Songs of love and empire
полная версия
Аннотация
Читать онлайн
- -
- 100%
- +
I
TO THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND
[June 22, 1897]Come forth! the world’s aflame with flags and flowers,The shout of bells fills full the shattered air,This is the crown of all your golden hours,More than all other hours august and fair;This did the years prepare,A triumph for our Lady and our Queen,More rich than any king in any land hath seen.Clothed are your streets with scarlet, gold, and blue,Flowers under foot and banners over head,And while your people’s voice storms Heaven for youAbout your way are voiceless blessings shed,And over you are spreadWide wings of love, free love, tamed to your hand,Love that gold cannot buy, nor Majesty command.Not these mere visible millions only, shareYour triumph – here all English hearts beat high,Nations far off your royal colours wear,And swell with unheard voice this loyal cryThat strikes the English sky:A cloud of unseen witnesses is hereTo testify how great is England’s Queen, and dear.From out the grey-veiled past, long years away,Come visionary faces, vision-led,And splendid shapes that are not of our day,The spirits of the mute and mighty dead,To see how Time has spedThe fortunes of their England, and beholdHow much more great she is than in the days of old.The world can see them not; but you can see —You the inheritor of all the pastWherein the dead, in noble heraldry,Blazoned the shield of England, and forecastThe charge it bears at last —More splendid than the azure and the orOf the French lilies lost – long lost and sorrowed for.Here be the weaponed men, the English folk,Who in long ships across the swan’s bathfared,In whose rude tongue the voice of Freedom spoke,In whose rough hands the sword was bright and bared —The men who did and dared,And to their sons bequeathed the fighting bloodThat drives to Victory and will not be withstood.Here, in your ordered festival, O Queen,Mixed with the crowd and all unseen of these,On their long swords the wild Norse rovers leanAnd watch the progress of your pageantries,And on this young June breezeFloat the bright pennons of the Cressy spears —Shine shadowy shafts that fell, as snow falls, at Poitiers.Here flutter phantom flags that once flew freeAbove the travail of the tournament;Here gleam old swords, once wet for Liberty;Old blood-stiff banners, worn with war and rent,Are with your fresh flowers blent,And by your crown, where love and fame consort,Shines the unvanquished cloven crown of Agincourt.Upon your river where, by day and night,Your world-adventuring ships come home again,Glide ghostly galleons, manned by men of mightWho plucked the wings and singed the beard of Spain;The men who, not in vain,Saved to the children of a world new-trodThe birth-tongue of our land, her freedom, and her God.Princes who lived to make our England great,Poets who wreathed her greatness with their song,Wise men who steered her heavy ship of State,Brave men who steered her battle-ships along,In spectral concourse throngTo applaud the consummated power and prideOf that belovèd land for which they lived and died.The thousand un-named heroes who, sword-strong,Ploughed the long acre wherein Empire growsWide as the world, and long as Time is long —These mark the crescence of the English roseWhose thorny splendour glowsO’er far-off subject lands, by alien waves,A crown for England’s brow, a garland for her graves.And faces out of unforgotten years,Faces long hidden by death’s misty screen,Faces you still can scarcely see for tears,Will smile on you to-day and near you lean,O Mother, Wife, and Queen!With whispered love too sacred and too dearFor any ear than yours, Mother and Wife, to hear.Lady, the crowd will vaunt to-day your fame,Daughter and heir of many mighty kings,The Queen of England, whose imperial nameFrom England’s heart and lips tumultuous springsIn prayers and thanksgivings,Because your greatness and her greatness shineMerged each in each, as stars their beams that intertwine.Yet in the inmost heart, where folded closeThe richest treasures of the poorest lie,Love, whose clear eyes see many secrets, knowsA nobler name than Queen to call you by,And breathes it silently;But, ’mid His listening crowd of angels, OneShall speak your name and say, “Faithful and good, well done!”AFTER SIXTY YEARS
