Archives: Poems

Let us praise Such an One, 
  Give him commendation
Sincere for labour done— 
  As honour to the nation. 
  Such elevation,
Such perfect taste, was never known before; 
Our ranks admit one poet more,
  'Mid universal acclamation. 

Such an One is elevated 
  To the gods,
  Even to the demi-gods. 
Such an One is crowned king,
  Self and friends
Chew the cud of bitter feeling 
    Wondering
  By what ends
These strange vermin come to stealing 
  Bay-leaves here and there to make 
Forged false wreaths, for sure 'tis odd
  How the world a man may take 
    For a god.
    (Even for a demi-god!)

Such an One is gone—there rises 
  Such Another:
With old thoughts in newer guises 
  Born to smother
Such an One's productions. 
Welcomed is he just as loudly, 
Trails his mantle just as proudly.
    Whence I draw 
    My deductions
That many and many a poet more, 
  Ere I lie beneath the sods,
I shall witness swell and soar 
  To the gods,
  Even to the demi-gods!

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1 
A golden place—whose portals shine
   So far across Life's dead-flat level,
That they have drawn this heart of mine 
          To question if the tale be true
          That says—'Here rest shall come to you'—
Or whether leasing of the Devil.
2 
Bring me my horse for far away—
   Across our Life's most dreary level
The golden city lies, they say—
          That city of eternal ease, 
          With firmly-founded palaces
Strong fenced against each earthly devil.
3 
A mile beyond our city wall—
   But one scant mile along the level
I wandered, and at even fall
          Returned, for I had gotten grace
          To dwell forever in that place 
Which is not scaled of any devil.
4 
'And what good lay beyond the wall? 
   What profit in the outer levels?
Why wander wide at evenfall
          Seeing that none of us ere went
          A furlong from the Battlement 
But found thy country full of devils
5 
That rend and tear us limb from limb 
   That roam in droves along the levels
When first the daylight draweth dim 
          Perplexing us in heart and mind, 
          No certain rest a man may find
Who wanders out among these devils.
6 
How got you grace to dwell therein?
   How came you scatheless o'er the levels?
Is there a city, we may win
          Builded of gold such as they say, 
          If only we shall dare to stray
Alone, among the shadowy devils?'
7 
Nay 'twas a little place indeed— 
   A little place along the levels—
But large enough to serve my need 
          And built so firmly, it will last 
          Until our city's life be past
Our town and its besieging devils.
8 
Its walls are sweeter far to see
   Than my dream city's in the levels 
Two weak white arms that cling to me
          A pure mouth with a bridge of red 
          Two eyes that struck a light heart dead
And drew it from the lewd loose devils.
9 
Two dark grey eyes that have more light
   Than lurid meteors on the levels—
And they have kept my soul aright
          This was the golden place I found 
          Thus am I strong through being bound
Stronger than all the restless devils.
10 
And if another man may win
   A golden city in the levels—
And if he wish to dwell therein
          It must be that he go alone—
          Into the desert: which is grown
A habitation for all devils—
   A dwelling place of lust & sin—
And there take harness—fight or fall
   A furlong from our city wall—
For so it was—I crossed the levels.

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1 
Naked and grey the Cotswolds stand
Beneath the autumn sun,
And the stubble-fields on either hand
Where Stour and Avon run.
There is no change in the patient land
That has bred us every one.
2 
She should have passed in cloud and fire
And saved us from this sin
Of war–red war–'twixt child and sire,
Household and kith and kin,
In the heart of a sleepy Midland shire.
With the harvest scarcely in.
3 
But there is no change as we meet at last
On the brow-head or the plain,
And the raw astonished ranks stand fast
To slay or to be slain
By the men they knew in the kindly past
That shall never come again–
4 
By the men they met at dance or chase,
In the tavern or the hall,
At the justice-bench and the market-place,
At the cudgel-play or brawl–
Of their own blood and speech and race,
Comrades or neighbours all!
5 
More bitter than death this day must prove
Whichever way it go,
For the brothers of the maids we love
Make ready to lay low
Their sisters sweethearts, as we move
Against our dearest foe.
6 
Thank Heaven! At last the trumpets peal
Before our strength gives way.
For King or for the Commonweal–
No matter which they say,
The first dry rattle of new-drawn steel
Changes the world to-day!

