There’s a
little more to tell. When those last words were said,
At least I was yet a-working, and earning daily bread.
But now all that is changed, and meseems adown the stair
That leads to the nethermost pit, man, wife and child must
fare.
When I joined the Communist folk, I did what in
me lay
To learn the grounds of their faith. I read day after
day
Whatever books I could handle, and heard about and about
What talk was going amongst them; and I burned up doubt after
doubt,
Until it befel at last that to others I needs must speak
(Indeed, they pressed me to that while yet I was weaker than
weak).
So I began the business, and in street-corners I spake
To knots of men. Indeed, that made my very heart ache,
So hopeless it seemed; for some stood by like men of wood;
And some, though fain to listen, but a few words understood;
And some but hooted and jeered: but whiles across some I came
Who were keen and eager to hear; as in dry flax the flame
So the quick thought flickered amongst them: and that indeed was
a feast.
So about the streets I went, and the work on my hands
increased;
And to say the very truth betwixt the smooth and the rough
It was work and hope went with it, and I liked it well enough:
Nor made I any secret of all that I was at
But daily talked in our shop and spoke of this and of that.
Then vanished my money away, and like a fool I told
Some one or two of the loss. Did that make the master
bold?
Before I was one of his lot, and as queer as my head might be
I might do pretty much as I liked. Well now he sent for
me
And spoke out in very words my thought of the rich man’s
jeer:
“Well, sir, you have got your wish, as far as I can
hear,
And are now no thief of labour, but an honest working man:
Now I’ll give you a word of warning: stay in it as long as
you can,
This working lot that you like so: you’re pretty well off
as you are.
So take another warning: I have thought you went too far,
And now I am quite sure of it; so make an end of your talk
At once and for ever henceforth, or out of my shop you walk;
There are plenty of men to be had who are quite as good as
you.
And mind you, anywhere else you’ll scarce get work to
do,
Unless you rule your tongue;—good morning; stick to your
work.”
The hot blood rose to my eyes, somewhere a
thought did lurk
To finish both him and the job: but I knew now what I was,
And out of the little office in helpless rage did I pass
And went to my work, a slave, for the sake of my child and
my sweet.
Did men look for the brand on my forehead that eve as I went
through the street?
And what was the end after all? Why, one of my shopmates
heard
My next night’s speech in the street, and passed on some
bitter word,
And that week came a word with my money: “You needn’t
come again.”
And the shame of my four days’ silence had been but grief
in vain.
Well I see the days before me: this time we
shall not die
Nor go to the workhouse at once: I shall get work by-and-by,
And shall work in fear at first, and at last forget my fear,
And drudge on from day to day, since it seems that I hold life
dear.
’Tis
the lot of many millions! Yet if half of those millions
knew
The hope that my heart hath learned, we should find a deed to
do,
And who or what should withstand us? And I, e’en I
might live
To know the love of my fellows and the gifts that earth can
give.
The first of the
nights is this, and I cannot go to bed;
I long for the dawning sorely, although when the night shall be
dead,
Scarce to me shall the day be alive. Twice twenty-eight
nights more,
Twice twenty-eight long days till the evil dream be
o’er!
And he, does he count the hours as he lies in his prison-cell?
Does he nurse and cherish his pain? Nay, I know his strong
heart well,
Swift shall his soul fare forth; he is here, and bears me
away,
Till hand in hand we depart toward the hope of the earlier
day.
Yea, here or there he sees it: in the street, in the cell, he
sees
The vision he made me behold mid the stems of the blossoming
trees,
When spring lay light on the earth, and first and at last I
knew
How sweet was his clinging hand, how fair were the deeds he would
do.
Nay, how wilt thou weep and be soft and cherish
a pleasure in pain,
When the days and their task are before thee and awhile thou must
work for twain?
O face, thou shalt lose yet more of thy fairness, be thinner no
doubt,
And be waxen white and worn by the day that he cometh out!
Hand, how pale thou shalt be! how changed from the sunburnt
hand
That he kissed as it handled the rake in the noon of the summer
land!
Let me think then it is but a trifle: the
neighbours have told me so;
“Two months! why that is nothing and the time will speedily
go.”
’Tis
nothing—O empty bed, let me work then for his sake!
I will copy out the paper which he thought the News might
take,
If my eyes may see the letters; ’tis a picture of our
life
And the little deeds of our days ere we thought of prison and
strife.
Yes, neighbour, yes I am early—and I was
late last night;
Bedless I wore through the hours and made a shift to write.
It was kind of you to come, nor will it grieve me at all
To tell you why he’s in prison and how the thing did
befal;
For I know you are with us at heart, and belike will join us
soon.
It was thus: we went to a meeting on Saturday afternoon,
At a new place down in the West, a wretched quarter enough,
Where the rich men’s houses are elbowed by ragged streets
and rough,
Which are worse than they seem to be. (Poor thing! you know
too well
How pass the days and the nights within that bricken hell!)
