Produced by Tim Lindell, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) SONNETS AND VERSE BY H. BELLOC SONNETS AND VERSE BY H. BELLOC [Illustration: colophon] DUCKWORTH & CO. 3 HENRIETTA STREET, LONDON, W.C. _First Published in 1923_ _All rights reserved_ _Made and Printed in Great Britain by Turnbull & Spears, Edinburgh_ To JOHN SWINNERTON PHILLIMORE A DEDICATION WITH THIS BOOK OF VERSE _When you and I were little tiny boys_ _We took a most impertinent delight_ _In foolish, painted and misshapen toys_ _Which hidden mothers brought to us at night._ _Do you that have the childâs diviner part--_ _The dear content a love familiar brings--_ _Take these imperfect toys, till in your heart_ _They too attain the form of perfect things._ CONTENTS I. SONNETS PAGE I. LIFT UP YOUR HEARTS IN GUMBER, LAUGH THE WEALD 3 II. I WAS LIKE ONE THAT KEEPS THE DECK BY NIGHT 4 III. RISE UP AND DO BEGIN THE DAYâS ADORNING 5 IV. THE WINTER MOON HAS SUCH A QUIET CAR 6 V. WHATEVER MOISTURE NOURISHES THE ROSE 7 VI. YOUTH GAVE YOU TO ME, BUT IâLL NOT BELIEVE 8 VII. MORTALITY IS BUT THE STUFF YOU WEAR 9 VIII. NOT FOR THE LUCKLESS BUDS OUR ROOTS MAY BEAR 10 IX. THAT WHICH IS ONE THEY SHEAR AND MAKE IT TWAIN 11 X. SHALL ANY MAN FOR WHOSE STRONG LOVE ANOTHER 12 XI. THEY THAT HAVE TAKEN WAGES OF THINGS DONE 13 XII. BEAUTY THAT PARENT IS TO DEATHLESS RHYME 14 XIII. WHAT ARE THE NAMES FOR BEAUTY? WHO SHALL PRAISE 15 XIV. LOVE WOOING HONOUR, HONOURâS LOVE DID WIN 16 XV. YOUR LIFE IS LIKE A LITTLE WINTERâS DAY 17 XVI. NOW SHALL THE CERTAIN PURPOSE OF MY SOUL 18 XVII. BECAUSE MY FALTERING FEET MAY FAIL TO DARE 19 XVIII. WHEN YOU TO ACHERONâS UGLY WATER COME 20 XIX. WE WILL NOT WHISPER, WE HAVE FOUND THE PLACE 21 XX. I WENT TO SLEEP AT DAWN IN TUSCANY 22 XXI. ALMIGHTY GOD, WHOSE JUSTICE LIKE A SUN 23 XXII. MOTHER OF ALL MY CITIES ONCE THERE LAY 24 XXIII. NOVEMBER IS THAT HISTORIED EMPEROR 25 XXIV. HOAR TIME ABOUT THE HOUSE BETAKES HIM SLOW 26 XXV. IT FREEZES: ALL ACROSS A SOUNDLESS SKY 27 XXVI. O MY COMPANION, O MY SISTER SLEEP 28 XXVII. ARE YOU THE END, DESPAIR, OR THE POOR LEAST 29 XXVIII. BUT OH! NOT LOVELY HELEN, NOR THE PRIDE 30 XXIX. THE WORLDâS A STAGE. THE LIGHT IS IN ONEâS EYES 31 XXX. THE WORLDâS A STAGE--AND IâM THE SUPER MAN 32 XXXI. THE WORLDâS A STAGE. THE TRIFLING ENTRANCE FEE 33 II. LYRICAL, DIDACTIC AND GROTESQUE TO DIVES 37 STANZAS WRITTEN ON BATTERSEA BRIDGE DURING A SOUTH-WESTERLY GALE 39 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 42 THE FANATIC 45 THE EARLY MORNING 48 OUR LORD AND OUR LADY 49 COURTESY 51 THE NIGHT 53 THE LEADER 54 A BIVOUAC 56 TO THE BALLIOL MEN STILL IN AFRICA 57 VERSES TO A LORD WHO, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, SAID THAT THOSE WHO OPPOSED THE SOUTH AFRICAN ADVENTURE CONFUSED SOLDIERS WITH MONEY-GRUBBERS 59 THE REBEL 61 THE PROPHET LOST IN THE HILLS AT EVENING 63 THE END OF THE ROAD 65 AN ORACLE THAT WARNED THE WRITER WHEN ON PILGRIMAGE 67 THE DEATH AND LAST CONFESSION OF WANDERING PETER 68 DEDICATORY ODE 70 DEDICATION ON THE GIFT OF A BOOK TO A CHILD 78 DEDICATION OF A CHILDâS BOOK OF IMAGINARY TALES 79 HOMAGE 80 THE MOONâS FUNERAL 81 THE HAPPY JOURNALIST 83 LINES TO A DON 85 NEWDIGATE POEM 88 THE YELLOW MUSTARD 93 THE POLITICIAN OR THE IRISH EARLDOM 94 THE LOSER 96 III. SONGS NOÃL 99 THE BIRDS 101 IN A BOAT 102 SONG INVITING THE INFLUENCE OF A YOUNG LADY UPON THE OPENING YEAR 104 THE RING 105 CUCKOO! 106 THE LITTLE SERVING MAID 107 AUVERGNAT 110 DRINKING SONG, ON THE EXCELLENCE OF BURGUNDY WINE 111 DRINKING DIRGE 113 WEST SUSSEX DRINKING SONG 115 A BALLAD ON SOCIOLOGICAL ECONOMICS 117 HERETICS ALL 118 HAâNACKER MILL 119 TARANTELLA 120 THE CHAUNTY OF THE âNONAâ 122 THE WINGED HORSE 125 STREPHONâS SONG (FROM âTHE CRUEL SHEPHERDESSâ) 127 IV. BALLADES SHORT BALLADE AND POSTSCRIPT ON CONSOLS AND BOERS 131 BALLADE OF THE UNANSWERED QUESTION 134 BALLADE TO OUR LADY OF CZESTOCHOWA 136 BALLADE OF HELL AND OF MRS ROEBECK 138 BALLADE OF UNSUCCESSFUL MEN 140 BALLADE OF THE HERESIARCHS 142 V. EPIGRAMS 147 VI. THE BALLAD OF VAL-ÃS-DUNES 157 I SONNETS I Lift up your hearts in Gumber, laugh the Weald And you my mother the Valley of Arun sing. Here am I homeward from my wandering Here am I homeward and my heart is healed. You my companions whom the World has tired Come out to greet me. I have found a face More beautiful than Gardens; more desired Than boys in exile love their native place. Lift up your hearts in Gumber, laugh the Weald And you most ancient Valley of Arun sing. Here am I homeward from my wandering, Here am I homeward and my heart is healed. If I was thirsty, I have heard a spring. If I was dusty, I have found a field. II I was like one that keeps the deck by night Bearing the tiller up against his breast; I was like one whose soul is centred quite In holding course although so hardly prest, And veers with veering shock now left now right, And strains his foothold still and still makes play Of bending beams until the sacred light Shows him high lands and heralds up the day. But now such busy work of battle past I am like one whose barque at bar at last Comes hardly heeling down the adventurous breeze; And entering calmer seas, I am like one that brings his merchandise To Californian skies. III Rise up and do begin the dayâs adorning; The Summer dark is but the dawn of day. The last of sunset fades into the morning; The morning calls you