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IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ Minnie Maylow’s Story and Other Tales and Scenes _Date of first publication:_ 1931 _Author:_ John Masefield (1878-1967) _Date first posted:_ October 9, 2026 _Date last updated:_ October 9, 2026 Faded Page eBook #20261020 This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net This file was produced from images generously made available by Internet Archive. [Dustcover Illustration] [Cover Illustration] MINNIE MAYLOW’S STORY AND OTHER TALES AND SCENES BY JOHN MASEFIELD Collected Poems and Plays—Captain Margaret—Melloney Holtspur—The Everlasting Mercy and The Widow in The Bye Street—A Mainsail Haul—Right Royal—The Old Front Line—Reynard The Fox, or The Ghost Heath Run—King Cole—The Faithful—The Dream, and Other Poems—A King’s Daughter—The Locked Chest—Salt-Water Poems and Ballads—Lost Endeavour—Esther and Berenice—Gallipoli—Good Friday, and Other Poems—The Daffodil Fields—Enslaved, and Other Poems—A Sailor’s Garland—Philip The King, and Other Poems—Lollingdon Downs, and Other Poems—Multitude and Solitude—The Story of a Round-House, and Other Poems—Selected Poems—The Tragedy of Nan, and Other Plays—The Tragedy of Pompey the Great—The War and The Future—The Taking of Helen—Sard Harker—The Trial of Jesus—Tristan and Isolt—The Midnight Folk—Odtaa—The Coming of Christ—Midsummer Night, and Other Tales in Verse—The Hawbucks—South and East—The Wanderer of Liverpool—Minnie Maylow’s Story. MINNIE MAYLOW’S STORY AND OTHER TALES AND SCENES BY JOHN MASEFIELD • • • THE MACMILLAN COMPANY NEW YORK 1931 Copyright, 1931, By JOHN MASEFIELD. ——— Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1931. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY THE STRATFORD PRESS, INC., NEW YORK TO MY WIFE NOTE The Tales and Scenes in this volume are copyright. They may not be recited nor performed in public without the license of the Author or his Agents, the Society of Authors, 11, Gower Street, London, W.C., to whom application should be made. _I thank the beautiful speakers_— CHRYSTABEL AYLING BETTY BARTHOLOMEW DULCIE BOWIE ROSE BRUFORD MARGERY BRYCE ELSPETH COGHILL NEVILL COGHILL LESLIE DAVEY SYBIL HERIZ-SMITH HUBERT LANGLEY JUDITH MASEFIELD AMY REAN HAROLD RIPPER RONALD WATKINS PENELOPE WHEELER _Who, in the speaking of these tales and scenes,_ _have deeply delighted me_ • John Masefield CONTENTS Prologue xiii Minnie Maylow’s Story 3 Adamas and Eva 17 Son of Adam 23 The Love Gift 33 Tristan’s Singing 43 Simkin, Tomkin and Jack 57 The Rose of the World 65 Young John of Chance’s Stretch 75 Evan Roberts, A.B., of H.M.S. Andromache 95 The Wild Swan 101 Richard Whittington 129 The Hour Strikes 155 Penelope 181 _PROLOGUE_ _I am a pilgrim come from many lands,_ _With stories gathered about many fires,_ _Some, when the moon rose above Asian sands,_ _Some, when the sun set over English shires._ _How often have I told these tales before_ _To you, the listening pilgrims, who anon_ _Set out towards the wells you thirsted for_ _Across the desert, while the planet shone?_ _Often, perhaps; and often may re-tell,_ _In distant lands and times, as daylight fails,_ _When you, the pilgrims, camp beside the well,_ _And I, the pilgrim, recollect the tales._ MINNIE MAYLOW’S STORY MINNIE MAYLOW’S STORY Once (long ago) there was an English King, Who loved good stories more than anything. Many a story did the poets tell To him, who loved their tales and listened well. But one defect their tales had, that they ended, Always, at last, the lady was befriended, The sinner was confounded, lovers blessed. The story’s sun went down into the west. Then the King said, “Would poets could contrive An endless tale, whose heroes do not wive; A story ever fresh and never done, Like the august procession of the sun. Royally watching mortals from the sky, That sinks, but rises, and can never die.” Then he proclaimed, “It is our royal will That poets (duly qualified in skill) Come to our court, and tell an endless tale.” But those who tried it were of no avail. Their stories lagged enfeebled and then died, So that in disappointment the King cried, “Henceforth it shall be death, to any man, Who comes to court declaring that he can Tell me an endless tale and fails therein, It shall be death, like treason, or great sin, Upon the headsman’s block on Tower Hill. But any poet who shall have the skill To tell an endless tale shall have for prize My daughter’s hand and half my baronies; And, when I die, shall have my crown as heir. Heralds, go forth: proclaim this everywhere.” It was proclaimed, but, when the threat was known, The story-tellers left the court alone, Even though the princess’ beauty was so great As to tempt any poet to his fate. Though she was known as Emily the Fair, Heartsease, and Morning Star, and Golden Hair: Each story-teller feared to lose his head. Then the King grieved, for his delight was dead. No story-teller came with thrilling rhyme To charm his soul with ‘Once upon a time’. Only his Juggler and the Fool remained: One he disliked, the other he disdained. Then silence fell upon the palace hall, Save for the sentry passing on the wall: Or some old general coming to report On army remounts at his frontier fort. Men with most dreary tales of old attacks, With half their brains gouged by the battle-axe; Or ministers with courtesies in their spines, Or Labour members talking about mines; Or scarlet admirals, whose breezy tone Made the King thankful to be left alone. None who could charm him, as in days of old The poets with the stories that they told. And Emily the Fair, with downcast eyes, Guided the bright silk of her ’broideries. Loving her father, yet, without offence, Wishing the loved one might have had more sense, And not be self-condemned to sit like lead, Dumb by the fire betwixt meat and bed, Or snarling, as he poked the burning logs, “This land of mine is going to the Dogs.” One night the porter came before the King, Saying, “Behold, my lord, a marvellous thing, Here at your gate a young man brings a tale That will go on for ever without fail. He knows the penalty of unsuccess, His head upon the gate, but none the less Determines to adventure for the prize.” “Young,” said the King. “The young are never wise And all their stories are but washy stuff: Still, youth demands until it has enough. This man shall have enough, like all the rest. Bid him go see the chaplain; it were best He make his peace before he make his trial.” “He would not take advice, nor yet denial,” The porter said: “but hungers to begin.” “Checking a fool in folly is not sin,” The King replied, “so let him come to me: Put up your night’s embroidery, Emily. A tale-teller has come to show his skill.” Now the dark palace-hall began to fill, With knights and men-at-arms and palace dames And pine logs on the fire cast ruddy flames That made the shadows dance upon the wall. Then the King rose and said, “Friends, listen all. A story-teller comes to-night to try His fortune in a tale that cannot die. Where is he, porter? Let the lad appear.” A young man at the entrance answered “Here.” And coming forward stood before the King, Bright as the golden pheasant in the Spring, Cool as the antlered royal on the crag, Tense as the racehorse waiting for the flag. Then the King said, “You doubtless know the rules That hedge our Throne from the attempts of fools. Those who begin and fail in the attempt Stand self-condemned and none shall be exempt, Steel lops away the peccant proser’s head. Your person seems unready to be dead.” “Sire,” the youth said, “I understand the terms. I dread no headsman’s axe, nor coffin worms, I venture all things gladly for the stake:— This fair Princess for whom so many ache. I do not come for glory nor for land But as a suitor striving for her hand. If I succeed, and she will have me . . . well. If not, come headsman with the burial knell: And shut me from the presence of her worth. For the most beautiful princess on earth, I come to tell a story without end.” Then the King answered, “Very well, my friend. If you can tell a tale that will endure Daily as sunrise and as season-sure, This fair Princess and half my land shall be Yours, now, and all my kingdom after me. But if you fail, you die: are you content?” “Yes,” the youth said: “the terms are excellent. If you permit, I will begin my story:— Our ancient poets, excellent in glory, Say that of old this England had a King Who dreaded Famine above everything . . . Dreaded, lest anywhere, in toft or street, Subject of his should lack enough to eat, And he behold his people wanting food. So, being eager for his country’s good, He swore, on coming to his father’s throne, That, while he ruled, hunger should be unknown To woman, child or man throughout his realm. Then being crowned, and settled at the helm, He called for England’s chiefest architect, Firstly to draw, and after to erect A granary with cellars, walls and roof Water proof, tempest proof, and earthquake proof. When this was done he bade his Treasury Purchase all corn, and fill the granary. * * * The granary was filled, up to the hatch With peerless wheat and barley without match. ‘Now we are saved,’ the King cried, ‘from our dread And we can sleep with an untroubled head, And shall not dream of hunger, nor of towns With all their people starved to skeletons; With their lips green from biting on the grass. Men shall forget that ever Famine was. This grain will last through ten lean years together; Let blight, or smut, or rust, or rainy weather, Or wind, that lays the blade and earths the ear, Let them all come, I say: We need not fear; We have destroyed what has destroyed mankind.’ So, with glad heart, contented in his mind, He bade them seal the granary hatch with lead. ‘Let Famine fall,’ he thought, ‘we shall be fed.’ But mark, O King, upon how small a point A mortal craft will shipwreck and disjoint. In that gigantic granary’s topmost wall One tiny scrap of mortar came to fall, Leaving a chink that no man’s eye could see, Being aloft where men could never be. Now, King, this vasty mass of gathered wheat Sent forth a smell, unknown by man, but sweet To all the locusts of the world, who flew, Longing to see where so much eating grew. So that the skies were dark with locusts flying, Then for three days men saw the locusts trying To find some entrance to that shuttered store: And in the end one lively locust tore Through that small chink from which the mortar fell And stole away one grain. O King, I tell Nothing but truth. Another locust came And struggled through the hole and did the same. And then another locust did the same. As secretly as sickness in a bone, So wrought these locusts utterly unknown. Who could suspect a cranny? Who suspect The building Guild, the royal Architect? Unseen as poison breathed in with the breath; Each of three locusts dealt a corn a death. Then came a fourth and took a corn and went Then a fifth locust who was bulky, bent And almost blocked the chink, but struggled through And took a grain, and a sixth locust, too. And then a seventh crept into the hole; And then an eighth; and eighth and seventh stole Each one a grain, and carried it away And then a ninth one, having seen the way, Crept in and took a barleycorn and fled. The tenth was a king-locust, spotted red. He took three grains, being of royal blood. The eleventh took a grain and found it good. Then the twelfth locust, shining in the sun Crept in and took a grain. The thirteenth one Followed and took a corn. The fourteenth came And took a corn. The fifteenth did the same And then the sixteenth locust did the same. And another locust carried off another. And another locust came, the first one’s brother. He took a corn, and then his brother drew It through the hole, and took another, too. And then another locust found the place And another locust followed him in chase, And another locust followed close behind And another locust, hungry as the wind, Leaped in upon his tracks and took a corn And a battered locust, who was all forlorn Lame in one leg, and sorry on the wing, Came in and took another grain, O King. Sometimes in hot Septembers one may see On gray cathedral roofs the wasps in glee Whirling against the blue sky overhead From papery nests hung underneath the lead, So men beheld these locusts, but none guessed That greed of grain had given them such zest. There came a black Saturnian one, there came A stalwart Jovian, with crest of flame. A glittering, dainty Venus-locust flew Questing for corn, red Martians followed, too. Each took a grain, and then, a marvellous sight A locust bowed with age, whose hair was white, Thrust to the corn. . . .” But here the King cried, “Hold. Boy, by our Father’s Corpse down in the mould Stop this unworthy folly of the flies. Get to your tale.” The young man said, “Be wise . . . Govern your kingdom, Sire, as seems good But leave a story-teller to his mood. I tell the tale of what the locusts did. Another locust crept within and hid, Under a pile of wheat and took two grains. And then a locust suffering from pains, Searched for a peppercorn to warm his marrow: Then a sow-locust with her twenty farrow Crept one by one into the chink and stole And then another locust found the hole, And crept within and pillaged like the last And then another locust followed fast. And then another locust followed soon. Then one, with wits unsettled by the moon, Strayed crooning through the hole and did the same. And then another, and another came. And then another and another followed And soon the space between the bricks was hollowed, So as to hold a locust and a quarter; And then another locust pressed the mortar. And then another came and wore it smooth, And then another came and fleshed his tooth Right to the bitter kernel of an oat. Then yet another, with a greedy throat Came in, and then his cousin, and his aunt.” “Stop!” said the King. The young man said, “I can’t. I have to tell my story as it was. I serve poetic truth, a noble cause. I will not stop for conqueror or king. Another locust came upon the wing.” “Silence,” the King said. “Silence. Tell me, friend, How soon this locust incident will end?” “It will not end,” the youth said. “It will go As it has gone for ever. You will know All that each locust of those millions did, Give ear, my King.” The King said, “Jove forbid!” “It is my tale,” the youth said, “and you shall. I staked my life upon it in this hall, To tell a story for your prize, and now Many might think you meant to break your vow. Let me proceed. Another locust came.” “Young man,” the King said, “you have missed your aim. Your story fails, although I grant you clever; Those locusts could not carry corn for ever. They might have for a year, but in the end That granary was bare. What then, my friend?” “Sire,” the youth said, “the King, who made the store, Filled it again, much fuller than before. And another locust came and took a corn.” “O readiest story-teller ever born,” The King cried, “you have conquered; we submit And, as our Daughter seems rejoiced at it, Son, you shall marry Emily the Fair, Have half my kingdom now, and be my heir. My heralds shall design you a device, On a field wavy, semée wheat and rice, Three locusts proper, bearing each a grain. Girl, never let him tell that tale again!” ADAMAS AND EVA ADAMAS AND EVA Whilom there was, dwellyng in Paradys Our fader Adamas with Eve hys wyf. They nere not sinful folk in any wys But angelyk they lived, withouten stryf: They moughte so have lived all her lyf Dronk the clene wel withouten Dethe’s curse But out, allas, al fel as I reherse. O hellish Sathanas, feend dampnable. O corsed foule wrecche, soth to say, Thou wast so wlatsom, so abhominable, And eke so mordrous without any nay, Thou didst persuade Eva welaway To take the greene pomme from the tre O fatal apple, seed of miserie! For as hit fel by dominacioun Of thise derke sterres, as I gesse Or rede Mars in Opposicioun To Fortune’s brighte sterres, More or Lesse, Or declinacioun of lukkinesse, God wot, I nis no more than a babe. Redith thise clerkes on the Astrolabe. But so hit fel that Adam is ygo Out of thys garden for a day or twey, Him liste se the wilde horses go Thise litel prety Centaures, soth to sey, So forth he goth, though Eva said him nay He careth never a del, forth is he went. Now Sathanas, let launch thy fel intent. This corsed wrecche, I mene this Sathanas, Upon his bely sobtilely doth crawl Into thys garden on the grene gras Ther as the thikke hegge has i-fal, Or els a mous had eten through the wal And left an hole: he on his bely crepith To the grene bour thereas Eva slepith. O Judas of dissimulacioun, O false Ganelon of evil lukke, Fly, sparwe, fly, with informacioun, Beth Adam ’ware the feend is with hys chukke: O pypen, blisful goos, o quakke dukke, Warn sely Eva sleeping in the bour Ther comth this false corsed tregetour. But as thys Cato saith in Scipioun, In his old boke that thise clerkes rede, “Though all men shryken Morder in the toun What botes it if the wrecche have done the deed?” The woful cors, forblodied, skarlet-reed, Gettith no gost, for al they cry Allas. Now comth this Sathanas where Eva was. O sely Eva, moder of us al, Thou wast to nice and grene, ye, God woot, The rede apple round as is a bal Goth doun the sclendre golet of thy throot; Thou ettist it when thou was tolde noot . . . Wepe, Adam, wepe, thy wyf has lost hir sense, Sewith thy napron, farewel innocence. For ye han herd how Adamas and Eve For apple-take were chased our of hir bour, Where the swete birdis sang in the grene leve They might not stop a minute ne an hour. Their salte teres wetted many a flour; Hem listed nat to wenden wel away, But out they went, ther nis namore to say. SON OF ADAM SON OF ADAM Once on a time there was a lusty Lion Just come of age, within the Libyan desert, A handsome he, all shiny with manly beauty. So on his coming-of-age-day out he went Forth from his father’s palace, caring no straw For how his Mother begged him to be careful: For “Oh,” she cried, out of the palace turret, “Beware, my lovely boy, of Son of Adam. Of all the dangerous deadly beasts of Earth, He is the dangerousest and the deadliest.” This shiny Lion, full of beauty of youth, Went to the drinking-pools where the gazelles went, But not to seek gazelles. Into the water He peered a long, long time at his reflection, And smiled and said: “Perhaps not beautiful, But oh, how interesting and how virile. Let Son of Adam come here: only let him.” Then, rising up, he paced into the desert Shewing his teeth, lashing his flank with his tail, And with deep coughing roars calling aloud “Come, Son of Adam, with your deadly danger.” And lo, out of the air there came a stranger, A gray bird ghastly, with all tail feathers gone, Part plucked, part moulted, altogether battered. “What Animal are you?” the Lion asked it. “I’m a Goose Animal,” the creature answered. “And I am running away from Son of Adam Who longs to cook and eat me: he has ravished My feathers, as you see: it is his custom To eat us geese with apple sauce and sages; Our feathers stuff his beds, our grease, out-melted, He rubs upon his skin to make him shiny. He is a deadly thing, the Son of Adam.” The Lion answered: “Leave the matter to Me. Myself will deal with him and see you righted.” He paced a little further upon his way And lo, another creature, withered and gray, Came hobbling, stumbling, ribbed and shoulder-sorry A lop-eared, pondering thing, clever, perverse. “What Animal are you?” the Lion asked it. “I am a Donkey Animal,” it answered. “And I am running away from Son of Adam. Who bangs me with a stick and makes me labour Dragging the load of barley sacks to market, Beatings and kicks and curses are my portion, The chaff the horses leave, the hay the cows leave, The meal the pigs refuse, and autumn wind-falls: These, and, sometimes, a happy dream of carrots. A dream, I say, a vision, that on waking Fades to an empty crib with the rain dripping. Such is my life, but even when pale Death comes To end my life of sorrows and release me Still Son of Adam comes, he takes my skin off And moulds it into what he knows as vellum On which his devilish deep ones write their deeds. Dangerous are the deeds of Son of Adam.” “Leave him to me, my friend,” the Lion answered, “Myself will deal with him and see you righted.” Onward he paced, engrossed in his importance, And as he felt the wiseness of his wisdom, Lo, coming thither was another creature A little like the Donkey in his feature But shorter in the ear and sadder-looking The ribs more staring and the knees more broken Such as a cats’-meat man would rub his hands at. “What Animal are _you_?” the Lion asked it. “I am a Pack-Horse Animal,” it answered. “And I am running away from Son of Adam. Deadly and dangerous is Son of Adam: He makes my life a burden beyond bearing, With ploughing, harrowing and homing harvest, Taking the sacks to mill, turning the mill-stone, Then dragging back the flour to the baker. And always being ridden, having my jaw jabbed With snatchings on the bit and ‘Back there, will you.’ And always getting saddle-galls and spavins And curby hocks and colic and the staggers. And for my food, to give me strength to labour I ask you what, and Echo answers with me. Chaff that a sailor would reject in biscuit; Hay that a politician would not purchase During a war, and corn the forage merchants Could not dispose of, even to a general. And in the green time, in the happy summer, When the pink clover blossoms in the hayfield, And all beasts banquet, never think that I do, Not with a Son of Adam for a master. I snatch a dusty mouthful from the roadside The while I drag the hayload to the hayrick And even then am struck, and Son of Adam Cries, ‘You’re not here to gormandize but labour. Pull up, now, to your collar; pull, you cab-horse.’ And even when I perish, Son of Adam Makes profit of me, selling me to kennels To boil with barley into broth for foxhounds, And others boil my horny hoofs for jelly And sell my flesh for cats’-meat or for sausage; Unhappy Pack-Horse, deadly Son of Adam.” “Leave him to me, my friend,” the Lion answered. “Myself will deal with him and see you righted.” So, pacing on, he mused, “In after ages These paltry beasts will raise a temple to me, The Lion of all Lions of all Lions Loud roaring vanquisher of Son of Adam Where is this Son of Adam? Let me see him.” And as he spoke, behold, coming towards him, There was a Something of a mildewed aspect So sorrowful, so furless and so feeble That it was doubtful what it could be reckoned; Whether an Animal or only Nightmare. It had no teeth to speak of, and no talons, No fur upon its head, but moulted baldness, Two wretched legs it had, and one a lame one, A coat all ragged, shewing rags beneath it. Across its back was slung a builder’s wallet And on its shoulders, staggeringly, it bore A load of planks and also an iron door. And seeing it, at first, the Lion doubted Whether to stoop to speak to such a creature. Then with extreme misliking and disfavour He asked the thing: “What Animal are you then?” The creature, putting down his burdens, panted And touched his brow, and said, “To tell the truth, sir, I am a Builder-Animal, so please you. And I am running away from Son of Adam, Because I can’t agree with Son of Adam. And why? Because this Son of Adam asks me To build at things I cannot reckon building. They are not building, no, but jerry-building, These bungalows in ribbons down a roadside, These cottages constructed by the Council, Workers like me can’t reckon them as building. Give me to build at building that _is_ building; One of these towers like a minaret now Or pyramid all pointed for a Pharaoh . . . But tripe, not taste, is Son of Adam’s fancy. No use to talk to him of architecture. Besides he wants no workers, no, but wage-slaves That he can grind to do his deeds of darkness. I tell him plain I’ll do no jerry-building . . . Since Builder-Animals must die like others, I say ‘Die building palaces not pigsties.’ So here I come, to build a palace _and_ die.” Salt tears were glistening in the Builder’s eye. “I come,” he said, “prepared to build a palace For him they call the King of Beasts, the Monarch Of all live things, the Conqueror and Captain The Emperor of Animals, the Leopard.” “Leopard?” the Lion said. “You are mistaken. The Leopard is not Emperor nor Captain, Nor Conqueror, nor Monarch; he is nothing . . . The certain spotty grace that we accord him He shares with currant dumplings and hyænas . . . And as for King, he’s less a King than you are. Lions have palaces and Leopards lairs, sir . . . And that if Lions choose. I am a Lion . . . Build me a palace: talk no more of Leopards . . . For by the Lion Sun who ranges Heaven Tossing his mane of fire from his shoulders, To talk of Leopards in such terms is treason.” “Forgive me my mistake, sir,” said the Builder. “It comes from all that Son of Adam taught me. Leopards indeed! Indeed I see my error, Seeing a royal Lion like yourself, sir, (That is, as far as I can see, from dazzle). O what great joy and rapture and promotion For this poor wage slave ’scaped from Son of Adam To build a palace for a Royal Lion A Conqueror and Emperor and Sultan. To think that with these plankings and this hammer These hands will build a palace for your Kingship To see your smiles and echo with your singing And gleam with the reflection of your beauty. For, sir, when I beheld your beauty coming I thought, ‘This is some planet or some angel.’ And now, to think I am to build your palace. O happy Builder-Animal, thrice happy: O lucky nails, O blessed plank and hammer.” And as he spoke, he built a little palace Then turned it upside down, and through the bottom Drove four and five inch nails, so that the points stuck Up, through the floors, and each one pointing inward. “Why drive the nails like that?” the Lion asked him. “In royal palaces we always put them,” The Builder said, “It is the royal hall mark. The palace is now ready, if it please you. Will you walk in?” “It is not very big,” the Lion answered. “There’s lots of room inside, I do assure you,” The Builder said, “As sweet a little palace Ay, and as roomy as a King could look for. Just step inside and see it for yourself, sir.” So stooping down the Lion crawled within it, And instantly the Builder clapped the door to, The iron door, and locked it with a padlock. Then went away, but soon returned rejoicing Riding the Donkey Animal, and plucking The Goose for dinner, while he drove the Pack-Horse. He halted there, and hove the Lion palace The Lion still inside, onto the Pack-Horse And drove him to the Sultan, where he sold him. THE LOVE GIFT THE LOVE GIFT In King Marc’s palace at the valley-head All seemed in happiness: Isolt the Queen And Marc the King were lovers newly wed; Brangwen, the maiden, watched them with soft eyes; Tristan would pluck his harp-strings till they pled To all hearts there, and April flourished green. Men said, “Our kingdom becomes Paradise.” But Tristan and the Queen were lovers sworn Both having drunk the love-drink meant for Marc. Brangwen in bitter anguish went forlorn, Loving the King: she, too, had drunk the dram, Had played the Queen that marriage night till morn, And lived upon her memory of the dark. These souls, like petals in a mill-race swam. It fell that Marc, upon Midsummer Eve, Went to the holy hill above the wood And saw the moon steal slowly up and cleave The white, still clouds that glittered as she came. And lo, he saw the forest-goddess leave The aged Oak of Watching that there stood; She sped to him, and called him by his name. She was a mighty lady crowned with oak In its young green, with oak-apple; she held In her left hand a spear clutched to her cloak, Her marvellous hair was gathered to her head. Her sandals were bright fire without smoke. Her robe was of fresh beechen leaves all stelled With hawthorn blossom that never would be dead. Antlers she bore, and from her leafy dress Peered squirrels’ eyes intelligencing quick All things that happened with all suddenness. The swiftness of the forest life was hers All, from the ousel running ’neath the cress To soft-foot stags that never snap the stick; Her voice was as the forest when it stirs. “King Marc,” she said, “Since you have honored me At all times, having kept this holy copse From hunting horn and hound forever free, Nor let the woodmen’s axes lop and split The branches of my oaken dwelling-tree, Where falcons nest and the red squirrel hops, Now you shall joy in my reward for it. “I have three gifts to offer to your choice: Wisdom and Power and Immortality, Wisdom that makes the spinning stars rejoice; Power that makes the singing stars to spin; And last, that Death shall never still your voice, Eternal Living, Marc, from Death set free. Which shall I give you? you shall choose: begin. “Each of the three gifts you may give away But must not share: I cannot help you choose:— Each is a glory wrested from the clay By spirit striving against mortal odds To hive a little sunlight from the day. Each is a splendour for immortal use, Each, being had, will make you like the gods.” She waited, while Marc pondered which to take Of those three glowing fruits the goddess had. Rejecting any would be such mistake. But this he thought: “Since any may be given, Which were the loveliest gift for me to make To my beloved Queen, to make her glad? Which would my Isolt love, my bird of Heaven?” And thought “The gift of Immortality Would be the loveliest gift, it would ensure That Death would spare that living ecstasy, That April, at whose passing the grass springs; Death should be powerless on such as she; That White Rose of Midsummer should endure, Bringing forever the beauty that she brings . . .” “Therefore,” (he told the goddess) “I will choose Immortal Life of what you offer here Healing to every cut, balm to each bruise, Life, flowing in wherever fever is, Life, the advancing knight who cannot lose, Life, that is enemy to death and fear, Life, that brings vision to the mind amiss.” The goddess gave the central glowing fruit, “This gives immortal life to whomso eats,” She said, “It grows upon a deathless root Men see it glimmer if they give their lives. Breath cannot falter nor the pulse be mute Of whomso swallows its exciting sweets. Eat and be quit of all that Death contrives: Or give (you may not share) if give you must . . . Only a god’s gift should not lightly pass At greedy bidding from a mortal lust. God chooses the recipients of his gifts, As earthly kings their messengers of trust, The golden vessels not the things of brass, Not clay that crumbles nor the sand that shifts.” Then she was gone as stilly as the moon Creeps into mist: not any hazel stirred. Marc looked upon the goddess’ glowing boon:— A quince, like living ember to the sight; Of intense tint, but ever changing soon, As gorget jewels on the humming-bird; Now drawing to itself, now giving, light. Then hastening back to palace, Marc repaired Straight to the Queen and cried “Isolt, my own, I bring you here Life’s very essence bared. Accept the fruit of immortality; The spirit powers forbid it to be shared; Its excellence must be for you alone, Life at its fullest, for eternity. “The goddess gave this wonder even now And said: ‘The Eater cannot taste of Death,’ This apple grew on an immortal bough Whose roots are thrusted in eternal things. Beloved, with this gift I Thee endow, Eat, my beloved, that your blood and breath May be exempt from mortal sorrowings. “And be, forever, beauty, as they are Now, to myself, O treasure of the West. My joy, my Morning and my Evening Star, I have so longed for such a gift to give . . . The winds will blow my perished dust afar This dust that loves you and that you have blessed. What matters that, beloved: you will live.” Then Isolt took the Fruit of Life and said “Marc, you were ever generous, to the soul; I take this precious gift that you have made. But for the eating of this living fruit . . . That is a question to be deeply weighed. How beautiful it is . . . like glowing coal . . . Ask me not what I purpose, but be mute “About it: it were better if we both Kept silence about this most marvellous gift. My husband, ever since we plighted troth You have been royal to me, gift and thought. I who have profited have suffered sloth To check the gratitude that should be swift And generous as the gift, and as unsought.” She bowed her lips upon the fruit and went. That following afternoon at milking time When all the palace hinds were up the bent (Save the smiths shoeing and the men at mill) She stole into the gallery and lent Over the rail, and softly sang a rhyme, And Tristan came at call to know her will. “Tristan,” she said, “My heart’s beloved friend, This fire-glowing fruit that has been given, Gives to the Eater Life without an end. I cannot share it; but I cannot eat Taking a joy I cannot give nor lend To you, beloved soul, my earthly Heaven. Take it from me, and be immortal, sweet. “For then I shall be happy, knowing this ‘My Tristan is alive, through love of mine.’ Out of our loving and the joy it is I give this golden apple of the sun; Beloved, take it, though it once was his . . . Marc’s . . . it is yours, I kiss it for a sign, Kiss it for my sake, my beloved one.” So Tristan took the fruit, and as he took An aged crone beside the fire awoke In the dark settle in the chimney nook, And whimpered: “Ai, my little grandchild’s late, And I’m forgotten being palsy-strook; My breath is shocking and my heart is broke.” Tristan slipped sidelong thence and out at gate. But being by himself he thought, “Alack, I cannot take the gift that Marc has given (Doubtless with passion), I must give it back. How could I live forever without her? We are two wild-duck in a single track Bound to a mere whose reeds are tempest driven But we are utterly one amid the stir.” So, when he next met Isolt in the hall, He said: “I cannot keep your precious gift. We are each other’s, let us share in all, Living or dying, O beloved heart. Love is most royal, without self, or thrift, Or wisdom, or concern for what may fall, Beyond the longing for the counterpart. “But Isolt, sweet, when first we plotted here We tricked King Marc, that on his marriage night He drank the philtre that makes people dear, With Brangwen, not with you: and that offence Leaves Brangwen sorrowing in love, and drear With miseries of shame: it would be right To give this fruit to her in recompense. “But I refuse a life you cannot share:— Therefore let Brangwen eat the fruit and live.” Isolt agreed and calling Brangwen there They gave the fruit to her, and Brangwen took. Brangwen the sweet-faced woman with brown hair; Eternal life, but peace they could not give To her whom Love’s devouring fever shook. All day the gentle Brangwen pondered long Trying to dare, but checked by shame-facedness, Then Love, which ever ventures and is strong Drove her to presence of King Marc to speak. “O King,” she said, “Forgive me if I wrong Custom or rule in daring to address Your Majesty uncalled: I do not seek “Aught for myself, but humbly offer you This fruit which makes immortal him who eats Immortal, as the shining retinue Of bringers of the Light of God to earth. All sickness flesh of mortal ever knew Fades from the eater of these living sweets. It is for you: man cannot share its worth.” Then Marc, in taking Brangwen’s gift, was sure That Isolt had betrayed him to the full, Loving another someone beyond cure. He said, “I thank you, Brangwen, for this gift. Life is a precious boon, if Love endure. This way and that the angry passions pull; Many are eager that the end be swift. “I shall remember that you gave this thing, And how you gave it, and be ever proud That subject has so reckoned of her King.” Then carrying the gift he left the hall And anguish from the poison of the sting Wrought in him till he wept with forehead bowed Nor heeded whither he was bent at all. But at the last, he sat beside a brook And lo, beyond, a little seven year lad Was weeping with such grief his body shook Choking with sobs and moaning in between That Marc, remembering childish sorrows, took Pity, and asked, what misery he had? What bitterness had happed to cut so keen? Then the child answered “Mother’s going to die, So Doctor says, of weakness; when she’s dead Bran says that she’ll be somewhere in the sky Where she can never talk to us, nor see. And Father beats when Mother isn’t by, When drunk, he’s beaten me until I’ve bled. But Mother’s kind: she makes him let us be.” “But, Courage,” said King Marc, “and lead me, straight, To where your Mother lies;” then, being brought, He paused beside the broken cottage-gate And said, “Go swiftly: make your Mother eat This Fruit of Living ere it be too late.” The lad ran to the cottage swift as thought. And laughter followed after, that was sweet. Then the King turned for home, no longer blest, No longer home, but now the tragic place Of passionate love’s betrayal manifest. But deeper sorrows than his own were bare, The inmost ache within the mortal breast, The pitiful child’s crying of the race For comfort of a soul no longer there. TRISTAN’S SINGING TRISTAN’S SINGING PART I When Isolt quarrelled with her Tristan there In the green forest, and returned to Marc, Tristan was in the uttermost despair And fled into the wilds and lived on bark And found a cavern, once a hermit’s lair, And dwelled there raving for that lovely thing Gone from him, back to Cornwall and her King. And in his madman’s rage, he fashioned bows, And pointed arrows in the flame, and slew The red stags of the mountain and their does, The wolves of the mid-forest and their crew; He killed, and flung their bodies to the crows, But took their skins, and pricking with a thorn Wrote on them in his blood his love forlorn. Then, shrieking like the she-wolf gaunt and dire, He would run raging like a fiend in hell, Thro’ berry-bramble, gorse and forest-fire, Hunted by love remembered but too well; Love gone and living torment of desire: Then dropping wretched he would rock with pain Weeping for Isolt gone to Marc again. Thus in a madman’s misery he dwelled More than a year, then, on a summer night, He wandered from his cavern and beheld The moon in heaven beautiful with light, And saw the glowing dog-rose many-stelled, And joy returned to him: he wept that things So beautiful should bless this world of stings. And as he wept, his spirit was aware Of joy within him, lightening his mind To marvels that had lain un-noticed there; Custom had made him deaf and passion blind. But now the universe was riven bare, The very grass was singing from the ground, The life within him carrolled at the sound. The sallow clover-clusters tinged with red Were rooted in immortal life and spoke Of earth and living beauty, wine and bread, That yet are starry in their mortal yoke; The hairy and dark-crimson basil shed Wisdom and peace: a moth with jewelled eyes Perched on his hand and sang of Paradise. And all the glittering dusts upon his wings Expanded and contracted singing too Their unison and joy