in sheer health, Bodies trained and tuned to the perfect pitch, Eager, blithe, debonair, from head to heel Aglow and alive in every pulse, than elsewhere In this machine-ridden land of grimy, glum Round-shouldered, coughing mechanics. Once I lived In London, in a slum called Paradise, Sickened to see the greasy pavements crawling With puny flabby babies, thick as maggots. Poor brats! I'ld soon go mad if I'd to live In London, with its stunted men and women But little better to look on than myself.

Yet, there's an island where the men keep fit— St Kilda's, a stark fastness of high crag: They must keep fit or famish: their main food The Solan goose; and it's a chancy job To swing down a sheer face of slippery granite And drop a noose over the sentinel bird Ere he can squawk to rouse the sleeping flock. They must keep fit—their bodies taut and trim— To have the nerve: and they're like tempered steel, Suppled and fined. But even they've grown slacker Through traffic with the mainland, in these days. A hundred years ago, the custom held That none should take a wife till he had stood, His left heel on the dizziest point of crag, His right leg and both arms stretched in mid air, Above the sea: three hundred feet to drop To death, if he should fail—a Spartan test. But any man who could have failed, would scarce Have earned his livelihood or his children's bread On that bleak rock.

Merry Andrew (drowsily):

Ay, children—that's it, children!

Gentleman John:

St Kilda's children had a chance, at least, With none begotten idly of weakling fathers. A Spartan test for fatherhood! Should they miss Their hoop, 'twas death, and childless. You have still Six lives to take unending hoops for you, And you yourself are not done yet ...

Merry Andrew (more drowsily):

Not yet. And there's much comfort in the thought of children. They're bonnie boys enough; and should do well, If I can but keep going a little while, A little longer till ...

Gentleman John:

Six strapping sons! And I have naught but camels. (Pause.) Yet, I've seen A vision in this stable that puts to shame Each ecstasy of mortal flesh and blood That's been my eyes' delight. I never breathed A word of it to man or woman yet: I couldn't whisper it now to you, if you looked Like any human thing this side of death. 'Twas on the night I stumbled on the circus. I'd wandered all day, lost among the fells, Over snow-smothered hills, through blinding blizzard, Whipped by a wind that seemed to strip and skin me, Till I was one numb ache of sodden ice. Quite done, and drunk with cold, I'ld soon have dropped Dead in a ditch; when suddenly a lantern Dazzled my eyes. I smelt a queer warm smell; And felt a hot puff in my face; and blundered Out of the flurry of snow and raking wind Dizzily into a glowing Arabian night Of elephants and camels having supper. I thought that I'd gone mad, stark, staring mad; But I was much too sleepy to mind just then— Dropped dead asleep upon a truss of hay; And lay, a log, till—well, I cannot tell How long I lay unconscious. I but know I slept, and wakened, and that 'twas no dream. I heard a rustle in the hay beside me, And opening sleepy eyes, scarce marvelling, I saw her, standing naked in the lamplight, Beneath the huge tent's cavernous canopy, Against the throng of elephants and camels That champed unwondering in the golden dusk, Moon-white Diana, mettled Artemis— Her body, quick and tense as her own bowstring, Her spirit, an arrow barbed and strung for flight— White snowflakes melting on her night-black hair, And on her glistening breasts and supple thighs: Her red lips parted, her keen eyes alive With fierce, far-ranging hungers of the chase Over the hills of morn—The lantern guttered And I was left alone in the outer darkness Among the champing elephants and camels. And I'll be a camel-keeper to the end: Though never again my eyes... (Pause.) So you can sleep, You Merry Andrew, for all you missed your hoop. It's just as well, perhaps. Now I can hold My secret to the end. Ah, here they come!

[Six lads, between the ages of three and twelve, clad in pink tights covered with silver spangles, tumble into the tent.]

The Eldest Boy:

Daddy, the bell's rung, and—

Gentleman John:

He's snoozing sound. (to the youngest boy) You just creep quietly, and take tight hold Of the crimson curls, and tug, and you will hear The purple pussies all caterwaul at once.



THE GOING

(R.B.)

He's gone. I do not understand. I only know That as he turned to go And waved his hand, In his young eyes a sudden glory shone, And I was dazzled with a sunset glow, And he was gone.



* * * * *



RALPH HODGSON



THE BULL

See an old unhappy bull, Sick in soul and body both, Slouching in the undergrowth Of the forest beautiful, Banished from the herd he led, Bulls and cows a thousand head.

Cranes and gaudy parrots go Up and down the burning sky; Tree-top cats purr drowsily In the dim-day green below; And troops of monkeys, nutting, some, All disputing, go and come;

And things abominable sit Picking offal buck or swine, On the mess and over it Burnished flies and beetles shine, And spiders big as bladders lie Under hemlocks ten foot high;

And a dotted serpent curled Round and round and round a tree, Yellowing its greenery, Keeps a watch on all the world, All the world and this old bull In the forest beautiful.

Bravely by his fall he came: One he led, a bull of blood Newly come to lustihood, Fought and put his prince to shame, Snuffed and pawed the prostrate head Tameless even while it bled.

There they left him, every one, Left him there without a lick, Left him for the birds to pick, Left him there for carrion, Vilely from their bosom cast Wisdom, worth and love at last.

When the lion left his lair And roared his beauty through the hills, And the vultures pecked their quills And flew into the middle air, Then this prince no more to reign Came to life and lived again.

He snuffed the herd in far retreat, He saw the blood upon the ground, And snuffed the burning airs around Still with beevish odours sweet, While the blood ran down his head And his mouth ran slaver red.

Pity him, this fallen chief, All his splendour, all his strength, All his body's breadth and length Dwindled down with shame and grief, Half the bull he was before, Bones and leather, nothing more.

See him standing dewlap-deep In the rushes at the lake, Surly, stupid, half asleep, Waiting for his heart to break And the birds to join the flies Feasting at his bloodshot eyes,—

Standing with his head hung down In a stupor, dreaming things: Green savannas, jungles brown, Battlefields and bellowings, Bulls undone and lions dead And vultures flapping overhead.

Dreaming things: of days he spent With his mother gaunt and lean In the valley warm and green, Full of baby wonderment, Blinking out of silly eyes At a hundred mysteries;

Dreaming over once again How he wandered with a throng Of bulls and cows a thousand strong, Wandered on from plain to plain, Up the hill and down the dale, Always at his mother's tail;

How he lagged behind the herd, Lagged and tottered, weak of limb, And she turned and ran to him Blaring at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.

Dreaming maybe of a day When her drained and drying paps Turned him to the sweets and saps, Richer fountains by the way, And she left the bull she bore And he looked to her no more;

And his little frame grew stout, And his little legs grew strong, And the way was not so long; And his little horns came out, And he played at butting trees And boulder-stones and tortoises,

Joined a game of knobby skulls With the youngsters of his year, All the other little bulls, Learning both to bruise and bear, Learning how to stand a shock Like a little bull of rock.

Dreaming of a day less dim, Dreaming of a time less far, When the faint but certain star Of destiny burned clear for him, And a fierce and wild unrest Broke the quiet of his breast,

And the gristles of his youth Hardened in his comely pow, And he came to fighting growth, Beat his bull and won his cow, And flew his tail and trampled off Past the tallest, vain enough,

And curved about in splendour full And curved again and snuffed the airs As who should say Come out who dares! And all beheld a bull, a Bull, And knew that here was surely one That backed for no bull, fearing none.

And the leader of the herd Looked and saw, and beat the ground, And shook the forest with his sound, Bellowed at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.

Dreaming, this old bull forlorn, Surely dreaming of the hour When he came to sultan power, And they owned him master-horn, Chiefest bull of all among Bulls and cows a thousand strong.

