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After the Fever, or, Natural Theology in a Doolie

JONES, B.C.S. soliloquises:

'Let us begin and carry up this corpse, 
Singing together.' So their song to me
Sounds all the day long, racking, restless climb 
Past cactus hedge and scrub-oak of the down, 
And here at noon the wind-swept mountain path; 
And rock and pine a thousand feet below.
Out of the jaws of Death they tell me. Lost 
So nearly that they thought me dead indeed 
Only two days ago. Now Lazarus,
Uncertain 'mid his fellow-ghosts, who hears
The 'Rise! come forth!' And wonders: —'Am I called?' 
Aye. Am I called? The call is faint at least.
The wind across the snows comes to my cheek
And murmurs some half fragment of it —"Rise!" 
"Stand up! be healed!" Who knows I hear aright? 
Another fancy of the fever left
To mock me. It may be so. After all 
What if I found my answer otherwise
Six miles ahead? Crawled to the naked ridge, 
And so met God there, just in front the snows?
Met God there —That's another word for Death.
Three weeks ago, with all my life alight
And blazing into work, thought, deed and fact, 
I should have shuddered at it. Edith's hand
Behind my pillow; my report half done;
The bay mare's whinny in the stable; Smith
Who hates me as I hate him (so we love
In some inverted fashion) would have held 
Me back to life, half mad with fear at Death.
And now! Why Death's upon me, so they said—
My one-half chance hill breezes. Not one hope 
Or fear to play with. Edith; Smith, the rest, —
Reports, Love, horseflesh, work, position, pay — 
All shadows. I'm the only flesh and blood
This side the grave —and I'm more ghost than flesh.
No credit then for coolness. Life or Death!
A hair may turn the balance. Just one shower, 
(That cloud may bring it) ten short minutes' rain
(They said a chill would kill me). Then Smith's step 
And something longer than a step for me ....
Whether the black cloud bursts or quits the pine
To drench the bajra northward I'm content. 
I cannot care. The flesh must back the brain 
To make it cling to life so. Up or down
The beam goes and I watch it 'neath my wraps —
Life, Death, the Judgment, and the rest of it  
All swaddled in the cloud there. God is good.
I couldn't face Death living, Flesh and blood
Would back the brain, and I should tremble. Death
Is good. He takes me gently, by degrees
Not the full cess at once. Remission, rest,
The half crop ere the whole one. Power first
To act, to write, to think, to hope, to pray;
And then the aftermath. But that's unfair.
Men aren't let off forever. Brain and heart
Come back again, or where's the world to be?
And after Judgement? What's my creed again?
I'm a Materialist, and after Death
I judge myself in Space, alone unchecked—
And yet the record past my own control; 
And self-condemned pass on to my new life
Higher or lower as the record runs.
That isn't Darwins's notion. Buddhism
Mixed up with half-a-dozen old beliefs, 
And love for Edith ... Here's my thought returned
And Terror with it. Face to face with Death!
Those six black swine to help me through the gate,
"I judge myself alone, unchecked." No help!—
"And yet the record past my own control"—
"Higher or lower as the record runs".
My God! I knew men couldn't die like beasts!
Thought, Memory and Reason all at once;
And no-one near me. Edith's firm white hand
Might ease me some few inches down the pit,
As Hers will push me deeper, and Her eyes
Shrivel me quicker than the flames below.
Hers — No, not Edith's. Edith would have helped—
Saved maybe ... Six black swine! ... Men don't die drugged!

                    *       *       *       *       *

Siste viator Here's the doolie still
And no-one spoke; at least in Latin. Death
Gone from me when he had me by the throat—
The black cloud northward. It was Life, then, back
More terrible than Death ... Thought ... Memory
And Reason ... and the pains of Hell ... but Life—
Life after all. No God in front the snows.
My case postponed! God's law is much like ours.

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After the Fever

Let the worst come now, and I shall not fear, 
   I won one woman and you are she—
Won her myself—for good and all,
   And shall keep her throughout Eternity,
     Though the end of this world's Love is near
        And your day begins to fall.

I ask God one thing and it is this, 
   That I am with you when you die—
That you die with your head at peace on my breast,
   And that my mouth takes your last Life's kiss—
     For who has a better claim than I,
        To this, for I loved you best.

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The Advertisement

Whether to wend through straight streets strictly,
Trimly by towns perfectly paved;
Or after office, as fitteth thy fancy,
Faring with friends far among fields;
There is none other equal in action,
Sith she is silent, nimble, unnoisome,
Lordly of leather, gaudily gilded,
Burgeoning brightly in a brass bonnet,
Certain to steer well between wains.

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Fastness

This is the end whereto men toiled
    Before thy coachman guessed his fate,—
    How thou shouldst leave thy ’scutcheoned gate
On that new wheel which is the oiled— 

To see the England Shakespeare saw
    (Oh, Earth, ’tis long since Shallow died!
    Yet by yon farrowed sow may hide 
Some blue deep minion of the Law)— 

To range from Ashby-de-la-Zouch
    By Lyonnesse to Locksley Hall,
    Or haply, nearer home, appal
Thy father’s sister’s staid barouche.

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Anchor Song

1 
Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again!
  Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards back and full—
  Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!  
2 
   Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love—
     Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
       For the wind has come to say:
        “You must take me while you may,
       If you’d go to Mother Carey
      (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
    Oh, we’re bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!” 
3 
Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o’ that!
  Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear.
Port—port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
   And that’s the last o’ bottom we shall see this year! 
4 
  Well, ah fare you well, for we’ve got to take her out again —
    Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
      And it’s time to clear and quit
      When the hawser grips the bitt,
  So we’ll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea! 
5 
Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
  Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
  Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul! 
6 
  Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind’s took hold of us,
    Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
      And it’s blowing up for night,
      And she’s dropping Light on Light,
    And she’s snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea, 
7
Wheel, full and by; but she’ll smell her road alone to-night.
  Sick she is and harbour-sick—O sick to clear the land!
Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us—
  Carry on and thrash her out with all she’ll stand! 
8 
  Well, ah fare you well, and it’s Ushant slams the door on us,
    Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee:
     Till the last, last flicker goes
     From the tumbling water-rows,
    And we’re off to Mother Carey
     (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
  Oh, we’re bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!