There, then, on a bit of waste we stood ’twixt the rich and
the poor;
And Jack was the first to speak; that was he that you met at the
door
Last week. It was quiet at first; and dull they most of
them stood
As though they heeded nothing, nor thought of bad or of good,
Not even that they were poor, and haggard and dirty and dull:
Nay, some were so rich indeed that they with liquor were full,
And dull wrath rose in their souls as the hot words went by their
ears,
For they deemed they were mocked and rated by men that were more
than their peers.
But for some, they seemed to think that a prelude was all this
To the preachment of saving of souls, and hell, and endless
bliss;
While some (O the hearts of slaves!) although they might
understand,
When they heard their masters and feeders called thieves of
wealth and of land,
Were as angry as though they were cursed. Withal
there were some that heard,
And stood and pondered it all, and garnered a hope and a word.
Ah! heavy
my heart was grown as I gazed on the terrible throng.
Lo! these that should have been the glad and the deft and the
strong,
How were they dull and abased as the very filth of the road!
And who should waken their souls or clear their hearts of the
load?
The crowd was growing and growing, and
therewith the jeering grew;
And now that the time was come for an ugly brawl I knew,
When I saw how midst of the workmen some well-dressed men there
came,
Of the scum of the well-to-do, brutes void of pity or shame;
The thief is a saint beside them. These raised a jeering
noise,
And our speaker quailed before it, and the hubbub drowned his
voice.
Then Richard put him aside and rose at once in his place,
And over the rags and the squalor beamed out his beautiful
face,
And his sweet voice rang through the tumult, and I think the
crowd would have hushed
And hearkened his manly words; but a well-dressed reptile
pushed
Right into the ring about us and screeched out infamies
That sickened the soul to hearken; till he caught my angry
eyes
And my voice that cried out at him, and straight on me he
turned,
A foul word smote my heart and his cane on my shoulders
burned.
But e’en as a kestrel stoops down Richard leapt from his
stool
And drave his strong right hand amidst the mouth of the fool.
Then all was mingled together, and away from him was I torn,
And, hustled hither and thither, on the surging crowd was
borne;
But at last I felt my feet, for the crowd began to thin,
And I looked about for Richard that away from thence we might
win;
When lo, the police amidst us, and Richard hustled along
Betwixt a pair of blue-coats as the doer of all the wrong!
Little longer, friend, is the story; I scarce
have seen him again;
I could not get him bail despite my trouble and pain;
And this
morning he stood in the dock: for all that that might avail,
They might just as well have dragged him at once to the destined
jail.
The police had got their man and they meant to keep him there,
And whatever tale was needful they had no trouble to swear.
Well, the white-haired fool on the bench was
busy it seems that day,
And so with the words “Two months,” he swept the case
away;
Yet he lectured my man ere he went, but not for the riot
indeed
For which he was sent to prison, but for holding a dangerous
creed.
“What have you got to do to preach such perilous stuff?
To take some care of yourself should find you work enough.
If you needs must preach or lecture, then hire a chapel or
hall;
Though indeed if you take my advice you’ll just preach
nothing at all,
But stick to your work: you seem clever; who knows but you might
rise,
And become a little builder should you condescend to be wise?
For in spite of your silly sedition, the land that we live in is
free,
And opens a pathway to merit for you as well as for
me.”
Ah, friend, am I grown light-headed with the
lonely grief of the night,
That I babble of this babble? Woe’s me, how little
and light
Is this beginning of trouble to all that yet shall be
borne—
At worst but as the shower that lays but a yard of the corn
Before the hailstorm cometh and flattens the field to the
earth.
O for a word from my love of the hope of the
second birth!
Could he clear my vision to see the sword creeping out of the
sheath
Inch by inch as we writhe in the toils of our living death!
Could he but strengthen my heart to know that we cannot fail;
For alas, I am lonely here—helpless and feeble and
frail;
I am e’en as the poor of the earth, e’en they that
are now alive;
And where is their might and their cunning with the mighty of men
to strive?
Though
they that come after be strong to win the day and the crown,
Ah, ever must we the deedless to the deedless dark go down,
Still crying, “To-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow yet shall
be
The new-born sun’s arising o’er happy earth and
sea”—
And we not there to greet it—for to-day and its life we
yearn,
And where is the end of toiling and whitherward now shall we
turn
But to patience, ever patience, and yet and yet to bear;
And yet, forlorn, unanswered as oft before to hear,
Through the tales of the ancient fathers and the dreams that mock
our wrong,
That cry to the naked heavens, “How long, O Lord! how
long?”
The days have slain
the days, and the seasons have gone by
And brought me the summer again; and here on the grass I lie
As erst I lay and was glad ere I meddled with right and with
wrong.
Wide lies the mead as of old, and the river is creeping along
By the side of the elm-clad bank that turns its weedy stream,
And grey o’er its hither lip the quivering rushes gleam.
There is work in the mead as of old; they are eager at winning
the hay,
While every sun sets bright and begets a fairer day.