from the dark away. The holy mist, the white mist of the morning Was wreathing upward on my lonely way. The way was waiting for your own adorning That should complete the broad adornÃ©d day. Rise up and do begin the dayâs adorning; The little eastern clouds are dapple grey: There will be wind among the leaves to-day; It is the very promise of the morning. _Lux Tua Via Mea_: your lightâs my way-- Then do rise up and make it perfect day. IV The Winter Moon has such a quiet car That all the winter nights are dumb with rest. She drives the gradual dark with drooping crest And dreams go wandering from her drowsy star Because the nights are silent do not wake But there shall tremble through the general earth, And over you, a quickening and a birth. The Sun is near the hill-tops for your sake. The latest born of all the days shall creep To kiss the tender eyelids of the year; And you shall wake, grown young with perfect sleep, And smile at the new world and make it dear With living murmurs more than dreams are deep; Silence is dead, my dawn, the morningâs here. V Whatever moisture nourishes the Rose The Rose of the World in laughterâs garden-bed Where Souls of men on faith secure are fed And spirits immortal keep their pleasure-close. Whatever moisture nourishes the Rose, The burning Rose of the world, for me the same To-day for me the spring without a name Content or Grace or Laughter overflows. This is that water from the Fount of Gold Water of Youth and washer out of cares Which Raymond of Saragossa sought of old And finding in the mountain, unawares, Returned to hear an ancient story told To Bramimond, his love, beside the marble stairs. VI Youth gave you to me, but Iâll not believe That Youth will, taking his quick self, take you. Youthâs all our Truth: he cannot so deceive. He has our graces, not our ownselves too. He still compares with time when heâll be spent, By human doom enhancing what we are; Enriches us with rare experiment, Lends arms to leagured Age in Timeâs rough war. Look! This Youth in us is an Old Man taking A Boy to make him wiser than his days. So is our old Youth our young Ageâs making: So rich in time our final debt he pays. Then with your quite young arms do you me hold And I will still be young when all the Worldâs grown old. VII Mortality is but the Stuff you wear To show the better on the imperfect sight. Your home is surely with the changeless light Of which you are the daughter and the heir. For as you pass, the natural life of things Proclaims the Resurrection: as you pass Remembered summer shines across the grass And somewhat in me of the immortal sings. You were not made for memory, you are not Youthâs accident I think but heavenly more; Moulding to meaning slips my penâs poor blot And opening wide that long forbidden door Where stands the Mother of God, your exemplar. How beautiful, how beautiful you are! VIII Not for the luckless buds our roots may bear Now all in bloom, now seared and cankered lying Will I entreat you, lest they should compare Foredoomed humanity with the fall of flowers. Hold thou with me the chaste communion rare And touch with life this mortal case of ours: Youâre lifted up beyond the power of dying: I die, as bounded things die everywhere. Youâre voiced companionship, Iâm silence lonely; Youâre stuff, Iâm void; youâre living, Iâm decay. I fall, I think, to-night and ending only; You rise, I know, through still advancing day. And knowing living gift were life for me In narrow room of rhyme I fixed it certainly. IX That which is one they shear and make it twain Who would Loveâs light and dark discriminate: His pleasure is one essence with his pain, Even his desire twin brother to his hate. With him the foiled attempt is half achieving; And being mastered, to be armed a lord; And doubting every chance is still believing; And losing all oneâs own is all reward. I am acquainted with misfortuneâs fortune, And better than herself her dowry know: For she that is my fortune and misfortune, Making me hapless, makes me happier so: In which conceit, as older men may prove, Lies manifest the very core of Love. X Shall any man for whose strong love another Has thrown away his wealth and name in one, Shall he turn mocker of a more than brother To slight his need when his adventureâs done? Or shall a breedless boy whose mother won him In great menâs great concerns his little place Turn when his farthing honours come upon him To mock her yeoman air and conscious grace? Then mock me as you do my narrow scope, For you it was put out this light of mine: Wrongfully wrecked my new adventured hope, Wasted my wordy wealth, spilt my rich wine, Made my square ship within a league of shore Alas! To be entombed in seas and seen no more. XI They that have taken wages of things done When sense abused has blocked the doors of sense, They that have lost their heritage of the sun, Their laughter and their holy innocence; They turn them now to this thing, now to tâother, For anchor hold against swift-eddying time, Some to that square of earth which was their mother, And some to noisy fame, and some to rhyme. But I to that far morning where you stood In fullness of the body, with your hands Reposing on your walls, before your lands, And all, together, making one great good: Then did I cry âFor this my birth was meant. These are my use, and this my sacrament!