And in all the tramping herd Not a bull that barred his way, Not a cow that said him nay, Not a bull or cow that erred In the furnace of his look Dared a second, worse rebuke;

Not in all the forest wide, Jungle, thicket, pasture, fen, Not another dared him then, Dared him and again defied; Not a sovereign buck or boar Came a second time for more.

Not a serpent that survived Once the terrors of his hoof Risked a second time reproof, Came a second time and lived, Not a serpent in its skin Came again for discipline;

Not a leopard bright as flame, Flashing fingerhooks of steel, That a wooden tree might feel, Met his fury once and came For a second reprimand, Not a leopard in the land.

Not a lion of them all, Not a lion of the hills, Hero of a thousand kills, Dared a second fight and fall, Dared that ram terrific twice, Paid a second time the price ...

Pity him, this dupe of dream, Leader of the herd again Only in his daft old brain, Once again the bull supreme And bull enough to bear the part Only in his tameless heart.

Pity him that he must wake; Even now the swarm of flies Blackening his bloodshot eyes Bursts and blusters round the lake, Scattered from the feast half-fed, By great shadows overhead.

And the dreamer turns away From his visionary herds And his splendid yesterday, Turns to meet the loathly birds Flocking round him from the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.



THE SONG OF HONOUR

I climbed a hill as light fell short, And rooks came home in scramble sort, And filled the trees and flapped and fought And sang themselves to sleep; An owl from nowhere with no sound Swung by and soon was nowhere found, I heard him calling half-way round, Holloing loud and deep; A pair of stars, faint pins of light, Then many a star, sailed into sight, And all the stars, the flower of night, Were round me at a leap; To tell how still the valleys lay I heard a watchdog miles away ... And bells of distant sheep.

I heard no more of bird or bell, The mastiff in a slumber fell, I stared into the sky, As wondering men have always done Since beauty and the stars were one, Though none so hard as I.

It seemed, so still the valleys were, As if the whole world knelt at prayer, Save me and me alone; So pure and wide that silence was I feared to bend a blade of grass, And there I stood like stone.

There, sharp and sudden, there I heard— 'Ah! some wild lovesick singing bird Woke singing in the trees?' 'The nightingale and babble-wren Were in the English greenwood then, And you heard one of these?'

The babble-wren and nightingale Sang in the Abyssinian vale That season of the year! Yet, true enough, I heard them plain, I heard them both again, again, As sharp and sweet and clear As if the Abyssinian tree Had thrust a bough across the sea, Had thrust a bough across to me With music for my ear!

I heard them both, and oh! I heard The song of every singing bird That sings beneath the sky, And with the song of lark and wren The song of mountains, moths and men And seas and rainbows vie!

I heard the universal choir The Sons of Light exalt their Sire With universal song, Earth's lowliest and loudest notes, Her million times ten million throats Exalt Him loud and long, And lips and lungs and tongues of Grace From every part and every place Within the shining of His face, The universal throng.

I heard the hymn of being sound From every well of honour found In human sense and soul: The song of poets when they write The testament of Beautysprite Upon a flying scroll, The song of painters when they take A burning brush for Beauty's sake And limn her features whole—

The song of men divinely wise Who look and see in starry skies Not stars so much as robins' eyes, And when these pale away Hear flocks of shiny pleiades Among the plums and apple trees Sing in the summer day— The song of all both high and low To some blest vision true, The song of beggars when they throw The crust of pity all men owe To hungry sparrows in the snow, Old beggars hungry too— The song of kings of kingdoms when They rise above their fortune men, And crown themselves anew,—

The song of courage, heart and will And gladness in a fight, Of men who face a hopeless hill With sparking and delight, The bells and bells of song that ring Round banners of a cause or king From armies bleeding white—

The song of sailors every one When monstrous tide and tempest run At ships like bulls at red, When stately ships are twirled and spun Like whipping tops and help there's none And mighty ships ten thousand ton Go down like lumps of lead—

And song of fighters stern as they At odds with fortune night and day, Crammed up in cities grim and grey As thick as bees in hives, Hosannas of a lowly throng Who sing unconscious of their song, Whose lips are in their lives—

And song of some at holy war With spells and ghouls more dread by far Than deadly seas and cities are, Or hordes of quarrelling kings—- The song of fighters great and small, The song of pretty fighters all, And high heroic things—

The song of lovers—who knows how Twitched up from place and time Upon a sigh, a blush, a vow, A curve or hue of cheek or brow, Borne up and off from here and now Into the void sublime!

And crying loves and passions still In every key from soft to shrill And numbers never done, Dog-loyalties to faith and friend, And loves like Ruth's of old no end, And intermission none— And burst on burst for beauty and For numbers not behind, From men whose love of motherland Is like a dog's for one dear hand, Sole, selfless, boundless, blind— And song of some with hearts beside For men and sorrows far and wide, Who watch the world with pity and pride And warm to all mankind—

And endless joyous music rise From children at their play, And endless soaring lullabies From happy, happy mothers' eyes, And answering crows and baby cries, How many who shall say! And many a song as wondrous well With pangs and sweets intolerable From lonely hearths too gray to tell, God knows how utter gray! And song from many a house of care When pain has forced a footing there And there's a Darkness on the stair Will not be turned away—

And song—that song whose singers come With old kind tales of pity from The Great Compassion's lips, That makes the bells of Heaven to peal Round pillows frosty with the feel Of Death's cold finger tips—

The song of men all sorts and kinds, As many tempers, moods and minds As leaves are on a tree, As many faiths and castes and creeds, As many human bloods and breeds As in the world may be;

The song of each and all who gaze On Beauty in her naked blaze, Or see her dimly in a haze, Or get her light in fitful rays And tiniest needles even, The song of all not wholly dark, Not wholly sunk in stupor stark Too deep for groping Heaven—

And alleluias sweet and clear And wild with beauty men mishear, From choirs of song as near and dear To Paradise as they, The everlasting pipe and flute Of wind and sea and bird and brute, And lips deaf men imagine mute In wood and stone and clay;

The music of a lion strong That shakes a hill a whole night long, A hill as loud as he, The twitter of a mouse among Melodious greenery, The ruby's and the rainbow's song, The nightingale's—all three, The song of life that wells and flows From every leopard, lark and rose And everything that gleams or goes Lack-lustre in the sea.

I heard it all, each, every note Of every lung and tongue and throat, Ay, every rhythm and rhyme Of everything that lives and loves And upward, ever upward moves From lowly to sublime! Earth's multitudinous Sons of Light, I heard them lift their lyric might With each and every chanting sprite That lit the sky that wondrous night As far as eye could climb!

I heard it all, I heard the whole Harmonious hymn of being roll Up through the chapel of my soul And at the altar die, And in the awful quiet then Myself I heard, Amen, Amen, Amen I heard me cry! I heard it all, and then although I caught my flying senses, oh, A dizzy man was I! I stood and stared; the sky was lit, The sky was stars all over it, I stood, I knew not why, Without a wish, without a will, I stood upon that silent hill And stared into the sky until My eyes were blind with stars and still I stared into the sky.



* * * * *



D.H. LAWRENCE



SERVICE OF ALL THE DEAD

Between the avenues of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers.

And all along the path to the cemetery The round, dark heads of men crowd silently, And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels With pale shut face, and neither hears nor feels

The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenues of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices.



MEETING AMONG THE MOUNTAINS

The little pansies by the road have turned Away their purple faces and their gold, And evening has taken all the bees from the thyme, And all the scent is shed away by the cold.

Against the hard and pale blue evening sky The mountain's new-dropped summer snow is clear Glistening in steadfast stillness: like transcendent Clean pain sending on us a chill down here.

Christ on the Cross!—his beautiful young man's body Has fallen dead upon the nails, and hangs White and loose at last, with all the pain Drawn on his mouth, eyes broken at last by his pangs.

And slowly down the mountain road, belated, A bullock wagon comes; so I am ashamed To gaze any more at the Christ, whom the mountain snows Whitely confront; I wait on the grass, am lamed.

