Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces

GOD’S FUNERAL

I   I saw a slowly-stepping train —Lined on the brows, scoop-eyed and bent and hoar —Following in files across a twilit plainA strange and mystic form the foremost bore.II   And by contagious throbs of thoughtOr latent knowledge that within me layAnd had already stirred me, I was wroughtTo consciousness of sorrow even as they.III   The fore-borne shape, to my blurred eyes,At first seemed man-like, and anon to changeTo an amorphous cloud of marvellous size,At times endowed with wings of glorious range.IV   And this phantasmal variousnessEver possessed it as they drew along:Yet throughout all it symboled none the lessPotency vast and loving-kindness strong.V   Almost before I knew I bentTowards the moving columns without a word;They, growing in bulk and numbers as they went,Struck out sick thoughts that could be overheard: —VI   “O man-projected Figure, of lateImaged as we, thy knell who shall survive?Whence came it we were tempted to createOne whom we can no longer keep alive?VII   “Framing him jealous, fierce, at first,We gave him justice as the ages rolled,Will to bless those by circumstance accurst,And longsuffering, and mercies manifold.VIII   “And, tricked by our own early dreamAnd need of solace, we grew self-deceived,Our making soon our maker did we deem,And what we had imagined we believed.IX   “Till, in Time’s stayless stealthy swing,Uncompromising rude realityMangled the Monarch of our fashioning,Who quavered, sank; and now has ceased to be.X   “So, toward our myth’s oblivion,Darkling, and languid-lipped, we creep and gropeSadlier than those who wept in Babylon,Whose Zion was a still abiding hope.XI   “How sweet it was in years far hiedTo start the wheels of day with trustful prayer,To lie down liegely at the eventideAnd feel a blest assurance he was there!XII   “And who or what shall fill his place?Whither will wanderers turn distracted eyesFor some fixed star to stimulate their paceTowards the goal of their enterprise?”.XIII   Some in the background then I saw,Sweet women, youths, men, all incredulous,Who chimed as one: “This figure is of straw,This requiem mockery!  Still he lives to us!”XIV   I could not prop their faith: and yetMany I had known: with all I sympathized;And though struck speechless, I did not forgetThat what was mourned for, I, too, once had prized.XV   Still, how to bear such loss I deemedThe insistent question for each animate mind,And gazing, to my growing sight there seemedA pale yet positive gleam low down behind,XVI   Whereof to lift the general night,A certain few who stood aloof had said,“See you upon the horizon that small light —Swelling somewhat?”  Each mourner shook his head.XVII   And they composed a crowd of whomSome were right good, and many nigh the best.Thus dazed and puzzled ’twixt the gleam and gloomMechanically I followed with the rest.1908–10.

SPECTRES THAT GRIEVE

“It is not death that harrows us,” they lipped,“The soundless cell is in itself relief,For life is an unfenced flower, benumbed and nippedAt unawares, and at its best but brief.”The speakers, sundry phantoms of the gone,Had risen like filmy flames of phosphor dye,As if the palest of sheet lightnings shoneFrom the sward near me, as from a nether sky.And much surprised was I that, spent and dead,They should not, like the many, be at rest,But stray as apparitions; hence I said,“Why, having slipped life, hark you back distressed?“We are among the few death sets not free,The hurt, misrepresented names, who comeAt each year’s brink, and cry to HistoryTo do them justice, or go past them dumb.“We are stript of rights; our shames lie unredressed,Our deeds in full anatomy are not shown,Our words in morsels merely are expressedOn the scriptured page, our motives blurred, unknown.”Then all these shaken slighted visitants spedInto the vague, and left me musing thereOn fames that well might instance what they had said,Until the New-Year’s dawn strode up the air.

“AH, ARE YOU DIGGING ON MY GRAVE?”