as living things, The unison and joy that Tristan knew. Life flowed within him from eternal springs. “O Heaven,” he cried, “I am so gulfed in bliss Burn me away and let me live in this.” But, in his joy, a flash of sorrow came: “This, being dream, will vanish with the night.” But lo, the morning touched the East with flame The forest tree-tops shivered and grew bright Cocks from the little tofts without a name Cried, and the blackbirds leaped out from the thorn. Intenser rapture came with day new-born. For every waking bird and opening flower And leaf upon the tree and four-foot beast Cried out his exaltation in the hour And brighter and still brighter grew the East Then the great Sun strode up into his tower And looked and laughed upon this world of men This world of joy for all was singing then. Then, from the forest of old, lichened oak That had so often bowed before the blast, Leaf-crowned immortals in procession broke; Tristan beheld the spirits who outlast Men, ravens, trees; they smiled on him, they spoke Those spirits of the waters and the woods, Whose presence sanctifies the solitudes. Brown-limbed and starry-eyed the Queens of hills And Kings of glens came, and the Nymphs who rule Brooks, lipping pastures glad with daffodils, Or water from the chalk up-bubbling cool; And spirits of the Peace whose beauty fills Shy places, that the comer kneels in prayer That the eternal felt may bless him there. And lesser spirits, lovely or austere, Came from the summer bracken and the heather, The speedwell, harebell and the mouse’s ear And water-guarding reeds with tossing feather And fox-gloves, that the humble-bee holds dear All these he saw, all Summer’s queens and kings, Followed by mortal troops of forest-things. The red-tongue-lolling wolves out of the rocks; Badgers that root the wasp-nests and the bees; The kindreds of the poultry-murdering fox; Stoats from the barren, squirrels from the trees: And solitary birds and birds in flocks, Curlews, and little snipe that in the spring Make heaven noisy with their whinnying. And there were otters from the mere, and voles Out of the brook, still nibbling at the cress, The herons who stand fishing in the shoals Watching the shadows in the glassiness; And Kingfishers as bright as blazing coals Burning blue skimmings where the minnows rise And glittering winged green-gleaming dragonflies. All these went pressing up the Ancient Way And Tristan followed, for a Summer King Said, “Follow, Tristan; all rejoice to-day, The lost make merry and the broken sing.” Within the rampart on the hill-top lay A sheltered field, stone-mossy, scantly grassed, To this those singers and rejoicers passed. There they formed circle, but as waiting still For something greater that should crown the hour; Joy made the spirit within Tristan thrill Rapture was his again and peace and power And all were singing on the holy hill Bird, beast and spirit, grass and mossy stone, Joy, yet foretelling greater joy unknown. And then upon the summit of the year So burning blue, so crooning with the dove, Nature herself swept thither with her spear Nature the naked swiftness, fierce as love, With mad eyes full of lightning, striking fear, Hawk-winged she was, wing-footed, antler-helmed, Compact of joy that drew and overwhelmed. “Spirits and subject creatures all,” she cried, “In this mid-summer hour the ruling sun Sends rapture into every heart, full tide, Even now his glory quickens every one. Sing for mid-summer and the full year’s pride And sunlight flooding.” At her word they sang Bird, beast and spirit till the forest rang. Then Tristan, leaping to her, caught her hand, And cried, “O passionate swiftness, strike and kill . . . I cannot care, being so sown with sand, But, lovely fierceness, first declare your will; Null me to dust, but let me understand . . . What are you, fiery beast or goddess? Tell.” Then Nature’s voice made answer like a bell. “I am so swift, that mortals think me slow; I am so patient, mortals think me dead; I am too little for men’s eyes to know, Too vast for what I blazon to be read; Too jubilant with energy for woe; Too truthful in my justice to be fierce. All men must suffer, or annul, my curse. But you, forsaken soul, by passion burned Into one hunger, being daft and driven, Bitten by watch-dogs, outcast, outlawed, spurned, To mortal nothingness, shall now have Heaven.” Then Nature told him all and Tristan learned. The tale of Changing, never young nor old, Dust into man and angel, clay to gold. Then, having told, she sped, and Tristan went Back to his cave, but trembling with such peace As made his spirit seem omnipotent . . . He wrote what Nature told, he could not cease Though the moon rose, and southt, and westward leaned And morning stars beheld him as he wrought Burned into beauty by consuming thought. All summer long, from day dawn until night, The glory of the poem kept him glad, So that he heeded neither wet nor bright. Nor the rank chitch, the only meat he had. But beauty welled from out him in delight As from the hollow in the chalk the cool Water comes bubbling to the sunny pool. Till, when the summer waned and leaves were dying To brown and red, and evening mists were chill, And yellow crabs had fallen and were lying, And morning frosts were white upon the hill And heaven sighed with flocks of migrants flying On Summer’s heel, Tristan arose and said “Isolt must hear these poems I have made.” So forth he went, a ragged, starving thing Gaunt as a famine, staring as an owl, His matty hair and beard like tangled string His body burned like brick, his tatters foul. On Severn bank he heard a church-bell ring For the first time for months, the sound of man. Then in the dusk an evening hymn began. Then, lowing as they loitered home, the cows Came swaying up the lane before a hind Who whistled ballads of the milking house, And tears of very joy made Tristan blind. His living soul was come out of its drowse Of love and madness, he was Man again, Who had been mad as any fiend in pain. Southward he went, until, behold, ahead The river and the palace of the King, The courtyard and the stag-hounds being fed, And horses on the cobbles clattering And Isolt, too, and Marc, like lovers wed That morning, there together, entering in After their gallop on the windy whin. He knew them, but none present recognized Himself, the wreck with bracken in his beard, Him the dogs barked at and the cats despised And women shrank from and the children feared. The porters marked him closely and surmized He came for scraps, they watched he did not steal A bone from any stag-hound for his meal. Then Kai, the steward, flaunted to the gate To bid the porters close it on the throng; And, seeing Tristan, asked, “Why do you wait? You, dirty gangrel? Off where you belong.” And Tristan said “I come to supplicate Leave to approach Queen Isolt, and to sing One poem to her from this pack I bring.” Kai looked upon the written skins, and frowned And said “But that His Majesty has bidden That poets shall find Cornwall friendly ground, Such skins as these should go upon the midden, And you, yourself, be hunted by the hound Over the border . . . I will take your pack In, to King Marc. Await my coming back.” Soon he returned and said “The King has glanced At some of all this scribble: your request To see the Queen cannot be countenanced. She sees no lazar smelling of the pest. The prospects of your verse might be enhanced Were yourself cleaner; but the King, even so Dislikes it. Take your rubbish. Kindly go.” Marc passed upon the instant and said: “Stay, You Severn poet, though I cannot care For what you write, you must not go away From this my palace, guerdonless and bare, Give him a cloak and wine and victuals, Kai; And for your journey westward, take this purse.” Then Tristan flung it from him with a curse. “No, Marc,” he said, “I am Tristan, come again To win back Isolt to me if I can. Let Isolt tell me if I come in vain. Let Isolt choose between us, man and man.” “Tristan,” Marc said, “I vowed you should be slain: Hunted and torn to pieces by the hounds If you were seen within my Kingdom’s bounds. You have wrought harm enough in Isolt’s life; You have disgraced her, you have brought her pain. She has renounced you and is now my wife. You shall not look upon her face again. If you attempt it, boy, the hangman’s knife Shall have you into quarters in the yard. Now you shall leave this Kingdom under guard.” Then the guards, closing on him, dragged him thence, Bound him, and flung him in a cart, and drove Over the frontier to the forest dense Where slink and savage wild wolves used to rove. Then, flogging him, they left him without sense And so returned: the rime-frost striking cold Revived their victim lying on the mould. PART II When morning came, he gathered up the sheaf Of poems flung beside him: like a deer That limps into dark covert for relief Being sore hurt, so Tristan trod the drear Dark, water-dripping forest full of grief Not knowing where, but wandering amiss Towards the camp where Isolt had been his. And limping on, at dusk he reached the place So beautiful when it had held and shrined Their summer love together, Isolt’s grace, And all the ecstasy of being blind To all things but the beauty of a face. Autumn had wrought her change, the bower now Was sodden grass and leafless hawthorn bough. There, with a flint and rags, he lighted fire And burned his poems, all, except the last That was the song of Nature and Desire, And of Eternity and Time long past; Of Doing, Good and Ill, and of its Hire That never sleeps, but waits, and has its Turn; This, being Isolt’s song, he could not burn. Daylong he crooned it until even-fall, Praying for Death to come to give him peace; And Autumn chilled, until the oak trees tall Had dropped the last brown shred of summer’s fleece, Then the snug dormouse curled into a ball Deep under knotty roots in nibbled wool And silent-footed snow came beautiful. All winter-long he wandered, living hard, On roots and dulse and mussels of the rock And grain forgotten at the thrashing-yard And barley-porridge that the fattening stock Left (or the upland swineherd did not guard) And green cow-parsley thrusting from the snow And other pasture such as thrushes know. Then Spring began again and at the stir Of Earth’s green fire thrusting into leaf Again old passion pricked him with the spur And April’s beauty only added grief. April was only beautiful through her, But rocking in his woe the tune took power Nature and he were knitted for an hour. And living beauty ridded his despair Till joy compelled him to arise and sing The song that Nature taught him to its air That pierced like the green fire of the Spring Clear as a challenge rang his singing there The rabbit-bucks crept cock-eared out of holes And stags came tip-toe upon velvet soles. Still louder rang the challenge of the song The great, white, black-eared cattle rowsed and came The bull’s chin chiselling as he licked his thong His brooding eyes alight with sullen flame The stallion, whickering answer, snapped his thong And ran to hear: and from the marsh the geese Trumpeted out to birds the end of peace. And ducks out of the pond, and cock and hen Flapped and took wing at hearing of the call Sheep from the moors turned thither, hogs from pen, Horses at ploughing, hunters in the stall, And now it arrowed in the hearts of men, It struck in Isolt’s heart the while she wove, In King Marc’s palace, tapestries of love. And at the sound she said: “That song of power Is Tristan calling me: I inly know That here begins the striking of the hour; The ebbing ends and here begins the flow, To sweep us on its crest.” She left her bower And caught her horse and galloped to the cry That seemed to draw the winds out of the sky. And in the forest beast and hurrying beast Thronged to the singing; birds from bough to bough Flitted like blackbirds to the cherry feast; Rapine and mating both forgotten now. There she found Tristan singing, facing East Ringed by the birds and beasts that crooned and swayed. As Nature’s song went ringing down the glade. Then, flinging from her horse, she passed the throng And cried: “O Tristan, I have come again . . . Forget that we have wrought each other wrong We are as one as western wind and rain. Forget my cruelty and teach your song And let us sing together, you and I And be away together in the sky.” And then they sang together until space And Time were over for them: Dinan’s son Rapt by the song to that enchanted place Heard their two voices merging into one And saw the lovers drawing face to face, Shining with beauty such as seldom shines On faces, here, where roses have such spines. And then, lo, they were one, and all was over Their rags and robes were fallen and gleaming things, Spirits, a lover wing in wing with lover Were laughing in the air and spreading wings Shining like stars and flying like the plover Laughing aloft and singing and away Into some Summer knowing no decay. * * * Men never saw them more, but Dinan’s son Gathered those relics of the fallen gear And bore them to the Saint within the Dun Who sent for precious woods and wrought a bier Inlaid with goldwork gleaming like the sun And laid the relics on it and with prayer For those two lovers’ souls displayed them there. They lie there still within the holy shrine And lovers sick with loving go to pray:— “O God of Love, be such love hers and mine As to touch Life that nothing can decay And be at one forever and so shine Singing forever, blessing sorrowing men, Like these immortal ones, Amen, Amen.” SIMKIN, TOMKIN AND JACK SIMKIN, TOMKIN AND JACK Before old Tencombe of the Barrows died, He called his sons, and said, “Simkin, and you, Tomkin and Jack, I am at Jordanside. When I have passed the river you shall have Each one, a thousand pounds, and this thereto, This farm and downland where the Barrows stand; Share it; all happy virtue is in land.” He died, the three sons carried him to grave. Then the three sons debated how to spend Each one, his heritage; first Simkin spoke: “I’m not for farming, here at the World’s End: The bailiff can do that; myself am fixed On Science, to attempt some happy stroke To make synthetic Man’s Flesh which will do Whatever menial jobs we put it to. Flesh is but hydrogen and carbon mixed.” Then Tomkin spoke: “A beautiful resolve, And yet less beautiful than what I plan, I hope to catch the electrons that revolve Within the excited brains of splendid men And make an Essence of the Soul of Man. Injecting this will make the silly sane; The normal splendid: it will kindle brain. That done, perhaps I’ll think of farming then.” Jack said, “And I, who am a Business Man, Reject your plans, and farming, which will leave The practisers more poor than they began. I shall go Citywards to Stocks and Shares To venture at a profit and achieve. Then, having money, haply I’ll finance Your Flesh and Spirit ventures, and advance This farmstead for week-enders with cheap fares.” They went to work: then, on a holiday, Spent at the ruined farm, Jack said, “The Press Mentions our Barrow on the Roman Way, And quotes the old Wives’ Fable that within There sits a giant in a golden dress. Let’s dig the Barrow open to make sure.” “Right,” said the brothers, “Practice is the cure For theories of all sorts: let’s begin.” So, out upon the Antient Way they drove. There was the Barrow forty feet aloft; Beeches were green about it in a grove; Rabbits had burrowed deep into its sides. The brothers settled on a site and doffed Their coats and collars, then their swinging picks Rang on the scattered flints with little clicks. Blisters made bubbles on their fingers’ hides. Three days they dug into the Barrow’s heart The shepherd on the downland thought them mad Then, upon sunset, roofing fell apart The Sun shone in upon a central cave There sat a mighty Bone Thing, golden-clad A skeleton, gold-helmeted, who grinned Sitting below the beech-roots and the wind; Kingly, tho’ fifteen centuries in the grave. Then Simkin said “So the tradition’s true . . . Cro-Magnon skull . . .” And Tomkin: “He is big. Look, on the bone, the markings of the thew” . . . And Jack, “This gold will speedily be ours. A happy end to a successful dig.” Then Simkin said: “Synthetic flesh would go Well, on these bones: a looker-on would know The kind of chap he was, and all his powers.” Then Tomkin said “If you would clothe his bones, I’d squirt Synthetic Spirit in his veins, Then he would speak, I think, in monotones, And tell us something precious about dates.” But Jack said “Brothers, after all our pains, Let’s cover him until the morning: then Have in the Press and Moving-Picture men And also charge admission at the gates. But first, our duty is to take the gold, It is not safe to leave it as it is.” He took the armour, fold on gleaming fold Leaving the rib-bones open to the air. He said “Collectors will be mad for this Authentic armour fetches any price And no such armour will be offered twice. To-morrow we’ll be famous everywhere.” That night he clamoured to invite the Press, Simkin and Tomkin checked him as they toiled Making in test-tubes many a smelling mess, Or at a wire-end a spitting spark, Or violet glowings from the wires coiled. They met at breakfast-time with amplest store Simkin had outer husking, Tomkin core; Jack was by much less cheerful than at dark. “You know,” he said, “this making flesh and soul, Is going far: I’m not a squeamish man . . . But in the play the Robots took control . . . Besides, it’s witchcraft, which is counted wrong By every people since the world began. The Witchcraft Statutes are not yet repealed . . .” “Rats,” Simkin said, “The plough is put to field.” “Bunkum,” said Tomkin. “Up, and come along.” So out they went along the dewy grass Up to the Barrow where the giant sat Bone upright like the warrior that he was. Tomkin took off his jacket, rolled his shirt, Simkin upon the skullbones set his hat. “Come, Father Noah,” Tomkin said, “At last We’ll get authentic datings of the past. First body, Simkin. Then the Soul with squirt.” So Simkin wrought his wondrous chymic clay. The figure, like an image made of wax, Stared listlessly along the antient way. “You’ve made him like a warrior,” Tomkin said. “Now for the soul, to stir him in his tracks.” But Jack in terror cried, “No, not the last . . . This creature is so awful and so vast . . . If once you give him life he’ll smite us dead.” “Rubbish,” said Simkin, “If we give him life It will be elemental in its form; If fractious you can stick him with a knife. Go on with Spirit, Tomkin, fill the gland.” “No, no,” Jack pleaded, “you will raise a storm.” “Bosh,” Tomkin said. “Now for it . . . Look at me.” “Mercy,” Jack pleaded, “Let me climb a tree I would not watch it for all English land.” “Get up your tree,” said Tomkin, “And be still.” Jack climbed a little beech tree: Tomkin took Transmitting wires for the vital thrill To make the giant lively: Simkin helped. “When I count Three,” said Tomkin, “You can look. One . . . No, the wire’s jammed. Two . . . There’s a short. Now the thing’s working . . . waken up, old sport, Three . . . there she goes.” Jack cowered down and yelped. And lo, a marvellous thing, the figure stirred It trembled, then its mighty jointings cracked, Bones grided in their sockets, as they heard. Then the thing stood upon its feet and breathed. Nothing of living man his glory lacked . . . He strode into the sunlight, facing east, At every pulse his majesty increased He stood like light in something glowing sheathed. Then, looking at the Sun, the