â XII Beauty that Parent is to deathless Rhyme Was Manhoodâs maker: you shall bear a Son, Till Daughters linked adown admiring time Fulfil the mother, handing Beauty on. You shall by breeding make Life answer yet, In Timeâs despite, Timeâs jeer that men go void; Your stamp of heaven shall be more largely set Than my one joy, ten thousand times enjoyed. The glories of our state and its achievement, Which wait their passing, shall not pass away. I will extend our term beyond bereavement, And launch our date into a dateless day. For you shall make recÃ³rd, and when thatâs sealed In Beauty made immortal, all is healed. XIII What are the names for Beauty? Who shall praise Godâs pledge he can fulfil His creaturesâ eyes? Or what strong words of what creative phrase Determine Beautyâs title in the skies? But I will call you Beauty Personate, Ambassadorial Beauty, and again Beauty triumphant, Beauty in the Gate, Beauty salvation of the souls of men. For Beauty was not Beauty till you came And now shall Beauty mean the sign you are; A Beacon burnt above the Dawn, a flame Like holy Lucifer the Morning Star, Who latest hangs in Heaven and is the gem On all the widowÃ©d Nightâs expectant Diadem. XIV Love wooing Honour, Honourâs love did win And had his pleasure all a summerâs day. Not understanding how the dooms begin, Love wooing Honour, wooed her life away. Then wandered he a full five years unrest Until, one night, this Honour that had died Came as he slept, in youth grown glorified And smiling like the Saints whom God has blest. But when he saw her on the clear night shine Serene with more than mortal light upon her, The boy that careless was of things divine, Small Love, turned penitent to worship Honour. So Love can conquer Honour: when thatâs past Dead Honour risen outdoes Love at last. XV Your life is like a little winterâs day Whose sad sun rises late to set too soon; You have just come--why will you go away, Making an evening of what should be noon. Your life is like a little flute complaining A long way off, beyond the willow trees: A long way off, and nothing left remaining But memory of a music on the breeze. Your life is like a pitiful leave-taking Wept in a dream before a manâs awaking, A Call with only shadows to attend: A Benediction whispered and belated Which has no fruit beyond a consecrated, A consecrated silence at the end. XVI Now shall the certain purpose of my soul By blind and empty things controlled be, And mine audacious course to that far goal Fall short, confessing mere mortality. Limbs shall have movement and ignore their living, Brain wit, that he his quickness may deny. My promised hope forswears in act of giving, Time eats me up and makes my words a lie. And mine unbounded dream has found a bar, And I must worst deceit of best things bear. Now dawnâs but daybreak, seas but waters are, Night darkness only, all wide heaven just air: And you to whom these fourteen lines I tell, My beauty, my desire: but not my love as well. XVII Because my faltering feet may fail to dare The first descendant of the steps of Hell Give me the Word in time that triumphs there. I too must pass into the misty hollow Where all our living laughter stops: and hark! The tiny stuffless voices of the dark Have called me, called me, till I needs must follow: Give me the Word and Iâll attempt it well. Say itâs the little winking of an eye Which in that issue is uncurtained quite; A little sleep that helps a moment by Between the thin dawn and the large daylight. Ah! tell me more than yet was hoped of men; Swear thatâs true now, and Iâll believe it then. XVIII When you to Acheronâs ugly water come Where darkness is and formless mourners brood And down the shelves of that distasteful flood Survey the human rank in order dumb. When the pale dead go forward, tortured more By nothingness and longing than by fire, Which bear their hands in suppliance with desire, With stretched desire for the ulterior shore. Then go before them like a royal ghost And tread like Egypt or like Carthage crowned; Because in your Mortality the most Of all we may inherit has been found-- Children for memory: the Faith for pride. Good land to leave: and young Love satisfied. XIX We will not whisper, we have found the place Of silence and the endless halls of sleep. And that which breathes alone throughout the deep The end and the beginning: and the face Between the level brows of whose blind eyes Lie plenary contentment, full surcease Of violence, and the passionless long peace Wherein we lose our human lullabies. Look up and tell the immeasurable height Between the vault of the world and your dear head; Thatâs death, my little sister, and the night Which was our Mother beckons us to bed, Where large oblivion in her house is laid For us tired children, now our games are played. XX I went to sleep at Dawn in Tuscany Beneath a Rock and dreamt a morning dream. I thought I stood by that baptismal stream Whereon the bounds of our redemption lie. And there, beyond, a radiance rose to take My soul at passing, in which light your eyes So filled me I was drunk with Paradise. Then the day broadened, but I did not wake. Hereâs the last edge of my long parchment furled And all was writ that you might read it so. This sleep I swear shall last the length of day; Not noise, not chance, shall drive this dream away: Not time, not treachery, not