The forks shine white in the sun round the yellow red-wheeled
wain,
Where the mountain of hay grows fast; and now from out of the
lane
Comes the ox-team drawing another, comes the bailiff and the
beer,
And thump, thump, goes the farmer’s nag o’er the
narrow bridge of the weir.
High up and light are the clouds, and though the swallows flit
So high o’er the sunlit earth, they are well a part of
it,
And so, though high over them, are the wings of the wandering
herne;
In measureless depths above him doth the fair sky quiver and
burn;
The dear sun floods the land as the morning falls toward noon,
And a little wind is awake in the best of the latter June.
They are busy winning the hay, and the life and
the picture they make,
If I were as once I was, I should deem it made for my sake;
For here if one need not work is a place for happy rest,
While one’s thought wends over the world, north, south, and
east and west.
There are
the men and the maids, and the wives and the gaffers grey
Of the fields I know so well, and but little changed are they
Since I was a lad amongst them; and yet how great is the
change!
Strange are they grown unto me; yea, I to myself am strange.
Their talk and their laughter mingling with the music of the
meads
Has now no meaning to me to help or to hinder my needs,
So far from them have I drifted. And yet amidst them
goes
A part of myself, my boy, and of pleasure and pain he knows,
And deems it something strange when he is other than glad.
Lo now! the woman that stoops and kisses the face of the lad,
And puts a rake in his hand and laughs in his laughing
face—
Whose is the voice that laughs in the old familiar place?
Whose should it be but my love’s, if my love were yet on
the earth?
Could she refrain from the fields where my joy and her joy had
birth,
When I was there and her child, on the grass that knew her
feet
Mid the flowers that led her on when the summer eve was
sweet?
No, no, it is she no longer; never again can
she come
And behold the hay-wains creeping o’er the meadows of her
home;
No more can she kiss her son or put the rake in his hand
That she handled a while agone in the midst of the haymaking
band.
Her laughter is gone and her life; there is no such thing on the
earth,
No share for me then in the stir, no share in the hurry and
mirth.
Nay, let me look and believe that all these
will vanish away,
At least when the night has fallen, and that she will be there
mid the hay,
Happy and weary with work, waiting and longing for love.
There will she be, as of old, when the great moon hung above,
And lightless and dead was the village, and nought but the weir
was awake;
There will she rise to meet me, and my hands will she hasten to
take,
And thence shall we wander away, and over the ancient bridge
By many a rose-hung hedgerow, till we reach the sun-burnt
ridge
And the
great trench digged by the Romans: there then awhile shall we
stand,
To watch the dawn come creeping o’er the fragrant lovely
land,
Till all the world awaketh, and draws us down, we twain,
To the deeds of the field and the fold and the merry
summer’s gain.
Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams
of the day or the night,
When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past
delight.
She is gone. She was and she is not; there is no such thing
on the earth
But e’en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and
dearth
That I cannot name or measure.
Yet for me and all these she died,
E’en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might
betide.
Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day’s work
shall fail.
Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale
Of how and why she died, and why I am weak and worn,
And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was
born:
But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray
To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier
day.
Of the great world’s hope and anguish to-day I scarce can
think:
Like a ghost from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds
I shrink.
I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge,
And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt
ridge,
And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will
I gaze,
And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the
haze;
And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall
see,
What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be?
O fool, what words are these? Thou hast a
sorrow to nurse,
And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a
curse,
No sting it has and no meaning—it is empty sound on the
air.
Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare
That they
have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been
That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean.
And thou, thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon;
Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon.
I have promised to
tell you the story of how I was left alone
Sick and wounded and sore, and why the woman is gone
That I deemed a part of my life. Tell me when all is
told,
If you deem it fit that the earth, that the world of men should
hold
My work and my weariness still; yet think of that other life,
The child of me and of her, and the years and the coming
strife.
After I came out of prison our living was hard
to earn
By the work of my hands, and of hers; to shifts we had to
turn,
Such as the poor know well, and the rich cannot understand,
And just out of the gutter we stood, still loving and hand in
hand.
Do you ask me if still amidst all I held the
hunt in view,
And the hope of the morning of life, all the things I should do
and undo?
Be easy, I am not a coward: nay little prudence I learned,
I spoke and I suffered for speaking, and my meat by my manhood
was burned.
When the poor man thinks—and rebels, the whip lies ready
anear;
But he who is rebel and rich may live safe for many a year,
While he warms his heart with pictures of all the glory to
come.
There’s the storm of the press and the critics maybe, but
sweet is his home,
There is meat in the morn and the even, and rest when the day is
done,
All is fair and orderly there as the rising and setting
sun—
And I know
both the rich and the poor.
Well, I grew
bitter they said;
’Tis not unlike that I did, for bitter indeed was my
bread,
And surely the nursling plant shall smack of its nourishing
soil.
And here was our life in short, pinching and worry and toil,
One petty fear thrust out by another come in its place,
Each scrap of life but a fear, and the sum of it wretched and
base.