figure spoke Meanings, not words: his hearers understood. Like morning in their minds his meaning broke: “O Sun that I have worshipped: Sun that brings The living green upon the wintry wood, Sun that brings thought into the barren mind, Sun that puts beauty into hearts unkind, Lord of all Life and Order, King of Kings, I once more look upon you and obey The call to Likeness with the Force that sends Poetry in the shining of the ray And Wisdom in the summer of your touch. All Energy and Beauty are your friends Your fires shout for rapture but confess A power supreme above their mightiness Who captains Heaven and many millions such. I have been buried long and now awake, I who was Arthur’s comrade long ago. Man is no longer manhood but mistake. O spirits of the Morning, come like fire Come, Arthur, from the dead; let trumpets blow.” Then, lifting to his mouth his mighty hand, He cried “Come, comrades to this holy land O Light breathe Light upon this land’s desire.” Once he called thus, and all the trees stood still; Twice he called thus, and all the air grew tense; Thrice he cried thus, and over Barrow Hill A rush came, like the coming-by of birds, As spirits never seen by commonsense Gathered, and gazed, and gleamed upon the view Waiting, calm-eyed, for orders what to do From some great trumpet call transcending words. The brothers saw their many coloured wings Fold, on their breasts: their beauty was so calm Each spirit seemed a King of many Kings. They came to carry light to human souls. None of those victors carried sword, but palm. The brothers knew that Arthur’s comrade’s cry Had called to England lights that cannot die Beauties and powers wearing aureoles. And then . . . what then? . . . the warrior’s figure died. The body drooped, as all the aged bones Dropped into dust upon the downland side. Nothing was there except a chymic mess The Barrow’s tumbled earth and scattered stones. Then the three brothers heard a cry begin “Open your doors and let the new life in.” And skylarks rose and sang in nothingness. THE ROSE OF THE WORLD THE ROSE OF THE WORLD Dark Eleanor and Henry sat at meat At Woodstock in the royal hunting-seat. Eleanor said: “The wind blows bitter chill . . . Will you go out?” King Henry said, “I will.” Eleanor said: “But on so black a night . . . Will you still go?” He said, “I take delight . . . In these wild windy nights with branches swaying And the wolves howling and the nightmare neighing.” She said “May I come, too?” “But no,” said he; “No, for at night, if robbers set on me I can defend myself . . . I could not you In the pitch darkness without retinue.” Eleanor said, “Why is it that you go Thus, and alone?” He said: “You cannot know. Leave the King’s secrets: let the fact suffice; Duty demands it and I pay the price.” While Henry reached his sword-belt from the ledge She pinned a tassel in his mantle’s edge, A clue of white silk that would glimmer pale About his ankles as he trod the gale. * * * Henry went swiftly in the roaring night Eleanor saw her token glimmer white. She followed down the hill, along the brook, Just seeing by the clue the way he took. He reached the forest where the hazels swayed . . . Her soul was too intent to be afraid. He pushed within the forest and was gone But still among the scrub her token shone. In the blind forest many trackways led The hazels swayed, the token shewed ahead. And as she followed she untwined a skein Of silken floss to lead her out again. The gale roared in the branches: the beasts shook Not knowing which direction the step took. Eleanor knew: she followed thro’ the night King Henry’s mantle with its patch of white. A long long way she followed: but at last . . . A clearing in the forest sweetly-grassed With apple-trees in blossom that the gale Tore and flung forth; the token glimmered pale. Beyond the apple-garth a little house Stood, shuttered close among the tossing boughs. Light shone from out the bower window-chinks; Eleanor crept as cat-like as the lynx. The white patch lingered at the door: she heard A signal knock: within doors someone stirred. All stealthily and still as though for sin The door undid and Henry passed within. Then the lock turned and Eleanor crept near. In the gale’s roaring she could nothing hear. Yet near the door a fragrance in the air Told that a red rose had been crumpled there. Then in the breaking storm a wild moon shewed The fashion of that secret wood abode. The windows high: each crevice tightly shut. Over the lintel-piece a rose was cut . . . Eleanor crept about as a cat creeps In evil midnights when the master sleeps. No dog was there: no sign of life was there, Save the faint smell of roses in the air; And hours passed and hurrying showers passed. Eleanor watched what fish would come to cast. Then suddenly, before the East grew gray The bolt withdrew to let the King away . . . Eleanor had but time to crouch and hush Close in the green of a sweet-briar bush. She heard no word, but someone whispered close In the King’s ear, a someone like a rose. And white arms, with their clinking bangles, drew The King’s head downward in a long adieu. Then the King turned and quietly the door Closed, and the house was silent as before. * * * Eleanor watched, but, lo, the patch of white Was gone, that should have led her through the night. Yet following on his steps she saw his frame Retread in front of her the way he came. And suddenly she saw him halting dead: His scabbard’s end had caught her guiding thread. She heard him snap it, but she inly knew He had not guessed the thread to be a clue. Afterwards Henry hurried, for the day Came swiftly, now the storm had blown away. And lo, the beanfield sweet and blackbirds waking Leaping from hedge and setting brambles shaking, And Woodstock dim in trees with nothing stirring Save the cats homing after nights of erring. * * * Eleanor decked herself in all her pride, All that had graced her as King Henry’s bride. “Were you out late?” she asked. He answered, “No . . . It was not midnight when we rose to go. These midnight councils seldom sit for long.” Eleanor hummed a merry scrap of song. She went into her turret and undid Her chest with iron bandings on the lid. She took a drowsy and a biting draught And mixed them both and as she mixed she laughed “This is as heavy sleep upon the life . . . And this is cutting as an Eastern knife, Together they will still the April grace Of Mistress White-Arms in the rosy place.” She put the potion in a golden flask, King Henry’s gift, and went upon her task. King Henry asked her, “Whither are you bound?” “On charity,” she said, “my daily round . . . The Christian charity I must not spare To those poor women lying suffering there.” He said, “God bless your charity.” And she Replied “Amen,” and went forth quietly. She visited her sick with bread and wine, Then searched the forest for her silken sign. She found the floss still clinging, leading in. “The hunt is up,” she said, “The hounds begin.” The forest was all thicket, but the lane To tread was blazoned by the silken skein. Though it was dark in covert, her delight In what her spirit purposed gave her light. Then lo, the clearing, and the little house So fair among the blossomed apple-boughs And once again her spirit was aware Of midmost summers’ roses present there. Within the house she heard a woman sing. Eleanor knocked the signal of the King. The chain undid, the bolt was drawn, the key Turned, and the door was opened, it was she . . . A girl more beautiful than summer’s rose That in the mid June’s beauty burns and glows; A golden lady graced from foot to tress, With every simpleness and loveliness, Who, in the second when she saw the Queen, Knew that her Death had come, for what had been. Eleanor like a striking python seized That golden child and dragged her as she pleased. “O darling of the King,” she said, “Behold . . . I, who am Queen, have brought this flask of gold, Also the common hangman and his crew. I, being royal, give a choice to you. Either you drink this poison, and so end . . . Or I will call the hangmen who attend And they shall strip you naked and so hoot And beat you to the Woodstock gallows-foot Where they shall hang you: choose, then, sweetest heart.” The girl beheld Death present with his dart. The present Death with which man cannot strive. Death that makes beauty be no more alive. And is so strange the hot blood can but shrink. “Threaten me not,” she said, “For I will drink. I, too, am royal: and no way remains.” She drank the golden flasket to its drains, And straight the savage poison in her side Thrust on her heart-strings that she sank and died. * * * Eleanor dragged the body to the bed “Lie there and welcome Henry, Golden Head.” Then forth the grim Queen went, and licked her lips To think of June’s bright beauty in eclipse And Henry going to his love to find The candle quenched that shone behind the blind. “He will thrust in, and find her lying cold.” So Henry did and found the flask of gold And knew the Queen’s contrivance in the Death. That night the Queen cried “Open . . . give me breath Open the window, for I cannot breathe, The golden roses’ tendrils wreathe and wreathe Over my mouth. O who has crushed a rose The perfume stifles me: unclose, unclose.” They told her that she dreamed; but she replied— “The roses choke me: open windows wide. Someone had crushed a white rose or a red . . . Can you not smell the perfume that is shed? It comes so close, I cannot breathe the air.” Thenceforward every day and everywhere The grim Queen cowered from the haunting scent Of roses crushed, of sweet rose-petals blent Red, white and golden, coming where she trod. Henry and Eleanor are now with God, Whose Face is in all Beauty, as I say. The pure White Nuns took Rosamund away. Within their Quire they showed for many years A little chest or scatolin of hers, Painted with birds, that Henry once had given. There the White Sisters prayed her into Heaven That is the rest for lovers: there they wrought A white-rose tomb for her from loving thought So that none thought of her, nor ever will Save as a lovely thing that suffered ill. There every May the grass above her bosom Is strown with hawthorn bloom and apple-blossom. And on the wild-rose spray the blackbirds sing “O Rose of all the World, O lovely thing.” YOUNG JOHN OF CHANCE’S STRETCH YOUNG JOHN OF CHANCE’S STRETCH PART I When Father died, my Mother ran Our Farm at Chance’s like a man. When I was turned eighteen there fell This venture that I come to tell. Out cubbing, Mother bruised her knee, (Jumping a gap) against a tree, So that she could not go to Fair To buy us a new plough-team there. She would not trust the bailiff . . . So “John,” said my Mother, “you must go. Here’s fifty pounds in notes. In town The one safe tavern is the Crown, Therefore stay there. A Fair-time stranger Remember ’s probably a danger . . . And with a horse to sell, he’s worse. So John, be careful of your purse. These Fair-time rogues can so persuade I marvel any girl’s a maid. Only last Fair time, two men came To Squire’s Hall at Wick-on-Tame, And said they’d come ‘to free the tanks.’ The girl (one of these dolls) said ‘Thanks, Come in,’ and led them hand in hand Upstairs to where the cisterns stand. There one man said ‘Now you be gone Downstairs and turn the water on, And watch it as it runs away . . . And, mind: the instant it turns gray Or brown, call out to me at once.’ So down the silly creature runs To sink, and turns on all the taps And watched, if they’d run wine perhaps. And up above, the two men ramped Through every room and then decamped While she was watching underneath. Even the Squire’s spare false teeth Were taken: and of course the men And things were never seen again. That shows how risky ’t is to trust: Never believe unless you must, And never then about a horse. But there: you’re my wise boy, of course.” I took the money and the trap I drove to town without mishap The day before the Fair began. Many a gilded swing-boat van, And horse-go-round, with varnished nags And bright brass rails and flying flags And burning furnace shedding glare Stood by the pavement in the Square And showmen fitted up the Fair Heaving with spanners, lamming mawls. The gipsy-women with bright shawls And thick brass earrings and big plumes Hawked posies made of autumn-blooms Stolen from gardens on their way. Towards the closing-in of day As I was listening to the cries Of men with pots and dames with pies My good old Nurse from Tuttocks Rise Came by: I stopped and greeted her And edging outwards from the stir We stood and talked by Grocer’s door Of old times over long before, Three minutes, I suppose, or four. And while we talked, a woman stood Fingering Grocer’s poultry food Close to us, looking at the grain. She moved away, but came again And eyed me hard, and entering in Ordered some hen-food from the bin And paid and went. I may be wrong But thinking of it late and long Both day and night, in hope of solving, I think she set the ball revolving That all the game began with her. About some points I cannot err. She heard Nurse name me: then she heard My home, and things that had occurred, And what had brought me to the Fair. And though she stood before me there Two minutes, in that crowded place I never really marked her face. Then, after sauntering up and down Seeing the sights, I reached the Crown, Made sure the nag was snug, and saw Him happy, fetlock-deep in straw. The sun was down, the lamps were lighting, The Fair’s noise came like battles fighting: The Cheap Jack’s cries, the songs and shouts, And brazen patter from the touts Arose and lifted lad and girl Into the mad steam-organ’s whirl. It being time, I went to sup. And at the cheese, the maid came up And said that someone wanted me. So, wondering who this could be, I went into the hall, and there A girl with two long plaits of hair, A school-girl, not eleven gone, Came up and said, “O, Mr. John, Please, sir, but would you come anon . . . To see your sister for a minute?” “Why, girl,” I said, “The Devil’s in it . . . I have no sister . . . never had.” She said, “But please, sir, I was bade To bring you to her, if you’ll come.” “But who are you? Whence are you from?” I asked, and stared upon the child . . . Her eyes were innocent, she smiled, She was well dressed, and trim and clean, “I’m Maggie Hill, from Tuttocks Green,” She said, “and stopping for the Fair, With Mrs. Roberts, Market Square.” “Yes, and who sent you here to me?” “Your sister, Mrs. Peck,” said she. “Where does she live?” “Up Laurence Lane, At Rector’s Close,” she said again . . . “She’s Rector’s House-keeper at present.” The girl seemed merry, straight and pleasant. “All very well, my girl,” I said, “But listen: some mistake’s been made. _Who_ was it you were sent to fetch?” “Young Mr. John of Chance’s Stretch, Please sir,” she said, “lodged at the Crown. Perhaps if you would just step down And speak with Mrs. Peck a second She could explain . . .” And I, I reckoned, That that was simplest. “Right,” said I. “Something or someone’s gone awry . . . We’ll put it straight, so lead the way.” The West still smouldered with the day And Maggie prattled as she led About the wonders overhead The flares, the flags, the horses whirling And pendulum-like swing-boats swirling. We turned up Laurence Lane and there An old house jutted, carven fair . . . The Rector’s house as I knew well. My leader never rang the bell. She upped the steps and opened wide The door for me to pass inside Then showed me to a little room Already darkened into gloom And said “I’ll tell them that you’re here.” She vanished down a passage near And down some stairs. Myself, alone, Leaned back against the mantel-stone, Or straining forward strove to see What Rector’s photographs might be . . . And saw the bare legs and the dates Of football teams and rowing eights. The last light of the sunken sun Gleamed upon silver flagons won At school or college: in a rack Some briar pipes gleamed, cindered black; Then the gleams died: but no one came I struck a match and by the flame Saw Rector’s books and college oar. An owl cried somewhere out of door. I thought “I’ll go, since no one’s coming.” Yet downstairs stealthy speech was humming, A rapid whispered gabble stirred Designed not to be overheard So thinking “If they don’t intend To come, this joke had better end.” I moved to window. In the sky A gnat-pursuing bat went by And from the Church two shuffling crones Passed by upon the cobble stones. Then, just as my resolve grew stronger To wait there in the dark no longer One came with candle down the hall And shadows moved along the wall Gigantic fingers screening light A woman came, her face dead-white And great dark rings of eyes: she laid The candle down: “O John,” she said, “Forgive me: I was so afraid, I really could not come before.” She turned again and shut the door, And plucked the window-curtains to. She said, “O John, I wish you knew The joy it is to see you here. And you are wondering, my dear, Both who I am and all about me And more than half inclined to doubt me But if you’ll listen, I’ll explain. It starts in a great deal of pain All over many a year ago, In ways they never let you know: And so, may shock you when you hear. * * * Listen . . . Your Father, John, my dear, Many long years ago was wed To my poor Mother, long since dead. He farmed in Dorset then, and she Died a year later, bearing me. You never heard of that? Alas . . . This photo shows you what she was. * * * My Father in his grief, gave over Me, the poor babe who killed his lover, To Mother’s sisters to be reared . . . * * * Afterwards, Father disappeared. He never knew nor saw again Me the poor cause of so much pain. He left the district and the past Settled at Chance’s, and at last Married your Mother and began Anew, like every married man. My Aunts would never let us meet. But Life’s a very little street, And people knock against each other. Destiny brought me near my Brother To house-keep for the Rector here. And like a spy or pioneer I’ve been to Chance’s, just to see If Brother John resembled me. I had not courage to go in. I never meant to claim my kin . . . But seeing you alone to-night I hungered to, and thought I might. And then I thought, but if I do He’ll disbelieve; he’s certain to; What man would credit such a tale? Since most refrain who fear to fail, I did not speak, but let you pass. Then afterwards I thought, ‘Alas . . . The heart within my bosom cries To that young Brother with dear eyes . . . Why did I let him go?’ And you . . . Knew nothing of me: never knew . . . And then I thought: it isn’t sin Or fault, to tell him we’re akin . . . But still, he may not care to know. Or else will disbelieve, and so I wandered to the Church and sought My Husband out, for what he thought. My Husband hadn’t doubts nor fear. He said ‘Send Maggie round, my dear, To ask the lad to see you here.’ Maggie’s the neighbour’s child: and now I’ve told you all the manner how. And now, my dear, since I have waited These years for you as things have fated Now let me hold you close and kiss. Why, what a man my Brother is . . . So tall: so powerfully made. And all boy-modest and afraid. Now come below: we’ve supper laid. My husband’s waiting: come to sup.” All full of honey is the cup And bitter is the morning’s taste. She slipped her arm about my waist And led me to another room, Lit by a lamp but still in gloom, Close-curtained where a table stood With glasses, dishes, plates and food, A loaf, a cheese, and watercress. And in one wall was a recess From which a man (with a black beard) Holding a jug of wine appeared. “This is my husband, John,” said she. He took my hand and welcomed me. Somehow I didn’t like his eyes. “Have you got over your surprise At hearing you’d a sister here?” He asked; “Come, sit, and make good cheer; But drink, first, to the happy meeting. Come, drink it to the dregs, no cheating, It’s only claret, mulled. Come, Ann . . . This John of yours is grown a man . . . Here’s your glass, Ann; here’s yours, here’s mine.” He leaned across and poured the wine. And smiled, our glasses clinked, we drank. Then surging billows rank on rank Rose somehow out of wall and table And all the room became unstable And hummed a tune which droned and rose And flooded as a river flows. And I, within it, was as dead Lapped within rising swathes of red Thinking “This is great bliss . . . great bliss . . .” I know not what the next thing is. I was turned endlong, lifted, hauled Up-ended, held, supported, mauled, Why, where or how I had no notion Save that there somehow was an ocean Of great red surging waves about. But somehow someone got me out To darkness and the open air And wheeled me in a barrow there Then tipped me, but I didn’t care Having such glory in my mind Watching the surges wave and wind. Then all was dumb: then all was blind. * * * From vasty distance and with pain I came to consciousness again. I wondered at the dark and cold And why I lay upon the mould, And why the sky was over me. Then in great sickness wearily I forced myself to sit upright And found myself all dressed in white In woodland, in the middle night. I marvelled, and was ill, and drowsed. Then, as the drug passed off, I roused And knew I had been drugged and stripped. I was a pigeon plucked and clipped . . . My money, clothes and shoes all gone. The long white coat that I had on Was Rector’s cricket-umpire coat, Tied by the sleeves about my throat But for that mercy I was bare. I staggered out into the air And knew not where I was, but knew That I had fallen on a crew Of thieves, in spite of every warning. And what would happen in the morning When Mother learned the kind of ass Her well-belovéd first-born was? How I had been a fool and taken The simplest bait a knave had shaken. Fifty pound bank-notes and my pride Lost utterly: I sat and cried. Still dizzy with the drug I trod Out of the woodland to a road. There, by the moonlight and a brook I recognized the way I took And knelt in the cool mud and drank Like a parched horse and gave God thank And drank again, and yet again Like meadows in the May in rain. And splashed my face, then tottered down Bare-footed to the sleeping town And as I went each stone beneath Seemed full of thorn and foxes’ teeth, And I was cold and sick and sad. O friends, I was a sorry lad. PART II I had no count of Time at all But resting there on turnpike wall Not sure of getting to the Station To tell the police my ruination I saw a dim light move and falter In the Lady Chapel, near the altar. And though the old monks’ ghostly lights Are seen there on the Feast Day Nights I didn’t think of those, nor feared. The very thought of helpers cheered. I thought: “O joy, the Rector’s there; Some midnight service ’t is, or prayer; Or quire practice, where there’ll be Somebody to look after me.” At that the church-clock sounded One. And as the echoes ceased to stun And no strokes followed, Nine or Ten I thought “The light is not of men But spirits: ghosts are walking there.” I felt a pricking in my hair. This Lady Chapel’s builded fair Out from the Church’s end: it stands Like something thought, not made with hands. Why, at that hour was it lit? I gripped the wall and looked at it. * * * The light would now be dim, now glowing Like candle-light when winds are blowing. I shook to think of what thin crowds Might there be flitting in their shrouds. And then Clink, clink, I heard a pick Strike stone and falling fragments click. I said “Whoever works on stone, It isn’t ghosts, but flesh and bone.” So up I rose and crept anear. Within the Chapel I could hear Work of some sort, like an assault With crowbars on a burial vault. I crept right round it, to the door. And all old tales, heard long before Of body-snatchers, thrilled me through. I trod the graves all wet with dew. The chapel door was opened wide And lantern candle-light inside Wavered and made the shadows shake. I crept. A muffled voice said “Take . . . Catch hold your end. There. Got him? Hoist.” The sweat upon my brows was moist. But still, I peeped within to see What all this midnight work could be. I saw a man bent at a hole Dragging with all his very soul, Cursing, at something hard to drag, A pick lay on a broken flag. A lantern lit the scene: below A voice said “Heave and make her go.” And at the heave a leaden roll, Corpse-shaped, came endwise from the hole. And as the coffin jolted forth A Newgate face, all fringed with swarth, Peered from the hole: a man crawled out. He said: “We won’t be long in doubt. Cut open: where’s the chisel, Jack?” They cut and bent the cover back They held the light to the cut gash. Jim said: “His Lordship’s not so brash As when they put him in: but, look . . . Gold rings and chain and golden crook Empty him out, his noble nibs.” A jawbone and some scraps of ribs And dust and gold and femur bones Were emptied out upon the stones And those two ruffians with delight Held up the gold against the light And pawed the dust and scraped the lead. “That’s all,” said Jack. “Now let’s to bed. There’s more in this night’s work than beer.” The moon had risen high and clear Though waning, when they rose to go. What prompted me I cannot know But as they left the door I raised One hand, and held them as though crazed I cried “Why are you robbing me? Restore my corpse’s property.” I, the half-naked thing in white Half seen in moon and lantern-light Must have seemed walking-corpse or ghost. The robbers bleated like the lost Then they both screamed and darted past Screaming, and as they ran they cast Their takings from them, right and left. And one thing, scattered from their theft, Hit me: I picked it up: a ring Set with a ruby for a king. Before St. Laurence’ bell struck Two I told my tale t’ Inspector Drew He called his men, and by Two-twenty They found that Rector’s house was empty . . . Rector on holiday, my thieves Gone, having sacked it, floor to eaves. Maggie, the neighbour’s child and Ann, My so-called sister, and her man All gone, that three who kept a school For teaching wisdom to a fool. All vanished somewhere, not by train. I never had my notes again. Years afterwards, it chanced I saw At trial in a court of law, A man condemned for poisoning. If I am sure of anything, I’m sure the prisoner was he Who wiled and drugged and plundered me. And one poor woman bent with sobbing Was Ann who lured me to the robbing. Victims need never rage and curse, Life’s justices will punish worse. As for the robbers, Joe and Jack, Who fled, they never ventured back. They disappeared into the Fair The better Christians for the scare. The gold that they had scattered, proved To be a crozier, chased and grooved, A ring and crucifix and chain Of some old Abbot who had lain Down in the vault six hundred years. Some Abbot Hayward it appears. My ruby ring, as treasure found, Was valued at a thousand pound Of which eight hundred came to me. I bought the best team that could be, I gave the village-school a tea. I bought my Mother all a store Of things I’d heard her hanker for, Beside a watch and silken gown. I had the orphans out of town For cake and sports: the rest I banked, And so I ended, God be thanked. EVAN ROBERTS, A.B., OF H.M.S. ANDROMACHE EVAN ROBERTS, A.B., OF H.M.S. ANDROMACHE This gallant act is told by the late Montagu Burrows, on page 67 of his _Autobiography_ (Macmillan & Co., 1908, 8s. 6d.). I thank his son, Sir Montagu Burrows, K.C.I.E., for permission to make this use of it. The act was done in the night of the 29th-30th October, 1836, on and near the main topsail yard of H.M.S. _Andromache_, twenty-eight guns, then at sea in a cyclone not far from Madras. The hero, Evan Roberts, was a merchant seaman of Liverpool, born at Temple Lane, and living, when ashore, at Rice Street, in that city. He was a single man, aged twenty-four at the time, had been nine years at sea, and had joined the _Andromache_, as a volunteer, at Capsingmoon, on 4th October, 1834. He remained in the _Andromache_ as a main topman, till she paid off (probably at Spithead) on September 28th, 1837. I cannot learn what became of him. He was “a quiet steady fellow” who “had through temperance become a religious man.” He was of a ruddy complexion, with brown hair and gray eyes; he stood five feet four inches in height; he was tattooed with a cross on his left arm, a man and a woman on his right arm, and an anchor and A R on his right hand. If anyone who reads this can tell me more of him, I shall be grateful if he or she will write to me, in the care of the publishers of this volume. About the ship _Andromache_ the cyclone blew, After heavy running they had to heave her to, Seas broke green aboard her, men couldn’t keep their feet, The weather main topsail parted at the sheet. The topsail lifted and split to seven rags That streamed like banners and bellowed like stags; Buntlines and cluelines snapped like lady’s lace, And snap at both the yardarms went the topsail brace. They steadied on the lifts, but the lifts broke, too; The topsail yard lifted and shook the frigate through; The topsail yard lifted and the parrel gave . . . And the yard went flying till the heart-strings clave. Out it streamed to leeward like a wind-blown vane Flogged its tattered topsail and thundered in again Outboard at the rising, inboard at the ’scend At each in crashing as though it were the end. As the topmen struggled to bring it to a check It struck on Robert Eadie and knocked him to the deck. Fifty feet of timber with will and strength to strike None of all the topmen had ever seen the like. It was blind black midnight, blowing like the Pit, The yard was flying with Death to whom it hit; Roberts took a brace-end, bit upon it hard, When the yard crashed inboard he leaped upon the yard. Now he was above it, now he was beneath, He bit upon the brace-end and kept it in his teeth; Tattered topsail flogged him, the blind yard banged The top said “Glory . . . he is born to be hanged.” Roberts reached the yardarm and grovelled to the block, The yard boxed compass like hands upon a clock. Tongues of flying topsail licked away his skin He rove his weather brace-end from outboard in. Roberts bit the brace-end, and gathered as she swang, Ready for the life-spring a second ere the bang; As the yard crashed inboard he leaped into the top The topmen snatched the brace-end and the yard came stop. The topsail yard jolted, but the curb came taut, They dragged it into harness like a mad bull caught. Underneath a staysail she pointed to the blow. Roberts and the topmen were piped below. In case some find it difficult to follow what happened, it may be said that the topsail yard, a spar of wood fifty feet long, dangerous with tattered gear, was flying about in the night in the gale, held only by the halliards. In the confusion and fury of darkness and storm those aloft could not explain to those on deck, nor these see. Not one man in ten million could have imagined that a yard so flying could be bridled by leaping onto it in the dark, dragging a rope, groping out to the yardarm as it flew, passing the rope through a block, bringing the rope’s end in, and then leaping with it from the yard into the comparative stability of the top, all this in a furious gale at midnight with the ship so labouring that the masts threatened to go overboard at every roll. Not one man in a million could have been strong, quick and ready enough to do the deed; nor could the valour of the man have availed without the skill and courage of his shipmates. THE WILD SWAN THE WILD SWAN _PROLOGUE_ _THE WILD SWAN_ _LYKAON_ _BRUTOS_ _EPILOGUE_ PROLOGUE. Once, long ago, a British Princess stood Upon this hill, and waited while men raced Round what is Wootton, and the Ancient Wood Past Chilswell to an end by Sunningwell. Eight princes lashed their horses and stood braced On leaping cars in that mad feast of haste; She, as the Prize, awaited what befel. Perhaps she stood upon this very spot Waiting the news, which of those hurtling peers Winning the race should be her mortal lot. One of the eight was Brutos, Prince of Troy. Since then the world has aged three thousand years Over their dust the rabbit shakes his ears And sidelong falling peewits cry their joy. WILD SWAN: Last night, at stormy sunset, within the palace, A fisher cried to my father, “Great King Berroc A ship of strangers is beating for the harbour, A green galley with a red sail blown to tatters And drenched men whitened with the scurf of sea salt Plying at oars, sea-weary, to come to shelter, And at their mast’s foot, lo, two marvellous horses White, such as men have never seen for splendour. Come, bringing ropes and horses and many people, That, if she miss the harbour we still may rescue Those strangers, those gleaming horses and that green ship.” Then King Berroc, my father, bade all men follow Down to that beach of drowning; they hurried, they ran. I, too, followed; and, lo, there, marvellous oarsmen Pulling, like heroes to save their galley from wreck A prince, clear-browed as a god, was captain of them. White horses gleamed at the mast with gold starred brows. Now they would draw away, then again drift shoreward. I watched their battle with death, little hope was there: Then darkness fell, I could watch no more, but went. At midnight, my Father, coming in wet, with lanterns, Told that the tide had swept them again to seaward, But that the sea grew worse, that the wind had increased. All night, in mind, I have watched that staggering ship Of friendless strangers beating in vain against Death, And prayed that she might escape. What ship can she be, Green, having painted eyes, bearing gold hung horses? Marvellous horses; white; like immortal horses? Who is that prince with the steady hand on the helm? These western islands never before beheld such. There is a stranger here in my Father’s Council The Elder, Lykaon, who comes from none knows whence He, seeing that ship, was rapt to passionate tears, He has beheld such, surely, in times long past. All night the tumult of wind has cried with voices “A change is coming, the old is blowing away.” Spirits have ridden the darkness above the palace, Spirits of Kings and Queens whom the land reveres still. And lo, this morning, an oak-tree torn by the roots Near the palace gates, has flung forth a golden crown. These are omens and portents of change impending. Indeed this summer is fraught with changes for me:— My Father, having no heir, our island custom Decrees, that I, the Princess, shall straightway marry That prince who shall win the two-horse chariot race. Princes will race on the Downs for me this summer Arrogant princes, like Prince Conan of Eire; Masterful princes, like Prince Erbin; or witless Like Howel, of this side Severn, or capable, And yet not thoughtful nor subtle, like Math of Kent; Or loutish, like Llywarch, the half-bred Prince of Wye; Or snakes like Cradoc of Cornwall, the viper pale. Yet one of these, or another, will lash swift horses Into the Straight, ahead, and will win me there As the custom bids, and I shall be his till Death. Queen, as my Duty bids; whether happy who cares? The needs of the Kingdom count, not one woman’s want. Moonlike and starry Spirit who guardest here The difficult ways of women as they wed; Save me from any of the men I fear, The brute or fool or false that women dread. Whatever life be in me let it spring To help that rider fittest to be King. And since a prayer may go up and down The world of spirits seeking for a friend, In all the markets of each starry town, Until it find the helper to its end, Grant that this find its Helper who shall strive Urging that fittest, as the chariots drive. And since those strangers helpless on the sea Are like to women in unhappy Fate, Grant that they come ashore where comforts be That human love may stablish their estate; And grant that thoughts of friends may make a peace About this country till her story cease. But here is Lykaon, who comes with strange tidings. What is amiss, Lykaon? Has the ship foundered? LYKAON: She entered the port at dawn. I come from the King To welcome her men ashore as the country’s guests Behold them already landed; strange men, yonder. Princess, describe them: they may be my friends of old I cannot look, for my tears: what are they, lady? WILD SWAN: They are men wearing scarlet cloaks, having arms of bronze Gleaming with gold, and they lead white, gold hung horses Their prince comes hither: I must not stay till he come. [_She goes_.] LYKAON: God of my city, they cannot be what I think. Unless a miracle come, or to-day be dream. Their chieftain comes: this is never a dream but truth. [BRUTOS _enters_.] Welcome, sea-wanderer, to King Berroc’s Kingdom. The King bids you and your fellows heartily welcome. BRUTOS: To the King and you we render our hearty thanks. LYKAON: Stranger and guest, can it be that you come from Troy? BRUTOS: We came from Troy. It is nearly a year since then. LYKAON: Is Priam, the King of Troy, still alive, still King? BRUTOS: King Priam is dead. LYKAON: Is his Queen alive? BRUTOS: She is dead. LYKAON: Friend, ruin has fallen upon that wide wayed city. Is it not so? BRUTOS: Why should it be so? Who are you who speak of Troy? LYKAON: One who once loved her: I know that in happy days The Sun God’s seven white horses splendid with gold Stood in the Sun God’s stalls at the temple entrance Fronting a green grass plot. I know that the Trojans Treasured those white strong stallions sacred to God As guards of the city’s splendour, her Fortune’s self. You come here bringing two of the sacred horses Decked with the temple trappings, I therefore am sure That the temple has been destroyed, that Troy has fallen. BRUTOS: Troy has fallen, her gates are burned, her towers wrecked, Her men are slaughtered, her women are led away, There is no Sun God’s temple but two starved horses Nor any Troy, nor Trojan, but ten men homeless. LYKAON: Troy was not friendless, but Queen amid hosts of friends What chanced, that her army and allies failed her need? BRUTOS: Achilles, the swift-foot spearman, with all his men Sacked the high towered cities of half our allies. The world came against Troy. Our spearmen were beaten. LYKAON: In telling of utmost grief there is sometimes peace. How did it happen that terrible war thus smote? BRUTOS: My brother, Paris the prince, visited Sparta, And stole the wife of the Spartan King, Queen Helen, And carried her thence in a country ship to Troy. The Spartan King, with his brother, the King of Argos, Gathered a fleet, encamped at Skamander mouth And fought with Troy for the winning back of his Queen. Nine years they fought, for as fire begins in grass And creeps, till a gust take hold, when the fire lifts Till the thorns and the gorses catch and the crackling leaps Into the cedars and pines till the forest flames, So warring spread from the city to distant tribes, Hardly a city or island or tribe of men But sent her strength to the war, for or against us. I know not utterly how the Argives triumphed, Those who could tell were killed, but we heard long after A trader tell this tale of the Argives’ cunning: They sent away