Poems, 1914-1919

Maurice Baring

Poems, 1914-1919

1915-1918

ἐν Τροίη ἀπόλοντο, ϕιλης ἀπὀ πατρίδος ἀίης

IN MEMORIAM, A.H

(Auberon Herbert, Captain Lord Lucas, R.F.C.; killed November 3, 1916.)Νωμᾶται δ’έν ἀτρυγέτῳ χάειThe wind had blown away the rainThat all day long had soaked the level plain.Against the horizon’s fiery wrack,The sheds loomed black.And higher, in their tumultuous concourse met,The streaming clouds, shot-riddled banners, wetWith the flickering storm,Drifted and smouldered, warmWith flashes sentFrom the lower firmament.And they concealed —They only here and there through rifts revealedA hidden sanctuary of fire and light,A city of chrysolite.We looked and laughed and wondered, and I said:That orange sea, those oriflammes outspreadWere like the fanciful imaginingsThat the young painter flingsUpon the canvas bold,Such as the sage and the oldMake mock at, saying it could never beAnd you assented also, laughingly.I wondered what they meant,That flaming firmament,Those clouds so grey so gold, so wet so warm,So much of glory and so much of storm,The end of the world, or the endOf the war – remoter still to me and you, my friend.Alas! it meant not this, it meant not that:It meant that now the last time you and IShould look at the golden sky,And the dark fields large and flat,And smell the evening weather,And laugh and talk and wonder both together.The last, last time. We nevermore should meetIn France or London street,Or fields of home. The desolated spaceOf life shall nevermoreBe what it was before.No one shall take your place.No other faceCan fill that empty frame.There is no answer when we call your name.We cannot hear your step upon the stair.We turn to speak and find a vacant chair.Something is broken which we cannot mend.God has done more than take away a friendIn taking you; for all that we have leftIs bruised and irremediably bereft.There is none like you. Yet not that aloneDo we bemoan;But this; that you were greater than the rest,And better than the best.O liberal heart fast-rooted to the soil,O lover of ancient freedom and proud toil,Friend of the gipsies and all wandering song,The forest’s nursling and the favoured childOf woodlands wild —O brother to the birds and all things free,Captain of liberty!Deep in your heart the restless seed was sown;The vagrant spirit fretted in your feet;We wondered could you tarry long,And brook for long the cramping street,Or would you one day sail for shores unknown,And shake from you the dust of towns, and spurnThe crowded market-place – and not return?You found a sterner guide;You heard the guns. Then, to their distant fire,Your dreams were laid aside;And on that day, you cast your heart’s desireUpon a burning pyre;You gave your service to the exalted need,Until at last from bondage freed,At liberty to serve as you loved best,You chose the noblest way. God did the rest.So when the spring of the world shall shrive our stain,After the winter of war,When the poor world awakes to peace once more,After such night of ravage and of rain,You shall not come again.You shall not come to taste the old Spring weather,To gallop through the soft untrampled heather,To bathe and bake your body on the grass.We shall be there, alas!But not with you. When Spring shall wake the earth,And quicken the scarred fields to the new birth,Our grief shall grow. For what can Spring renewMore fiercely for us than the need of you?That night I dreamt they sent for me and saidThat you were missing, “missing, missing – dead”:I cried when in the morning I awoke,And all the world seemed shrouded in a cloak;But when I saw the sun,And knew another day had just begun,I brushed the dream away, and quite forgotThe nightmare’s ugly blot.So was the dream forgot. The dream came true.Before the night I knewThat you had flown away into the airForever. Then I cheated my despair.I saidThat you were safe – or wounded – but not dead.Alas! I knewWhich was the false and true.And after days of watching, days of lead,There came the certain news that you were deadYou had died fighting, fighting against odds,Such as in war the godsÆthereal dared when all the world was young;Such fighting as blind Homer never sung,Nor Hector nor Achilles never knew;High in the empty blue.High, high, above the clouds, against the setting sun,The fight was fought, and your great task was done.Of all your brave adventures this the lastThe bravest was and best;Meet ending to a long embattled past,This swift, triumphant, fatal quest,Crowned with the wreath that never perisheth,And diadem of honourable death;Swift Death aflame with offering supremeAnd mighty sacrifice,More than all mortal dream;A soaring death, and near to Heaven’s gate;Beneath the very walls of Paradise.Surely with soul elate,You heard the destined bullet as you flew,And surely your prophetic spirit knewThat you had well deserved that shining fate.Here is no waste,No burning Might-have-been,No bitter after-taste,None to censure, none to screen,Nothing awry, nor anything misspent;Only content, content beyond content,Which hath not any room for betterment.God, Who had made you valiant, strong and swift,And maimed you with a bullet long ago,And cleft your riotous ardour with a rift,And checked your youth’s tumultuous overflow,Gave back your youth to you,And packed in moments rare and fewAchievements manifoldAnd happiness untold,And bade you spring to Death as to a bride,In manhood’s ripeness, power and pride,And on your sandals the strong wings of youth.He let you leave a nameTo shine on the entablatures of truth,Forever:To sound forever in answering halls of fame.For you soared onwards to that world which ragsOf clouds, like tattered flags,Concealed; you reached the walls of chrysolite,The mansions white;And losing all, you gained the civic crownOf that eternal town,Wherein you passed a rightful citizenOf the bright commonwealth ablaze beyond our ken.Surely you found companions meet for youIn that high place;You met there face to faceThose you had never known, but whom you knew;Knights of the Table Round,And all the very brave, the very true,With chivalry crowned;The captains rare,Courteous and brave beyond our human air;Those who had loved and suffered overmuch,Now free from the world’s touch.And with them were the friends of yesterday,Who went before and pointed you the way;And in that place of freshness, light and rest,Where Lancelot and Tristram vigil keepOver their King’s long sleep,Surely they made a place for you,Their long-expected guest,Among the chosen few,And welcomed you, their brother and their friend,To that companionship which hath no end.And in the portals of the sacred hallYou hear the trumpet’s call,At dawn upon the silvery battlement,Re-echo through the deepAnd bid the sons of God to rise from sleep,And with a shout to hailThe sunrise on the city of the Grail:

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