E’en so fare millions of men, where men for money are
made,
Where the poor are dumb and deedless, where the rich are not
afraid.
Ah, am I bitter again? Well, these are our
breeding-stock,
The very base of order, and the state’s foundation rock;
Is it so good and so safe that their manhood should be outworn
By the struggle for anxious life, the dull pain dismally
borne,
Till all that was man within them is dead and vanished away?
Were it not even better that all these should think on a day
As they look on each other’s sad faces, and see how many
they are:
“What are these tales of old time of men who were mighty in
war?
They fought for some city’s dominion, for the name of a
forest or field;
They fell that no alien’s token should be blazoned on their
shield;
And for this is their valour praised and dear is their renown,
And their names are beloved for ever and they wear the
patriot’s crown;
And shall we then wait in the streets and this heap of misery,
Till their stones rise up to help us or the far heavens set us
free?
For we, we shall fight for no name, no blazon on banner or
shield;
But that man to man may hearken and the earth her increase
yield;
That never again in the world may be sights like we have seen;
That never again in the world may be men like we have been,
That never again like ours may be manhood spoilt and
blurred.”
Yea even so was I bitter, and this was my
evilest word:
“Spend and be spent for our hope, and you at least shall be
free,
Though you be rugged and coarse, as wasted and worn as you
be.”
Well,
“bitter” I was, and denounced, and scarcely at last
might we stand
From out of the very gutter, as we wended hand in hand.
I had written before for the papers, but so “bitter”
was I grown,
That none of them now would have me that could pay me
half-a-crown,
And the worst seemed closing around us; when as it needs must
chance,
I spoke at some Radical Club of the Great Revolution in
France.
Indeed I said nothing new to those who had learned it all,
And yet as something strange on some of the folk did it fall.
It was late in the terrible war, and France to the end drew
nigh,
And some of us stood agape to see how the war would die,
And what would spring from its ashes. So when the talk was
o’er
And after the stir and excitement I felt the burden I bore
Heavier yet for it all, there came to speak to me
A serious well-dressed man, a “gentleman,” young I
could see;
And we fell to talk together, and he shyly gave me praise,
And asked, though scarcely in words, of my past and my
“better days.”
Well, there,—I let it all out, and I flushed as I strode
along,
(For we were walking by now) and bitterly spoke of the wrong.
Maybe I taught him something, but ready he was to learn,
And had come to our workmen meetings some knowledge of men to
learn.
He kindled afresh at my words, although to try him I spake
More roughly than I was wont; but every word did he take
For what it was really worth, nor even laughter he spared,
As though he would look on life of its rags of habit bared.
Well, why should I be ashamed that he helped me
at my need?
My wife and my child, must I kill them? And the man was a
friend indeed,
And the work that he got me I did (it was writing, you
understand)
As well as another might do it. To be short, he joined our
band
Before many days were over, and we saw him everywhere
That we workmen met together, though I brought him not to my
lair.
Eager he grew for the Cause, and we twain grew friend and
friend:
He was
dainty of mind and of body; most brave, as he showed in the
end;
Merry despite of his sadness, quick-witted and speedy to see:
Like a perfect knight of old time as the poets would have them to
be.
That was the friend that I won by my bitter speech at last.
He loved me; he grieved my soul: now the love and the grief are
past;
He is gone with his eager learning, his sadness and his mirth,
His hope and his fond desire. There is no such thing on the
earth.
He died not unbefriended—nor unbeloved maybe.
Betwixt my life and his longing there rolls a boundless sea.
And what are those memories now to all that I have to do,
The deeds to be done so many, the days of my life so few?
I said of my friend
new-found that at first he saw not my lair;
Yet he and I and my wife were together here and there;
And at last as my work increased and my den to a dwelling
grew,
He came there often enough, and yet more together we drew.
Then came a change in the man; for a month he kept away,
Then came again and was with us for a fortnight every day,
But often he sat there silent, which was little his wont with
us.
And at first I had no inkling of what constrained him thus;
I might have thought that he faltered, but now and again there
came,
When we spoke of the Cause and its doings, a flash of his eager
flame,
And he seemed himself for a while; then the brightness would fade
away,
And he gloomed and shrank from my eyes.
Thus passed day
after day,
And grieved I grew, and I pondered: till at last one eve we
sat
In the fire-lit room together, and talked of this and that,
But chiefly indeed of the war and what would come of it;
For Paris drew near to its fall, and wild hopes ’gan to
flit
Amidst us Communist folk; and we talked of what might be done
When the Germans had gone their ways and the two were left
alone,
Betrayers and betrayed in war-worn wasted France.
As I spoke the word “betrayed,” my
eyes met his in a glance,
And
swiftly he turned away; then back with a steady gaze
He turned on me; and it seemed as when a sword-point plays
Round the sword in a battle’s beginning and the coming on
of strife.