The breath of the bullock stains the hard, chill air, The band is across its brow, and it scarcely seems To draw the load, so still and slow it moves, While the driver on the shaft sits crouched in dreams.

Surely about his sunburnt face is something That vexes me with wonder. He sits so still Here among all this silence, crouching forward, Dreaming and letting the bullock take its will.

I stand aside on the grass to let them go; —And Christ, I have met his accusing eyes again, The brown eyes black with misery and hate, that look Full in my own, and the torment starts again.

One moment the hate leaps at me standing there, One moment I see the stillness of agony, Something frozen in the silence that dare not be Loosed, one moment the darkness frightens me.

Then among the averted pansies, beneath the high White peaks of snow, at the foot of the sunken Christ I stand in a chill of anguish, trying to say The joy I bought was not too highly priced.

But he has gone, motionless, hating me, Living as the mountains do, because they are strong, With a pale, dead Christ on the crucifix of his heart, And breathing the frozen memory of his wrong.

Still in his nostrils the frozen breath of despair, And heart like a cross that bears dead agony Of naked love, clenched in his fists the shame, And in his belly the smouldering hate of me.

And I, as I stand in the cold, averted flowers, Feel the shame-wounds in his hands pierce through my own, And breathe despair that turns my lungs to stone And know the dead Christ weighing on my bone.



CRUELTY AND LOVE

What large, dark hands are those at the window Lifted, grasping in the yellow light Which makes its way through the curtain web At my heart to-night?

Ah, only the leaves! So leave me at rest, In the west I see a redness come Over the evening's burning breast— For now the pain is numb.

The woodbine creeps abroad Calling low to her lover: The sunlit flirt who all the day Has poised above her lips in play And stolen kisses, shallow and gay Of dalliance, now has gone away —She woos the moth with her sweet, low word, And when above her his broad wings hover Then her bright breast she will uncover And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

Into the yellow, evening glow Saunters a man from the farm below, Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed. The bird lies warm against the wall. She glances quick her startled eyes Towards him, then she turns away Her small head, making warm display Of red upon the throat. Her terrors sway Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball,

Whose plaintive cries start up as she flies In one blue stoop from out the sties Into the evening's empty hall.

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes Hide your quaint, unfading blushes, Still your quick tail, and lie as dead, Till the distance covers his dangerous tread.

The rabbit presses back her ears, Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes And crouches low: then with wild spring Spurts from the terror of the oncoming To be choked back, the wire ring Her frantic effort throttling: Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!

Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies, And swings all loose to the swing of his walk. Yet calm and kindly are his eyes And ready to open in brown surprise Should I not answer to his talk Or should he my tears surmise.

I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair Watching the door open: he flashes bare His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise He flings the rabbit soft on the table board And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad Blade of his hand that raises my face to applaud His coming: he raises up my face to him And caresses my mouth with his fingers, smelling grim Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare I know not what fine wire is round my throat, I only know I let him finger there My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood: And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown Within him, die, and find death good.



* * * * *



FRANCIS LEDWIDGE



THE WIFE OF LLEW

And Gwydion said to Math, when it was Spring: "Come now and let us make a wife for Llew." And so they broke broad boughs yet moist with dew, And in a shadow made a magic ring: They took the violet and the meadow-sweet To form her pretty face, and for her feet They built a mound of daisies on a wing, And for her voice they made a linnet sing In the wide poppy blowing for her mouth. And over all they chanted twenty hours. And Llew came singing from the azure south And bore away his wife of birds and flowers.



A RAINY DAY IN APRIL

When the clouds shake their hyssops, and the rain Like holy water falls upon the plain, 'Tis sweet to gaze upon the springing grain And see your harvest born.

And sweet the little breeze of melody The blackbird puffs upon the budding tree, While the wild poppy lights upon the lea And blazes 'mid the corn.

The skylark soars the freshening shower to hail, And the meek daisy holds aloft her pail, And Spring all radiant by the wayside pale Sets up her rock and reel.

See how she weaves her mantle fold on fold, Hemming the woods and carpeting the wold. Her warp is of the green, her woof the gold, The spinning world her wheel.



THE LOST ONES

Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills, And thro' the sunny flowers the bee-wings drone, And white bells of convolvulus on hills Of quiet May make silent ringing, blown Hither and thither by the wind of showers, And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown; And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers.

But where are all the loves of long ago? O little twilight ship blown up the tide, Where are the faces laughing in the glow Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide. Give me your hand, O brother, let us go Crying about the dark for those who died.



* * * * *



JOHN MASEFIELD



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.'

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,

And the Greek brig beside us dipped and dipped White to the muzzle like 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 followed: 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.

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 with 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.

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 someone who has 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.

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 cauldrons of the clouds upheave.

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.

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.'

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, So stately 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 looked, 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.



* * * * *



HAROLD MONRO



MILK FOR THE CAT

When the tea is brought at five o'clock, And all the neat curtains are drawn with care, The little black cat with bright green eyes Is suddenly purring there.

At first she pretends, having nothing to do, She has come in merely to blink by the grate, But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour, She is never late.

And presently her agate eyes Take a soft large milky haze, And her independent casual glance Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.

Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears, Or twists her tail and begins to stir, Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes One breathing, trembling purr.

The children eat and wriggle and laugh, The two old ladies stroke their silk: But the cat is grown small and thin with desire, Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.

The white saucer like some full moon descends At last from the clouds of the table above; She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows, Transfigured with love.

She nestles over the shining rim, Buries her chin in the creamy sea; Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw Is doubled under each bending knee.

A long, dim ecstasy holds her life; Her world is an infinite shapeless white, Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop, Then she sinks back into the night,

Draws and dips her body to heap Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair, Lies defeated and buried deep Three or four hours unconscious there.



OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?

Give them me.

No.

Give them me. Give them me.

No.

Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them.

Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I want them.

No.

I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them.

No.



CHILDREN OF LOVE

The holy boy Went from his mother out in the cool of the day Over the sun-parched fields And in among the olives shining green and shining grey.

There was no sound, No smallest voice of any shivering stream. Poor sinless little boy, He desired to play and to sing; he could only sigh and dream.

Suddenly came Running along to him naked, with curly hair, That rogue of the lovely world, That other beautiful child whom the virgin Venus bare.

The holy boy Gazed with those sad blue eyes that all men know. Impudent Cupid stood Panting, holding an arrow and pointing his bow.

(Will you not play? Jesus, run to him, run to him, swift for our joy. Is he not holy, like you? Are you afraid of his arrows, O beautiful dreaming boy?)

And now they stand Watching one another with timid gaze; Youth has met youth in the wood, But holiness will not change its melancholy ways.

Cupid at last Draws his bow and softly lets fly a dart. Smile for a moment, sad world!— It has grazed the white skin and drawn blood from the sorrowful heart.

Now, for delight, Cupid tosses his locks and goes wantonly near; But the child that was born to the cross Has let fall on his cheek, for the sadness of life, a compassionate tear.

Marvellous dream! Cupid has offered his arrows for Jesus to try; He has offered his bow for the game. But Jesus went weeping away, and left him there wondering why.



* * * * *



JAMES STEPHENS



THE RIVALS

I heard a bird at dawn Singing sweetly on a tree, That the dew was on the lawn, And the wind was on the lea; But I didn't listen to him, For he didn't sing to me.

I didn't listen to him, For he didn't sing to me That the dew was on the lawn And the wind was on the lea; I was singing at the time Just as prettily as he.

I was singing all the time, Just as prettily as he, About the dew upon the lawn And the wind upon the lea; So I didn't listen to him And he sang upon a tree.



THE GOAT PATHS

The crooked paths go every way Upon the hill—they wind about Through the heather in and out Of the quiet sunniness. And there the goats, day after day, Stray in sunny quietness, Cropping here and cropping there, As they pause and turn and pass, Now a bit of heather spray, Now a mouthful of the grass.

