KIT LOGAN AND LADY HELEN
Here is Kit Logan with her love-child come
To Lady Helen's gate:
Then down sweeps Helen from the Italian room,
She, with her child of hate.
Kit's boy was born of violent hot desire,
Helen's of hate and dread:
Poor girl, betrayed to union with the Squire,
Loathing her marriage bed.
Kit Logan, who is father to your boy?
But Helen knows, too well:
Listen what biting taunts they both employ,
Watch their red anger swell.
Yet each would give her undying soul to be
Changed to the other's place.
Kit from the wet road's tasking cruelty
Looks up to silk and lace,
Helen looks down at rags, her fluttering pride
Caught in this cage of glass,
Eager to trudge, thieve, beg by the road-side,
Or starving to eat grass ...
Silence. Wrath dies. For Woman's old good name
Each swears a sister's oath;
Weeping, they kiss; to the Squire's lasting shame,
Who broke the heart in both.
DOWN
Downstairs a clock had chimed, two o'clock only.
Then outside from the hen-roost crowing came.
But why should Shift-wing call against the clock,
Three hours from dawn? The shutters click and knock,
And he remembers a sad superstition
Unfitting for the sick-bed—Turn aside,
Distract, divide, ponder the simple tales
That puzzled childhood; riddles, turn them over,
Half-riddles, answerless, the more intense!—
Lost bars of music tinkling with no sense
Recur, drowning uneasy superstition.
Mouth open, he was lying, this sick man,
And sinking all the while; how had he come
To sink? On better nights his dream went flying,
Dipping, sailing the pasture of his sleep,
But now, since clock and cock, had sunk him down
Through mattress, bed, floor, floors beneath, stairs, cellars,
Through deep foundations of the manse; still sinking
Through unturned earth. How had he cheated space
With inadvertent motion or word uttered
Of too-close-packed intelligence (such there are)
That he should penetrate with sliding ease,
Dense earth, compound of ages, granite ribs
And groins? Consider, there was some word uttered,
Some abracadabra—then like a stage-ghost,
Funereally with weeping, down, drowned, lost!
Oh, to be a child once more, sprawling at ease,
On warm turf of a ruined castle court.
Once he had dropped a stone between flat slabs
That mask the ancient well, mysteriously
Plunging his mind down with it. Hear it go
Rattling and rocketing down in secret void.
Count slowly one, two, three! and echoes rise
Fainter and fainter, merged in the gradual hum
Of bees and flies; only a thin draught rises
To chill the drowsy air; he for a while
Lay without spirit; until that floated back
From the deep waters. Oh, to renew now
The bliss of repossession, kindly sun
Forfeit for ever, and the scent of thyme!
Falling, falling! Light closed up behind him,
Now stunned by the violent subterrene flow
Of rivers, whirling down to hiss below
On the flame-axis of this terrible world;
Toppling upon their water-fall, O spirit ...
SAUL OF TARSUS
"Share and share alike
In the nest" was the rule,
But Paul had a wide throat,
He loved his belly-full.
Over the edge went Peter,
After him went John,
True-blooded young nestlings
Thrown out, one by one.
If Mother Church was proud
Of her great cuckoo son,
He bit off her simple head
Before he had done.
STORM: AT THE FARM WINDOW
The unruly member (for relief
Of aching head) clacks without care;
Pastures lie sullen; hung with grief
The steading: thunder binds the air.
Gulls on the blue sea-surface rock:
The cows move lowing to scant shade;
Jess lays aside the half-worked smock,
Dan, in his ditch, lets fall the spade.
Now swoops the outrageous hurricane
With lightning in steep pitchfork jags;
The blanched hill leaps in sheeted rain,
Sea masses white to assault the crags.
Such menace tottering overhead,
Old Jess for ague scolds no more;
She sees grey bobtail flung down dead
Lightning-blazed by the barn door—
Wonder and panic chase our grief,
Purge our thick distempered blood;
Man, cattle, harvest shock and sheaf,
Stagger below the sluicing flood....