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An Auto-da-fé

And did you love me then so much
As you say you did? What made you write
The Love you bore in black and white—
Drop pen-cease loving—end it all,
And give me for greeting the palm's mere touch
In place of a cheek where my kiss should fall?

Now we are sundered, is it strange
That we meet each other and say no word?
Do you think of that time when our hearts were stirred
By less than a murmur? How—once, I kept
Watch and ward o'er the long street's range 
Of passionless stucco, while you slept.

Somewhere, in peace, a maiden's slumber—
And I stood through the night, till morning's glow
Cleared the smoke from the parks below,
And you came with the dawn? How one remembers! 
In my heart I have still the name and number—
Wherefore I place my pile on the embers.

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An American

1894

The American Spirit speaks:
1 
IF THE Led Striker call it a strike,
   Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,
   Nor what he is, my Avatar.
2 
Through many roads, by me possessed,
   He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
   And he the Text himself applies.
3 
The Celt is in his heart and hand,
   The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
Where, cosmopolitanly planned,
   He guards the Redskin’s dry reserve.
4 
His easy unswept hearth he lends
   From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
   He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.
5 
Calm-eyed he scoffs at sword and crown,
   Or panic-blinded stabs and slays:
Blatant he bids the world bow down,
   Or cringing begs a crust of praise;
6 
Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,
   He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
His hands are black with blood—his heart
   Leaps, as a babe’s, at little things.
7 
But, through the shift of mood and mood,
   Mine ancient humour saves him whole—
The cynic devil in his blood
   That bids him mock his hurrying soul;
8 
That bids him flout the Law he makes,
   That bids him make the Law he flouts,
Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
   The drumming guns that—have no doubts;
9 
That checks him foolish—hot and fond,
   That chuckles through his deepest ire,
That gilds the slough of his despond
   But dims the goal of his desire;
10
Inopportune, shrill-accented,
   The acrid Asiatic mirth
That leaves him, careless ’mid his dead,
   The scandal of the elder earth.
11
How shall he clear himself, how reach
   Your bar or weighed defence prefer?
A brother hedged with alien speech
   And lacking all interpreter.
12
Which knowledge vexes him a space;
   But while Reproof around him rings,
He turns a keen untroubled face
   Home, to the instant need of things.
13
Enslaved, illogical, elate,
   He greets th’ embarrassed Gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
   Or match with Destiny for beers.
14
Lo, imperturbable he rules,
   Unkempt, disreputable, vast—
And, in the teeth of all the schools,
   I shall save him at the last!

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The Land

1 
When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius—a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?" 
2 
And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean. 
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen." 
3 
So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style— 
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago. 
4 
Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main 
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane. 
5 
Well could Ogier work his war-boat—well could Ogier wield his brand— 
Much he knew of foaming waters—not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good?" 
6 
And that aged Hobden answered "'Tain't for me to interfere. 
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on' time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!" 
7 
Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't— 
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint. 
8 
Ogier died. His sons grew English—Anglo-Saxon was their name— 
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne. 
9 
But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night 
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
"Hob, what about that River-bit—the Brook's got up no bounds?"  
10 
And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.
Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!"  
11 
They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay. 
12 
Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs 
All sorts of powers and profits which—are neither mine nor theirs, 
13 
I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish—but Hobden tickles—I can shoot—but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge. 
14 
Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew? 
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan. 
15 
His dead are in the churchyard—thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine. 
16 
Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher—'tain't for me to interfere. 
17 
"Hob, what about that River-bit?" I turn to him again,
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
"Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but"—and here he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.

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This is the mouth-filling song

This is the mouth-filling song 
Of the race that was run by a Boomer,
Run in a single burst– 
Only event of its kind.
Started by Big God Ngong 
From Warrigaborrigarooma, 
Old Man Kangaroo first: 
Yellow-Dog Dingo behind.

Kangaroo bounded away, 
His back-legs working like pistons– 
Bounded from morning till dark, 
Twenty-five feet to a bound.
Yellow-Dog Dingo lay 
Like a yellow cloud in the distance–
Much too busy to bark 
My! but they covered the ground!

Nobody knows where they went, 
Or followed the track that they flew in, 
For that Continent 
Hadn't been given a name. 
They ran thirty degrees,  
From Torres Straits to the Leeuwin 
(Look at the Atlas, please), 
And they ran back as they came.

S'posing you could trot 
From Adelaide to the Pacific, 
For an afternoon's run–
Half what these gentlemen did–
You would feel rather hot, 
But your legs would develop terrific–
Yes, my importunate son, 
You'd be a Marvellous Kid!

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The Answer

A rose, in tatters on the garden path,
Cried out to God and murmured ’gainst His Wrath,
Because a sudden wind at twilight’s hush
Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.
And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun,
Had pity, whispering to that luckless one,
“Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well—
What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell?”
And the Rose answered, “In that evil hour
A voice said, ‘Father, wherefore falls the flower?
For lo, the very gossamers are still.’
And a voice answered, ‘Son, by Allah’s will!’"  

Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward,
Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord:
“Sister, before We smote the dark in twain,
Ere yet the stars saw one another plain,
Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task
That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask.”
Whereat the withered flower, all content,
Died as they die whose days are innocent;
While he who questioned why the flower fell
Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.

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