In the deeper sunniness, In the place where nothing stirs, Quietly in quietness, In the quiet of the furze, For a time they come and lie Staring on the roving sky.

If you approach they run away, They leap and stare, away they bound, With a sudden angry sound, To the sunny quietude; Crouching down where nothing stirs In the silence of the furze, Couching down again to brood In the sunny solitude.

If I were as wise as they I would stray apart and brood, I would beat a hidden way Through the quiet heather spray To a sunny solitude;

And should you come I'd run away, I would make an angry sound, I would stare and turn and bound To the deeper quietude, To the place where nothing stirs In the silence of the furze.

In that airy quietness I would think as long as they; Through the quiet sunniness I would stray away to brood By a hidden beaten way In a sunny solitude.

I would think until I found Something I can never find, Something lying on the ground, In the bottom of my mind.



THE SNARE

(To A.E.)

I hear a sudden cry of pain! There is a rabbit in a snare: Now I hear the cry again, But I cannot tell from where.

But I cannot tell from where He is calling out for aid; Crying on the frightened air, Making everything afraid.

Making everything afraid, Wrinkling up his little face, As he cries again for aid; And I cannot find the place!

And I cannot find the place Where his paw is in the snare: Little one! Oh, little one! I am searching everywhere.



IN WOODS AND MEADOWS

Play to the tender stops, though cheerily: Gently, my soul, my song: let no one hear: Sing to thyself alone; thine ecstasy Rising in silence to the inward ear That is attuned to silence: do not tell A friend, a bird, a star, lest they should say— He danced in woods and meadows all the day, Waving his arms, and cried as evening fell, 'O, do not come,' and cried, 'O, come, thou queen, And walk with me unwatched upon the green Under the sky.'



DEIRDRE

Do not let any woman read this verse; It is for men, and after them their sons And their sons' sons.

The time comes when our hearts sink utterly; When we remember Deirdre and her tale, And that her lips are dust.

Once she did tread the earth: men took her hand;. They looked into her eyes and said their say, And she replied to them.

More than a thousand years it is since she Was beautiful: she trod the waving grass; She saw the clouds.

A thousand years! The grass is still the same, The clouds as lovely as they were that time When Deirdre was alive.

But there has never been a woman born Who was so beautiful, not one so beautiful Of all the women born.

Let all men go apart and mourn together; No man can ever love her; not a man Can ever be her lover.

No man can bend before her: no man say— What could one say to her? There are no words That one could say to her!

Now she is but a story that is told Beside the fire! No man can ever be The friend of that poor queen.



* * * * *



LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE

THE END OF THE WORLD

PERSONS

HUFF, the Farmer. SOLLERS, the Wainwright. MERRICK, the Smith. VINE, the Publican. SHALE, the Labourer. A DOWSER. MRS HUFF. WARP, the Molecatcher. Men and Women of the Village.'



ACT I

[Scene: A public-house kitchen. HUFF the Farmer and SOLLERS the Wainwright talking; another man, a stranger, sitting silent.]

Huff:

Ay, you may think we're well off—

Sollers:

Now for croaks, Old toad! who's trodden on you now?—Go on; But if you can, croak us a new tune.

Huff:

Ay, You think you're well off—and don't grab my words Before they're spoken—but some folks, I've heard, Pity us, living quiet in the valley.

Sollers:

Well, I suppose 'tis their affair.

Huff:

Is it? But what I mean to say,—if they think small Of us that live in the valley, mayn't it show That we aren't all so happy as we think?

[MERRICK the Smith comes in.]

Merrick:

Quick, cider! I believe I've swallowed a coal.

Sollers:

Good evening. True, the heat's a wonder to-night.

[Smith draws himself cider.]

Huff:

Haven't you brought your flute? We've all got room For music in our minds to-night, I'll swear. Working all day in the sun do seem to push The thought out of your brain.

Sollers:

O, 'tis the sun Has trodden on you? That's what makes you croak? Ay, whistle him somewhat: put a tune in his brain; He'll else croak us out of pleasure with drinking.

Merrick:

'Tis quenching, I believe.—A tune? Too hot. You want a fiddler.

Huff:

Nay, I want your flute. I like a piping sound, not scraping o' guts.

Merrick:

This is no weather for a man to play Flutes or music at all that asks him spend His breath and spittle: you want both yourself These oven days. Wait till a fiddler comes.

Huff:

Who ever comes down here?

Sollers:

There's someone come.

[Pointing with his pipe to the stranger.]

Merrick:

Good evening, mister. Are you a man for tunes?

Stranger:

And if I was I'ld give you none to-night.

Merrick:

Well, no offence: there's no offence, I hope, In taking a dummy for a tuneful man. Is it for can't or won't you are?

Stranger:

You wouldn't, if you carried in your mind What I've been carrying all day.

Sollers:

What's that?

Stranger:

You wait; you'll know about it soon; O yes, Soon enough it will find you out and rouse you.

Huff:

Now ain't that just the way we go down here? Here in the valley we're like dogs in a yard, Chained to our kennels and wall'd in all round, And not a sound of the world jumps over our hills. And when there comes a passenger among us, One who has heard what's stirring out beyond, 'Tis a grutchy mumchance fellow in the dismals!

Stranger:

News, is it, you want? I could give you news!— I wonder, did you ever hate to feel The earth so fine and splendid?

Huff:

Oh, you're one Has stood in the brunt of the world's wickedness, Like me? But listen, and I'll give you a tale Of wicked things done in this little valley, Done against me, will surely make you think The Devil here fetcht up his masterpiece.

Sollers:

Ah, but it's hot enough without you talking Your old hell fire about that pair of sinners. Leave them alone and drink.

Huff:

I'll smell them grilling One of these days.

Merrick:

But there'll be nought to drink When that begins! Best keep your skin full now.

Stranger:

What do I care for wickedness? Let those Who've played with dirt, and thought the game was bold, Make much of it while they can: there's a big thing Coming down to us, ay, well on its road, Will make their ploys seem mighty piddling sport.

Huff:

This is a fool; or else it's what I think,— The world now breeds such crowd that they've no room For well-grown sins: they hatch 'em small as flies. But you stay here, out of the world awhile, Here where a man's mind, and a woman's mind, Can fling out large in wickedness: you'll see Something monstrous here, something dreadful.

Stranger:

I've seen enough of that. Though it was only Fancying made me see it, it was enough: I've seen the folk of the world yelling aghast, Scurrying to hide themselves. I want nought else Monstrous and dreadful.—

Merrick:

What had roused 'em so? Some house afire?

Huff:

A huzzy flogged to death For her hard-faced adultery?

Stranger (too intent to hear them):

Oh to think of it! Talk, do, chatter some nonsense, else I'll think: And then I'm feeling like a grub that crawls All abroad in a dusty road; and high Above me, and shaking the ground beneath me, come Wheels of a thundering wain, right where I'm plodding.

Sollers:

Queer thinking, that.

Stranger:

And here's a queerer thing. I have a sort of lust in me, pushing me still Into that terrible way of thinking, like Black men in India lie them down and long To feel their holy wagon crack their spines.

Merrick:

Do you mean beetles? I've driven over scores, They sprawling on their backs, or standing mazed. I never knew they liked it.

Sollers:

He means frogs. I know what's in his mind. When I was young My mother would catch us frogs and set them down, Lapt in a screw of paper, in the ruts, And carts going by would quash 'em; and I'ld laugh, And yet be thinking, 'Suppose it was myself Twisted stiff in huge paper, and wheels Big as the wall of a barn treading me flat!'

Huff:

I know what's in his mind: just madness it is. He's lookt too hard at his fellows in the world; Sight of their monstrous hearts, like devils in cages, Has jolted all the gearing of his wits. It needs a tough brain, ay, a brain like mine, To pore on ugly sin and not go mad.

