Songs Of The Road
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THE WANDERER1
'Twas in the shadowy gloaming Of a cold and wet March day, That a wanderer came roaming From countries far away. Scant raiment had he round him, Nor purse, nor worldly gear, Hungry and faint we found him, And bade him welcome here. His weary frame bent double, His eyes were old and dim, His face was writhed with trouble Which none might share with him. His speech was strange and broken, And none could understand, Such words as might be spoken In some far distant land. We guessed not whence he hailed from, Nor knew what far-off quay His roving bark had sailed from Before he came to me. But there he was, so slender, So helpless and so pale, That my wife's heart grew tender For one who seemed so frail. She cried, "But you must bide here! You shall no further roam. Grow stronger by our side here, Within our moorland home!" She laid her best before him, Homely and simple fare, And to his couch she bore him The raiment he should wear. To mine he had been welcome, My suit of russet brown, But she had dressed our weary guest In a loose and easy gown. And long in peace he lay there, Brooding and still and weak, Smiling from day to day there At thoughts he would not speak. The months flowed on, but ever Our guest would still remain, Nor made the least endeavour To leave our home again. He heeded not for grammar, Nor did we care to teach, But soon he learned to stammer Some words of English speech. With these our guest would tell us The things that he liked best, And order and compel us To follow his behest. He ruled us without malice, But as if he owned us all, A sultan in his palace With his servants at his call. Those calls came fast and faster, Our service still we gave, Till I who had been master Had grown to be his slave. He claimed with grasping gestures Each thing of price he saw, Watches and rings and vestures, His will the only law. In vain had I commanded, In vain I struggled still, Servants and wife were banded To do the stranger's will. And then in deep dejection It came to me one day, That my own wife's affection Had been beguiled away. Our love had known no danger, So certain had it been! And now to think a stranger Should dare to step between. I saw him lie and harken To the little songs she sung, And when the shadows darken I could hear his lisping tongue. They would sit in chambers shady, When the light was growing dim, Ah, my fickle-hearted lady! With your arm embracing him. So, at last, lest he divide us, I would put them to the test. There was no one there beside us, Save this interloping guest. So I took my stand before them, Very silent and erect, My accusing glance passed o'er them, Though with no observed effect. But the lamp light shone upon her, And I saw each tell-tale feature, As I cried, "Now, on your honour, Do or don't you love the creature?" But her answer seemed evasive, It was "Ducky-doodle-doo! If his mummy loves um babby, Doesn't daddums love um too?"BENDY'S SERMON
[Bendigo, the well-known Nottingham prize fighter, became converted to religion, and preached at revival meetings throughout the country.]
You didn't know of Bendigo! Well, that knocks me out! Who's your board school teacher? What's he been about? Chock-a-block with fairy-tales – full of useless cram, And never heard o' Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham! Bendy's short for Bendigo. You should see him peel! Half of him was whalebone, half of him was steel, Fightin' weight eleven ten, five foot nine in height, Always ready to oblige if you want a fight. I could talk of Bendigo from here to king- dom come, I guess before I ended you would wish your dad was dumb. I'd tell you how he fought Ben Caunt, and how the deaf 'un fell, But the game is done, and the men are gone – and maybe it's as well. Bendy he turned Methodist – he said he felt a call, He stumped the country preachin' and you bet he filled the hall, If you seed him in the pulpit, a-bleatin' like a lamb, You'd never know bold Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham. His hat was like a funeral, he'd got a waiter's coat, With a hallelujah collar and a choker round his throat, His pals would laugh and say in chaff that Bendigo was right, In takin' on the devil, since he'd no one else to fight. But he was very earnest, improvin' day by day, A-workin' and a-preachin' just as his duty lay, But the devil he was waitin', and in the final bout, He hit him hard below his guard and knocked poor Bendy out. Now I'll tell you how it happened. He was preachin' down at Brum, He was billed just like a circus, you should see the people come, The chapel it was crowded, and in the fore- most row, There was half a dozen bruisers who'd a grudge at Bendigo. There was Tommy Piatt of Bradford, Solly Jones of Perry Bar, Long Connor from the Bull Ring, the same wot drew with Carr, Jack Ball the fightin gunsmith, Joe Mur- phy from the Mews, And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, the Champion of the Jews. A very pretty handful a-sittin' in a string, Full of beer and impudence, ripe for any- thing, Sittin' in a string there, right under Bendy's nose, If his message was for sinners, he could make a start on those. Soon he heard them chaflin'; "Hi, Bendy! Here's a go!" "How much are you coppin' by this Jump to Glory show?" "Stow