Poems

O God of earth and altar, Bow down and hear our cry Our earthly rulers falter, Our people drift and die; The walls of gold entomb us, The swords of scorn divide, Take not thy thunder from us, But take away our pride.

From all that terror teaches, From lies of tongue and pen, From all the easy speeches That comfort cruel men, From sale and profanation Of honour and the sword, From sleep and from damnation, Deliver us, good Lord!

Tie in a living tether The prince and priest and thrall, Bind all our lives together, Smite us and save us all; In ire and exultation Aflame with faith, and free, Lift up a living nation, A single sword to thee.

TO BE SUNG A LONG TIME AGO—OR HENCE

THE CARPENTERS

St. Joseph to the Carpenters said on a Christmas Day: "The master shall have patience and the prentice shall obey; And your word unto your women shall be nowise hard or wild: For the sake of me, your master, who have worshipped Wife and Child. But softly you shall frame the fence, and softly carve the door, And softly plane the table—as to spread it for the poor, And all your thoughts be soft and white as the wood of the white tree. But if they tear the Charter, Jet the tocsin speak for me! Let the wooden sign above your shop be prouder to be scarred Than the lion-shield of Lancelot that hung at Joyous Garde."

THE SHOEMAKERS

St. Crispin to the shoemakers said on a Christmastide: "Who fashions at another's feet will get no good of pride. They were bleeding on the Mountain, the feet that brought good news, The latchet of whose shoes we were not worthy to unloose. See that your feet offend not, nor lightly lift your head, Tread softly on the sunlit roads the bright dust of the dead. Let your own feet be shod with peace; be lowly all your lives. But if they touch the Charter, ye shall nail it with your knives. And the bill-blades of the commons drive in all as dense array As once a crash of arrows came, upon St. Crispin's Day."

THE PAINTERS

St. Luke unto the painters on Christmas Day he said: "See that the robes are white you dare to dip in gold and red; For only gold the kings can give, and only blood the saints; And his high task grows perilous that mixes them in paints. Keep you the ancient order; follow the men that knew The labyrinth of black and whits, the maze of green and blue; Paint mighty things, paint paltry things, paint silly things or sweet. But if men break the Charter, you may slay them in the street. And if you paint one post for them, then... but you know it well, You paint a harlot's face to drag all heroes down to hell."

ALL TOGETHER

Almighty God to all mankind on Christmas Day said He: "I rent you from the old red hills and, rending, made you free. There was charter, there was challenge; in a blast of breath I gave; You can be all things other; you cannot be a slave. You shall be tired and tolerant of fancies as they fade, But if men doubt the Charter, ye shall call on the Crusade— Trumpet and torch and catapult, cannon and bow and blade, Because it was My challenge to all the things I made."

The thatch on the roof was as golden, Though dusty the straw was and old, The wind had a peal as of trumpets, Though blowing and barren and cold, The mother's hair was a glory Though loosened and torn, For under the eaves in the gloaming A child was born.

Have a myriad children been quickened. Have a myriad children grown old, Grown gross and unloved and embittered, Grown cunning and savage and cold? God abides In a terrible patience, Unangered, unworn, And again for the child that was squandered A child is born.

What know we of æons behind us, Dim dynasties lost long ago, Huge empires, like dreams unremembered, Huge cities for ages laid low? This at least—that with blight and with blessing With flower and with thorn, Love was there, and his cry was among them, "A child is born."

Though the darkness be noisy with systems, Dark fancies that fret and disprove, Still the plumes stir around us, above us The wings of the shadow of love: Oh! princes and priests, have ye seen it Grow pale through your scorn. Huge dawns sleep before us, deep changes, A child is born.

And the rafters of toil still are gilded With the dawn of the star of the heart, And the wise men draw near in the twilight, Who are weary of learning and art, And the face of the tyrant is darkened. His spirit is torn, For a new King is enthroned; yea, the sternest, A child is born.

And the mother still joys for the whispered First stir of unspeakable things, Still feels that high moment unfurling Red glory of Gabriel's wings. Still the babe of an hour is a master Whom angels adorn, Emmanuel, prophet, anointed, A child is born.

And thou, that art still in thy cradle, The sun being crown for thy brow. Make answer, our flesh, make an answer, Say, whence art thou come—who art thou? Art thou come back on earth for our teaching To train or to warn—? Hush—how may we know?—knowing only A child is born.

There is heard a hymn when the panes dim And never before or again, When the nights are strong with a darkness long, And the dark is alive with rain.

Never we know but in sleet and in snow, The place where the great fires are, That the midst of the earth is a raging mirth And the heart of the earth a star.

And at night we win to the ancient inn Where the child in the frost is furled, We follow the feet where all souls meet At the inn at the end of the world.

The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red, For the flame of the sun is flown. The gods lie cold where the leaves lie gold. And a Child comes forth alone.

A word came forth in Galilee, a word like to a star; It climbed and rang and blessed and burnt wherever brave hearts are; A word of sudden secret hope, of trial and increase Of wrath and pity fused in fire, and passion kissing peace. A star that o'er the citied world beckoned, a sword of flame; A star with myriad thunders tongued: a mighty word there came.

The wedge's dart passed into it, the groan of timberwains, The ringing of the rivet nails, the shrieking of the planes; The hammering on the roofs at morn, the busy workshop roar; The hiss of shavings drifted deep along the windy floor; The heat-browned toiler's crooning song, the hum of human worth— Mingled of all the noise of crafts, the ringing word went forth.