Stranger:

Madness! You're not far out.—I came up here To be alone and quiet in my thoughts, Alone in my own dreadful mind. The path, Of red sand trodden hard, went up between High hedges overgrown of hawthorn blowing White as clouds; ay it seemed burrowed through A white sweet-smelling cloud,—I walking there Small as a hare that runs its tunnelled drove Thro' the close heather. And beside my feet Blue greygles drifted gleaming over the grass; And up I climbed to sunlight green in birches, And the path turned to daisies among grass With bonfires of the broom beside, like flame Of burning straw: and I lookt into your valley. I could scarce look. Anger was smarting in my eyes like grit. O the fine earth and fine all for nothing! Mazed I walkt, seeing and smelling and hearing: The meadow lands all shining fearfully gold,— Cruel as fire the sight of them toucht my mind; Breathing was all a honey taste of clover And bean flowers: I would have rather had it Carrion, or the stink of smouldering brimstone. And larks aloft, the happy piping fools, And squealing swifts that slid on hissing wings, And yellowhammers playing spry in hedges. I never noted them before; but now— Yes, I was mad, and crying mad, to see The earth so fine, fine all for nothing!

Sollers (spits):

Pst! yellowhammers! He talks gentry talk. That's worse than being mad.

Stranger:

I tell you, you'll be feeling them to-morn And hating them to be so wonderful.

Merrick:

Let's have some sense. Where do you live?

Stranger:

Nowhere. I'm always travelling.

Huff:

Why, what's your trade?

Stranger:

A dowser.

Huff:

You're the man for me!

Stranger:

Not I.

Huff:

Ho, this is better than a fiddler now! One of those fellows who have nerves so clever That they can feel the waters of underground Tingling in their fingers. You find me a spring in my high grazing-field, I'll give you what I save in trundling water.

Stranger:

I find you water now!—-No, but I'll find you Fire and fear and unbelievable death.

[VINE the Publican comes in.]

Vine:

Are ye all served? Ay, seems so; what's your score?

Merrick:

Two ciders.

Huff:

Three.

Sollers:

And two for me.

Vine (to Dowser):

And you?

Dowser:

Naught. I was waiting on you.

Vine:

Will you drink?

Dowser:

Ay! Drink! what else is left for a man to do Who knows what I know?

Vine:

Good. What is't you know? You tell it out and set my trade a-buzzing.

Sollers:

He's queer. Give him his mug and ease his tongue.

Vine:

I had to swill the pigs: else I'd been here; But we've the old fashion in this house; you draw, I keep the score. Well, what's the worry on you?

Sollers:

Oh he's in love.

Dowser:

You fleering grinning louts, I'll give it you now; now have it in your faces!

Sollers:

Crimini, he's going to fight!

Dowser:

You try and fight with the thing that's on my side!

Merrick:

A ranter!

Huff:

A boozy one then.

Dowser:

Open yon door; 'Tis dark enough by now. Open it, you.

Vine:

Hold on. Have you got something fierce outside?

Merrick:

A Russian bear?

Sollers:

Dowsers can play strange games.

Huff:

No tricks!

Dowser:

This is a trick to rouse the world.

[He opens the door.]

Look out! Between the elms! There's my fierce thing.

Merrick:

He means the star with the tail like a feather of fire.

Sollers:

Comet, it's called.

Huff:

Do you mean the comet, mister?

Dowser:

What do you think of it?

Huff:

Pretty enough. But I saw a man loose off a rocket once; It made more stir and flare of itself; though yon Does better at steady burning.

Dowser:

Stir and flare! You'll soon forget your rocket.

Merrick:

Tell you what I thought last night, now, going home. Says I, 'Tis just like the look of a tadpole: if I saw A tadpole silver as a dace that swam Upside-down towards me through black water, I'ld see the plain spit of that star and his tail.

Sollers:

And how does your thought go?

Dowser:

It's what I know!— A tadpole and a rocket!—My dear God, And I can still laugh out!—What do you think Your tadpole's made of? What lets your rocket fling Those streaming sparks across the half of night, Splashing the burning spray of its haste among The quiet business of the other stars? Ay, that's a fiery jet it leaves behind In such enormous drift! What sort of fire Is spouted so, spouted and never quenching?— There is no name for that star's fire: it is The fire that was before the world was made, The fire that all the things we live among Remember being; and whitest fire we know Is its poor copy in their dreaming trance!

Huff:

That would be hell fire.

Dowser:

Ay, if you like, hell fire, Hell fire flying through the night! 'Twould be A thing to blink about, a blast of it Swept in your face, eh? and a thing to set The whole stuff of the earth smoking rarely? Which of you said 'the heat's a wonder to-night'? You have not done with marvelling. There'll come A night when all your clothes are a pickle of sweat, And, for all that, the sweat on your salty skin Shall dry and crack, in the breathing of a wind That's like a draught come through an open'd furnace. The leafage of the trees shall brown and faint, All sappy growth turning to brittle rubbish As the near heat of the star strokes the green earth; And time shall brush the fields as visibly As a rough hand brushes against the nap Of gleaming cloth—killing the season's colour, Each hour charged with the wasting of a year; And sailors panting on their warping decks Will watch the sea steam like broth about them. You'll know what I know then!—That towering star Hangs like a fiery buzzard in the night Intent over our earth—Ay, now his journey Points, straight as a plummet's drop, down to us!

Huff:

Why, that's the end of the world!

Dowser:

You've said it now.

Sollers:

What, soon? In a day or two?

Merrick:

You can't mean that!

Vine:

End of the World! Well now, I never thought To hear the news of that. If you've the truth In what you say, likely this is an evening That we'll be talking over often and often. 'How was it, Sellers?' I'll say; 'or you, Merrick, Do you mind clearly how he lookt?'—And then— "End of the world" he said, and drank—like that, Solemn!'—And right he was: he had it all As sure as I have when my sow's to farrow.

Dowser:

Are you making a joke of me? Keep your mind For tippling while you can.

Vine:

Was that a joke? I'm always bad at seeing 'em, even my own.

Dowser:

A fool's! 'Twill cheer you when the earth blows up. Like as it were all gunpowder.

Vine:

You mean The star will butt his burning head against us? 'Twill knock the world to flinders, I suppose?

Dowser:

Ay, or with that wild, monstrous tail of his Smash down upon the air, and make it bounce Like water under the flukes of a harpooned whale, And thrash it to a poisonous fire; and we And all the life of the world drowned in blazing!

Vine:

'Twill be a handsome sight. If my old wife Were with me now! This would have suited her. 'I do like things to happen!' she would say; Never shindy enough for her; and now She's gone, and can't be seeing this!

Dowser:

You poor fool. How will it be a sight to you, when your eyes Are scorcht to little cinders in your head?

Vine:

Whether or no, there must be folks outside Willing to know of this. I'll scatter your news.

[He goes.]

[A short-pause: then SOLLERS breaks out.]

Sollers:

No, no; it wouldn't do for me at all; Nor for you neither, Merrick? End of the World? Bogy! A parson's tale or a bairn's!

Merrick:

That's it. Your trade's a gift, easy as playing tunes. But Sollers here and I, we've had to drill Sinew and muscle into their hard lesson, Until they work in timber and glowing iron As kindly as I pick up my pint: your work Grows in your nature, like plain speech in a child, But we have learnt to think in a foreign tongue; And something must come out of all our skill! We shan't go sliding down as glib as you Into notions of the End of the World.

Sollers:

Give me a tree, you may say, and give me steel, And I'll put forth my shapely mind; I'll make, Out of my head like telling a well-known tale, A wain that goes as comely on the roads As a ship sailing, the lines of it true as gospel. Have I learnt that all for nothing?—O no! End of the World? It wouldn't do at all. No more making of wains, after I've spent My time in getting the right skill in my hands?