For I knew though he looked on me, he saw not me, but my wife:
And he reddened up to the brow, and the tumult of the blood
Nigh blinded my eyes for a while, that I scarce saw bad or
good,
Till I knew that he was arisen and had gone without a word.
Then I turned about unto her, and a quivering voice I heard
Like music without a meaning, and twice I heard my name.
“O Richard, Richard!” she said, and her arms about me
came,
And her tears and the lips that I loved were on my face once
more.
A while I clung to her body, and longing sweet and sore
Beguiled my heart of its sorrow; then we sundered and sore she
wept,
While fair pictures of days departed about my sad heart crept,
And mazed I felt and weary. But we sat apart again,
Not speaking, while between us was the sharp and bitter pain
As the sword ’twixt the lovers bewildered in the fruitless
marriage bed.
Yet a while, and we spoke together, and I scarce knew what I
said,
But it was not wrath or reproaching, or the chill of love-born
hate;
For belike around and about us, we felt the brooding fate.
We were gentle and kind together, and if any had seen us so,
They had said, “These two are one in the face of all
trouble and woe.”
But indeed as a wedded couple we shrank from the eyes of men,
As we dwelt together and pondered on the days that come not
again.
Days passed and we dwelt together; nor Arthur
came for awhile;
Gravely it was and sadly, and with no greeting smile,
That we twain met at our meetings: but no growth of hate was
yet,
Though my heart at first would be sinking as our thoughts and our
eyes they met:
And when he spake amidst us and as one we two agreed,
And I knew of his faith and his wisdom, then sore was my heart
indeed.
We shrank
from meeting alone: for the words we had to say
Our thoughts would nowise fashion—not yet for many a
day.
Unhappy days of all days! Yet O might
they come again!
So sore as my longing returneth to their trouble and sorrow and
pain!
But time passed, and once we were sitting, my
wife and I in our room,
And it was in the London twilight and the February gloom,
When there came a knock, and he entered all pale, though bright
were his eyes,
And I knew that something had happened, and my heart to my mouth
did arise.
“It is over,” he said “—and beginning;
for Paris has fallen at last,
And who knows what next shall happen after all that has happened
and passed?
There now may we all be wanted.”
I took up the
word: “Well then
Let us go, we three together, and there to die like
men.”
“Nay,” he said, “to live and
be happy like men.” Then he flushed up red,
And she no less as she hearkened, as one thought through their
bodies had sped.
Then I reached out my hand unto him, and I kissed her once on the
brow,
But no word craving forgiveness, and no word of pardon e’en
now,
Our minds for our mouths might fashion.
In the February
gloom
And into the dark we sat planning, and there was I in the
room,
And in speech I gave and I took; but yet alone and apart
In the fields where I once was a youngling whiles wandered the
thoughts of my heart,
And whiles in the unseen Paris, and the streets made ready for
war.
Night grew and we lit the candles, and we drew together more,
And whiles
we differed a little as we settled what to do,
And my soul was cleared of confusion as nigher the deed-time
drew.
Well, I took my child into the country, as we
had settled there,
And gave him o’er to be cherished by a kindly woman’s
care,
A friend of my mother’s, but younger: and for Arthur, I let
him give
His money, as mine was but little, that the boy might flourish
and live,
Lest we three, or I and Arthur, should perish in tumult and
war,
And at least the face of his father he should look on never
more.
You cry out shame on my honour? But yet remember again
That a man in my boy was growing; must my passing pride and
pain
Undo the manhood within him and his days and their doings
blight?
So I thrust my pride away, and I did what I deemed was right,
And left him down in our country.
And well may you
think indeed
How my sad heart swelled at departing from the peace of river and
mead,
But I held all sternly aback and again to the town did I pass.
And as alone I journeyed, this was ever in my heart:
“They may die; they may live and be happy; but for me I
know my part,
In Paris to do my utmost, and there in Paris to die!”
And I said, “The day of the deeds and the day of
deliverance is nigh.”
It was strange
indeed, that journey! Never yet had I crossed the sea
Or looked on another people than the folk that had fostered
me,
And my heart rose up and fluttered as in the misty night
We came on the fleet of the fishers slow rolling in the light
Of the hidden moon, as the sea dim under the false dawn lay;
And so like shadows of ships through the night they faded
away,
And Calais pier was upon us. Dreamlike it was indeed
As we sat in the train together, and toward the end made
speed.
But a dull sleep came upon me, and through the sleep a dream
Of the Frenchman who once was my master by the side of the
willowy stream;
And he talked and told me tales of the war unwaged as yet,
And the victory never won, and bade me never forget,
While I walked on, still unhappy, by the home of the dark-striped
perch.
Till at last, with a flash of light and a rattle and side-long
lurch,
I woke up dazed and witless, till my sorrow awoke again,
And the grey of the morn was upon us as we sped through the
poplar plain,
By the brimming streams and the houses with their grey roofs
warped and bent,
And the horseless plough in the furrow, and things fair and
innocent.
