The Years Between
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EN-DOR
'Behold there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at En-dor'1 Samuel XXVIII 7The road to En-dor is easy to treadFor Mother or yearning Wife.There, it is sure, we shall meet our DeadAs they were even in life.Earth has not dreamed of the blessing in storeFor desolate hearts on the road to En-dor.Whispers shall comfort us out of the dark —Hands – ah God! – that we knew!Visions and voices – look and heark! —Shall prove that our tale is true,And that those who have passed to the further shoreMay be hailed – at a price – on the road to En-dor.But they are so deep in their new eclipseNothing they say can reach,Unless it be uttered by alien lipsAnd framed in a stranger's speech.The son must send word to the mother that bore,Through an hireling's mouth. 'Tis the rule of En-dor.And not for nothing these gifts are shownBy such as delight our dead.They must twitch and stiffen and slaver a groanEre the eyes are set in the head,And the voice from the belly begins. ThereforeWe pay them a wage where they ply at En-dor.Even so, we have need of faithAnd patience to follow the clue.Often, at first, what the dear one saithIs babble, or jest, or untrue.(Lying spirits perplex us soreTill our loves – and our lives – are well known at En-dor)…Oh the road to En-dor is the oldest roadAnd the craziest road of all!Straight it runs to the Witch's abode,As it did in the days of Saul,And nothing has changed of the sorrow in storeFor such as go down on the road to En-dor!A RECANTATION
(TO LYDE OF THE MUSIC HALLS)What boots it on the Gods to call?Since, answered or unheard,We perish with the Gods and allThings made – except the Word.Ere certain Fate had touched a heartBy fifty years made cold,I judged thee, Lyde, and thy artO'erblown and over-bold.But he – but he, of whom bereftI suffer vacant days —He on his shield not meanly left —He cherished all thy lays.Witness the magic coffer stockedWith convoluted runesWherein thy very voice was lockedAnd linked to circling tunes.Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled,That decked his shelter-place.Life seemed more present, wrote the child,Beneath thy well-known face.And when the grudging days restoredHim for a breath to home,He, with fresh crowds of youth, adoredThee making mirth in Rome.Therefore, I, humble, join the hosts,Loyal and loud, who bowTo thee as Queen of Songs – and ghosts —For I remember howNever more rampant rose the HallAt thy audacious lineThan when the news came in from GaulThy son had – followed mine.But thou didst hide it in thy breastAnd, capering, took the bruntOf blaze and blare, and launched the jestThat swept next week the front.Singer to children! Ours possessedSleep before noon – but thee,Wakeful each midnight for the rest,No holocaust shall free.Yet they who use the Word assigned,To hearten and make whole,Not less than Gods have served mankind,Though vultures rend their soul.MY BOY JACK
'Have you news of my boy Jack?'Not this tide.'When d'you think that he'll come back?'Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.'Has any one else had word of him?'Not this tide.For what is sunk will hardly swim,Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'None this tide,Nor any tide,Except he did not shame his kind—Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.Then hold your head up all the more,This tide,And every tide;Because he was the son you bore,And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!THE VERDICTS
(JUTLAND)Not in the thick of the fight,Not in the press of the odds,Do the heroes come to their height,Or we know the demi-gods.That stands over till peace.We can only perceiveMen returned from the seas,Very grateful for leave.They grant us sudden daysSnatched from their business of war;But we are too close to appraiseWhat manner of men they are.And, whether their names go downWith age-kept victories,Or whether they battle and drownUnreckoned, is hid from our eyes.They are too near to be great,But our children shall understandWhen and how our fateWas changed, and by whose hand.Our children shall measure their worth.We are content to be blindBut we know that we walk on a new-born earthWith the saviours of mankind.MESOPOTAMIA
1917They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slainIn sight of help denied from day to day:But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,Are they too strong and wise to put away?Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide —Never while the bars of sunset hold:But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour?When the storm is ended shall we findHow softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to powerBy the favour and contrivance of their kind?Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,Even while they make a show of fear,Do they call upon their debtors, and take council with their friends,To confirm and re-establish each career?Their lives cannot repay us – their death could not undo —The shame that they have laid upon our race:But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,Shall we leave it unabated in its place?THE HYÆNAS
After the burial-parties leaveAnd the baffled kites have fled,The wise hyænas come out at eveTo take account of our dead.How he died and why he diedTroubles them not a whit.They snout the bushes and stones asideAnd dig till they come to it.They are only resolute they shall eatThat they and their mates may thrive,And they know that the dead are safer meatThan the weakest thing alive.(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,And a child will sometimes stand;But a poor dead soldier of the KingCan never lift a hand.)They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirtUntil their tushes whiteTake good hold in the army shirt,And tug the corpse to light,And the pitiful face is shewn againFor an instant ere they close;But it is not discovered to living men —Only to God and to thoseWho, being soulless, are free from shame,Whatever meat they may find.Nor do they defile the dead man's name —That is reserved for his kind.THE SPIES' MARCH
(BEFORE THE WAR)('The outbreak is in full swing and our death-rate would sicken Napoleon… Dr M – died last week, and C – on Monday, but some more medicines are coming… We don't seem to be able to check it at all… Villages panicking badly… In some places not a living soul… But at any rate the experience gained may come in useful, so I am keeping my notes written up to date in case of accidents… Death is a queer chap to live with for steady company.' Extracted from a private letter from Manchuria.)There are no leaders to lead us to honour, and yet without leaders we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugles we rally,
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!
Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!Not where the squadrons mass,Not where the bayonets shine,Not where the big shell shout as they passOver the firing-line;Not where the wounded are,Not where the nations die,Killed in the cleanly game of war —That is no place for a spy!O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours —Here is no place for a spy!Trained to another use,We march with colours furled,Only concerned when Death breaks looseOn a front of half a world.Only for General DeathThe Yellow Flag may fly,While we take post beneath —That is the place for a spy.Where Plague has spread his pinions over Nations and Dominions —Then will be work for a spy!The dropping shots begin,The single funerals pass,Our skirmishers run in,The corpses dot the grass!The howling towns stampede,The tainted hamlets die.Now it is war indeed —Now there is room for a spy!O Peoples, Kings and Lands, we are waiting your commands —What is the work for a spy?(Drums) —'Fear is upon us, spy!'Go where his pickets hide —Unmask the shapes they take,Whether a gnat from the waterside,Or stinging fly in the brake,Or filth of the crowded street,Or a sick rat limping by,Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat —That is the work of a spy!(Drums) —Death is upon us, spy!'What does he next prepare?Whence will he move to attack? —By water, earth or air? —How can we head him back?Shall we starve him out if we burnOr bury his food-supply?Slip through his lines and learn —That is work for a spy!(Drums) —Get to your business, spy!'Does he feint or strike in force?Will he charge or ambuscade?What is it checks his course?Is he beaten or only delayed?How long will the lull endure?Is he retreating? Why?Crawl to his camp and make sure —That is the work for a spy!(Drums) —Fetch us our answer, spy!'Ride with him girth to girthWherever the Pale Horse wheels,Wait on his councils, ear to earth,And say what the dust reveals.For the smoke of our torment rollsWhere the burning thousands lie;What do we care for men's bodies or souls?Bring us deliverance, spy!'THE SONS OF MARTHA
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part,But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.They say to mountains 'Be ye removèd.' They say to the lesser floods 'Be dry.'Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd – they are not afraid of that which is high.Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit – then is the bed of the deep laid bare,That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.He rears against the gates they rend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.They are concerned with matters hidden – under the earth-line their altars are.The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their work when they damn-well choose.As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat,Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd – they know the angels are on their side.They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.They sit at the Feet – they hear the Word – they see how truly the Promise runs:They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and – the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!MARY'S SON
If you stop to find out what your wages will beAnd how they will clothe and feed you,Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea,For the Sea will never need you.If you ask for the reason of every command,And argue with people about you,Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land,For the Land will do better without you.If you stop to consider the work you have doneAnd to boast what your labour is worth, dear,Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,But you'll never be wanted on Earth, dear!THE SONG OF THE LATHES
1918(Being the words of the tune hummed at her lathe by Mrs. L. Embsay, widow.)The fans and the beltings they roar round me.The power is shaking the floor round meTill the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.It is good for me to be here!Guns in Flanders – Flanders guns!(I had a man that worked 'em once!)Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!The cranes and the carriers they boom over me,The bays and the galleries they loom over me,With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in the distance:It is good for me to be here!The Zeppelins and Gothas they raid over us.Our lights give warning, and fade over us.(Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)Oh, it is good for me to be here!The roofs and the buildings they grow round me,Eating up the fields I used to know round me;And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector's office —So long have I been here!I've seen six hundred mornings make our lamps grow dim,Through the bit that isn't painted round our skylight rim,And the sunshine in the window slope according to the seasons,Twice since I've been here.The trains on the sidings they call to usWith the hundred thousand blanks that they haul to us;And we send 'em what we've finished, and they take it where it's wanted,For that is why we are here!Man's hate passes as his love will pass.God made woman what she always was.Them that bear the burden they will never grant forgivenessSo long as they are here!Once I was a woman, but that's by with me.All I loved and looked for, it must die with me.But the Lord has left me over for a servant of the Judgment,And I serve His Judgments here!Guns in Flanders – Flanders guns!(I had a son that worked 'em once!)Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!GETHSEMANE