it, Bendy! Left the ring! Mighty spry of you! Didn't everybody know the ring was leavin' you." Bendy fairly sweated as he stood above and prayed, "Look down, O Lord, and grip me with a strangle hold!" he said. "Fix me with a strangle hold! Put a stop on me! I'm slippin', Lord, I'm slippin' and I'm clingin' hard to Thee!" But the roughs they kept on chaffin' and the uproar it was such That the preacher in the pulpit might be talkin' double Dutch, Till a workin' man he shouted out, a- jumpin' to his feet, "Give us a lead, your reverence, and heave 'em in the street." Then Bendy said, "Good Lord, since first I left my sinful ways, Thou knowest that to Thee alone I've given up my days, But now, dear Lord" – and here he laid his Bible on the shelf — "I'll take, with your permission, just five minutes for myself." He vaulted from the pulpit like a tiger from a den, They say it was a lovely sight to see him floor his men; Right and left, and left and right, straight and true and hard, Till the Ebenezer Chapel looked more like a knacker's yard. Platt was standin' on his back and lookup at his toes, Solly Jones of Perry Bar was feelin' for his nose, Connor of the Bull Ring had all that he could do Rakin' for his ivories that lay about the pew. Jack Ball the fightin' gunsmith was in a peaceful sleep, Joe Murphy lay across him, all tied up in a heap, Five of them was twisted in a tangle on the floor, And Iky Moss, the bettin' boss, had sprinted for the door. Five repentant fightin' men, sitting in a row, Listenin' to words of grace from Mister Bendigo, Listenin' to his reverence – all as good as gold, Pretty little baa-lambs, gathered to the fold. So that's the way that Bendy ran his mission in the slum, And preached the Holy Gospel to the fightin' men of Brum, "The Lord," said he, "has given me His message from on high, And if you interrupt Him, I will know the reason why." But to think of all your schooling clean wasted, thrown away, Darned if I can make out what you're learnin' all the day, Grubbin' up old fairy-tales, fillin' up with cram, And didn't know of Bendigo, the pride of Nottingham.II. – PHILOSOPHIC VERSES
COMPENSATION
The grime is on the window pane, Pale the London sunbeams fall, And show the smudge of mildew stain, Which lies on the distempered wall. I am a cripple, as you see, And here I lie, a broken thing, But God has given flight to me, That mocks the swiftest eagle wing. For if I will to see or hear, Quick as the thought my spirit flies, And lo! the picture flashes clear, Through all the mist of centuries. I can recall the Tigris' strand, Where once the Turk and Tartar met, When the great Lord of Samarcand Struck down the Sultan Bajazet. Under a ten-league swirl of dust The roaring battle swings and sways, Now reeling down, now upward thrust, The crescent sparkles through the haze. I see the Janissaries fly, I see the chain-mailed leader fall, I hear the Tekbar clear and high, The true believer's battle-call. And tossing o'er the press I mark The horse-tail banner over all, Shaped like the smudge of mildew dark That lies on the distempered wall. And thus the meanest thing I see Will set a scene within my brain, And every sound that comes to me, Will bring strange echoes back again. Hark now! In rhythmic monotone, You hear the murmur of the mart, The low, deep, unremitting moan, That comes from weary London's heart. But I can change it to the hum Of multitudinous acclaim, When triple-walled Byzantium, Re-echoes the Imperial name. I hear the beat of armed feet, The legions clanking on their way, The long shout rims from street to street, With rolling drum and trumpet bray. So I hear it rising, falling, Till it dies away once more, And I hear the costers calling Mid the weary London roar. Who shall pity then the lameness, Which still holds me from the ground? Who commiserate the sameness Of the scene that girds me round? Though I lie a broken wreck, Though I seem to want for all, Still the world is at my beck And the ages at my call.THE BANNER OF PROGRESS
There's a banner in our van, And we follow as we can, For at times we scarce can see it, And at times it flutters high. But however it be flown, Still we know it as our own, And we follow, ever follow, Where we see the banner fly. In the struggle and the strife, In the weariness of life, The banner-man may stumble, He may falter in the fight. But if one should fail or slip, There are other hands to grip, And it's forward, ever forward, From the darkness to the light.HOPE
Faith may break on reason, Faith may prove a treason To that highest gift That is granted by Thy grace; But Hope! Ah, let us cherish Some spark that may not perish, Some tiny spark to cheer us, As we wander through the waste! A little lamp beside us, A little lamp to guide us, Where the path is rocky, Where the road is steep. That when the light falls dimmer, Still some God-sent glimmer May hold us steadfast ever, To the track that we should keep. Hope for the trending of it, Hope for the ending of it, Hope for all around us, That it ripens in the sun. Hope for what is waning, Hope for what is gaining, Hope for what is waiting When the long day is done. Hope that He, the nameless, May still be best and blameless, Nor ever end His highest With the earthworm and the slime. Hope that o'er the border, There lies a land of order, With higher law to reconcile The lower laws of Time. Hope that every vexed life, Finds within that next life, Something that may recompense, Something that may cheer. And that perchance the lowest one Is truly but the slowest one, Quickened by the sorrow Which is waiting for him here.RELIGIO MEDICI