The splash of nets passed into it, the grind of sand and shell, The boat-hook's clash, the boat-oars' jar, the cries to buy and sell, The flapping of the landed shoals, the canvas crackling free, And through all varied notes and cries, the roaring of the sea, The noise of little lives and brave, of needy lives and high; In gathering all the throes of earth, the living word went by.

Earth's giant sins bowed down to it, in Empire's huge eclipse, When darkness sat above the thrones, seven thunders on her lips, The woe of cities entered it, the clang of idols' falls, The scream of filthy Caesars stabbed high in their brazen halls, The dim hoarse Hoods of naked men, the worldrealms snapping girth, The trumpets of Apocalypse, the darkness of the earth:

The wrath that brake the eternal lamp and hid the eternal hill, A world's destruction loading, the word went onward still— The blaze of creeds passed into it, the hiss of horrid fires, The headlong spear, the scarlet cross, the hair-shirt and the briars, The cloistered brethren's thunderous chaunt, the errant champion's song, The shifting of the crowns and thrones, the tangle of the strong.

The shattering fall of crest and crown and shield and cross and cope, The tearing of the gauds of time, the blight of prince and pope, The reign of ragged millions leagued to wrench a loaded debt, Loud with the many throated roar, the word went forward yet. The song of wheels passed into it, the roaring and the smoke The riddle of the want and wage, the fogs that burn and choke. The breaking of the girths of gold, the needs that creep and swell. The strengthening hope, the dazing light, the deafening evangel, Through kingdoms dead and empires damned, through changes without cease, With earthquake, chaos, born and fed, rose,—and the word was "Peace."

"A BILL WHICH HAS SHOCKED THE CONSCIENCE OF EVERY CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY IN EUROPE."— Mr. F.E. Smith, ON THE WELSH DISESTABLISHMENT BILL.

Are they clinging to their crosses, F.E. Smith, Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses, Are they, Smith? Do they, fasting, tramping, bleeding, Wait the news from this our city? Groaning "That's the Second Reading!" Hissing "There is still Committed" If the voice of Cecil falters, If McKenna's point has pith, Do they tremble for their altars? Do they, Smith?

Russian peasants round their pope Huddled, Smith, Hear about it all, I hope, Don't they, Smith? In the mountain hamlets clothing Peaks beyond Caucasian pales, Where Establishment means nothing And they never heard of Wales, Do they read it all in Hansard With a crib to read it with— "Welsh Tithes: Dr. Clifford Answered," Really, Smith?

In the lands where Christians were, F.E. Smith, In the little lands laid bare, Smith, O Smith! Where the Turkish bands are busy, And the Tory name is blessed Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy On the banners from the West! Men don't think it half so hard if Islam burns their kin and kith, Since a curate lives in Cardiff Saved by Smith.

It would greatly, I must own, Soothe me, Smith, If you left this theme alone, Holy Smith! For your legal cause or civil You fight well and get your fee; For your God or dream or devil You will answer, not to me. Talk about the pews and steeples And the Cash that goes therewith! But the souls of Christian peoples.... —Chuck it, Smith!

"I WAS NEVER STANDING BY WHILE A REVOLUTION WAS GOING ON."—_Speech by the Rt. Hon. Walter Long_.

When Death was on thy drums, Democracy, And with one rush of slaves the world was free, In that high dawn that Kings shall not forget, A void there was and Walter was not yet. Through sacked Versailles, at Valmy in the fray, They did without him in some kind of way; Red Christendom all Walterless they cross, And in their fury hardly feel their loss.... Fades the Republic; faint as Roland's horn, Her trumpets taunt us with a sacred scorn.... Then silence fell; and Mr. Long was born.

From his first hours in his expensive cot He never saw the tiniest viscount shot. In deference to his wealthy parents' whim The wildest massacres were kept from him. The wars that dyed Pall Mall and Brompton red Passed harmless o'er that one unconscious head: For all that little Long could understand The rich might still be rulers of the land. Vain are the pious arts of parenthood, Foiled Revolution bubbled in his blood; Until one day (the babe unborn shall rue it) The Constitution bored him and he slew it.

If I were wise and good and rich and strong— Fond, impious thought, if I were Walter Long— If I could water sell like molten gold, And make grown people do as they are told, If over private fields and wastes as wide As a Greek city for which heroes died, I owned the houses and the men inside— If all this hung on one thin thread of habit I would not revolutionize a rabbit.

I would sit tight with all my gifts and glories, And even preach to unconverted Tories, That the fixed system that our land inherits, Viewed from a certain standpoint, has its merits. I'd guard the laws like any Radical, And keep each precedent, however small, However subtle, misty, dusty, dreamy, Lest man by chance should look at me and see me; Lest men should ask what madman made me lord Of English ploughshares and the English sword; Lest men should mark how sleepy is the nod That drills the dreadful images of God!

Walter, be wise! avoid the wild and new, The Constitution is the game for you. Walter, beware! scorn not the gathering throng It suffers, yet it may not suffer wrong, It suffers, yet it cannot suffer Long. And if you goad it these grey rules to break, For a few pence, see that you do not wake Death and the splendour of the scarlet cap, Boston and Valmy, Yorktown and Jemmappes, Freedom in arms, the riding and the routing, The thunder of the captains and the shouting, All that lost riot that you did not share—And when that riot comes—you will be there.