Ring, bells! flags, fly! and let the great crowd roarIts ecstasy. Let the hid heart in prayerLift up your name. God bless you evermore,Lady, who have the noblest crown to wearThat ever woman wore.A jewel, in the front of time, shall blazeThis day, of all your days commemorate;With Time’s white bays your brows are laureate,And England’s love shall garland all your days.* * * * *When England’s crown, to Love’s acclaim, was laidOn the soft brightness of a maiden’s hair,Amid delight, Love trembled, half afraid,To give that little head such weight to bear, —Bind on so slight a maidA kingdom’s purple – bid her hands hold highThe sceptre and the heavy orb of power,To give to youth and beauty for a dowerCare and a crown, sorrow and sovereignty.But from our hearts sprang an intenser flameWhen loyal Love met tender Love half way,And, in love’s script, wrote on the scroll of fame,Entwined with all the splendour of that day,The letters of her name.Then as fair roses grow ’mid leaves of green,Love amid loyalty grew strong and close,To hedge a pleasaunce round our Royal rose,Our sovereign maiden flower, our child, our Queen.The trumpets spake – in sonorous triumph shout,Their speech found echo in the hundred guns;From countless towers the answering bells rang out,And England’s heart spoke clamorous, through her sons,The exulting land throughout.Down streets ablaze with light the flags unfurled,Along dark, lonely hills the joy-fires crept,And eager swords within their scabbards leaptTo guard our Lady and Queen against the world.Those swords are rusted now. Good men and trueDust in the dust are laid who held her dear;But from their grave the bright flower springs anew,Which for her festival we bring her here,The long years’ meed and due;The bud of homage graffed on chivalry.God took the souls that shrined the jewel of love,But made their sons inheritors thereof,In endless gold entail of loyalty.Time, compensating life, the fruit bestowedWhen in spent perfume passed the flower of youth;Her feet were set upon the upward road,Her face was turned towards the star of truthThat in her soul abode.With youth the maid’s bright brow was garlandedBut richer crowns adorn the dear white hair;The gathered love of all the years lies there,In coronal benediction on her head.She is of our blood, for hath not she, too, metThe angels of delight and of despair?Does not she, too, remember and forgetHow bitter or how bright the lost days were?Her eyes have tears made wet;She has seen joy unveilèd even as we,Has laid upon cold clay the heart-warm kiss,She has known Sorrow for the king he is;She has held little children on her knee.Mother, dear Mother, these your children riseAnd call you blessèd, and shall we not, too,Who are your children in the greater wise,And love you for our land and her for you?The blessing sanctifiesYour children as they breathe it at your knees,And, bringing little gifts from very far,Where the great nurseries of your Empire are,Your children’s blessings throng from over seas.On Love’s spread wings, and over leagues of space,Homage is borne from far-off sun-steeped lands;From many a domed mysterious Eastern place,Where Secresy holds Time between her hands,The children of your raceReach English hands towards your English throne;And from the far South turn blue English eyes,That never saw the blue of English skies,Yet call you Mother, and your land their own.Where ’mid great trees the mighty waters flowIn arrogant submission to your sway,In fur of price your northern hunters go,And shafts of ardent greeting fly your wayAcross the splendid snow;And isles that with their coral, safe and small,Rock in the cradle of the tropic seas,In soft, strange speech join in the litaniesThat pride and prayer breathe at your festival.All round the world, on every far-off sea,In wind-ploughed oceans and in sun-kissed bays,By every busy wharf and chattering quay,Some cantle of your Empire sails or stays —Flaunts your supremacyAgainst the winds of all the world, and fliesYour flag triumphant between blue and blue,Blazons to sun and star the name of you,And spreads your glory between seas and skies.There is no cottage garden, sunny-sweet,There is no pasture where our shepherds tendTheir quiet flocks, no red-roofed village street,But holds for you the love-wish of a friend,Blent with high homage meet;No little farm among the cornfields lone,No little cot upon the uplands bare,But hears to-day in blessing and in prayerOne name, Victoria, and