1 God's own best will bide the test, And God's own worst will fall; But, best or worst or last or first, He ordereth it all.2 For all is good, if understood, (Ah, could we understand!) And right and ill are tools of skill Held in His either hand.3 The harlot and the anchorite, The martyr and the rake, Deftly He fashions each aright, Its vital part to take.4 Wisdom He makes to form the fruit Where the high blossoms be; And Lust to kill the weaker shoot, And Drink to trim the tree.5 And Holiness that so the bole Be solid at the core; And Plague and Fever, that the whole Be changing evermore.6 He strews the microbes in the lung, The blood-clot in the brain; With test and test He picks the best, Then tests them once again.7 He tests the body and the mind, He rings them o'er and o'er; And if they crack, He throws them back, And fashions them once more.8 He chokes the infant throat with slime, He sets the ferment free; He builds the tiny tube of lime That blocks the artery.9 He lets the youthful dreamer store Great projects in his brain, Until He drops the fungus spore That smears them out again.10 He stores the milk that feeds the babe, He dulls the tortured nerve; He gives a hundred joys of sense Where few or none might serve.11 And still He trains the branch of good Where the high blossoms be, And wieldeth still the shears of ill To prune and prime His tree.MAN'S LIMITATION
Man says that He is jealous, Man says that He is wise, Man says that He is watching From His throne beyond the skies. But perchance the arch above us Is one great mirror's span, And the Figure seen so dimly Is a vast reflected man. If it is love that gave us A thousand blossoms bright, Why should that love not save us From poisoned aconite? If this man blesses sunshine Which sets his fields aglow, Shall that man curse the tempest That lays his harvest low? If you may sing His praises For health He gave to you, What of this spine-curved cripple, Shall he sing praises too? If you may justly thank Him For strength in mind and limb, Then what of yonder weakling — Must he give thanks to Him? Ah dark, too dark, the riddle! The tiny brain too small! We call, and fondly listen, For answer to that call. There comes no word to tell us Why this and that should be, Why you should live with sorrow, And joy should live with me.MIND AND MATTER
Great was his soul and high his aim, He viewed the world, and he could trace A lofty plan to leave his name Immortal 'mid the human race. But as he planned, and as he worked, The fungus spore within him lurked. Though dark the present and the past, The future seemed a sunlit thing. Still ever deeper and more vast, The changes that he hoped to bring. His was the will to dare and do; But still the stealthy fungus grew. Alas the plans that came to nought! Alas the soul that thrilled in vain! The sunlit future that he sought Was but a mirage of the brain. Where now the wit? Where now the will? The fungus is the master still.DARKNESS
A gentleman of wit and charm, A kindly heart, a cleanly mind, One who was quick with hand or purse, To lift the burden of his kind. A brain well balanced and mature, A soul that shrank from all things base, So rode he forth that winter day, Complete in every mortal grace. And then – the blunder of a horse, The crash upon the frozen clods, And – Death? Ah! no such dignity, But Life, all twisted and at odds! At odds in body and in soul, Degraded to some brutish state, A being loathsome and malign, Debased, obscene, degenerate. Pathology? The case is clear, The diagnosis is exact; A bone depressed, a haemorrhage, The pressure on a nervous tract. Theology? Ah, there's the rub! Since brain and soul together fade, Then when the brain is dead – enough! Lord help us, for we need Thine aid!III – MISCELLANEOUS VERSES
A WOMAN'S LOVE
I am not blind – I understand; I see him loyal, good, and wise, I feel decision in his hand, I read his honour in his eyes. Manliest among men is he With every gift and grace to clothe him; He never loved a girl but me — And I – I loathe him! – loathe him! The other! Ah! I value him Precisely at his proper rate, A creature of caprice and whim, Unstable, weak, importunate. His thoughts are set on paltry gain — You only tell me what I see — I know him selfish, cold and vain; But, oh! he's all the world to me!BY THE NORTH SEA
Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray, We walked where tide and shingle meet; The long waves rolled from far away To purr in ripples at our feet. And as we walked it seemed to me That three old friends had met that day, The old, old sky, the old, old sea, And love, which is as old as they. Out seaward hung the brooding mist We saw it rolling, fold on fold, And marked the great Sun alchemist Turn all its leaden edge to gold, Look well, look well, oh lady mine, The gray below, the gold above, For so the grayest life may shine All golden in the light of love.DECEMBER'S SNOW