some ships from their forted beaches To make us think that their army was raising siege, Then in the laxness due to our rapture at peace Some of their picked men entered our city unknown Disguised as our outland allies and hid themselves. Then, in the darkness, the best of their spearmen ranked A few at a time, unseen, near the western wall. It was hot dark moonless summer with river mist. Sentries and gate guards thought that the war was over. Suddenly those picked enemies leaped and knifed them And flung the Southern and Skaian gates wide open And the waiting spearmen rushed and the wall was won. I was asleep in the palace: I woke to cries. I thought “Some spearmen are quarrelling over dice.” It was dim morning with light upon Ida’s top. Then I saw sparks of fire from blazing thatches And heard the trumpets of Argives blowing the charge And cries from our men alarmed and the clash of bronze Clanging on bodies falling. I cried “A surprise . . . The Argives are on us. Wake.” We sons of Priam, Snatched spears and ran to the lane where the trumpets blew. My father Priam was with us; we held the lane That led to the Skaian gate, for some of our men Had flung some hurdles across as a barricade. We tore down doors, dragged settles, tables and benches Onto this barricade, while the light grew greater A clanging of bronze arose at the other gates, And arrows with blazing tow fell over the wall. Then a great, mad moody chief with a shield that gleamed, Swift Foot Achilles, he who had slaughtered Hektor And dragged his corpse round Troy at the chariot tail, Thrust up the lane through the Argives followed by three Red-plumed hill swordsmen: “Out of my way,” he shouted, “Out of my way, you Trojans, Troy is now ours.” He leaped on our barricade and over it, down Stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, and at each stab mocking Our stand was broken and Priam was stabbed, Troy lost. Some of our men closed up round my wounded father. We drew him out of the fighting into a house: He said “The city is lost; rescue her glories, The horses of God, the cloak on Athena’s shrine, Run to Athena’s and to Apollo’s temples O save those holy things from the Argive clutches, We women and men must die, the city must burn, Those splendours, gifts of the gods themselves must be saved.” Then rallying at his death, a god spoke through him: “I charge you leave me: save horses and cloak: a curse On any who turns aside till those things are saved.” So saying, he shook and drooped and his hands unclenched. We ran, too late, for blue-scarved Locrian reivers Were already breaking Athena’s temple doors. Some of us turned to attack them, but I, with a few Ran to the green grass close at Apollo’s temple To save the horses before we could be cut off. Friend, it was no light matter to save those horses, They were mad with the smell of blood and the sight of fire, They were biting the brazen chest-bands that bound them in, And kicking the bronze shod stalls; they reared, they hennied. When we got them out and had mounted, where go then? Troy seemed surrounded, all of her gates were assailed. But suddenly swift Achilles with red-plumed spears Was on us, we fled, and the fire bright bronze of spears Flashed by our eyes as we fled: the bronze of our friends Clanged as they fell; and we rode at the northern wall Since all other ways were barred: men seeing us pass Struck at us cursing, that we were deserters flying, And the women wailed, “God’s horses are leaving Troy.” There was no way out of Troy but the rampart’s top. We set the horses at that, and the horses knew, They glared, and their hoofs struck fire, their nostrils snorted, We cried as we lifted them on, they launched, they leaped Up at the parapet, over the parapet. And the Sun God, leaping, white bright fire from Ida, Bore us up at the rocks that we did not perish. The seven landed and gleamed and their nostrils flamed And the temple guards leaped after and joined us there, They buried their hands in the manes of harsh bright hair, Together we scrambled down the rocks to the plain. But there in the plain were the chariots and the lancers Of Argives watching the sack: they saw us at once, A troop of their lancers turned and the chariots turned And as we galloped to northward, they, too, galloped: We galloped into each other at Simois’ ford Trampling the dimpling brook with its yellow iris Staining the shallows with blood as we fought for life. They killed us Asteropæus, Ilos, Hylas, Three of our best, and three bright horses: we broke them, We rode out clear from the ford: we were fifteen men Riders and temple-keepers: we rode to the north. We knew not whither to go among Troy’s allies; Some said Apæsus, others the western mainland, Others said back to Troy when the Argives have gone, But I said “Friends, our chances of life are slender. Look there to our right and front at the Argive horse. Those green-scarved men are our enemies waiting us; And behind us, look, we are followed: Lancers come.” And indeed those Argive raiders had shut us in. We turned to the Straits side, thinking there to be killed But Apollo, our city stay, had prepared help. . . . There, drawn up on the beach, was a green curved galley. I galloped thither and cried “Lo, friends, a marvel. This ship has come to-day from the Scythian Sea, With horses for Agamemnon to ride his raids. Horses and pirates, both, are away at the sack. Here is the ship with her horse-pens, water and hay. Hurry the horses into the pens, come, hurry, Quick, ere the Greeks are on us: we still can be saved, Quick, get the horses aboard.” No minute was lost, Swiftly we hurried the horses into the pens Then we rallied the galley down on rollers Into the sea, then leaped aboard as she floated Ran to our oars, swift sculling and hoisted her sail. There we were out in the ice-cold current driving As Greeks came galloping into the water cursing, Hurling their darts, dismounting and hurling stones, But we were away, four horses and fifteen men. Then, with a shriek, and with cloud, the north wind took us As we drove by the camps, we saw Troy blazing high With tatters of flame blown streaming: blackness closing. We were cityless, wifeless, childless, homeless, strays. At night in that tempest driving we sometimes saw Gleams in the islands, lights, or a herdsman’s fire, Or lantern of one going home: we had no home. The green faced god was grim at our going by. LYKAON: I know how grim: I have sailed in those northern storms, Those ice-cold blasts from the mountains, withering men. Seas flying high on the islands, sails in tatters. Friend, in my boyhood, I should have cursed Troy’s sackers So that my hate should have gone like a living thing Fastening into their lives as sickness fastens Till they fell to ruin and died enslaved, cast, fallen. But I hate and curse no more: I have learned too well The power of life to hurt those living on earth. A passionate wrong cries ever till judgment comes. But I interrupt your tale, son of King Priam. BRUTOS: In the grayness and wildness before the morning The horses whinnied and, lo, a brightness lightened Ship and tackling glowed like white-hot embers burning In the furnace of a potter or a sword-smith. And the horses screamed and all the cocks of earth crowed And with clanging cries white fire-eagles lighted Upon the yard and in unbearable blazing The Sun God’s self, the destroyer of the darkness, Spilled his Light and Health upon us, singing to us, From the space among the horses at the mast-foot. Comfort he gave us and healing: this was his song. Light follows darkness, friends: advance. The old thing dying gives new chance. Venture, for to the muscles’ ache The net comes gleaming in with take. Venture: possess the river pools, The wallows of the shag-browed bulls, The reeds of the lagoon, the sea Ruled by my lesser mystery; But take, and make your own, the grass Where yet no cornfield ever was Where wild mares run; oh make your own That fiery thing of blood and bone The Horse, for you shall live by him: The Blood Horse with the muscled limb, The kindling, startling, nervous eye, The vein-work wrinkling in the thigh, The bright skin that the foam-flecks stain, The tense head leaning on the rein, The bronze shod, rounded, thundering feet Running as wind runs over wheat, Running with other racing hooves To one great tidal face that moves White, under banners at the goals: And in the broad-loined mares with foals In deep grass when the cuckoo tolls, In these shall be your joy and wealth: Your pride shall be the grass in health, The plough-teams dragging the bright share, The cart-teams dragging wains that bear The sunburned bread in husk from field. Venture: the bitter bars will yield. Man is but as a spark aswim In deathlessness surrounding him. When he is most himself, he dreams; But in his passionate extremes He touches deathlessness. Advance. Limitless the inheritance; Deathless the spirit-fields men till; Your Heaven and Earth are what you will. So with counsel and promise the god gave comfort. But, stranger, who are you that can tell of Troy, That are friend to Troy, that lament the fate of Troy? LYKAON: I am your brother, Brutos, the son of Priam. Hecuba was my mother: I was her first-born. Lykaon my name was, then, when I was a prince. BRUTOS: Lykaon, Priam’s son? But my youngest brother Was called Lykaon, a lad whom Achilles killed. LYKAON: Even my name, then, given unto another. Was I never talked of, then, in my father’s house? BRUTOS: Never: yet, when I was little, I heard two maids Talking in whispers about a Prince who was lost Hunting, in Ida, and no trace found, long ago. LYKAON: Thirty long years ago . . . Was no message given? For wanderers whom I met in my old despair Promised to give my father word of my woe . . . They did not then? A promise to men in grief Is lightly broken . . . they never knew what happened? BRUTOS: Not that I know. Doubtless they mourned you, my brother, And word went round that your name should never be said. LYKAON: Did not the hunters tell of me? Was no song made? BRUTOS: You know how people respect the sorrow of Kings. I, the King’s son, heard neither your story nor name. What is your story, brother? What changed your fate? LYKAON: I rode to the Idan glens in a day of Spring. I rode to a gray-green wood where the stags were tame. A wood where hunters and charcoal burners of Troy Had never yet come: and there in the dusk I slept. And painted Hunters of Heads from the Savage Lands Caught me and bound my hands with their thongs of deer hide Carried me thence to the sea with their bleeding spoils Of dead men’s heads and horses and bronze headed spears And sold me there to a pirate out of the North . . . And my pirate sailed that hour and bore me thence. Westward we went, up rivers, by savagest tribes, Horse-eaters, drinkers of mares’ milk, drinkers of blood . . . I was sold to a tribe of killers wandering west For twenty years I was tossed upon tides of war For twelve years past I have lived as counsellor here To good King Berroc, the king of this western land. I have been tossed by peoples, you by the ocean That has less mercy than men: how came you hither? BRUTOS: By storm undying, blown westward then blown northward. You see us now sea-broken, unfit for sailing In a leaking, sinking ship without provision Nor tackling, no, nor seamen, and no returning, No hope of going forward, or building anew. But come, with the Sun God’s horses, here to an end. LYKAON: Brother, the Sun God brought you. King Berroc bids you Welcome ashore; yourself and your men and horses Knowing that the gods come among men as strangers. BRUTOS: Strangers are hated: hatred will be our portion. LYKAON: This land is gentler to strangers than to her own. Besides you carry means of coming to glory: The gleaming stallions, the horses of the Sun. King Berroc has no son, his heir is a daughter. It is the land’s law, stablished here from of old That an heiress shall be raced for upon the down By unmarried princes driving in two-horse chariots. Courage: Apollo brings you here for the race So bring your horses ashore and harden them here And race on the windy down for the lovely girl And heritage here of the good King Berroc’s crown. Apollo has brought you: venture for fame and state. Sorrows oft bless those who endure to wait. [_They go off._] WILD SWAN: [_Discovered._] Even now the chariots race around this hill At fullest gallop, with myself for prize; Those princes’ panting horses agonize. And I, O Heaven, my very heart stands still. Each of those seven _may_ win, and one will And which, ah, which? For Destiny, who bides Hidden above all Contest, She decides Whether to crown a striver or to kill. And out upon that track are Accident Envy and Murder, and those littlest things By which What Is To Be confuses Kings, The Will of God confounding what man meant. I saw those seven champions as they went Out to the field . . . But now my hopes must be Unuttered. Destiny decides for me I, the Princess, abide the Fortune sent. These are the seven Princes who compete:— Erbin, who rules from Snowdon to the Dee; Keen-witted as the eagle-cock is he, And sudden in his mind as on his feet. He drives two stallions, black as mountain peat. His colours are a pale blue splashed with gold; He means to be a story that is told, Ambition is his spirit’s daily meat. Then Howel comes, from Bredon, driving grays; Blackhaired like Erbin but without the force; A witless man, as hearty as a horse, His colours, green. Then Cradoc comes with bays. He governs moorland where the adder plays And sea breaks upon Cornish rock; and he Is fatal as the adder or the sea White are his trappings, deadly are his ways. Then, with brown horses, comes Prince Math of Kent A trusty, merry, short, thick-builded man Who takes life as it happens, without plan, Each minute jolly and each nerve content. Red and blue stripes his colours. With him went Llywarch, his friend (in yellow), from the Wye, Driving white fetlocked chestnuts that stepped high, The prince a boor, the horses excellent. Then Conan, from his limestone-scattered hills Where rivers disappear in caves and run Under the ground, unlighted by the sun Or loiter where no fish-hook ever thrills: He drives two roans; one kicks, the other kills. Black are his favours and his battle flag. Bald is he; coarse; swift-footed as a stag; And casts his scurrilous slanders as he wills. And Brutos drives the horses of the Sun, The two white stallions saved from ruined Troy, Each like a king-stag stepping to his joy With challenging nostrils tense in question. Their spirits and their limbs exult as one They toss their brazen bits and fling aloof The daisy-heads from each disdainful hoof The scarlet that they bear Kassandra spun. And now, beneath the hill on which I stand Those seven teams are galloping: I hear Below me, there, the tumult of the cheer At some sharp struggle for the upper hand. There they go leaping, there the spurting sand Flies from the wheels and hoofs, and axles crash And fallen horses kick their cars to stash And someone dies that should have had my hand. And there the man whose chattel I shall be Through fatal slip, perhaps, in man or horse, Through snatching at a chance by savage force, Or by the ironic smile of destiny, Will come to domination over me. Now I am mine: within this quarter hour I may have passed to Bully Conan’s power, To Howel’s jokes, or Cradoc’s misery. Though as my Father’s daughter I have vowed Ungrudgingly to take the Fortune sent Who has not learned too late what vowings meant In all their implications and been cowed? O burning Sun, who scatterest the cloud, Shine on thy servant, Brutos, let him be Winner of this thy Kingdom, and of me. But ah, one comes with tidings from the crowd. [LYKAON _enters_.] LYKAON: All hail, Princess, King Berroc’s daughter and heiress. WILD SWAN: And hail to you, Lykaon, bringer of tidings. LYKAON: I bring no tidings. I come as a loyal friend, With warning that tidings coming may not be good. WILD SWAN: Is your brother hurt? The race cannot yet be done? LYKAON: Unhurt, thank God, though the race is not yet ended, I tell the little I know: and little is good. I went to a point, midway in the race, to watch. There was long, long waiting, I thought they would never come. But at last the cheering sounded and round the bend Came Howel, the green-clad prince, with his team of grays, Galloping gallantly on with a ten lengths’ lead; Then, second, Conan, in black with his team of roans; Erbin, third, so close to the roans that the axles Almost grazed at the bend: the Yellow Coat fourth With high-stepping chestnuts, little likely to stay; Then Math, in the Red and Blue Stripes, driving his browns, A wonderful team, those beautiful, well-loined browns, Compact, twin, powerful horses, timed like one. Sixth was the White Coat, Cradoc; but still no Brutos. I thought “He has lamed a horse, or has lost a wheel Or been crowded into the rails at the first bend; He is out of the race already.” It was not so. Last, by a dozen lengths came my brother Brutos. His horses gleaming indeed but in hopeless case, They were left at the starting-post a neighbour said. So, he being out of the race, I come to say That Math’s two beautiful browns or Conan’s roans Must win, must have won by this; the race is over There are footsteps on the road: it is Brutos come. [BRUTOS _enters_.] Ah Brutos, I was telling of your disaster, How you were left at the starting-post: what happened? BRUTOS: The corn-fed spirited horses were unruly: The Yellow Coat’s chestnuts started them kicking-mad, Full half-an-hour was wasted making a line. Just as the flag went down mine started dancing, And trumpeters blowing cow-horns made them frantic, I thought they would never start. When I made them start The rest had rounded the curve and were out of sight. LYKAON: I saw the race at its middle point, with you last. BRUTOS: I was last long after that, then the chestnut team, Yellow Coat’s team, pulled up on the rise, dead-beaten, And the Green Coat driver, Howel, who drove the grays, And had made the running throughout, slowed down and stopped The rise of the hill made all of the drivers glad To slacken the terrible pace and take a pull I even hoped to be with them ere we finished. But the long rise ceased, we came to the table land Again the galloping hoofs went leaping from me Conan leading a length, then Erbin’s blacks, then Math, Cradoc a little behind them: even Cradoc A dozen good lengths ahead of myself, alas. And behold the Sun shone out, that the forest gleamed I cried, “Apollo, O Lover and Lord of Troy Apollo, come to the help of these your horses.” And galloping there, lo, sweet, a twittering came. Over my head was a flutter of tiny birds, Linnets and scarlet finches and speckled thrushes Gleaming, and urging forward and crying “Swift, Swift” Delicate reed birds such as build among bulrush And flag, and flowering reed in Skamander banks. These, too, and the herons that watch in the Simois pool And I cried “Lo, God sends help,” and a loud cry came, “On, on, on,” and behold my brothers were there. I knew them there in the air although all were changed Into spirits so bright, so fierce, so splendid strong I could hardly look; our father Priam like fire, Hektor glowing with glory seizing the reins And the others urging the horses _On, On, On_. And the horses knew them and glared, their criniers hackled The pæan of Troy rang out; then with sweet sweet song Beautiful things rushed up to us out of the air, Our Mother the Queen, so grave, so gentle