that name your own.From the vast cities where the giant’s might,Pauseless, resistless, moves by night and day,From hidden mines where day is one with night,From weary lives whose days and nights are greyAnd empty of delight,From lives that rhyme to sunshine and the spring,From happiness at flood and hope at ebb,Rose the magnificent and mingled webThat floats, your banner, at your thanksgiving.Throned on the surety of a splendid past,With present glory clothed as with the sun,Crowned with the future’s hopes, you know at lastWhat treasure from the years your life has won;Behold, your hands hold fastThe moon of Empire, and its sway controlsThe tides of war and peace, while in those handsLies tender homage out of all the landsAgainst whose feet your furthest ocean rolls.How seems your life, looked back at through the years?Much love, much sorrow, dead desires, lost dreams,A great life lived out greatly; hidden tears,And smiles for daily wear; strong plans and schemes,And mighty hopes and fears;War in the South and murder in the East,And England’s heart-throbs echoed by your heartWhen loss, and labour, and sorrow were her part,Or when Fate bade her to some flower-crowned feast.Red battle-fields whereon your soldiers died,Green pastoral fields saved by the blood of these,Duty that bade mere sorrow stand aside,And love transforming anguish into ease;Long longing satisfied,Great secrets wrenched from Nature’s grudging breast,The fruit of knowledge plucked for all to eat, —These have you known, Life’s circle is complete,And, knowing these, you know what is Life’s best:The dear small secrets of our common life,The English woods and hills, the English home,The common joys and griefs of Mother and wife,Joy coming, going – griefs that go and come,Soul’s peace amid world’s strife;Hours when the Queen’s cares leave the woman free;Dear friendships, where the friend forgets the QueenAnd stoops to wear a dearer, homelier mien,And be more loved than mere Queens rise to be.And, in your hour of triumph, when you shineThe centre of our triumph’s blazing star,And, gazing down your long life’s lustrous line,Behold how great your life-long glories are,Yet, in your heart’s veiled shrine,No splendour of all splendours that have beenWill brim your eyes with tremulous thanksgivings,But little memories of little things —The treasures of the woman, not the Queen.Yet, Queen, because the love of you hath woundA golden girdle all about the earth,Because your name is as a trumpet soundTo call toward you men of English birthFrom the world’s outmost bound,Because old kinsmen, long estranged from home,Come, with old foes, to greet you, friend and kin,With kindly eyes behold your guests come in,See from afar the long procession come!No Emperor in Rome’s Imperial daysKnew ever such a triumph day as this,Though captive kings bore chains along his ways,Though tribute from the furthest isles was his,With pageant and with praise.For you – free kings and free republics graceYour triumph, and across the conquered wavesCome gifts from friends, not tributes wrung from slaves,And praise kneels, clothed in love, before your face.Ring, bells! flags, fly! and let the great crowd roarIts ecstasy! Let the hid heart in prayerLift up your name! God bless you evermore,Lady, who have the noblest crown to wearThat ever monarch wore.For, ’mid this day’s triumphal voluntaries,Your name shines like the splendour of the sun,Because your name with England’s name is one,As Hers, thank God! is one with Liberty’s.TRAFALGAR DAY
Laurels, bring laurels, sheaves on sheaves,Till England’s boughs are bare of leaves!Soon comes the flower more rare, more dearThan any laurel this year weaves —The Aloe of the hundredth yearSince from the smoke of TrafalgarHe passed to where the heroes are,Nelson, who passed and yet is here,Whose dust is fire beneath our feet,Whose memory mans our fleet.Laurels, bring laurels, since they holdHis England’s tears in each green fold,His England’s joy, his England’s pride,His England’s glories manifold.Yet what was Victory since he died?And what was Death since he lives yet,Above a Nation’s worship set,Above her heroes glorified? —Nelson, who made our flag a starTo lead where Victories are!A SONG OF TRAFALGAR