And there sat my wife before me, and she, too, dreamed as she
slept;
For the slow tears fell from her eyelids as in her sleep she
wept.
But Arthur
sat by my side and waked; and flushed was his face,
And his eyes were quick to behold the picture of each fair
place
That we flashed by as on we hurried; and I knew that the joy of
life
Was strongly stirred within him by the thought of the coming
strife.
Then I too thought for a little, It is good in grief’s
despite,
It is good to see earth’s pictures, and so live in the day
and the light.
Yea, we deemed that to death we were hastening, and it made our
vision clear,
And we knew the delight of our life-days, and held their sorrow
dear.
But now when we came unto Paris and were out in
the sun and the street,
It was strange to see the faces that our wondering eyes did
meet;
Such joy and peace and pleasure! That folk were glad we
knew,
But knew not the why and the wherefore; and we who had just come
through
The vanquished land and down-cast, and there at St. Denis
e’en now
Had seen the German soldiers, and heard their bugles blow,
And the drum and fife go rattling through the freshness of the
morn—
Yet here we beheld all joyous the folk they had made forlorn!
So at last from a grey stone building we saw a great flag fly,
One colour, red and solemn ’gainst the blue of the
spring-tide sky,
And we stopped and turned to each other, and as each at each did
we gaze,
The city’s hope enwrapped us with joy and great amaze.
As folk in a dream we washed and we ate, and in
all detail,
Oft told and in many a fashion, did we have all yesterday’s
tale:
How while we were threading our tangle of trouble in London
there,
And I for my part, let me say it, within but a step of
despair,
In Paris the day of days had betid; for the vile dwarf’s
stroke,
To madden Paris and crush her, had been struck and the dull sword
broke;
There was now no foe and no fool in the city, and Paris was
free;
And e’en as she is this morning, to-morrow all France will
be.
We heard,
and our hearts were saying, “In a little while all the
earth—”
And that day at last of all days I knew what life was worth;
For I saw what few have beheld, a folk with all hearts gay.
Then at last I knew indeed that our word of the coming day,
That so oft in grief and in sorrow I had preached, and scarcely
knew
If it was but despair of the present or the hope of the day that
was due—
I say that I saw it now, real, solid and at hand.
And strange how my heart went back to our
little nook of the land,
And how plain and clear I saw it, as though I longed indeed
To give it a share of the joy and the satisfaction of need
That here in the folk I beheld. For this in our country
spring
Did the starlings bechatter the gables, and the thrush in the
thorn-bush sing,
And the green cloud spread o’er the willows, and the little
children rejoice
And shout midst a nameless longing to the morning’s mingled
voice;
For this was the promise of spring-tide, and the new leaves
longing to burst,
And the white roads threading the acres, and the sun-warmed
meadows athirst.
Once all was the work of sorrow and the life without reward,
And the toil that fear hath bidden, and the folly of master and
lord;
But now are all things changing, and hope without a fear
Shall speed us on through the story of the changes of the
year.
Now spring shall pluck the garland that summer weaves for all,
And autumn spread the banquet and winter fill the hall.
O earth, thou kind bestower, thou ancient fruitful place,
How lovely and beloved now gleams thy happy face!
And O mother, mother, I said, hadst thou known
as I lay in thy lap,
And for me thou hopedst and fearedst, on what days my life should
hap,
Hadst thou known of the death that I look for, and the deeds
wherein I should deal,
How calm had been thy gladness! How sweet hadst thou smiled
on my weal!
As some
woman of old hadst thou wondered, who hath brought forth a god of
the earth,
And in joy that knoweth no speech she dreams of the happy
birth.
Yea, fair were those hours indeed, whatever
hereafter might come,
And they swept over all my sorrow, and all thought of my wildered
home.
But not for dreams of rejoicing had we come across the sea:
That day we delivered the letters that our friends had given to
me,
And we craved for some work for the cause. And what work
was there indeed,
But to learn the business of battle and the manner of dying at
need?
We three could think of none other, and we wrought our best
therein;
And both of us made a shift the sergeant’s stripes to
win,
For diligent were we indeed: and he, as in all he did,
Showed a cheerful ready talent that nowise might be hid,
And yet hurt the pride of no man that he needs must step
before.
But as for my wife, the brancard of the ambulance-women
she wore,
And gently and bravely would serve us; and to all as a sister to
be—
A sister amidst of the strangers—and, alas! a sister to
me.
So we dwelt in the
war-girdled city as a very part of its life.
Looking back at it all from England, I an atom of the strife,
I can see that I might have seen what the end would be from the
first,
The hope of man devoured in the day when the Gods are athirst.
But those days we lived, as I tell you, a life that was not our
own;
And we saw but the hope of the world, and the seed that the ages
had sown,
Spring up now a fair-blossomed tree from the earth lying over the
dead;
Earth quickened, earth kindled to spring-tide with the blood that
her lovers have shed,
With the happy days cast off for the sake of her happy day,
With the love of women foregone, and the bright youth worn
away,
With the gentleness stripped from the lives thrust into the
jostle of war,
With the hope of the hardy heart forever dwindling afar.