“Ah, are you digging on my grave   My loved one? – planting rue?”– “No: yesterday he went to wedOne of the brightest wealth has bred.‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,   ‘That I should not be true.’”“Then who is digging on my grave?   My nearest dearest kin?”– “Ah, no; they sit and think, ‘What use!What good will planting flowers produce?No tendance of her mound can loose   Her spirit from Death’s gin.’”“But some one digs upon my grave?   My enemy? – prodding sly?”– “Nay: when she heard you had passed the GateThat shuts on all flesh soon or late,She thought you no more worth her hate,   And cares not where you lie.”“Then, who is digging on my grave?   Say – since I have not guessed!”– “O it is I, my mistress dear,Your little dog, who still lives near,And much I hope my movements here   Have not disturbed your rest?”“Ah, yes!  You dig upon my grave.   Why flashed it not on meThat one true heart was left behind!What feeling do we ever findTo equal among human kind   A dog’s fidelity!”“Mistress, I dug upon your grave   To bury a bone, in caseI should be hungry near this spotWhen passing on my daily trot.I am sorry, but I quite forgot   It was your resting-place.”

SATIRES OF CIRCUMSTANCES IN FIFTEEN GLIMPSES

I

AT TEA

The kettle descants in a cozy drone,And the young wife looks in her husband’s face,And then at her guest’s, and shows in her ownHer sense that she fills an envied place;And the visiting lady is all abloom,And says there was never so sweet a room.And the happy young housewife does not knowThat the woman beside her was first his choice,Till the fates ordained it could not be so.Betraying nothing in look or voiceThe guest sits smiling and sips her tea,And he throws her a stray glance yearningly.

II

IN CHURCH

“And now to God the Father,” he ends,And his voice thrills up to the topmost tiles:Each listener chokes as he bows and bends,And emotion pervades the crowded aisles.Then the preacher glides to the vestry-door,And shuts it, and thinks he is seen no more.The door swings softly ajar meanwhile,And a pupil of his in the Bible class,Who adores him as one without gloss or guile,Sees her idol stand with a satisfied smileAnd re-enact at the vestry-glassEach pulpit gesture in deft dumb-showThat had moved the congregation so.

III

BY HER AUNT’S GRAVE

“Sixpence a week,” says the girl to her lover,“Aunt used to bring me, for she could confideIn me alone, she vowed.  ’Twas to coverThe cost of her headstone when she died.And that was a year ago last June;I’ve not yet fixed it.  But I must soon.”“And where is the money now, my dear?”“O, snug in my purse.. Aunt was so slowIn saving it – eighty weeks, or near.”.“Let’s spend it,” he hints.  “For she won’t know.There’s a dance to-night at the Load of Hay.”She passively nods.  And they go that way.

IV

IN THE ROOM OF THE BRIDE-ELECT

“Would it had been the man of our wish!”Sighs her mother.  To whom with vehemence sheIn the wedding-dress – the wife to be —“Then why were you so mollyishAs not to insist on him for me!”The mother, amazed: “Why, dearest one,Because you pleaded for this or none!”“But Father and you should have stood out strong!Since then, to my cost, I have lived to findThat you were right and that I was wrong;This man is a dolt to the one declined.Ah! – here he comes with his button-hole rose.Good God – I must marry him I suppose!”

V

AT A WATERING-PLACE

They sit and smoke on the esplanade,The man and his friend, and regard the bayWhere the far chalk cliffs, to the left displayed,Smile sallowly in the decline of day.And saunterers pass with laugh and jest —A handsome couple among the rest.“That smart proud pair,” says the man to his friend,“Are to marry next week.. How little he thinksThat dozens of days and nights on endI have stroked her neck, unhooked the linksOf her sleeve to get at her upper arm.Well, bliss is in ignorance: what’s the harm!”

VI

IN THE CEMETERY

“You see those mothers squabbling there?”Remarks the man of the cemetery.One says in tears, ‘’Tis mine lies here!’Another, ‘Nay, mine, you Pharisee!’Another, ‘How dare you move my flowersAnd put your own on this grave of ours!’But all their children were laid thereinAt different times, like sprats in a tin.“And then the main drain had to cross,And we moved the lot some nights ago,And packed them away in the general fossWith hundreds more.  But their folks don’t know,And as well cry over a new-laid drainAs anything else, to ease your pain!”

VII

OUTSIDE THE WINDOW

“My stick!” he says, and turns in the laneTo the house just left, whence a vixen voiceComes out with the firelight through the pane,And he sees within that the girl of his choiceStands rating her mother with eyes aglareFor something said while he was there.“At last I behold her soul undraped!”Thinks the man who had loved her more than himself;“My God – ’tis but narrowly I have escaped. —My precious porcelain proves it delf.”His face has reddened like one ashamed,And he steals off, leaving his stick unclaimed.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.