Like an angry sun, like a splendid star,War gleams down the long years’ track;They strain at the leash, the dogs of war,And who shall hold them back?“Let loose the pack: we are English bred,We will meet them full and fairWith the flag of England over our head,And his hand to keep it there!”So spake our fathers. Our flag, unfurled,Blew brave to the north and south;An iron answer we gave the world,For we spoke by the cannon’s mouth.But he who taught us the word to sayGrew dumb as his Victory sang,And England mourned on her triumph day,And wept while her joy-bells rang.Long hour by hour, and long day by day,The swift years crept apace,The patient, the coral-insect way,To cover the dear dead face.O foolish rabble of envious years,Who wist not the dead must rise,His name is music still in our ears,His face a light to our eyes!Bring hither your laurels, the fading signOf a deathless love and pride;These cling more close than the laurels twine,They are strong as the world is wide:At the feet of Virtue in Valour cladShall glory and love be laid,While Glory sings to an English lad,Or Love to an English maid.Wherever the gleams of an English fireOn an English roof-tree shine,Wherever the fire of a youth’s desireIs laid upon Honour’s shrine,Wherever brave deeds are treasured and told,In the tale of the deeds of yoreLike jewels of price in a chain of goldAre the name and the fame he bore.Wherever the track of our English shipsLies white on the ocean foam,His name is sweet to our English lipsAs the names of the flowers at home;Wherever the heart of an English boyGrows big with a deed of worth,Such names as his name have begot the same,Such hearts will bring it to birth.They say that his England, grown tired and old,Lies drunk by her heavy hoard;They say her hands have the grasp of the goldBut not the grip of the sword,That her robe of glory is rent and shred,And that winds of shame blow through:Speak for your England, O mighty Dead,In the deeds you would have her do!Small skill have we to fight with the penWho fought with the sword of old,For the sword that is wielded of EnglishmenIs as much as one hand can hold.Yet the pen and the tongue are safe to use,And the coward and the wise choose these;But fools and brave were our English crewsWhen Nelson swept the seas.’Tis the way of a statesman to fear and fret,To ponder and pause and plan,But the way of Nelson was better yet,For that was the way of a man;They would teach us smoothness, who once were rough,They have bidden us palter and pray,But the way of Nelson was good enough,For that was the fighting way.If Nelson’s England must stoop to bearWhat never honour should brook,In vain does the tomb of her hero wearThe laurel his brow forsook;In vain was the speech from the lips of her guns,If now must her lips refrain;In vain has she made us, her living sons,Her dead have made her in vain.So here with your bays be the dear head crowned,Lay flowers where the dear dust lies,And wreathe his column with laurel roundTo point his fame to the skies;But the greenest laurel that ever grewIs the laurel that’s yet to win;Crowned with his laurels he waits for YouTo bring Your laurels in!WATERLOO DAY
[June 18]This is the day of our glory; this is our day to weep.Under her dusty laurels England stirs in her sleep;Dreams of her days of honour, terrible days that are dead,Days of the making of story, days when the sword was red,When all her fate and her future hung on the naked blade,When by the sword of her children her place in the world was made,When Honour sounded the trumpet and Valour leapt to obey,And Heroes bought us the Empire that statesmen would sell to-day.England, wanton and weary, sunk in a slothful ease,Has slain in her wars her thousands, but her tens of thousands in peace:And the cowards grieve for her glory; their glory is in their shame;They are glad of the moth in her banners, and the rust on her shining name.Oh, if the gods would send us a balm for our sick, sad years,Let them send us a sight of the scarlet, and the sound of the guns in our ears!For valour and faith and honour – these grow where the red flower grows,And the leaves for the Nation’s healing must spring from the blood of her foes.A SONG OF PEACE AND HONOUR