The Garden called GethsemaneIn Picardy it was,And there the people came to seeThe English soldiers pass.We used to pass – we used to passOr halt, as it might be,And ship our masks in case of gasBeyond Gethsemane.The Garden called Gethsemane,It held a pretty lass,But all the time she talked to meI prayed my cup might pass.The officer sat on the chair,The men lay on the grass,And all the time we halted thereI prayed my cup might pass —It didn't pass – it didn't pass —It didn't pass from me.I drank it when we met the gasBeyond Gethsemane.THE PRO-CONSULS
The overfaithful sword returns the userHis heart's desire at price of his heart's blood.The clamour of the arrogant accuserWastes that one hour we needed to make good.This was foretold of old at our outgoing;This we accepted who have squandered, knowing,The strength and glory of our reputations,At the day's need, as it were dross, to guardThe tender and new-dedicate foundationsAgainst the sea we fear – not man's award.They that dig foundations deep,Fit for realms to rise upon,Little honour do they reapOf their generation,Any more than mountains gainStature till we reach the plain.With no veil before their faceSuch as shroud or sceptre lend —Daily in the market-place,Of one height to foe and friend —They must cheapen self to findEnds uncheapened for mankind.Through the night when hirelings rest,Sleepless they arise, alone,The unsleeping arch to testAnd the o'er-trusted corner-stone,'Gainst the need, they know, that liesHid behind the centuries.Not by lust of praise or show,Not by Peace herself betrayed —Peace herself must they foregoTill that peace be fitly made;And in single strength upholdWearier hands and hearts acold.On the stage their act hath framedFor thy sports, O Liberty!Doubted are they, and defamedBy the tongues their act set free,While they quicken, tend and raisePower that must their power displace.Lesser men feign greater goals,Failing whereof they may sitScholarly to judge the soulsThat go down into the pit,And, despite its certain clay,Heave a new world towards the day.These at labour make no sign,More than planets, tides or yearsWhich discover God's design,Not our hopes and not our fears;Nor in aught they gain or loseSeek a triumph or excuse.For, so the Ark be borne to Zion, whoHeeds how they perished or were paid that bore it?For, so the Shrine abide, what shame – what pride —If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?THE CRAFTSMAN
Once, after long-drawn revel at The Mermaid,He to the overbearing BoanergesJonson, uttered (If half of it were liquor,Blessed be the vintage!)Saying how, at an alehouse under Cotswold,He had made sure of his very Cleopatra,Drunk with enormous, salvation-contemningLove for a tinker.How, while he hid from Sir Thomas's keepers,Crouched in a ditch and drenched by the midnightDews, he had listened to gipsy JulietRail at the dawning.How at Bankside, a boy drowning kittensWinced at the business; whereupon his sister(Lady Macbeth aged seven) thrust 'em under,Sombrely scornful.How on a Sabbath, hushed and compassionate —She being known since her birth to the townsfolk —Stratford dredged and delivered from AvonDripping Ophelia.So, with a thin third finger marryingDrop to wine-drop domed on the table,Shakespeare opened his heart till sunriseEntered to hear him.London wakened and he, imperturbable,Passed from waking to hurry after shadows …Busied upon shows of no earthly importance?Yes, but he knew it!THINGS AND THE MAN
(IN MEMORIAM, JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN)1904'And Joseph dreamed a dream, and he told it his brethren; and they hated him yet the more.' —Genesis XXXVII. 5Oh ye who hold the written clueTo all save all unwritten things,And, half a league behind, pursueThe accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,Look! To your knee your baby bringsThe oldest tale since Earth began —The answer to your worryings'Once on a time there was a Man.'He, single-handed, met and slewMagicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.He lonely 'mid his doubting crew —'In all the loneliness of wings' —He fed the flame, he filled the springs,He locked the ranks, he launched the vanStraight at the grinning Teeth of Things.'Once on a time there was a Man.'The peace of shocked Foundations flewBefore his ribald questionings.He broke the Oracles in two,And bared the paltry wires and strings.He headed desert wanderings,He led his soul, his cause, his clanA little from the ruck of Things.'Once on a time there was a Man.'Thrones, Powers, Dominions block the viewWith episodes and underlings —The meek historian deems them trueNor heeds the song that Clio sings —The simple central truth that stingsThe mob to boo, the priest to ban;Things never yet created things —'Once on a time there was a Man.'A bolt is fallen from the blue.A wakened realm full circle swingsWhere Dothan's dreamer dreams anewOf vast and farborne harvestings;And unto him an Empire clingsThat grips the purpose of his plan.My Lords, how think you of these things?Once – in our time – is there a Man?THE BENEFACTORS