Dowser:

Ay, you begin to feel it now, I think; But you complain like boys for a game spoilt: Shaping your carts, forging your iron! But Life, Life, the mother who lets her children play So seriously busy, trade and craft,— Life with her skill of a million years' perfection To make her heart's delighted glorying Of sunlight, and of clouds about the moon, Spring lighting her daffodils, and corn Ripening gold to ruddy, and giant seas, And mountains sitting in their purple clothes— Life I am thinking of, life the wonder, All blotcht out by a brutal thrust of fire Like a midge that a clumsy thumb squashes and smears.

Huff:

Let me but see the show beginning, though! You'ld mind me then! O I would like you all To watch how I should figure, when the star Brandishes over the whole air its flame Of thundering fire; and naught but yellow rubbish Parcht on the perishing ground, and there are tongues Chapt with thirst, glad to lap stinking ponds, And pale glaring faces spying about On the earth withering, terror the only speech! Look for me then, and see me stand alone Easy and pleasant in the midst of it all. Did you not make your merry scoff of me? Was it your talk, that when yon shameless pair Threw their wantoning in my face like dirt, I had no heart against them but to grumble? You would be saying that, I know! But now, Now I believe it's time for you to see My patient heart at last taking its wages.

Sollers:

Pull up, man! Screw the brake on your running tongue, Else it will rattle you down the tumbling way This fellow's gone.

Merrick:

And one man's enough With brain quagged axle-deep in crazy mire. We won't have you beside him in his puddles, And calling out with him on the End of the World To heave you out with a vengeance.

Huff:

What you want! Have I not borne enough to make me know I must be righted sometime?—And what else Would break the hardy sin in them, which lets Their souls parade so daring and so tall Under God's hate and mine? What else could pay For all my wrong but a blow of blazing anger Striking down to shiver the earth, and change Their strutting wickedness to horror and crying?

Merrick:

Be quiet, Huff! If you mean to believe This dowser's stuff, and join him in his bedlam, By God, you'll have to reckon with my fist.

[SHALE comes in. HUFF glares at him speechless, but with wrath evidently working.]

Shale:

Where's the joker? You, is it? Here's hot news You've brought us; all the valley's hissing aloud, And makes as much of you falling into it As a pail of water would of a glowing coal.

Sollers:

Don't you start burbling too, Shale.

Shale:

That's the word! Burbling, simmering, ay and bumpy-boiling: All the women are mobbed together close Under the witan-trees, and their full minds Boil like so many pans slung on a fire. Why, starlings trooping in a copse in fall Could make no scandal like it.

Merrick:

What is it, man?

Shale:

End of the World! The flying star! End of the World!

Sollers:

They don't believe it though?

Shale:

What? the whole place Has gone just randy over it!

Merrick:

Hold your noise!

Sollers:

I shall be daft if this goes on.

Shale:

Ay, so? The End of the World's been here? You look as though You'd startled lately. And there's the virtuous man! How would End of the World suit our good Huff, Our old crab-verjuice Huff?

HUFF (seizing the DOWSER and bringing him up in front of SHALE):

Look at him there! This is the man I told you of when you Were talking small of sin. You made it out, Did you, a fool's mere nasty game, like dogs That snuggle in muck, and grin and roll themselves With snorting pleasure? Ah, but you are wrong. 'Tis something that goes thrusting dreadfully Its wilful bravery of evil against The worth and right of goodness in the world: Ay, do you see how his face still brags at me? And long it has been, the time he's had to walk Lording about me with his wickedness. Do you know what he dared? I had a wife, A flighty pretty linnet-headed girl, But mine: he practised on her with his eyes; He knew of luring glances, and she went After his calling lust: and all since then They've lived together, fleering in my face, Pleased in sight of the windows of my house With doing wrong, and making my disgrace. O but wait here with me; wait till your news Is not to be mistaken, for the way The earth buckles and singes like hot boards: You'll surely see how dreadful sin can be Then, when you mark these two running about, With raging fear for what they did against me Buzzing close to their souls, stinging their hearts, And they like scampering beasts when clegs are fierce, Or flinging themselves low as the ground to writhe, Their arms hugging their desperate heads. And then You'll see what 'tis to be an upright man, Who keeps a patient anger for his wrongs Thinking of judgment coming—you will see that When you mark how my looks hunt these wretches, And smile upon their groans and posturing anguish. O watch how calm I'll be, when the blazing air Judges their wickedness; you watch me then Looking delighted, like a nobleman Who sees his horse winning an easy race.

Merrick:

You fool, Huff, you believe it now!

Huff:

You fool, Merrick, how should I not believe a thing That calls aloud on my mind and spirit, and they Answer to it like starving conquering soldiers Told to break out and loot?

Shale:

You vile old wasp!

Sollers:

We've talkt enough: let's all go home and sleep; There might be a fiend in the air about us, one Who pours his will into our minds to see How we can frighten one another.

Huff:

A fiend! Shale will soon have the flapping wings of a fiend, And flaming wings, beating about his head. There'll be no air for Shale, very soon now, But the breathing of a fiend: the star's coming! The star that breathes a horrible fury of fire Like glaring fog into the empty night; And in the gust of its wrath the world will soon Shrivel and spin like paper in a furnace. I knew they both would have to pay me at last With sight of their damned souls for all my wrong!

Shale:

Somebody stop his gab.

Merrick (seizing the DOWSER and shaking him):

Is it the truth? Is it the truth we're in the way of the star?

Sollers:

O let us go home; let us go home and sleep!

[A crowd, of men and women burst in and shout confusedly.]

1. Look out for the star! 2. 'Tis moving, moving. 3. Grows as you stare at it. 4. Bigger than ever. 1. Down it comes with a diving pounce, As though it had lookt for us and at last found us. 2. O so near and coming so quick! 3. And how the burning hairs of its tail Do seem surely to quiver for speed. 4. We saw its great tail twitch behind it. 'Tis come so near, so gleaming near. 1. The tail is wagging! 2. Come out and see! 3. The star is wagging its tail and eyeing us— 4. Like a cat huncht to leap on a bird.

Merrick:

Out of my way and let me see for myself.

[They all begin to hustle out: HUFF speaks in midst of the turmoil.]

Huff:

Ay, now begins the just man's reward; And hatred of the evil thing Now is to be satisfied. Wrong ventured out against me and braved: And I'll be glad to see all breathing pleasure Burn as foolishly to naught As a moth in candle flame, If I but have my will to watch over those Who injured me bawling hoarse heartless fear.

[They are all gone but HUFF, SHALE and the DOWSER.]

Shale:

As for you, let you and the women make Your howling scare of this; I'll stand and laugh. But if it truly were the End of the World, I'ld be the man to face it out, not you: I who have let life go delighted through me, Not you, who've sulkt away your chance of life In mumping about being paid for goodness.

[Going.]

Huff (after him):

You wait, you wait!

[He follows the rest.]

Dowser (alone):

Naught but a plague of flies! I cannot do with noises, and light fools Terrified round me; I must go out and think Where there is quiet and no one near. O, think! Life that has done such wonders with its thinking, And never daunted in imagining; That has put on the sun and the shining night, The flowering of the earth and tides of the sea, And irresistible rage of fate itself, All these as garments for its spirit's journey— O now this life, in the brute chance of things, Murder'd, uselessly murder'd! And naught else For ever but senseless rounds of hurrying motion That cannot glory in itself. O no! I will not think of that; I'll blind my brain With fancying the splendours of destruction; When like a burr in the star's fiery mane The crackling earth is caught and rusht along, The forests on the mountains blazing so, That from the rocks of ore beneath them come White-hot rivers of smelted metal pouring Across the plains to roar into the sea ...

[The curtain is lowered for a few moments only.]



ACT II

[As before, a little while after. The room is empty when the curtain goes up. SOLLERS runs in and paces about, but stops short when he catches sight of a pot dog on the mantelpiece.]