BLACK HORSE LANE
Dame Jane the music mistress,
the music mistress;
Sharkie the baker of Black Horse Lane,
At sound of a fiddle
Caught her up by the middle—
And away like swallows from the lane,
Flying out together—
From the crooked lane.
What words said Sharkie to her,
said Sharkie to her?
How did she look in the lane?
No neighbour heard
One sigh or one word,
Not a sound but the fiddling in Black Horse Lane,
The happy noise of music—
Again and again.
Where now be those two old 'uns,
be those two old 'uns,
Sharkie the baker run off with Jane?
Hark ye up to Flint Street,
Halloo to Pepper-Mint Street,
Follow by the fells to the great North Plain,
By the fells and the river—
To the cold North Plain.
How came this passion to them,
this passion to them,
Love in a freshet on Black Horse Lane?
It came without warning
One blue windy morning
So they scarcely might know was it joy or pain,
With scarce breath to wonder—
Was it joy or pain.
Took they no fardels with them,
no fardels with them,
Out and alone on the ice-bound plain?
Sharkie he had rockets
And crackers in his pockets,
Ay, and she had a plaid shawl to keep off the rain,
An old Highland plaid shawl—
To keep off the rain.
RETURN
The seven years' curse is ended now
That drove me forth from this kind land,
From mulberry-bough and apple bough
And gummy twigs the west-wind shakes,
To drink the brine from crusted lakes
And grit my teeth on sand.
The load that from my shoulder slips
Straightway upon your own is tied,
You, too, shall scorch your finger-tips,
With scrabbling on the desert's face
Such thoughts I had for this green place,
Sent scapegoat for your pride.
Now for your cold, malicious brain
And most uncharitable, cold heart,
You, too, shall clank the seven years' chain
On sterile ground for all time curst
With famine's itch and flames of thirst,
The blank sky's counterpart.
Here, Robin on a tussock sits,
And Cuckoo with his call of hope
Cuckoos awhile, then off he flits,
While peals of dingle-dongle keep
Troop discipline among the sheep
That graze across the slope.
A brook from fields of gentle sun,
Through the glade his water heaves,
The falling cone would well-nigh stun
That squirrel wantonly lets drop,
When up he scampers to tree-top,
And dives among the green.
Yet, no, I ask a wider peace
Than peace your heart could comprehend,
More ample than my own release;
Go, be you loosed from your right fate,
Go with forgiveness and no hate;
Here let the story end.
INCUBUS
Asleep, amazed, with lolling head,
Arms in supplication spread,
Body shudders, dumb with fear;
There lifts the Moon, but who am I,
Cloaked in shadow wavering by,
Stooping, muttering at his ear?
Bound is Body, foot and hand,
Bound to lie at my command,
Horror bolted to lie still
While I sap what sense I will.
Through the darkness here come I,
Softly fold about the prey;
Body moaning must obey,
Must not question who or why,
Must accept me, come what may,
Dumbly must obey.
When owls and cocks dispute the dawn,
Through the window I am drawn
Streaming out, a foggy breath.
... Body wakens with a sigh
From the spell that was half Death,
Smiles for freedom, blinks an eye
At the sun-commanded sky,
"O morning scent and treetop song,
Slow-rising smoke and nothing wrong!"
THE HILLS OF MAY
Walking with a virgin heart
The green hills of May,
Me, the Wind, she took as lover
By her side to play.
Let me toss her untied hair,
Let me shake her gown,
Careless though the daisies redden,
Though the Sun frown.
Scorning in her gay courage
Lesser love than this,
My cool spiritual embracing,
My gentle kiss.
So she walked, the proud lady,
So danced or ran,
So she loved with a calm heart,
Neglecting man....
Fade, fail, innocent stars
On the green of May;
She has left our bournes for ever,
Too fine to stay.