sweet, Andromache lovely as dawn, so wise, so fair, Beautiful little Polyxena the fearless, They shed white gleaming flowers and cried _Hope conquers_. Then lo, there was sudden darkness and sudden redness Over us all with our straining teams red clouds ran Clouds full of harpies that screamed _On, on_, and darted And struck at the teams they hated, and under the clouds Glowing and splendid spirits struck back or warded And the air rang loud with harps and with whirling wheels. As winter wanderers lost in snow on Ida Treading the beastless, birdless, manless loneliness Beating the storm, knowing nothing but rock and snow Suddenly reach an Edge and behold the sunlight Lighting Troy and the sea and the holy islands And the plain all bright with cities and grazing kine: So, suddenly, as we galloped, behold, the brow Of the hill, and below, afar the long, green Straight With thousands on either side and tossing banners. Then, with long leaping strides we swung to the valley And galloping down the slope, lifting and tossing I came to Prince Cradoc driving his failing bays I saw his sinister milk-white meanness glitter As an adder glitters at striking: I saw Death Gleam in his face, as with all his failing powers He lashed and swung his pitiful team to wreck me. His axle gave and his pole was snapped across He was flung to earth, and his horses swerved and screamed. We were past and on, and suddenly lo, the Straight. As a sailor running a northern tempest down In a lifting gleam will suddenly see two islands Beaten by roaring water and bursting sprays, A narrow channel of safety between the two And no time left but to steer the galley and hope; So, into that roaring channel of tossing banners And shouting and running men and blowing trumpets, Our four swift galloping teams went thundering on A flame in the horses’ hearts, a flame in our hearts, Math, Erbin, Conan to beat in three short furlongs, All three leading by lengths: and the Post in sight. Then the horses cried Aha, and the thousands hushed. The blackness of watching people suddenly stilled The multitude made one face, one soul, wide-staring. And as, in an April day, after northern storms, A stillness falls upon Troy, and Scamander stays Her roaring of spate, the sun shines, little flowers Cover mountain and plain with colours and perfumes, And Earth is still with the Spring, then, out of the South A sighing comes in the air from birds returning, And the cloud of the birds returning dims the sky. Swans of the Lakes with their necks like launching spears Wild duck thrusting the sky like to arrows with barbs, And with crying and creaking of penns the flight comes Stunning the ear with the rush and the roaring wings So now, to that tense crowd, the rush of our cars came. And lo, in a dozen leaps, I was racing Erbin, Level with Erbin, up to his blacks, then past them. There were two cars left ahead, Prince Math with his browns, And Conan’s roans, our cars went leaping and rocking With clicking of straining harness, with tearing hoofs. As a temple bell, in a sunburned Asian land, Will tinkle alone at some hot sunset hour That ploughmen halting their plough unhook their oxen, And hoers, shouldering hoes, turn shambling homewards, Then another bell begins from another temple And suddenly all the bells ring out together Till temples rock, and the great bell in the tower Stumbles into its clanging and drowns all other With thunder of iron laughter or sullen order; So now a boy’s cry sounded, then shouts, then crying, Then all the thousands in pack gave tongue together In thunder of voices “Come, Math,” “Erbin,” “Conan,” “Math,” “Conan,” “Erbin”: I sickened, my eyes blinded. Then a louder roaring grew, and behind me hoofs, Mad hoofs galloping up, and a mad voice crying: It was Erbin, making his effort; lo, his team Alongside, creeping beyond me, and all the tumult Of all his tribesmen crying, “Ho, Erbin, Erbin; Erbin is beating them; Erbin is winning it; Erbin.” Then all of the roaring changed to “Conan, Conan, Conan will have it still. Conan will beat the browns, Come on now, Conan: he’s beating the browns: he has it.” I cried “Now horses of Troy: up: up together Up, and be first, or die;” and the horses answered “We’ll do it, O prince; if our bursting hearts burst not.” Our four teams leaped to the finish, mad-eyed, mad-souled. I saw the flag at the Post blow slowly upward And the King’s crown gleam as he bent to watch the end. Then all of the race leaped up to a glare of life, A roar arose and heightened, arose and thundered: “Math has it, Math wins, Conan, Conan will do it. Erbin is gaining. Come, with a wet sheet, Erbin. The Trojan is in it. It is Conan’s race. Conan. No, the browns are holding them. Come along, Math. Math wins. No, look at the whites, the whites, the whites, the whites. The Trojan is coming through them: he’s coming thro’ them, He’ll do it. He’ll do it still. He’s up. He’s got it. He’s up to the browns. It’s a tie. It’s a tie. It’s a tie. No, the browns have got them. Come, Math. Come along, Math. Here come the browns, Math has it now. Math has it. There never was such a race: dead heat: dead heat. White leads: no, brown leads: they’re level.” Then wild life came As a high white tottering wave that glitters and sings, I lifted up to the front as the post flashed by; We whirled for a hundred yards: we won by a neck. LYKAON: Since you have won, behold the prize of the winner. WILD SWAN: Since you have won, no sorrow that darkens our life Will seem to be sorrow: this wonder will shine in our hearts, Forever, like sunlight. LYKAON: The trumpets are sounding Hail to King Berroc: Hail to his prince and princess. EPILOGUE: Sweet friends, this Brutos married the Princess, And when her Father died received the Crown. He governed well his Kingdom on the Down Bringing his enemies to nothingness. He gave to women and the weak, redress: To arts, encouragement and means to grow. To men, his subjects, happy hearts to know The spirits that en-noble Man and bless. And when he died he was so great a King That this most blessed England then was named Britain from him (or so it has been claimed). And he, being dead, was laid within a ring Of great stones gathered where the skylarks sing. Then they heaped earth upon the bondless stone Thousands of years have made the place unknown; The humping rabbit goes there: sheep bells ring. The wind blows pure His dust has made the heather-roots secure The wild bees bless his dwelling with their drone. RICHARD WHITTINGTON RICHARD WHITTINGTON PERSONS _FORTUNE_ _MISTRESS MERCER_ _MESSENGER_ _RICHARD WHITTINGTON_ _ALICE_ _MAPONGO_ FORTUNE: I am Fortune: I give as is fitting to each of my souls, Therein, as their strength is, they follow or fashion their fate Though his embers be almost extinct, if I breathe on the coals, The man reddens into a glory and gleams and is great. When I breathe not, the glow of his state Dies down into ash on the bars. I pass over men with my stars. Now here, from the red clay compounded, a lad from the west The son of a lord of a manor, a fortunate child . . . My dark stars were passing, his Fortune was darkened with pest Since then, in the years he has suffered I have not once smiled. The poisonous words that make wild, And tears, are his portion of late My darkness will pass, if men wait. [_She goes._] RICHARD WHITTINGTON: When I was but a babe, my Father died In the Great Death, with half his folk beside. My Mother married with another man A bitter time for me then soon began. Not being wanted in my Mother’s home, And hating him she loved, I used to roam About the forest in that hilly land Which the Great Death had utterly unmanned. For I could wander all day long and find No house with any dweller save the wind; Chapels with red deer muzzling at the paint, Still blue and gold, of some forgotten saint And dog-rose thrusting past the carven piers And altars where wild dogs killed the wild steers. And skeletons of women dead of pest With their long hair the chaffinch wove her nest. There was a little town where all were dead The winds jangled the church bell overhead And cats came snarling: you may judge the joy That Dead Man’s Land was to a little boy. When I was nine years old, my mother’s mate Said “He must go, this Richard, with his hate, Off to my sister’s husband there, in Cheap, To learn a Mercer’s trade and earn his keep No longer lurk here skulking, eyeing me With that glum hate which I am sick to see.” So here I came to learn a Mercer’s trade This is the fourteenth year that I have stayed: The business droops, the Mercer is now dead His half-mad widow governs here instead. Her hatred hinders me from chance or wage My Mother’s Husband holds my heritage By hate from both, my Fortune is opposed. Last June, before the Summer Term had closed, A Shipman came here, making up his trade “Adventure everything,” my instinct said. But luckless I, with nothing but a Cat To stake in trade could only venture that: Now I regret I did not venture this Body and mind, and that which in them is. Adventured that and on a reckless die For Death or Fortune risked this grumbling I. I would have, too, but for the love I bear To Mistress Alice, beautiful and fair; Daughter of Arlingham, King Richard’s Knight. She only is my pleasure and delight. Penniless I, unhappy, love her so That though I hate my life, I cannot go Away from here, lest I should never see Her blessed sunlight shining upon me. She comes here sometimes as a sunbeam falls Once in a year, perhaps, on prison-walls Then, passing, leaves the knowledge that light is. Would I had greatly ventured, ending this, Staking myself for all that I have dreamt. Love is not love that risks not in attempt. I should have ventured seaward and have found Way to my heart’s desire, or have drowned . . . Not rotted here . . . The tyrant enters. Peace. [_He goes._] [_Enter_ MISTRESS MERCER.] MISTRESS MERCER: He shall not rob this old ewe of her fleece, Whittington shall not, though he be the son Of that old Knight who perished in the pest. My Brother wed the old Knight’s widow, true; And took her manors, but he found no peace Dogged daily by this Richard Whittington. Would he had cut the infant’s neckbone through And flung him to the hounds: it had been best. Would he might cease. Hate of him leaves me utterly undone. It was my Husband’s being partly mad And love for Brother made me take the lad. Here throughout boyhood he has learned the trade. Now the ungrateful scoundrel would be paid . . . Paid, after all the charity he has had. I know he longs to murder me and seize My Husband’s place and work-rooms: oh, I know The greed of gold possessing him like lust . . . Why, when the Captain came, some months ago, This Richard sent his cat abroad in trade; Ventured his cat for profit over-seas . . . O dog, so greedy for the golden dust, Small profit, God be thanked, your venture made; Ship, cat and captain must have drowned ere this; None has had tidings of them since they weighed. Would that my thought were poison in his cup, I hate him so; for I am growing old, My star is sinking, his is rising up This Richard rises and my heart forebodes, For I am in a dangerous enterprise:— My Brother, who usurps this Richard’s lands, Plots for the post of Warden of the West Which the King gives to Arlingham the Knight. My Brother and myself have sworn to lies Against this Arlingham: and now, to-night, Our joint denouncing comes to the King’s hands. God, put belief within the royal breast, Let him believe our charges and smite down This Arlingham, and make my Brother warden. But lo, the white rose comes from the rose-garden, Arlingham’s daughter, Alice, London’s crown, Comes hither with her simper: come, sweet Miss, Heaven shall change that simper into tears, And hoist your Father’s head aloft on spears, Before to-morrow’s dawn, if Heaven hear me. This poisonous Richard loves you from afar My hate shall drag you under, moth and star, I am old and quaking upon Death’s abyss, Before I fall, your dying groans shall cheer me. [ALICE _enters: She calls._] ALICE: Is Mistress Mercer here? Is Richard here? I will call Hob, the foreman, for I fear That both are out, and I must leave a word. [_Enter_ RICHARD.] RICHARD: Greetings, sweet lady. ALICE: Richard, you have heard How latterly the King, in his great grace Has honoured us in Court with pride of place. He has made my Father Warden of the West To hold the Marches that the Welsh infest, And we must start at once, and shall be gone Three years, my Father thinks, or thereupon. I come to tell you this, and say farewell. I know this bitter place has been a hell To you, these latter years, and is so still. Believe that Life will better and it will; I, as your Friend, most fixedly believe That you will conquer Fortune, and achieve, And soon, an end to all your misery. I shall think often of you: now good-bye. If I can help in friendship in the West In righting you where you were dispossessed Count upon me, upon my Father, too. But of your own strength you will struggle through These bitter times and be the man I think. RICHARD: ’Couraged by you a man will never sink. I am happy at the honour that has come. May you be happy in your Western home; I shall think much of you and wish you well. What you have been to me, no tongue can tell. Through these last months, your sometimes coming here Has been like sun in April of the year. May all good angels be about your ways; And if, as God forbid, unhappy days Should ever come, that you should need a friend, I am devoted yours till the world’s end And should be proud to aid you till I die. ALICE: I know it, Richard, thank you: now good-bye. Good fortune to you in the days to be. [_She goes._] RICHARD: Love flows like Severn, but it ebbs like sea. She mounts, she rides away, and she is gone . . . Three years, her Father thinks, or thereupon . . . How can a life continue without sun, Without the hope of light or coming Spring? Would men were as the swallows that can wing After their heart’s desire anywhere. Would I had ventured with the sailors there With my poor cat, to better Fate or end. MISTRESS MERCER: Believe in Life, good Richard: it will mend, And you will conquer Fortune very soon And be as glad as April in the moon And follow Alice on the swallow’s wing. Why, you bone-idle, gormandizing thing, Why, you shall have your wouldings to the top: I here dismiss you, both from works and shop, Go venture with the sailors like your cat, Or after Alice as the swallows do. The world’s your mistress now: I’ve done with you. Forth with you to the beggary and rope Henceforth to be your portion as I hope. [_She goes._] RICHARD: Since I am cast, I will go westaway, After my heart’s beloved, and assay Adventure for her, though I nothing have Beyond the wits and thews that Nature gave. Her Father may engage me in his troop Riding the Marches beyond Severn Loop, And I will serve him well, serving for her, And it is good to plunge into the stir For her who is the banner of my mind. Therefore I go, to seek what I shall find. [_He goes out._] FORTUNE: I am that Lady Fortune whom men paint With globe or turning wheel, forever swift, Whom many men implore, as to a saint, Out of the drowning waters as they drift. My weathercock, that shows how the winds shift, I bear aloft, for wandering men to see, It swings in the bright sun on the blue lift, And men beholding are aware of me. About a central calm the currents turn, Gently or turbulently, never still; As round a rock the tidal eddies churn, So these, as the Mood passes at my will. And as men lift their eyes towards a hill For marching-mark when wayless in a plain, So, in the darkness of the roaring ill, Men question this, “Does Fortune turn again?” O shifting winds of passion, changing tides Of living nations that the women bare, Seek out the central quiet that abides, Within yourselves are Peace and Everywhere; But since the running star with the bright hair Lures, and men follow, to disaster strange, Think this, that I am just, and am aware, And that, however fixed, the wind will change. [_She goes._] RICHARD: Alas! for changing Fortune; for a blow Has laid my Alice and her Father low. I left this city for the West, I passed Into the springless Cotswolds, scanty-grassed, And saw the raddled Severn running red, With Worcester green, and Malvern blue, ahead. Then learned that on some traitor’s false report Alice’s Father was disgraced at Court And had returned to London to await Sentence (men told me) and a traitor’s fate, With ruin to himself and to his girl. Thus, with my wits and passions in a whirl Helpless in Alice’s need as in my own, I sat me down upon a boundary stone Not knowing where to turn, nor what to do. And as well-water, ever-clean and new, Comes from the unknown hollow underground Into the light, and dances, and makes sound, So, from within me and without me, wells Of message sounded with the voice of bells, Saying again and yet again, these words. “Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London Town; Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London Town; Of London Town Three times Lord Mayor.” The April wind and all the April birds Repeated this, so that I could not doubt My Life within was touched by Life without. Therefore I have returned as the words bade. I hear sad news of my beloved maid. Her Father’s goods escheated to the Crown, Herself in some mean lodging in the town, Deserted in her need, and helpless I Her friend forever, sunk in poverty, But I am in the cockcrow of my day After the dark, the morning becomes gray. Beauty will triumph, Love will find a way. [_He goes out._] [ALICE _enters_.] ALICE: Since we are ruined, since my Father’s fine Is far too heavy ever to be paid I have forgotten that the sun can shine And thought the story of my fortunes said. Father, unjustly ’prisoned in the Tower, Lives with small hope of ever issuing thence He tells the dreary stones and counts the hour And prays that God may show his innocence. While I, deserted by the world, am now Come to this Mercer’s, seeking work to do I have never worked, good angels show me how. MISTRESS MERCER: Who’s there without? O Mistress Alice, you? ALICE: I, Mistress Mercer. May I speak a word? I am in sorrow, as you may have heard. And come to ask, if you can give me work? MISTRESS MERCER: Lace-work, or broiderer’s work, or needlework? ALICE: I will learn any honest work you give. MISTRESS MERCER: For your amusement? ALICE: No, as means to live. MISTRESS MERCER: To live, God spare us, you are rich and proud. ALICE: The sun once shone: now heaven is in cloud. MISTRESS MERCER: Where is your Father? ALICE: In the Tower. MISTRESS MERCER: In jail? Ah yes, for Treason; true, I heard the tale. ALICE: No, never Treason: men have falsely sworn. MISTRESS MERCER: Where are your friends, then: you are nobly born. ALICE: Some are beyond the sea; some disbelieve. MISTRESS MERCER: They may have grounds for doubting, by your leave. ALICE: No grounds, but jealousy and envious hate. MISTRESS MERCER: So you want work? ALICE: I do, I supplicate. MISTRESS MERCER: What sort of wages would you reckon fair? ALICE: Those paid in open market everywhere. MISTRESS MERCER: And bed and board besides, and holidays? ALICE: Whatever usual wage the Mercer pays. MISTRESS MERCER: I’ve got no work for idlers such as you. Work is for workers, not a useless crew Who never did a turn and never can. You are less use than a blind, crippled man. You that have had your riches should have kept. You have lived daintily and ate and slept And now will taste the