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1 
THE 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;
'E don't obey no orders unless they is ‘is own;
'E keeps 'is side-arms awful: 'e leaves 'em all about,
An' then comes up the Regiment an' pokes the 'eathen out.
2 
All along o' dirtiness, all along o' mess
All along o' doin' things rather-more-or-less
All along of abby-nay, kul an' hazar-ho,
Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so! 
3 
The young recruit is 'aughty - 'e draf's from Gawd knows where;
They bid 'im show 'is stockin's an' lay 'is mattress square;
‘E calls it bloomin' nonsense - 'e doesn't know no more -
An' then up comes 'is Company an kicks 'im round the floor!
4 
The young recruit is 'ammered - 'e takes it very hard; 
'E 'angs 'is 'ead an' mutters - 'e sulks about the yard; 
'E talks o' "cruel tyrants" which 'e'll swing for by-an-by, 
An' the others 'ears an' mocks 'im, an' the boy goes orf to cry.
5 
The young recruit is silly - 'e thinks o' suicide. 
‘Es lost 'is gutter-devil; 'e 'asn't got 'is pride; 
But day by day they kicks 'im, which 'elps 'im on a bit, 
Till 'e finds 'isself one mornin' with a full an' proper kit.
6 
Gettin' clear o’ dirtiness, gettin' done with mess, 
Gettin' shut o' doin' things rather-more-or-less; 
Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho 
Learns to keep 'is rifle 'an 'isself jus' so! 
7 
The young recruit is 'appy - 'e throws a chest to suit; 
You see 'im grow mustaches; you 'ear 'im slap 'is boot. 
'E learns to drop the "bloodies" from every word ‘e slings 
An' 'e shows an 'ealthy brisket when 'e strips for bars an' rings.
8 
The cruel-tyrant-sergeants they watch 'im 'arf a year; 
They watch 'im with 'is comrades, they watch 'im with 'is beer; 
They watch 'im with the women at the regimental dance, 
And the cruel-tyrant-sergeants send 'is name along for Lance.
9 
An' now 'e's 'arf o' nothin', an' all a private yet, 
‘Is room they up an' rags 'im to see what they will get. 
They rags 'im low an' cunnin', each dirty trick they can, 
But 'e learns to sweat 'is temper an' 'e learns to sweat 'is man.
10 
An', last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed, 
'E schools 'is men at cricket, 'e tells 'em on parade; 
They sees 'im quick an' 'andy, uncommon set an' smart, 
An' so 'e talks to orficers which 'ave the Core at 'eart.
11 
'E learns to do 'is watchin' without it showin' plain; 
'E learns to save a dummy, an' shove 'im straight again; 
'E learns to check a ranker that's buyin' leave to shirk; 
An' 'e learns to make men like 'im so they'll learn to like their work.
12 
An' when it comes to marchin' he'll see their socks are right, 
An' when it comes to action 'e shows 'em how to sight. 
'E knows their ways of thinkin' and just what's in their mind. 
'E knows when they are takin' on, an' when they've fell be'ind.
13 
'E knows each talkin' corp'ral that leads a squad astray; 
'E feels 'is innards 'eavin', 'is bowels givin' way; 
'E sees the blue-white faces all tryin' 'ard to grin, 
An' 'e stands an' waits an' suffers till it's time to cap 'em in.
14 
An' now the hugly bullets come peckin' through the dust, 
An' no one wants to face 'em, but every beggar must; 
So, like a man in irons, which isn't glad to go, 
They moves 'em off by companies uncommon stiff an' slow.
15 
Of all 'is five years' schoolin' they don't remember much 
Excep' the not retreatin', the step an' keepin' touch. 
It looks like teachin' wasted when they duck an' spread an' 'op - 
But if 'e 'adn't learned 'em they'd be all about the shop.
16 
An' now it's "'Oo goes backward?" an' now it's "'Oo comes on?" 
An’ now it's "Get the doolies," an' now the Captain's gone; 
An' now it's bloody murder, but all the while they 'ear 
'Is voice, the same as barrick-drill, a-shepherdin' the rear.
17 
E's just as sick as they are, 'is 'eart is like to split, 
But 'e works 'em, works 'em, works 'em till he feels 'em take the bit; 
The rest is 'oldin' steady till the watchful bugles play, 
An' 'e lifts 'em, lifts 'em, lifts 'em through the charge that wins the day!
18 
The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone; 
'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own. 
The 'eathen in 'is blindness must end where 'e began, 
But the backbone of the Army is the Non-commissioned Man!
19 
Keep away from dirtiness - keep away from mess, 
Don't get into doin' things rather-more-or-less 
Let's ha' done with abby-nay, kul, and hazar-ho; 
Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!