Sollers:

The pace it is coming down!—What to do now?— My brain has stopt: it's like a clock that's fallen Out of a window and broke all its cogs.—Where's That old cider, Vine would have us pay Twopence a glass for? Let's try how it smells: Old Foxwhelp, and a humming stingo it is! (To the pot dog) Hullo, you! What are you grinning at?— I know! There'll be no score against me for this drink! O that score! I've drunk it down for a week With every gulp of cider, and every gulp Was half the beauty it should have been, the score So scratcht my swallowing throat, like a wasp in the drink! And I need never have heeded it!— Old grinning dog! You've seen me happy here; And now, all's done! But do you know this too, That I can break you now, and never called To pay for you? [Throwing the dog on the floor] I shall be savage soon! We're leaving all this!—O, and it was so pleasant Here, in here, of an evening.——Smash! [He sweeps a lot of crockery on to the floor.] It's all no good! Let's make a wreck of it all! [Picking up a chair and swinging it.] Damn me! Now I'm forgetting to drink, and soon 'Twill be too late. Where's there a mug not shivered?

[He goes to draw himself cider. MERRICK rushes in.]

Merrick:

You at the barrels too? Out of the road!

[He pushes SOLLERS away and spills his mug.]

Sollers:

Go and kick out of doors, you black donkey.

Merrick:

Let me come at the vessel, will you?

[They wrestle savagely.]

Sollers:

Keep off; I'm the first here. Lap what you've spilt of mine.

Merrick:

You with your chiselling and screw-driving, Your wooden work, you bidding me, the man Who hammers a meaning into red hot iron?

[VINE comes in slowly. He is weeping; the two wrestlers stop and stare at him, as he sits down, and holds his head in his hands, sobbing.]

Vine:

O this is a cruel affair!

Sollers:

Here's Vine crying!

Vine:

I've seen the moon.

Merrick:

The moon? 'Tisn't the moon That's tumbling on us, but yon raging star. What notion now is clotted in your head?

Vine:

I've seen the moon; it has nigh broke my heart.

Sollers:

Not the moon too jumping out of her ways?

Vine:

No, no;—but going quietly and shining, Pushing away a flimsy gentle cloud That would drift smoky round her, fending it off With steady rounds of blue and yellow light. It was not much to see. She was no more Than a curved bit of silver rind. But I Never before so noted her—

Sollers:

What he said, The dowser!

Merrick:

Ay, about his yellowhammers.

Sollers:

And there's a kind of stifle in the air Already!

Merrick:

It seems to me, my breathing goes All hot down my windpipe, hot as cider Mulled and steaming travels down my swallow.

Sollers:

And a queer racing through my ears of blood.

Merrick:

I wonder, is the star come closer still?

Sollers:

O, close, I know, and viciously heading down.

Vine:

She was so silver! and the sun had left A kind of tawny red, a dust of fine Thin light upon the blue where she was lying,— Just a curled paring of the moon, amid The faint grey cloud that set the gleaming wheel Around the tilted slip of shining silver. O it did seem to me so safe and homely, The moon quietly going about the earth; It's a rare place we have to live in, here; And life is such a comfortable thing— And what's the sense of it all? Naught but to make Cruel as may be the slaughtering of it.

[He breaks down again.]

Sollers:

It heats my mind!

[He begins to walk up and down desperately.]

Merrick:

'Twas bound to come sometime, Bound to come, I suppose. 'Tis a poor thing For us, to fall plumb in the chance of it; But, now or another time, 'twas bound to be.— I have been thinking back. When I was a lad I was delighted with my life: there seemed Naught but things to enjoy. Say we were bathing: There'ld be the cool smell of the water, and cool The splashing under the trees: but I did loathe The sinking mud slithering round my feet, And I did love to loathe it so! And then We'ld troop to kill a wasp's nest; and for sure I would be stung; and if I liked the dusk And singing and the game of it all, I loved The smart of the stings, and fleeing the buzzing furies. And sometimes I'ld be looking at myself Making so much of everything; there'ld seem A part of me speaking about myself: 'You know, this is much more than being happy. 'Tis hunger of some power in you, that lives On your heart's welcome for all sorts of luck, But always looks beyond you for its meaning.' And that's the way the world's kept going on, I believe now. Misery and delight Have both had liking welcome from it, both Have made the world keen to be glad and sorry. For why? It felt the living power thrive The more it made everything, good and bad, Its own belonging, forged to its own affair,— The living power that would do wonders some day. I don't know if you take me?

Sollers:

I do, fine; I've felt the very thought go through my mind When I was at my wains; though 'twas a thing Of such a flight I could not read its colour.— Why was I like a man sworn to a thing Working to have my wains in every curve, Ay, every tenon, right and as they should be? Not for myself, not even for those wains: But to keep in me living at its best The skill that must go forward and shape the world, Helping it on to make some masterpiece.

Merrick:

And never was there aught to come of it! The world was always looking to use its life In some great handsome way at last. And now— We are just fooled. There never was any good In the world going on or being at all. The fine things life has plotted to do are worth A rotten toadstool kickt to flying bits. End of the World? Ay, and the end of a joke.

Vine:

Well, Huff's the man for this turn.

Merrick:

Ay, the good man! He could but grunt when times were pleasant; now There's misery enough to make him trumpet. And yet, by God, he shan't come blowing his horn Over my misery! We are just fooled, did I say?—We fooled ourselves, Looking for worth in what was still to come; And now there's a stop to our innings. Well, that's fair: I've been a living man, and might have been Nothing at all! I've had the world about me, And felt it as my own concern. What else Should I be crying for? I've had my turn. The world may be for the sake of naught at last, But it has been for my sake: I've had that.

[He sits again, and broods.]

Sollers:

I can't stay here. I must be where my sight May silence with its business all my thinking— Though it will be the star plunged down so close It puffs its flaming vengeance in my face.

[He goes.]

Vine:

I wish there were someone who had done me wrong, Like Huff with his wife and Shale; I wish there were Somebody I would like to see go crazed With staring fright. I'ld have my pleasure then Of living on into the End of the World. But there is no one at all for me, no one Now my poor wife is gone.

Merrick:

Why, what did she To harm you?

Vine:

Didn't she marry me?—It's true She made it come all right. She died at last. Besides, it would be wasting wishes on her, To be in hopes of her weeping at this. She'ld have her hands on her hips and her tongue jumping As nimble as a stoat, delighting round The way the world's to be terrible and tormented.— Ay, but I'll have a thing to tell her now When she begins to ask the news! I'll say 'You've misst such a show as never was nor will be, A roaring great affair of death and ruin; And I was there—the world smasht to sparkles!' O, I can see her vext at that!

[MERRICK has been sunk in thought during this, but VINE seems to brighten at his notion, and speaks quite cheerfully to HUFF, who now comes in, looking mopish, and sits down.]

Vine:

We've all been envying you, Huff. You're well off, You with your goodness and your enemies Showing you how to relish it with their terror. When do you mean the gibing is to start?

Huff:

There's time enough.

Vine:

O, do they still hold out? If they should be for spiting you to the last! You'ld best keep on at them: think out a list Of frantic things for them to do, when air Is scorching smother and the sin they did Frightens their hearts. You'll shout them into fear, I undertake, if you find breath enough.

Huff:

You have the breath. What's all your pester for? You leave me be.

Vine:

Why, you're to do for me What I can't do myself.—And yet it's hard To make out where Shale hurt you. What's the sum Of all he did to you? Got you quit of marriage Without the upset of a funeral.

Huff:

Why need you blurt your rambling mind at me? Let me bide quiet in my thought awhile, And it's a little while we have for thought.

Merrick:

I know your thought. Paddling round and around, Like a squirrel working in a spinning cage With his neck stretcht to have his chin poke up, And silly feet busy and always going; Paddling round the story of your good life, Your small good life, and how the decent men Have jeered at your wry antic.