[December, 1895]TO THE QUEENLady and Queen, for whom our laurels twine,Upon whose head the glories of our landIn one immortal diadem are met,Embodied England, in whose woman-handThe sceptre of Imperial sway is set,Receive this song of mine!For you are England, and her bays grow greenTo deck your brow, your goodness lends her grace,And in our hearts your face is as Her face;The Mother-Country is the Mother-Queen.* * * * * *We, men of England, children of her might,With all our Mother’s record-roll of glory,Great with her greatness, noble by her name,Drank with our mothers’ milk our Mother’s story,And in our veins the splendour of her fameMade strong our blood and bright;And to her absent sons her name has beenFamiliar music heard in distant lands,Heart of our heart and sinews of our hands,England, our Mother, our Mistress and our Queen!Out of the thunderous echoes of the pastThrough the gold-dust of centuries we hearHer voice, “O children of a royal line,Sons of her heart, whom England holdeth dear,Mine was the Past – make ye the future mineAll glorious to the last!”And, as we hear her, cowards grow to men,And men to heroes, and the voice of fearIs as a whisper in a deaf man’s ear,And the dead past is quick in us again.Her robe is woven of glory and renown,Hers are the golden-laden Argosies,And lordship of the wild and watery ways,Her flag is blown across the utmost seas:Dead nations built her throne, and kingdoms blazeFor jewels in her crown.Her Empire like a girdle doth enfoldThe world; her feet upon her foes are set;She wears the steel-wrought, blood-bright amuletWon by her children in the days of old.Yet in a treasury of such gems as theseWhich power and sovereignty and kingship fillTo the vast limit of the circling sun,England, our Mother, in her heart holds still,As her most precious jewel, save only one,The priceless pearl of peace —Peace plucked from out the very heart of warThrough the long agony of strenuous years,Made pure by blood and sanctified by tears,A pearl to lie where England’s treasures are.O peaceful English lanes all white with may,O English meadows where the grass grows tall,O red-roofed village, field and farm and foldWhere the long shadows of the elm-trees fallOn the wide pastures which the sun calls goldAnd twilit dew calls gray; —These are the home, the happy cradle-placeOf every man who has our English tongue,Sprung from those loins from which our sires have sprung,Heirs of the glory of our mighty race!Brothers, we hold the pearl of priceless worth:Shall Peace, our pearl, by us be cast aside?Is it not more to us than all things are?Nay, Peace is precious as the world is wide,But England’s honour is more precious farThan all the heavens and earth.Were honour outcast from her supreme placeOur pearl of Peace no more a pearl would shine,But, trampled under-foot of cowards and swine,Rot in the mire of a deserved disgrace.Know then, O ye our brothers over sea,We will not cast our pearl of Peace away,But, holding it, we wait; and if, at last,The whole world came against us in array,If all our glory into darkness passed,Our Empire ceased to be,Yet should we still have chosen the better partThough in the dust our kingdoms were cast down,Though lost were every jewel in our crownWe still should wear our jewel in our heart.So, for our Mother’s honour, if it mustLet Peace be lost, but lost the worthier way;Not trampled down, but given, for her sakeWho forged of many an iron yesterdayThe golden song that gold-tongued fame shall wakeWhen we are dust, in dust:For brotherhood and strife and praise and blameAnd all the world, even to our very land,Weighed in the balance, are as a grain of sandAgainst the honour of our English name!II
THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE LADY
Sir Geoffrey met the white ladyUpon his marriage morn,Her eyes were blue as cornflowers are,Her hair was gold like corn.Sir Geoffrey gave the white ladyA posy of roses seven,“You are the fairest May,” said he,“That ever strayed from Heaven.”Sir Geoffrey by the white ladyWas lured away to shame,For seven long years of prayers and tearsNo tidings of him came.Then she who should have been his brideA mighty oath she swore,“For seven long years I have wept and prayed,Now I will pray no more.“Since God and all the saints of HeavenBring not my lord to me,I will go down myself to hellAnd bring him back,” said she.* * * * *She crept to the white lady’s bower,The taper’s flame was dim,And there Sir Geoffrey lay asleep,And the white witch sat by him.Her arm was laid across his neck,Her gold hair on his face,And there was silence in the roomAs in a burial-place.And there were gems and carven cups,And ’broidered bridal gear —“Whose bridal is this?” the lady said,“And what knight have ye here?”