O Earth, Earth, look on thy lovers, who knew
all thy gifts and thy gain,
But cast them aside for thy sake, and caught up barren pain!
Indeed of some art thou mindful, and ne’er shalt forget
their tale,
Till shrunk are the floods of thine ocean and thy sun is waxen
pale.
But rather I bid thee remember e’en these of the latter
days,
Who were fed by no fair promise and made drunken by no praise.
For them no opening heaven reached out the martyr’s
crown;
No folk delivered wept them, and no harvest of renown
They
reaped with the scythe of battle; nor round their dying bed
Did kindly friendly farewell the dew of blessing shed;
In the sordid streets of the city mid a folk that knew them
not,
In the living death of the prison didst thou deal them out their
lot,
Yet foundest them deeds to be doing; and no feeble folk were
they
To scowl on their own undoing and wail their lives away;
But oft were they blithe and merry and deft from the strife to
wring
Some joy that others gained not midst their peaceful
wayfaring.
So fared they, giftless ever, and no help of fortune sought.
Their life was thy deliverance, O Earth, and for thee they
fought;
Mid the jeers of the happy and deedless, mid failing friends they
went
To their foredoomed fruitful ending on the love of thee
intent.
Yea and we were a part of it all, the beginning
of the end,
That first fight of the uttermost battle whither all the nations
wend;
And yet could I tell you its story, you might think it little and
mean.
For few of you now will be thinking of the day that might have
been,
And fewer still meseemeth of the day that yet shall be,
That shall light up that first beginning and its tangled
misery.
For indeed a very machine is the war that now men wage;
Nor have we hold of its handle, we gulled of our heritage,
We workmen slaves of machines. Well, it ground us small
enough
This machine of the beaten Bourgeois; though oft the work was
rough
That it turned out for its money. Like other young soldiers
at first
I scarcely knew the wherefore why our side had had the worst;
For man to man and in knots we faced the matter well;
And I thought, well to-morrow or next day a new tale will be to
tell.
I was fierce and not afraid; yet O were the wood-sides fair,
And the crofts and the sunny gardens, though death they harboured
there!
And few but fools are fain of leaving the world outright,
And the story over and done, and an end of the life and the
light.
No hatred of life, thou knowest, O Earth, mid the bullets I
bore,
Though
pain and grief oppressed me that I never may suffer more.
But in those days past over did life and death seem one;
Yea the life had we attained to which could never be undone.
You would have me tell of the fighting?
Well, you know it was new to me,
Yet it soon seemed as if it had been for ever, and ever would
be.
The morn when we made that sally, some thought (and yet not I)
That a few days and all would be over: just a few had got to
die,
And the rest would be happy thenceforward. But my stubborn
country blood
Was bidding me hold my halloo till we were out of the wood.
And that was the reason perhaps why little disheartened I was,
As we stood all huddled together that night in a helpless
mass,
As beaten men are wont: and I knew enough of war
To know midst its unskilled labour what slips full often are.
There was Arthur unhurt beside me, and my wife
come back again,
And surely that eve between us there was love though no lack of
pain
As we talked all the matter over, and our hearts spake more than
our lips;
And we said, “We shall learn, we shall learn—yea,
e’en from disasters and slips.”
Well, many a thing we learned, but we learned
not how to prevail
O’er the brutal war-machine, the ruthless grinder of
bale;
By the bourgeois world it was made, for the bourgeois world; and
we,
We were e’en as the village weaver ’gainst the
power-loom, maybe.
It drew on nearer and nearer, and we ’gan to look to the
end—
We three, at least—and our lives began with death to
blend;
Though we were long a-dying—though I dwell on yet as a
ghost
In the land where we once were happy, to look on the loved and
the lost.
How can I tell you
the story of the Hope and its defence?
We wrought in a narrow circle; it was hither and thither and
thence;
To the walls, and back for a little; to the fort and there to
abide,
Grey-beards and boys and women; they lived there—and they
died;
Nor counted much in the story. I have heard it told since
then,
And mere lies our deeds have turned to in the mouths of happy
men,
And e’en those will be soon forgotten as the world wends on
its way,
Too busy for truth or kindness. Yet my soul is seeing the
day
When those who are now but children the new generation shall
be,
And e’en in our land of commerce and the workshop over the
sea,
Amid them shall spring up the story; yea the very breath of the
air
To the yearning hearts of the workers true tale of it all shall
bear.
Year after year shall men meet with the red flag over head,
And shall call on the help of the vanquished and the kindness of
the dead.
And time that weareth most things, and the years that overgrow
The tale of the fools triumphant, yet clearer and clearer shall
show
The deeds of the helpers of menfolk to every age and clime,
The deeds of the cursed and the conquered that were wise before
their time.