Ah! What avails the classic bentAnd what the cultured word,Against the undoctored incidentThat actually occurred?And what is Art whereto we pressThrough paint and prose and rhyme —When Nature in her nakednessDefeats us every time?It is not learning, grace nor gear,Nor easy meat and drink,But bitter pinch of pain and fearThat makes creation think.When in this world's unpleasing youthOur god-like race began,The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,Gave man control of man;Till, bruised and bitten to the boneAnd taught by pain and fear,He learned to deal the far-off stone,And poke the long, safe spear.So tooth and nail were obsoleteAs means against a foe,Till, bored by uniform defeat,Some genius built the bow.Then stone and javelin proved as vainAs old-time tooth and nail,Ere, spurred anew by fear and pain,Man fashioned coats of mail.Then was there safety for the richAnd danger for the poor,Till someone mixed a powder whichRedressed the scale once more.Helmet and armour disappearedWith sword and bow and pike,And, when the smoke of battle cleared,All men were armed alike…And when ten million such were slainTo please one crazy king,Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,Grew weary of the thing;And, at the very hour designed,To enslave him past recall,His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mindTurned and abolished all.All Power, each Tyrant, every MobWhose head has grown too large,Ends by destroying its own jobAnd earns its own discharge.And Man, whose mere necessitiesMove all things from his path,Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,And deprecates their wrath!THE DEAD KING
(EDWARD VII.)1910Who in the Realm to-day lays down dear life for the sake of a land more dear?And, unconcerned for his own estate, toils till the last grudged sands have run?Let him approach. It is proven hereOur King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.For to him above all was Life good, above all he commandedHer abundance full-handed.The peculiar treasure of Kings was his for the taking:All that men come to in dreams he inherited waking: —His marvel of world-gathered armies – one heart and all races,His seas 'neath his keels when his war-castles foamed to their places;The thundering foreshores that answered his heralded landing;The huge lighted cities adoring, the assemblies upstanding;The Councils of Kings called in haste to learn how he was minded —The Kingdoms, the Powers, and the Glories he dealt with unblinded.To him came all captains of men, all achievers of glory,Hot from the press of their battles they told him their story.They revealed him their life in an hour and, saluting, departed,Joyful to labour afresh – he had made them new-hearted.And, since he weighed men from his youth, and no lie long deceived him,He spoke and exacted the truth, and the basest believed him.And God poured him an exquisite wine, that was daily renewed to him,In the clear-welling love of his peoples that daily accrued to him.Honour and service we gave him, rejoicingly fearless;Faith absolute, trust beyond speech and a friendship as peerless.And since he was Master and Servant in all that we asked him,We leaned hard on his wisdom in all things, knowing not how we tasked him.For on Him each new day laid command, every tyrannous hour,To confront, or confirm, or make smooth some dread issue of power;To deliver true judgment aright at the instant, unaided,In the strict, level, ultimate phrase that allowed or dissuaded;To foresee, to allay, to avert from us perils unnumbered,To stand guard on our gates when he guessed that the watchmen had slumbered;To win time, to turn hate, to woo folly to service and, mightily schoolingHis strength to the use of his Nations, to rule as not ruling.These were the works of our King; Earth's peace was the proof of them.God gave him great works to fulfil, and to us the behoof of them.We accepted his toil as our right – none spared, none excused him.When he was bowed by his burden his rest was refused him.We troubled his age with our weakness – the blacker our shame to us!Hearing his People had need of him, straightway he came to us.As he received so he gave – nothing grudged, naught denying,Not even the last gasp of his breath when he strove for us, dyingFor our sakes, without question, he put from him all that he cherished.Simply as any that serve him he served and he perished.All that Kings covet was his, and he flung it aside for us.Simply as any that die in his service he died for us.Who in the Realm to-day has choice of the easy road or the hard to tread?And, much concerned for his own estate, would sell his soul to remain in the sun?Let him depart nor look on Our dead.Our King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.