THE CORONATION MURDER
In Four Parts
"Fairplay's good sport, and we're all mortal worms."—Mrs. Delilah Becker.
I
Blessed above all women
Shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be.
Jael, a queen in Heaven
Surely will speak out straight in defence of me.
Shall I despair Salvation?
Was Sisera then more ripe for the knife or nail
Than rat-soul'd Becker? Do I misread the tale?
I was no stealthy serpent.
(Jael flattered and killed her man as he slept.)
I was a lion, I challenged before I leapt.
Three times I gave clear warning
(Fair-play's good sport), then standing I struck him dead.
Ram-faced lecher, the blood on his own beast head!
Blessed above all women
Shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be.
Ah, she won fame for her triumph,
My inward joy was payment enough for me.
II
Old Becker crawling in the night
From his grave at the stair-foot,
Labours up the long flight,
Feeble, dribbling, black as soot,
Quakes at his own ghostly fright.
A cat goes past with lantern eyes
Shooting splendour through the dark.
Murder! Help! a voice cries
In nightmare; the son dreams that stark
In lead his vanished father lies.
A stair-top glimmer points the goal.
Becker goes wavering up, tongue-tied,
Stoops, with eye to keyhole....
There, a tall candle by her side,
Delilah sits, serene and whole.
Her fingers turn the prayer-book leaves,
Her forehead hints no mental strife:
Soft and calm her breast heaves:
So calmly, with his cobbling knife
She stabbed him through ... now never grieves.
Baffled, aghast with hate, mouse-poor,
He glares and clatters the brass knob ...
Through his heart it slid sure:
He bowed, he died with never a sob,
Again she stabbed, now sits secure.
Praying as she has always prayed
For great Victoria's Majesty,
Droning prayer for God's aid
To succour long dead Royalty,
The Consort Prince, Queen Adelaide....
She falls asleep, the clocks chime two;
Old Becker sinks to unquiet rest.
Loud and sad the cats mew:
Lead weighs cruelly on his breast:
His bones are tufted with mildew.
III
What's that, who's that comes breaking on my sleep
With groans? What, father, you? (The very look,
The same smudged foolish face like an old sheep
Even after twenty years scarcely mistook.)
Speak, Father, speak; that night what came to you
Vanished in wrath or terror? Tell the tale;
Your beer left still in mug, your half-made shoe
On last, your turnip ticking on its nail!
"Son, it was Death. I have not stirred a foot
Out of this horrible dwelling all these years,
But planted like a kail I have taken root
Under the stairs, my son, under the stairs.
"Do not avenge me, Henry. Let all slide.
I grudge your death. See, do not touch the snake.
A cowardice taints you from your father's side
And a coward's lusts, but curb them, for my sake!
"Back to your grave, back Father, lest she wake!"
IV
Two full hours before the dawn,
Dotard Parrot cocks an ear
To the sleeper's moan, long-drawn,
To her slurring tale of fear.
Parrot hears Delilah tell
Who lies dead below the stair;
How he shuddered, stumbled, fell;
In whose cause she laid him there.
The knife bit, thus: thus, the blood spread!
Connoisseur of fo'c'stle speeches
Parrot tilts his bald, sly head,
Learns the spicy yarn she teaches.
Soon, when sunlight warms his cage,
He plots to cheer the passers-by
With burlesque of murderous rage,
Acting how his victims die:
Thus, he stabs 'em; there, they lie.
POETRY BY THE SAME AUTHOR
1916 Over the Brazier Poetry Bookshop.
(New edition with slight alterations, 1920.)
1917 Fairies and Fusiliers William Heinemann.
American edition, 1918. Alfred Knopf.
1920 Country Sentiment Martin Secker.
American edition, 1920. Alfred Knopf.
Contributions to Georgian Poetry, 1915-1917 and 1918-19.
MARTIN SECKER'S
BOOKS
MCMXXI
NOTE
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Transcriber's Note
Minor punctuation and printer errors were corrected.