good fortune--no, Not all the weight of all the wears of the world. XXI Almighty God, whose justice like a sun Shall coruscate along the floors of Heaven, Raising whatâs low, perfecting whatâs undone, Breaking the proud and making odd things even. The poor of Jesus Christ along the street In your rain sodden, in your snows unshod, They have nor hearth, nor sword, nor human meat, Nor even the bread of men: Almighty God. The poor of Jesus Christ whom no man hears Have waited on your vengeance much too long. Wipe out not tears but blood: our eyes bleed tears. Come smite our damnÃ©d sophistries so strong That thy rude hammer battering this rude wrong Ring down the abyss of twice ten thousand years. XXII Mother of all my cities once there lay About your weedy wharves an orient shower Of spice and languorous silk and all the dower That Ocean gave you on his bridal day. And now the youth and age have passed away And all the sail superb and all the power; Your timeâs a time of memory like that hour Just after sunset, wonderful and grey. Too tired to rise and much too sad to weep, With strong arm nerveless on a nerveless knee, Still to your slumbering ears the spousal deep Murmurs his thoughts of eld eternally; But your soul wakes not from its holy sleep Dreaming of dead delights beside a tideless sea. XXIII November is that historied Emperor Conquered in age but foot to foot with fate Who from his refuge high has heard the roar Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late, Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war, And arms the garrison of his last heirloom, And shakes the sky to its extremest shore With battle against irrevocable doom. Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels, He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on, Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells And final benedictions and is gone. But in my garden all the trees have shed Their legacies of the light and all the flowers are dead. XXIV Hoar Time about the House betakes him slow Seeking an entry for his weariness. And in that dreadful company distress And the sad night with silent footsteps go. On my poor fire the brands are scarce aglow And in the woods without what memories press Where, waning in the trees from less to less Mysterious hangs the hornÃ©d moon and low. For now December, full of agÃ©d care Comes in upon the year and weakly grieves; Mumbling his lost desires and his despair And with mad trembling hand still interweaves The dank sear flower-stalks tangled in his hair, While round about him whirl the rotten leaves. XXV It freezes: all across a soundless sky The birds go home. The governing darkâs begun. The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun; The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die. Death with his evil finger to his lip Leers in at human windows, turning spy To learn the country where his rule shall lie When he assumes perpetual generalship. The undefeated enemy, the chill That shall benumb the voiceful earth at last, Is master of our moment, and has bound The viewless wind itself. There is no sound. It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast. It freezes, and the graven twigs are still. XXVI O my companion, O my sister Sleep, The valley is all before us, bear me on. High through the heaven of evening, hardly gone, Beyond the harbour lights, beyond the steep, Beyond the land and its lost benison To where, majestic on the darkening deep, The night comes forward from Mount Aurion. O my companion, O my sister Sleep. Above the surf-line, into the night-breeze; Eastward above the ever-whispering seas; Through the warm airs with no more watch to keep. My dayâs run out and all its dooms are graven. O dear forerunner of Death and promise of Haven. O my companion, O my sister Sleep. XXVII Are you the end, Despair, or the poor least Of them that cast great shadows and are lies? That dread the simple and destroy the wise, Fail at the tomb and triumph at the feast? You were not found on Olivet, dull beast, Nor in Thebaid, when the nightâs agonies Dissolved to glory on the effulgent east And Jesus Christ was in the morning skies. You did not curb the indomitable crest Of Tzerna-Gora, when the Falcon-bred Screamed over the Adriatic, and their Lord Went riding out, much angrier than the rest, To summon at ban the living and the dead And break the Mahommedan with the repeated sword. XXVIII But oh! not Lovely Helen, nor the pride Of that most ancient Ilium matched with doom. Men murdered Priam in his royal room And Troy was burned with fire and Hector died. For even Hectorâs dreadful day was more Than all his breathing courage dared defend The armourÃ©d light and bulwark of the war Trailed his great story to the accustomed end. He was the cityâs buttress, Priamâs Son, The Soldier born in bivouac praises great And horns in double front of battle won. Yet down he went: when unremembering fate Felled him at last with all his armour on. Hector: the horseman: in the ScÃ¦an Gate. XXIX The worldâs a stage. The light is in oneâs eyes. The Auditorium is extremely dark. The more dishonest get the larger rise; The more offensive make the greater mark. The women on it prosper by their shape, Some few by their vivacity. The men, By tailoring in breeches and in cape. The worldâs a stage--I say it once again. The