“The good knight here ye know full well,He was your lord, I trow,But I have taken him from your side,And I am his lady now.“This seven year with right good cheerWe twain our bridal keep,So take for your mate another knightAnd let my dear lord sleep.”Then up and spake Sir Geoffrey’s bride,“What bridal cheer is this?I would think scorn to have the lipsWho could not have the kiss!“I would think scorn to take the halfWho could not have the whole;I would think scorn to steal the bodyWho could not take the soul!“For, though ye hold his body fastThis seven weary year,His soul walks ever at my sideAnd whispers in my ear.“I would think scorn to hold in sleepWhat, if it waked, would flee,So let his body join his soulAnd both fare forth with me;“For I have learned a spell more strongThan yours that laid him low,And I will speak it for his sakeBecause I love him so!”The white lady threw back her hair,Her eyes began to shine —“His soul is thine these seven years? —To-night it shall be mine!“I have been brave to hold him hereWhile seven long years befell,Rather than let a bridal beWhose seed should flower in hell.“I have not looked into his eyesNor joined my lips to his,For fear his soul should spring to flameAnd shrivel at my kiss.“I have been brave to watch his sleepWhile the long hours come and go,To hold the body without the soul,Because I love him so.“But since his soul this seven yearHas sat by thee,” she said,“His body and soul to-night shall lieUpon my golden bed.“Thou hast no need to speak the spellThat thou hast learned,” said she,“For I will wake him from his sleepAnd take his soul from thee.”She stooped above him where he lay,She laid her lips on his;He stirred, he spake: “These seven long yearsI have waited for thy kiss.“My soul has hung upon thy lipsAnd trembled at thy breath,Thou hast given me life in a cup to drink,As God will give me death.“Why didst thou fear to kill my soulWhich only lives for thee?Thou hast put seven wasted years,O love, ’twixt thee and me.”THE GHOST BEREFT
The poor ghost came through the wind and rainAnd passed down the old dear road again.Thin cowered the hedges, the tall trees swayedLike little children that shrank afraid.The wind was wild and the night was lateWhen the poor ghost came to the garden gate;Dank were the flower-beds, heavy and wet,The weeds stood up where the rose was set.The wind was angry, the rain beat soreWhen the poor ghost came to its own house-door.“And shall I find her a-weeping stillTo think how alone I lie and chill?“Or shall I find her happy and warmWith her dear head laid on a new love’s arm?“Or shall I find she has learned to pineFor another’s love, and not for mine?“Whatever chance, I have this to my store,She is mine, my own, for evermore!”So the poor ghost came through the wind and rainTill it reached the square bright window pane.“Oh! what is here in the room so bright?Roses and love, and a hid delight?“What lurks in the silence that fills the room?A cypress wreath from a dead man’s tomb?“What sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it beHer heart that is breaking – and not for me?”Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane,Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain.“Oh, there is light, at the feet and headTwelve tall tapers about the bed.“Oh, there are flowers, white flowers and rare,But not the garland a bride may wear.“Jasmine white and a white white rose,But its scent is gone where the lost dream goes.“Straight lilies laid on the strait white bier —But the room is empty – she is not here!“Her body lies here, deserted, cold;And the body that loved it creeps in the mould.“Was there ever an hour when my Love, set free,Would not have hastened and come to me?“Can the soul that loved mine long agoBe hence and away, and I not know?“Oh, then God’s judgment is on me sore,For I have lost her for evermore!”And the poor ghost fared through the wind and rainTo its own appointed place again.* * * * *But up in Heaven, where memories ceaseBecause the blessed have won to peace,One pale saint shivered, and closer woundThe shining raiment that wrapped her round.“Oh, fair is Heaven, and glad am I,Yet I fain would remember the days gone by.“The past is veiled, and I may not know,But I think there was sorrow, long ago;“The sun of Heaven is warm and bright,But I think there is rain on the earth to-night.“O Christ, because of Thine own sore painHelp all poor souls in the wind and rain.”