The bloom is on the May once more, The chestnut buds have burst anew; But, darling, all our springs are o'er, 'Tis winter still for me and you. We plucked Life's blossoms long ago What's left is but December's snow. But winter has its joys as fair, The gentler joys, aloof, apart; The snow may lie upon our hair But never, darling, in our heart. Sweet were the springs of long ago But sweeter still December's snow. Yes, long ago, and yet to me It seems a thing of yesterday; The shade beneath the willow tree, The word you looked but feared to say. Ah! when I learned to love you so What recked we of December's snow? But swift the ruthless seasons sped And swifter still they speed away. What though they bow the dainty head And fleck the raven hair with gray? The boy and girl of long ago Are laughing through the veil of snow.SHAKESPEARE'S EXPOSTULATION
Masters, I sleep not quiet in my grave, There where they laid me, by the Avon shore, In that some crazy wights have set it forth By arguments most false and fanciful, Analogy and far-drawn inference, That Francis Bacon, Earl of Verulam (A man whom I remember in old days, A learned judge with sly adhesive palms, To which the suitor's gold was wont to stick) — That this same Verulam had writ the plays Which were the fancies of my frolic brain. What can they urge to dispossess the crown Which all my comrades and the whole loud world Did in my lifetime lay upon my brow? Look straitly at these arguments and see How witless and how fondly slight they be. Imprimis, they have urged that, being born In the mean compass of a paltry town, I could not in my youth have trimmed my mind To such an eagle pitch, but must be found, Like the hedge sparrow, somewhere near the ground. Bethink you, sirs, that though I was denied The learning which in colleges is found, Yet may a hungry brain still find its fo Wherever books may lie or men may be; And though perchance by Isis or by Cam The meditative, philosophic plant May best luxuriate; yet some would say That in the task of limning mortal life A fitter preparation might be made Beside the banks of Thames. And then again, If I be suspect, in that I was not A fellow of a college, how, I pray, Will Jonson pass, or Marlowe, or the rest, Whose measured verse treads with as proud a gait As that which was my own? Whence did they suck This honey that they stored? Can you recite The vantages which each of these has had And I had not? Or is the argument That my Lord Verulam hath written all, And covers in his wide-embracing self The stolen fame of twenty smaller men? You prate about my learning. I would urge My want of learning rather as a proof That I am still myself. Have I not traced A seaboard to Bohemia, and made The cannons roar a whole wide century Before the first was forged? Think you, then, That he, the ever-learned Verulam, Would have erred thus? So may my very faults In their gross falseness prove that I am true, And by that falseness gender truth in you. And what is left? They say that they have found A script, wherein the writer tells my Lord He is a secret poet. True enough! But surely now that secret is o'er past. Have you not read his poems? Know you not That in our day a learned chancellor Might better far dispense unjustest law Than be suspect of such frivolity As lies in verse? Therefore his poetry Was secret. Now that he is gone 'Tis so no longer. You may read his verse, And judge if mine be better or be worse: Read and pronounce! The meed of praise is thine; But still let his be his and mine be mine. I say no more; but how can you for- swear Outspoken Jonson, he who knew me well; So, too, the epitaph which still you read? Think you they faced my sepulchre with lies — Gross lies, so evident and palpable That every townsman must have wot of it, And not a worshipper within the church But must have smiled to see the marbled fraud? Surely this touches you? But if by chance My reasoning still leaves you obdurate, I'll lay one final plea. I pray you look On my presentment, as it reaches you. My features shall be sponsors for my fame; My brow shall speak when Shakespeare's voice is dumb, And be his warrant in an age to come.THE EMPIRE
1902 They said that it had feet of clay, That its fall was sure and quick. In the flames of yesterday All the clay was burned to brick. When they carved our epitaph And marked us doomed beyond recall, "We are," we answered, with a laugh, "The Empire that declines to fall."A VOYAGE
1909 Breathing the stale and stuffy air Of office or consulting room, Our thoughts will wander back to where We heard the low Atlantic boom, And, creaming underneath our screw, We watched the swirling waters break, Silver filagrees on blue Spreading fan-wise in our wake. Cribbed within the city's fold, Fettered to our daily round, We'll conjure up the haze of gold Which ringed the wide horizon round. And still we'll break the sordid day By fleeting visions far and fair, The silver shield of Vigo Bay, The long brown cliff of Finisterre. Where once the Roman galley sped, Or Moorish corsair spread his sail, By wooded shore, or sunlit head, By barren hill or sea-washed vale We took our way. But we can swear, That many countries we have scanned, But never one that could compare With our own island mother-land. The dream is o'er. No more we view The shores of Christian or of Turk, But turning to our tasks anew, We bend us to our wonted work. But there will come to you and me Some glimpse of spacious days gone by, The wide, wide stretches of the sea, The mighty curtain of the sky,