scenery is very much the best Of what the wretched drama has to show, Also the prompter happens to be dumb. We drink behind the scenes and pass a jest On all our folly; then, before we go Loud cries for âAuthorâ ... but he doesnât come. XXX The worldâs a stage--and Iâm the Super man, And no one seems responsible for salary. I roar my part as loudly as I can And all I mouth I mouth it to the gallery. I havenât got another rhyme in âaleryâ It would have made a better job, no doubt If I had left attempt at Rhyming out, Like Alfred Tennyson adapting Malory. The worldâs a stage, the company of which Has very little talent and less reading: But many a waddling heathen painted bitch And many a standing cad of gutter breeding. We sweat to learn our book: for all our pains We pass. The Chucker-out alone remains. XXXI The worldâs a stage. The trifling entrance fee Is paid (by proxy) to the registrar. The Orchestra is very loud and free But plays no music in particular. They do not print a programme, that I know. The caste is large. There isnât any plot. The acting of the piece is far below The very worst of modernistic rot. The only part about it I enjoy Is what was called in English the Foyay. There will I stand apart awhile and toy With thought, and set my cigarette alight; And then--without returning to the play-- On with my coat and out into the night. II LYRICAL, DIDACTIC AND GROTESQUE TO DIVES Dives, when you and I go down to Hell, Where scribblers end and millionaires as well, We shall be carrying on our separate backs Two very large but very different packs; And as you stagger under yours, my friend, Down the dull shore where all our journeys end, And go before me (as your rank demands) Towards the infinite flat underlands, And that dear river of forgetfulness-- Charon, a man of exquisite address (For, as your wifeâs progenitors could tell, Theyâre very strict on etiquette in Hell), Will, since you are a lord, observe, âMy lord, We cannot take these weighty things aboard!â Then down they go, my wretched Dives, down-- The fifteen sorts of boots you kept for town, The hat to meet the Devil in; the plain But costly ties; the cases of champagne; The solid watch, and seal, and chain, and charm; The working model of a Burning Farm (To give the little Belials); all the three Biscuits for Cerberus; the guarantee From Lambeth that the Rich can never burn, And even promising a safe return; The admirable overcoat, designed To cross Cocytus--very warmly lined: Sweet Dives, you will leave them all behind And enter Hell as tattered and as bare As was your father when he took the air Behind a barrow-load in Leicester Square. Then turned to me, and noting one that brings With careless step a mist of shadowy things: Laughter and memories, and a few regrets, Some honour, and a quantity of debts, A doubt or two of sorts, a trust in God, And (what will seem to you extremely odd) His fatherâs granferâs fatherâs fatherâs name, Unspoilt, untitled, even spelt the same; Charon, who twenty thousand times before Has ferried Poets to the ulterior shore, Will estimate the weight I bear, and cry-- âComrade!â (He has himself been known to try His hand at Latin and Italian verse, Much in the style of Virgil--only worse) âWe let such vain imaginaries pass!â Then tell me, Dives, which will look the ass-- You, or myself? Or Charon? Who can tell? They order things so damnably in Hell. STANZAS WRITTEN ON BATTERSEA BRIDGE DURING A SOUTH-WESTERLY GALE The woods and downs have caught the mid-December, The noisy woods and high sea-downs of home; The wind has found me and I do remember The strong scent of the foam. Woods, darlings of my wandering feet, another Possesses you, another treads the Down; The South West Wind that was my elder brother Has come to me in town. The wind is shouting from the hills of morning, I do remember and I will not stay. Iâll take the Hampton road without a warning And get me clean away. The Channel is up, the little seas are leaping, The tide is making over Arun Bar; And thereâs my boat, where all the rest are sleeping And my companions are. Iâll board her, and apparel her, and Iâll mount her, My boat, that was the strongest friend to me-- That brought my boyhood to its first encounter And taught me the wide sea. Now shall I drive her, roaring hard aâ weather, Right for the salt and leave them all behind; Weâll quite forget the treacherous streets together And find--or shall we find? There is no Pilotry my soul relies on Whereby to catch beneath my bended hand, Faint and beloved along the extreme horizon That unforgotten land. We shall not round the granite piers and paven To lie to wharves we know with canvas furled. My little Boat, we shall not make the haven-- It is not of the world. Somewhere of English forelands grandly guarded It stands, but not for exiles, marked and clean; Oh! not for us. A mist has risen and marred it:-- My youth lies in between. So in this snare that holds me and appals me, Where honour hardly lives nor loves remain, The Sea compels me and my County calls me, But stronger things restrain. * * * * * England, to me that never have malingered, Nor spoken falsely, nor your flattery used, Nor even in my rightful garden lingered:-- What have you not refused? THE SOUTH COUNTRY When I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind. The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea; And