 abby nay  Not Now 
 kul  Tomorrow 
 hazar-ho   Wait a bit

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1 
The freed dove flew to the Rajah’s tower—
  Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings—
 And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur.
    Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
 Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings! 
2 
The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall;
  He set in his bosom a dove of flight—
 “If she return, be sure that I fall.”
    Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
 Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight. 
3 
“Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep—
   Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
 In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
    If the dove—if the dove—if the homing dove
 Come and alone to the palace wall.” 
4 
The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad—
  The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
 Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
   And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove!
 She thought of her cote on the palace-wall. 
5 
She opened her wings and she flew away—
   Fluttered away beyond recall;
 She came to the palace at break of day.
    Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
 Flying so fast for a kingdom’s fall! 
6 
The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame—
   Slept in the flame of the palace old—
 To save their honour from Moslem shame.
    And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove,
 She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled! 
7 
The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet,
   Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
 He came and the palace was black at his feet;
    And the dove—the dove—the homing dove,
 Circled alone in the stainless sky. 
8 
So the dove flew to the Rajah’s tower—
   Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
 So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
    And Dacca was lost for a white dove’s wings.
 Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
    Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!

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1 
It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine,
And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine,
And many many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke,
I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamt that Bandar spoke.
2
He said: "O man of many clothes! Sad crawler on the Hills!
Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills!
I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress;
Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.
3
"I steal the bunnia's grain at morn, at noon and eventide,
(For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountain-side,
I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life
Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife.
4
"O man of futile fopperies–unnecessary wraps;
I own no ponies in the hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps.
I buy me not twelve-button gloves, 'short-sixes' eke, or rings,
Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on 'pretty things.'
5
"I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad;
But Mrs.B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord.
I never heard of fever–dumps nor debts depress my soul;
And I pity and despise you!" Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.
6
His hide was very mangy and his face was very red,
And ever and anon he scratched with energy his head.
His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried
To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountain-side!
7
So I answered:–"Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree
Makes thee a gleesome fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me.
Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine;
Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot for thine."

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My Love is beautiful as day— 
  My Love is very fair:
The gold gleam of the sunset ray
  Has nestled in Her hair. 
The gold that in the Sun is set 
Is all the gold that She will get;
I love Her well. But yet .... but yet ....

My Round Rupee is greasy, dim—
  More light than He should be;
Some bunnia must have 'sweated' Him
  Before He came to me.
All things that 'neath the Sun are set
I know my round Rupee can get;
I love Him well. But yet .... but yet ....

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We found him in the woodlands—she and I—
  Dead was our Teacher of the silver tongue,
Dead, whom we thought so strong he could not die, 
  Dead, with no arrow loosed, with bow unstrung.
And round the great, grey blade that all men dread
  There crept the waxen white convolvulus, 
And the keen edge, that once fell hard on us,
  Was blunt and notched and rusted yellow red. 
And he, our Master, the unconquered one,
  Lay in the nettles of the forest place,
With dreadful open eyes and changeless face 
  Turned upward–gazing at the noonday sun.
Then we two bent above our old, dead King,
Loosed hands and gave back heart and troth and ring.

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••SAMUEL PEPYS

 1  
Like as the Oak whose roots descend
  Through earth and stillness seeking food
 Most apt to furnish in the end
   That dense, indomitable wood 
2  
Which, felled, may arm a seaward flank
  Of Ostia’s mole or—bent to frame
 The beaked Liburnian’s triple bank—
   Carry afar the Roman name; 
3  
But which, a tree, the season moves
  Through gentler Gods than Wind or Tide,
 Delightedly to harbour doves,
  Or take some clasping vine for bride; 
4  
So this man—prescient to ensure
   (Since even now his orders hold)
 A little State might ride secure
   At sea from foes her sloth made bold,— 
5  
Turned in his midmost harried round,
  As Venus drove or Liber led,
 And snatched from any shrine he found
  The Stolen Draught, the Secret Bread. 
6  
Nor these alone. His life betrayed
   No gust unslaked, no pleasure missed.
 He called the obedient Nine to aid
   The varied chase. And Clio kissed; 
7  
Bidding him write each sordid love,
  Shame, panic, stratagem, and lie
 In full, that sinners undiscovered
  Like ourselves, might say:—“’Tis I!”

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