Huff:

My good life! And what good has my goodness been to me? You show me that! Somebody show me that! A caterpillar munching a cabbage-heart, Always drudging further and further from The sounds and lights of the world, never abroad Nor flying free in warmth and air sweet-smelling: A crawling caterpillar, eating his life In a deaf dark—that's my gain of goodness! And it's too late to hatch out now!— I can but fancy what I might have been; I scarce know how to sin!—But I believe A long while back I did come near to it.

Merrick:

Well done!—O but I should have guesst all this!

Huff:

I was in Droitwich; and the sight of the place Is where they cook the brine: a long dark shed, Hot as an oven, full of a grey steam And ruddy light that leaks out of the furnace; And stirring the troughs, ladling the brine that boils As thick as treacle, a double standing row, Women—boldly talking in wicked jokes All day long. I went to see 'em. It was A wonderful rousing sight. Not one of them Was really wearing clothes: half of a sack Pinned in an apron was enough for most, And here and there might be a petticoat; But nothing in the way of bodices.— O, they knew words to shame a carter's face!

Merrick:

This is the thought you would be quiet in!

Huff:

Where else can I be quiet? Now there's an end Of daring, 'tis the one place my life has made Where I may try to dare in thought. I mind, When I stood in the midst of those bare women, All at once, outburst with a rising buzz, A mob of flying thoughts was wild in me: Things I might do swarmed in my brain pell-mell, Like a heap of flies kickt into humming cloud. I beat them down; and now I cannot tell For certain what they were. I can call up Naught venturesome and darting like their style; Very tame braveries now!—O Shale's the man To smile upon the End of the World; 'tis Shale Has lived the bold stiff fashion, and filled himself With thinking pride in what a man may do.— I wish I had seen those women more than once!

Vine:

Well, here's an upside down! This is old Huff! What have you been in your heart all these years? The man you were or the new man you are?

Huff:

Just a dead flesh!

Merrick:

Nay, Huff the good man at least Was something alive, though snarling like trapt vermin. But this? What's this for the figure of a man? 'Tis a boy's smutty picture on a wall.

Huff:

I was alive, was I? Like a blind bird That flies and cannot see the flight it takes, Feeling it with mere rowing of its wings. But Shale—he's had a stirring sense of what he is.

[Shouting outside. Then SOLLERS walks in again, very quiet and steady. He stands in the middle, looking down on the floor.]

Vine:

What do they holla for there?

Sollers:

The earth.

Merrick:

The earth?

Sollers:

The earth's afire.

Huff:

The earth blazing already?

[Shouts again.]

O, not so soon as this?

Vine:

What sort of a fire?

Sollers:

The earth has caught the heat of the star, you fool.

Merrick:

I know: there's come some dazzle in your eyes From facing to the star; a lamp would do it.

Huff:

It will be that. Your sight, being so strained, Is flashing of itself.

Sollers:

Say what you like. There's a red flare out of the land beyond Looking over the hills into our valley. The thing's begun, 'tis certain. Go and see.

Vine:

I won't see that. I will stay here.

Sollers:

Ay, creep Into your oven. You'll be cooler there.— O my God, we'll all be coals in an hour!

[Shouts again.]

Huff:

And I have naught to stand in my heart upright, And vow it made my living time worth more Than if my time had been death in a grave!

[Several persons run in.]

The Crowd:

1. The river's the place! 2. The only safe place now! 3. Best all charge down to the river! 4. For there's a blaze, A travelling blaze comes racing along the earth.

Sollers:

'Tis true. The air's red-hot above the hills.

The Crowd:

1. Ay, but the burning now crests the hill-tops In quiver of yellow flame. 2. And a great smoke Waving and tumbling upward. 3. The river now! 4. The only place we have, not to be roasted!

Merrick:

And what will make us water-rats or otters, To keep our breath still living through a dive That lasts until the earth's burnt out? Or how Would that trick serve, when we stand up to gasp, And find the star waiting for our plunged heads To knock them into pummy?

Vine:

Scarce more dazed I'ld be with that than now. I shall be bound, When I'm to give my wife the tale of it all, To be devising: more of this to-do My mind won't carry.

Huff:

O ashamed I am, Ashamed!—It needn't have been downright feats, Such as the braving men, the like of Shale, Do easily, and smile, keeping them up. If I could look back to one manful hour Of romping in the face of all my goodness!—

[SHALE comes in, dragging Mrs HUFF by the hand.]

Shale:

Huff! Where's Huff?—Huff, you must take her back! You'll take her back? She's yours: I give her up.

Merrick:

Belike here's something bold again.

Mrs Huff (to SHALE):

Once more, Listen.

Shale:

I will not listen. There's no time For aught but giving you back where you belong; And that's with you, Huff. Take her.

Huff:

Here is depth I cannot see to. Is it your last fling?— The dolt I am in these things!—What's this way You've found of living wickedly to the end?

Shale:

Scorn as you please, but take her back, man, take her.

Huff:

But she's my wife! Take her back now? What for?

Mrs Huff:

What for? Have you not known of thieves that throw Their robbery down, soon as they hear a step Sounding behind them on the road, and run A long way off, and pull an honest face? Ay, see Shale's eyes practising baby-looks! He never stole, not he!

Shale:

Don't hear her talk.

Mrs Huff:

But he was a talker once! Love was the thing; And love, he swore, would make the wrong go right, And Huff was a kind of devil—and that's true——

Huff:

What? I've been devilish and never knew?

Mrs Huff:

The devil in the world that hates all love. But Shale said, he'd the love in him would hold If the world's frame and the fate of men were crackt.

Shale:

What I said! Whoever thought the world was going to crack?

Mrs Huff:

And now he hears someone move behind him.— They'll say, perhaps, 'You stole this!'—Down it goes, Thrown to the dirty road—thrown to Huff!

Shale:

Yes, to the owner.

Mrs Huff:

It was not such brave thieving. You did not take me from my owner, Shale: There's an old robber will do that some day, Not you.

Vine:

Were you thinking of me then, missis?

Mrs Huff (still to SHALE):

You found me lost in the dirt: I was with Huff. You lifted me from there; and there again, Like a frightened urchin, you're for throwing me.

Shale:

Let it be that! I'm firm Not to have you about me, when the thing, Whatever it is, that's standing now behind The burning of the world, comes out on us.

Huff:

The way men cheat! This windle-stalk was he Would hold a show of spirit for the world To study while it ruined!—Make what you please Of your short wrangle here, but leave me out. I have my thoughts—O far enough from this.

[Turning away.]

Shale (seizing him):

You shall not put me off. I tell you, Huff, You are to take her back now.

Huff:

Take her back! And what has she to do with what I want?

Shale:

Isn't she yours? I must be quit of her; I'll not be in the risk of keeping her. She's yours!

Huff:

And what's the good of her now to me? What's the good of a woman whom I've married?

[During this, WARP the molecatcher has come in.]

Warp:

Shale and Huff at their old pother again!

Merrick:

The molecatcher.

Sollers:

Warp, have you travelled far? Is it through frenzy and ghastly crowds you've come?

Vine:

Have you got dreadful things to tell us, Warp?

Warp:

Why, no. But seemingly you'ld have had news for me, If I'd come later. Is Huff to murder Shale, Or Shale for murdering Huff? One way or 'tother, 'Tis time 'twas settled surely.—Mrs Huff, They're neither of them worth you: here's your health.

[Draws and drinks.]

Huff:

Where have you been? Are you not new from folk That throng together in a pelting horror?

Warp:

Do you think the whole land hearkens to the flurry Of an old dog biting at a young dog's throat?

Merrick:

No, no! Not their shrill yapping; you've not heard The world's near to be blasted?

Warp:

No mutter of it. I am from walking the whole ground I trap, And there's no likeness of it, but the moles I've turned up dead and dried out of three counties.