itâs there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me. The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle-walls a man may see The mountains far away. The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song. But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise. I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the Downs So noble and so bare. A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend? I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald, They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed. If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told. I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me. THE FANATIC Last night in Compton Street, Soho, A man whom many of you know Gave up the ghost at half past nine. That evening he had been to dine At Gressingtonâs--an act unwise, But not the cause of his demise. The doctors all agree that he Was touched with cardiac atrophy Accelerated (more or less) By lack of proper food, distress, Uncleanliness, and loss of sleep. He was a man that could not keep His money (when he had the same) Because of creditors who came And took it from him; and he gave So freely that he could not save. But all the while a sort of whim Persistently remained with him, Half admirable, half absurd: To keep his word, to keep his word.... By which he did not mean what you And I would mean (of payments due Or punctual rental of the Flat-- He was a deal too mad for that) But--as he put it with a fine Abandon, foolish or divine-- But âThat great word which every man Gave God before his life began.â It was a sacred word, he said, Which comforted the pathless dead And made God smile when it was shown Unforfeited, before the Throne. And this (he said) he meant to hold In spite of debt, and hate, and cold; And this (he said) he meant to show As passport to the Wards below. He boasted of it and gave praise To his own self through all his days. He wrote a record to preserve How steadfastly he did not swerve From keeping it; how stiff he stood Its guardian, and maintained it good. He had two witnesses to swear He kept it once in Berkeley Square. (Where hardly anything survives) And, through the loneliest of lives He kept it clean, he kept it still, Down to the last extremes of ill. So when he died, of many friends Who came in crowds from all the ends Of London, that it might be known They knew the man who died alone, Some, who had thought his mood sublime And sent him soup from time to time, Said, âWell, you cannot make them fit The world, and thereâs an end of it!â But others, wondering at him, said: âThe man that kept his word is dead!â Then angrily, a certain third Cried, âGentlemen, he kept his word. And as a man whom beasts surround Tumultuous, on a little mound Stands Archer, for one dreadful hour, Because a Man is born to Power-- And still, to daunt the pack below, Twangs the clear purpose of his bow, Till overwhelmed he dares to fall: So stood this bulwark of us all. He kept his word as none but he Could keep it, and as did not we. And round him as he kept his word To-dayâs diseased and faithless herd, A moment loud, a moment strong, But foul forever, rolled along.â THE EARLY MORNING The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother. The moon on my left and the dawn on my right. My brother, good morning: my sister, good night. OUR LORD AND OUR LADY They warned Our Lady for the Child That was Our blessed Lord, And She took Him into the desert wild, Over the camelâs ford. And a long song She sang to Him And a short story told: And She wrapped Him in a woollen cloak To keep Him from the cold. But when Our Lord was grown a man The Rich they dragged Him down, And they crucified Him in Golgotha, Out and beyond the Town. They crucified Him on Calvary, Upon an April day; And because He had been her little Son She followed Him all the way. Our Lady stood beside the Cross, A little space apart, And when She heard Our Lord cry out A sword went through Her Heart. They laid Our Lord in a marble tomb, Dead, in a winding sheet. But Our Lady stands above the world With the white Moon at Her feet. COURTESY Of Courtesy, it is much less Than Courage of Heart or Holiness, Yet in my Walks it seems to me That the Grace of God is in Courtesy. On Monks I did in Storrington fall, They took me straight into their Hall; I saw Three Pictures on a wall, And Courtesy was in them all. The first the Annunciation; The second the Visitation; The third the Consolation, Of God that was Our Ladyâs Son. The first was of Saint Gabriel; On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell; And as he went upon one knee He shone with Heavenly Courtesy. Our Lady out of Nazareth rode-- It was Her month of heavy load; Yet was Her face both great and kind, For Courtesy was in Her Mind. The third it was our Little Lord, Whom all the Kings in arms adored; He was so small you could not see His large intent of Courtesy. Our Lord, that was Our Ladyâs Son, Go bless you, People, one by one; My Rhyme is written, my work is done. THE NIGHT Most holy Night, that still dost keep The keys of all the doors of sleep, To me when my tired eyelids close Give thou repose. And let the far lament of them That chaunt the dead dayâs requiem Make in my ears, who wakeful lie, Soft lullaby. Let them that guard the