Of these were my wife and my friend; there they
ended their wayfaring
Like the generations before them thick thronging as leaves of the
spring,
Fast falling as leaves of the autumn as the ancient singer hath
said,
And each one with a love and a story. Ah the grief of the
early dead!
“What is all this talk?” you are saying;
“why all this long delay?”
Yes, indeed, it is hard in the telling. Of things too
grievous to say
I would be, but cannot be, silent. Well, I hurry on to the
end—
For it drew to the latter ending of the hope that we helped to
defend.
The forts were gone and the foemen drew near to the thin-manned
wall,
And it wanted not many hours to the last hour and the fall,
And we lived amid the bullets and seldom went away
To what as yet were the streets by night-tide or by day.
We three, we fought together, and I did the best I could,
Too busy to think of the ending; but Arthur was better than
good;
Resourceful, keen and eager, from post to post he ran,
To thrust out aught that was moving and bring up the uttermost
man,
He was gone on some such errand, and was absent a little
space,
When I turned about for a moment and saw my wife’s fair
face,
And her foot set firm on the rampart, as she hastened here and
there,
To some of our wounded comrades such help as she could to
bear.
Then straight she looked upon me with such lovely, friendly
eyes
Of the days gone by and remembered, that up from my heart
’gan rise
The choking sobbing passion; but I kept it aback, and smiled,
And waved my hand aloft—But therewith her face turned
wild
In a moment of time, and she stared along the length of the
wall,
And I saw a man who was running and crouching, stagger and
fall,
And knew it for Arthur at once; but voiceless toward him she
ran,
I with her, crying aloud. But or ever we reached the
man,
Lo! a roar and a crash around us and my sick brain whirling
around,
And a white light turning to black, and no sky and no air and no
ground,
And then what I needs must tell of as a great blank; but
indeed
No words to tell of its horror hath language for my need:
As a map is to a picture, so is all that my words can say.
But when I came to myself, in a friend’s
house sick I lay
Amid strange blended noises, and my own mind wandering there;
Delirium
in me indeed and around me everywhere.
That passed, and all things grew calmer, I with them: all the
stress
That the last three months had been on me now sank to
helplessness.
I bettered, and then they told me the tale of what had betid;
And first, that under the name of a friend of theirs I was
hid,
Who was slain by mere misadventure, and was English as was I,
And no rebel, and had due papers wherewith I might well slip
by
When I was somewhat better. Then I knew, though they had
not told,
How all was fallen together, and my heart grew sick and cold.
And yet indeed thenceforward I strove my life to live,
That e’en as I was and so hapless I yet might live to
strive.
It was but few words they told me of that murder great and
grim,
And how with the blood of the guiltless the city’s streets
did swim,
And of other horrors they told not, except in a word or two,
When they told of their scheme to save me from the hands of the
villainous crew,
Whereby I guessed what was happening in the main without
detail.
And so at last it came to their telling the other tale
Of my wife and my friend; though that also methought I knew too
well.
Well, they said that I had been wounded by the fragment of a
shell,
Another of which had slain her outright, as forth she ran
Toward Arthur struck by a bullet. She never touched the
man
Alive and she also alive; but thereafter as they lay
Both dead on one litter together, then folk who knew not us,
But were moved by seeing the twain so fair and so piteous,
Took them for husband and wife who were fated there to die,
Or, it may be lover and lover indeed—but what know I?
Well, you know that I ’scaped from Paris,
and crossed the narrow sea,
And made my way to the country where we twain were wont to be,
And that is the last and the latest of the tale I have to
tell.
I came not here to be bidding my happiness farewell,
And to
nurse my grief and to win me the gain of a wounded life,
That because of the bygone sorrow may hide away from the
strife.
I came to look to my son, and myself to get stout and strong,
That two men there might be hereafter to battle against the
wrong;
And I cling to the love of the past and the love of the day to
be,
And the present, it is but the building of the man to be strong
in me.
Come hither, lads,
and hearken, for a tale there is to tell,
Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better than
well.
And the tale shall be told of a country, a land
in the midst of the sea,
And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to
be.
There more than one in a thousand in the days
that are yet to come
Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient
home.
For then—laugh not, but listen to this
strange tale of mine—
All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than
swine.
Then a man shall work and bethink him, and
rejoice in the deeds of his hand,
Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand.
Men in that time a-coming shall work and have
no fear
For to-morrow’s lack of earning and the hunger-wolf
anear.
I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then
shall be glad
Of his fellow’s fall and mishap to snatch at the work he
had.
For that which the worker winneth shall then be his
indeed,
Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no
seed.
O strange new wonderful justice! But for
whom shall we gather the gain?
For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall
labour in vain.
Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and
no more shall any man crave
For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a
slave.
And what wealth then shall be left us when none
shall gather gold
To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold?
Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little
house on the hill,
And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we
till;
And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of
the mighty dead;
And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet’s
teeming head;
And the painter’s hand of wonder; and the
marvellous fiddle-bow,
And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know.
For all these shall be ours and all
men’s, nor shall any lack a share
Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world
grows fair.