horned moon By my bedside their memories croon. So shall I have new dreams and blest In my brief rest. Fold your great wings about my face, Hide dawning from my resting-place, And cheat me with your false delight, Most Holy Night. THE LEADER The sword fell down: I heard a knell; I thought that ease was best, And sullen men that buy and sell Were host: and I was guest. All unashamed I sat with swine, We shook the dice for war, The night was drunk with an evil wine-- But she went on before. _She rode a steed of the sea-foam breed,_ _All faery was her blade,_ _And the armour on her tender limbs_ _Was of the moonshine made._ By God that sends the master-maids, I know not whence she came, But the sword she bore to save the soul Went up like an altar flame Where a broken race in a desert place Call on the Holy Name. _We strained our eyes in the dim day-rise,_ _We could not see them plain;_ _But two dead men from Valmy fen_ _Rode at her bridle-rein._ I hear them all, my fathers call, I see them how they ride, And where had been that rout obscene Was an army straight with pride. A hundred thousand marching men, Of squadrons twenty score, And after them all the guns, the guns, But she went on before. _Her face was like a kingâs command_ _When all the swords are drawn._ _She stretched her arms and smiled at us,_ _Her head was higher than the hills._ _She led us to the endless plains._ _We lost her in the dawn._ A BIVOUAC I You came without a human sound, You came and brought my soul to me; I only woke, and all around They slumbered on the firelit ground, Beside the guns in Burgundy. II I felt the gesture of your hands, You signed my forehead with the Cross; The gesture of your holy hands Was bounteous--like the misty lands Along the Hills in Calvados. III But when I slept I saw your eyes, Hungry as death, and very far. I saw demand in your dim eyes Mysterious as the moons that rise At midnight, in the Pines of Var. TO THE BALLIOL MEN STILL IN AFRICA Years ago when I was at Balliol, Balliol men--and I was one-- Swam together in winter rivers, Wrestled together under the sun. And still in the heart of us, Balliol, Balliol, Loved already, but hardly known, Welded us each of us into the others: Called a levy and chose her own. Here is a House that armours a man With the eyes of a boy and the heart of a ranger, And a laughing way in the teeth of the world And a holy hunger and thirst for danger: Balliol made me, Balliol fed me, Whatever I had she gave me again: And the best of Balliol loved and led me. God be with you, Balliol men. I have said it before, and I say it again, There was treason done, and a false word spoken, And England under the dregs of men, And bribes about, and a treaty broken: But angry, lonely, hating it still, I wished to be there in spite of the wrong. My heart was heavy for Cumnor Hill And the hammer of galloping all day long. Galloping outward into the weather, Hands a-ready and battle in all: Words together and wine together And song together in Balliol Hall. Rare and single! Noble and few!... Oh! they have wasted you over the sea! The only brothers ever I knew, The men that laughed and quarrelled with me. * * * * * Balliol made me, Balliol fed me, Whatever I had she gave me again; And the best of Balliol loved and led me, God be with you, Balliol men. VERSES TO A LORD WHO, IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS, SAID THAT THOSE WHO OPPOSED THE SOUTH AFRICAN ADVENTURE CONFUSED SOLDIERS WITH MONEY-GRUBBERS You thought because we held, my lord, An ancient cause and strong, That therefore we maligned the sword: My lord, you did us wrong. We also know the sacred height Up on Tugela side, Where those three hundred fought with Beit And fair young Wernher died. The daybreak on the failing force, The final sabres drawn: Tall Goltman, silent on his horse, Superb against the dawn. The little mound where Eckstein stood And gallant Albu fell, And Oppenheim, half blind with blood Went fording through the rising flood-- My Lord, we know them well. The little empty homes forlorn, The ruined synagogues that mourn, In Frankfort and Berlin; We knew them when the peace was torn-- We of a nobler lineage born-- And now by all the gods of scorn We mean to rub them in. THE REBEL There is a wall of which the stones Are lies and bribes and dead menâs bones. And wrongfully this evil wall Denies what all men made for all, And shamelessly this wall surrounds Our homesteads and our native grounds. But I will gather and I will ride, And I will summon a countryside, And many a man shall hear my halloa Who never had thought the horn to follow; And many a man shall ride with me Who never had thought on earth to see High Justice in her armoury. When we find them where they stand, A mile of men on either hand, I mean to charge from right away And force the flanks of their array, And press them inward from the plains, And drive them clamouring down the lanes, And gallop and harry and have them down, And carry the gates and hold the town. Then shall I rest me from my ride With my great anger satisfied. Only, before I eat and drink, When I have killed them all, I think That I will batter their carven names, And slit the pictures in their frames, And burn for scent their cedar door, And melt the gold their women wore, And hack their horses at the knees, And hew to death their timber trees, And plough their gardens deep and through-- And all these things I mean to do For fear perhaps my little son Should break his hands, as I have done. THE PROPHET LOST IN THE HILLS AT EVENING Strong God which made the topmost stars To circulate and keep their course, Remember me; whom all the bars Of sense and dreadful fate enforce. Above me in your heights and tall, Impassable the summits freeze, Below the haunted waters call Impassable beyond the trees. I hunger and I have no bread. My gourd is empty of the wine. Surely the footsteps of the dead Are shuffling softly close to mine! It darkens. I have lost the ford. There is a change on all things made. The rocks have evil faces, Lord, And I am awfully afraid. Remember me: the Voids of Hell Expand enormous all around. Strong friend of souls, Emmanuel, Redeem me from accursed ground. The long descent of wasted days, To these at last have led me down; Remember that I filled with praise The meaningless and doubtful ways That lead to an eternal town. I challenged and I kept the Faith, The bleeding path alone I trod; It darkens. Stand about my wraith, And harbour me--almighty God. THE END OF THE ROAD IN THESE BOOTS AND WITH THIS STAFF Two hundred leaguers and a half Walked I, went I, paced I, tripped I, Marched I, held I, skelped I, slipped I, Pushed I, panted, swung and dashed I; Picked I, forded, swam and splashed I, Strolled I, climbed I, crawled and scrambled, Dropped and dipped I, ranged and rambled; Plodded I, hobbled I, trudged and tramped I, And in lonely spinnies camped I, And in haunted pinewoods slept I, Lingered, loitered, limped and crept I, Clambered, halted, stepped and leapt I; Slowly sauntered, roundly strode I, And ... (Oh! Patron saints and Angels That protect the four Evangels! And you Prophets vel majores Vel incerti, vel minores, Virgines ac confessores Chief of whose peculiar glories Est in Aula Regis stare Atque orare et exorare Et clamare et conclamare Clamantes cum clamoribus Pro Nobis Peccatoribus.) Let me not conceal it.... _Rode I._ (For who but critics could complain Of âridingâ in a railway train?) Across the valley and the high-land, With all the world on either hand Drinking when I had a mind to, Singing when I felt inclined to; Nor ever turned my face to home Till I had slaked my heart at Rome. AN ORACLE THAT WARNED THE WRITER WHEN ON PILGRIMAGE Matutinus adest ubi Vesper, et accipiens te Saepe recusatum voces intelligit hospes Rusticus ignotas notas, ac flumina tellus Occupat--In sancto tum, tum, stans Aede caveto Tonsuram Hirsuti Capitis, via namque pedestrem Ferrea praeveniens cursum, peregrine, laborem Pro pietate tua inceptum frustratur, amore Antiqui Ritus alto sub Numine Romae. _Translation of the above_:-- When early morning seems but eve And they that still refuse receive: When speech unknown men understand; And floods are crossed upon dry land. Within the Sacred Walls beware The Shaven Head that boasts of Hair, For when the road attains the rail The Pilgrimâs great attempt shall fail. THE DEATH AND LAST CONFESSION OF WANDERING PETER When Peter Wanderwide was young He wandered everywhere he would: And all that he approved was sung, And most of what he saw was good. When Peter Wanderwide was thrown By Death himself beyond Auxerre, He chanted in heroic tone To priests and people gathered there: âIf all that I have loved and seen Be with me on the Judgment Day, I shall be saved the crowd between From Satan and his foul array. âAlmighty God will surely cry, âSt Michael! Who is this that stands With Ireland in his dubious eye, And Perigord between his hands, ââAnd on his arm the stirrup-thongs, And in his gait the narrow seas, And in his mouth Burgundian songs, But in his heart the Pyrenees?â âSt Michael then will answer right (And not without angelic shame), âI seem to know his face by sight: I cannot recollect his name ...?â âSt Peter will befriend me then, Because my name is Peter too: âI know him for the best of men That ever wallopped barley brew. ââAnd though I did not know him well And though his soul were clogged with sin, _I_ hold the keys of Heaven and Hell. Be welcome, noble Peterkin.â âThen shall I spread my native wings And tread secure the heavenly floor, And tell the Blessed doubtful things Of Val dâAran and Perigord.â * * * * * This was the last and solemn jest Of weary Peter Wanderwide. He spoke it with a failing zest, And having spoken it, he died. DEDICATORY ODE I mean to write with all my strength (It lately has been sadly waning), A ballad of enormous length-- Some parts of which will need explaining.[A] Because (unlike the bulk of men Who write for fame or public ends), I turn a lax and fluent pen To talking of my private friends.[B] For no one, in our long decline, So dusty, spiteful and divided, Had quite such pleasant friends as mine, Or loved them half as much as I did. * * * * * The Freshman ambles down the High, In love with everything he sees, He notes the racing autumn sky. He sniffs a lively autumn breeze. âCan this be Oxford? This the place?â (He cries) âof which my father said The tutoring was a damned disgrace, The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead? âCan it be here that Uncle Paul Was driven by excessive gloom, To drink and debt, and, last
{'title': 'Sonnets and Verse by Hilaire Belloc', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}