difference. And besides Treason is as the gracious King decides . . . I’ll have no traitors here, nor traitors’ kin. Find other means to feed your pretty skin, You’ll get none here and so I tell you plain. [_She goes._] ALICE: Can any offer everything in vain? Now I perceive in what a tottering cage Man thinks he stands above the whirlpool’s rage. RICHARD: Courage, sweet lady, for the darkest hour Prepares the dawn, the darkest bud the flower. Though all malignance all its malice spend Spirits that hate malignance come to friend. And I can friend, for everything I have Is consecrated yours unto the grave, Sweet lady, while I live, you shall not starve. This city’s granite block this soul shall carve Into a setting for you, worthy you. [_Enter_ MISTRESS MERCER.] MISTRESS MERCER: Away from here, you outcast beggar’s crew. You cast apprentice with his callat, hence Away Miss Dolly and Sir Insolence. Off, from my doorstep, to your tavern den, To rags of women and the wrecks of men, To gutter-pick by moonlight for your bread, This is no lazar house nor loitering shed For beggars such as you to stretch and shake you. Hence, or I’ll call the watchmen who will make you. And do you dare to brave me to my face? [_Enter_ MESSENGER.] THE MESSENGER: Is Mistress Mercer keeper of this place? MISTRESS MERCER: Yes, I am she, a widow, but still able To keep a roof, and bread upon the table For all a pack that plot to beggar me. MESSENGER: One Whittington was with you. Where is he? MISTRESS MERCER: He _was_ with me: not now. RICHARD: But I am here. MESSENGER: In the King’s name, I greet you, with good cheer. RICHARD: I bow to the King’s grace. MESSENGER: God save the King, I bear a knot for your unravelling. So you are Richard Whittington? RICHARD: I am. MESSENGER: You recollect the queenly ship that swam Within the Pool last year, the _London Ark_? RICHARD: Yes, and her Captain. Have they prospered? MESSENGER: Mark! My tale is about them: they are no more Their bones are in the ocean far from shore Green water washes them and fishes eat. MISTRESS MERCER: Yes, and your cat’s become the herring’s meat, Your cat that you adventured in your greed. MESSENGER: Madam, you interrupt me: pray give heed. Although the Captain and the ship are gone It was in battle with the Moors: anon The mate and sailors flung themselves aboard The Moorish ship and took her by the sword And, ere their own ship sank, installed them there, Saving your cat, that pride with glossy hair. RICHARD: I am glad I did not send the cat to death. MESSENGER: You sent her to more life, for she gave breath Soon after this to seven little ones. She kittened, to be plain, between the guns, And reared her kittens to a stalwart seven Such as the cats (if there be mice) in Heaven. The ship went loitering onward, moon by moon, And reached the capital of Settaroon, Mapongo City on Mapong’ Lagoon. But, ah, Mapongo City, once so glad With roaring life, was desolate and sad Curse had undone the glory it had had. Of all the roaring life that used to run To cheer incoming bark or galleon With songs and splashing spray, we saw not one. Voiceless, with empty streets, the city lay, The palm-thatch blown to tatters, withered gray Doors blowing to and fro, walls in decay. And when the sailors landed, they espied No man at all, but yet on every side Myriads of Mice, quick-flitting, glitter-eyed. And in the palace on his throne of state The King of Settaroon, Mapongo, sate Gray with his fear, but constant under Fate. But King Mapongo comes himself to tell How Settaroon was smitten with such hell And how his people fled and what befell. [MAPONGO _enters_.] MAPONGO: I am Mapongo. Ere my Father died, Two years ago, he called me to his side. He said, “I tell you what my Father told Myself, when I was young and he was old . . . _All Evil that afflicts this land of ours_ _Comes from a wizard who has Devil’s powers._ _He dwells within a man-bone scattered tract_ _A moon’s march hence, beneath the Cataract._ _He who shall kill this Devil will deliver_ _This Kingdom from all Evil whatsoever._ _As Battle, Revolution, Murrain, Blight,_ _The Pest by day, man-killing Beasts by night._ Therefore I bid you (as my Father me) Seek out this Devil (as did I and he), And spear him if you can, ourselves have failed.” My Father having died, myself was hailed King, in his place, and therefore took a spear And sought that Devil in his cave of fear. He dwells within a gash of mile-high walls Into which wrench of earth a river falls So that a smoke of water rises gray All rainbow-lit and soaking earth with spray The water-eagles cruise there, seeking prey. I found a trackway narrow as a girth Leading below into that gash in earth Beneath, the water roared in the abyss I heard the eagles mew, the serpents hiss. I reached the beach below, the slippery stones Were heaped with driftwood and with dead men’s bones. I reached the falls, that ever-dropping cloak Of water torn as wool and flung as smoke. I reached the cave, that grimness ever gray With ever-changing spectres of the spray. I entered in those galleries of stone:— I heard no sound, but I was not alone. The black glass alleys gleamed: I could not see Aught else, but something else was there with me. Its breath was just behind me as I crept, Its footstep was like echo when I stepped. At every corner, it was there in front, My spirit was the quarry of its hunt. And when I reached the central cave I knew The thing was present, evil as doom due. And nothing shewed: a small red fire burned: Yet the whole cavern threatened me and girned. I cried: “I am Mapongo: meet me here O Cavern Devil, spear to flying spear.” No answer came, yet something seemed to mock With silent laughter in the cavern rock. Then suddenly I felt the cavern fill With many unseen shapes of evil will. And suddenly a myriad little eyes Peered at me from the cavern’s galleries. No word was said, but at a secret sign A myriad teeth went ‘chatter’: so did mine. Then at a sign that none could hear or see Those myriad little Devils rushed at me. And I? I fled, and from that hellish place I ran to Settaroon, with them in chase . . . And though we slaughtered myriads, myriads more Came in upon us all and overbore. We had to fly for life, and having flown They picked our city to the inner bone, Nothing was left that was not shut in stone. Hiding in forest boughs we saw beneath The million tails, bead-eyes, and gnawing teeth, The Mice had dispossessed us of our all. Woe for Mapongo’s melancholy fall. THE MESSENGER: But vengeance followed on those conquering Mice . . . This Richard’s cat and kittens, brought ashore, Smote them, as blowing fire shatters ice . . . And as November beech-leaves fly before A gale from the Atlantic, so did these Fly, from the terror talonning them dead, Some, to swift ending in the breaking seas, The rest, to darkness in the forest, fled. The cat and kittens finished every mouse Down from the trees came warriors and their wives Children again met parent, mate met spouse. And thanks were sent to him who saved their lives. MAPONGO: Our friend will read the list of what we send To Richard Whittington, Mapongo’s Friend. THE MESSENGER: To Richard Whittington, to have and hold. One ton of gold-dust, one ton _solid_ gold. Ten emeralds of Sarras, each as green As hawthorn leaves in April, when first seen. Ten rubies of Ratanga, each as red As dog-rose berries when the rose is dead. Ten sapphires of Solyma, each as blue As heaven is to girls when love is new. Ten alabaster caskets of cut stones Amethysts, beryls, jacynths, chalcedones. Ten sherris sapphires coloured like cut corn; Ten moon spikes of the icy unicorn; Ten pearls like moonlight on a quiet pond; Ten black pearls, and a frosty diamond. Eleven hundred ostrich plumes which foam Over at edge in flounce as billows comb. Eleven hundred tusks, some white and some Yellow, some scarlet from blood-coloured gum Eleven hundred baskets of a bark So sweet men cannot handle it till dark. Eleven hundred boxes of such balm As mollifies all anger into calm. Eleven hundred buckets of such spice As burns the Phœnix in her sacrifice. But topping all together comes beside The Crimson Settaroon, Mapongo’s Pride, The jewel that gives light from inner fire, Round as the orb, outflowing as desire, Out of the passion of whose globe there burns Ray after ray that lightens and returns. Itself alone such wealth as never yet Came Europe-wards for crown or coronet. In all, such treasure as has never come In any ship to any port of home. MAPONGO: Here is the deed of gift, the treasure waits At Tower Wharf beside the Tower gates. For Richard Whittington, Mapongo’s Friend. May your delight in living never end. [MAPONGO _goes_.] THE MESSENGER [_to_ ALICE]: Another thing, King Richard bids me say He learns your Father never did betray, Never, as Mistress Mercer’s brother swore. Your Father is as free as heretofore, And has the King’s great favour as of old. But Mistress Mercer’s brother is in hold For falsely swearing, and as does appear Usurping the estates of Richard here. And, Mistress Mercer, I am charged to bring Yourself to trial now before the King, Lest you were with your brother in the plot. Endure such fate as Fortune shall allot. [_To_ RICHARD.] The King will greet you here when we are gone. Long life and luck to Richard Whittington. [_He goes with_ MISTRESS M.] RICHARD: I am glad that your Father is saved from the hatred of men. ALICE: I am thankful to you for your gladness and glad of your luck. RICHARD: I am stunned by my fortune, your gladness alone makes it real. ALICE: It is stablished four square at the Pier like the Tower itself. RICHARD: It is fortune past telling; I long for yet greater in dream. ALICE: All the world is a ball at the feet of the fortunate man. RICHARD: Sweet lady, my fortune and world are yourself standing there, Without you, my fortune is nothing, my world is despair, I love you so dearly, I cannot find words for my love. ALICE: I love you so dearly, I need not the words, but the love. RICHARD: O lovely beloved, you are beauty and hope and all peace; ALICE: You are gladness and comfort without whom all comfort would cease. RICHARD: You are joy beyond telling and glory that thrills like the sun. ALICE: You are desolate days put away and a new life begun. RICHARD: You are all my endeavour and longing made real, made mine. ALICE: Having all, each in each, let us offer up gifts as a sign. RICHARD: Let us build for the wretched in prison a shelter and home. ALICE: Let us build a fair study of books where poor scholars can come. RICHARD: Let us dower an almshouse where bedesmen may pass happy age. ALICE: Let us dower a spittal with doctors to heal and assuage. RICHARD: Let us build, to Saints Spirit and Mary, a church white and fair. ALICE: Let us give it a College of Priests to sing services there. RICHARD: Let them sing night and day, that the Angels of Beauty may hear. ALICE: And the Angels of Beauty spread feathers of gold and draw near. RICHARD: And shine in this City and take each a soul to his fold. ALICE: And the souls of this City shine bright with their Helpers of gold. RICHARD: May spirits so brightened imagine the Earth that may be. ALICE: May hands so encouraged create what the vision can see. BOTH TOGETHER: May Earth be so happy with Heaven that all souls shall sing As the stars and the planets above The Order, the Beauty, the Love Of the Might that directs them as King. THE HOUR STRIKES THE HOUR STRIKES PERSONS _THE SEEKER_ _DESTINY_ _KATHARINE_ _WOLSEY_ _ANNE_ _HENRY_ THE SEEKER: The shepherds warned me not to climb this hill To-night, Midsummer Night, “Because,” they said, “The Past goes by, with power to do ill. And all the Kings, with Arthur at their head, Return to life and are no longer dumb But commune of Times past and things to come.” Yet I have climbed the hill in hope to see, Before the mist is white with the moon’s power, Those workers of our country’s destiny, And hear them talk for their allotted hour:— And lo, great figures sitting with a Queen, Spirits of that which will be or has been:— O, if a mortal’s question may find grace, What are you, Lady of the starry face? DESTINY: Nothing, perhaps, save urging to the race. SEEKER: Who are the veiled attendants at your side? DESTINY: Forces that spirits struck, that have not died. SEEKER: May I ask on, or do your laws forbid? DESTINY: To those who ask aright nothing is hid. SEEKER: Then I would ask if these are Queens and Kings Come from this windy downland’s burial rings, Or from old tombs, on this most sacred night To see again the land of their delight? If so, I’ll kneel. DESTINY: Nay, ask themselves to speak, They were once strengths for sifting out the weak, And resolute for ends, as you are now. To Life’s uncoultered pasture they were plough; To Life’s unscattered fallow they were seed. They lived and suffered torture and had need. And I, I dealt with them; for I am one That trumpet up the sleepers with the sun, And urge them on all day and blow the call For the red sunset at the evenfall, And new souls for the morrow. I am she Who urges from the depths the things to be: And millions come at call, and from their pain Are sweated out the radiants that remain Before I fling them by: what they achieve I cannot count: I cannot joy nor grieve, Only sweep on: and yet I inly know That what they do will be my overthrow. They will be conquerors, and I, destroyed, Flung forth with past abortions to the void. But question: for at summer’s topmost peak All powers in my domination speak: And these will speak, if questioned: but for me I question nothing: only bring to be. THE SEEKER: Spirits, unveil to me. [THEY _unveil_.] You have the mien, Figure and bearing of an English Queen. O speak to me out of the night of Death. Who were you, when your beauty drew sweet breath Here on this Downland? May a mortal know? Ha; she awakes: her life comes pulsing slow:— She is about to answer me: she speaks. K. OF ARAGON: I am that Katharine brought out of Spain to be wed To Arthur, the Prince; I was wedded, then widowed, then wooed By Henry the brother of Arthur, my prince who was dead: I came to be Queen beside Henry, and sorrows ensued Not singly but brood upon brood, Till my heart was made sick, and my faith Like a rag under feet of the rude, And I died of the shame and the scathe. It is scant happiness, sisters, to be as a pawn In the chess of the Kings of the nations, a pawn to be played, Exchanged for advantage, or lost, or advanced or withdrawn, But the game is the game of God’s will, and His will be obeyed. Like Him are the Kings He has made To rule as He rules, and to bring Into Earth the Idea of the King: Knowing this I endured unafraid. I was a child when I was wedded to Arthur, A child when Arthur died: yet, being a child I saw the old King plotting to save my dowry By marrying me to his surviving son, Henry the Prince: he had his will and the dowry, And I was married to that most hopeful prince. The old King died, my Henry was crowned as the King. I was the Queen of England, with bright hopes shining. No prince in Europe had royaller hopes than mine. How shall I speak of him that was Of all Kings’ sons the chrysopras? He was built stalwart as the bull, His countenance was beautiful, His body perfect, his feet swift, His mind filled full with every gift, With every talent, for he knew The things that men of genius do And did them as a master might. Music was ever his delight, He sang, he played, he wrote sweet airs Which the Court minstrels wished were theirs: He was an architect whose schemes Surpassed the living master’s dreams: He knew the known tongues and could speak Latin, French, German, Spanish, Greek; And in his speech such sweetness hung He witched all comers with his tongue: He knew all law, he could debate All questions touching his estate: In all disputes he could take part With the best doctors in each art: And in himself he had such force, Such mastery and grace of horse, Such swiftness and such skill in play, Wrestling or tennis, that men say None ever equalled him, or near. In courtesy, none was his peer. In gifts, none matched him, nor in grace Of body, spirit, parts or face. None was more loved, none was more served With constancy that never swerved; And none began a reign so stored With things that men and angels hoard. His treasuries were filled; his land Was well content beneath his hand; His counsellors were good; his friends Secure; he sought no wicked ends. The sun seemed rising in his might To fill the English realm with light; And hourly the thinkers wrought More beauty out of subtle thought. And life, to all alive, was even With the bright boundaries of Heaven, And angels walked the earth with men. England was surely Heaven then. And had my sons survived, my Fate Would have been ever fortunate . . . My sons all died, I brought no heir For all the little babes I bare. And other bitternesses grew, France and her influences drew The English out of touch with Spain; And Wolsey smarting with the pain Of being thwarted in his hope, Of coming to be made the Pope, Was hostile both to Spain and me. And Henry glowered lustfully On courtesans: and everywhere Spoke of his longing for an heir Who should ensure the Kingdom’s peace. And trouble-makers did not cease To tell him that my barrenness Came from his godless wickedness In marrying his brother’s wife. Henry was coming into life, Not reverencing aught that stood Between him and a fancied good. His want was master of his will. When he determined on an ill, All bent to that . . . So he resolved To have his link with me dissolved, By Papal means, if that might be. Long, long he wrought for that decree By threat and bribe and argument . . . All pretexts cloaking his intent To leave me and to live with Anne. I pleaded when the suit began, Not afterward, I stood aside. I pitied those who in their pride Helped Henry, then, for I had learned What devil in his spirit burned, What worship of himself, what will In all things to be master still; To be the axle or the pin On which another world might spin. I knew how deadly he would be To all who helped in ousting me; And as I knew it would, it fell: Their moment’s glory led to hell. I was what I had ever been, A queen, the daughter of a queen, Anointed and appointed great; Death only could annul my state; But Death came slowly: I could see My ousters ruined before me. That was no joy; I also saw My Henry falling from all law Into all headlong lust of will. I saw him lie and rob and kill, Smite at the holy, wreck the brave, Do all things as his devil drave, With no good counsellor or friend. It made my very heart-strings rend To see his soul in devil’s hands. God, who allowed it, understands. And, for myself, I took the bad That followed on the good I had had. I learned how pitifully kind Friends may be to a tortured mind. I learned that peace may be attained By sinners racked and many-pained; Peace that is south wind after east, Quiet to greatest and to least, Quiet in which Earth’s feverish things, The wills and fiercenesses of Kings, Sink to proportion, and the soul Perceives the universe unroll Star beyond singing star, immense Beyond all dream, beyond all sense, All order, all magnificence. God in His Mercy let me see Through darknesses that covered me Bright planets that his angels be. [_She sinks back to her chair._] THE SEEKER: Ah, noble lady, and through you we still Behold that light in darkness . . . [WOLSEY _rises_.] but he speaks To whom peers spoke bareheaded: it is Wolsey. THOMAS WOLSEY: I am that Wolsey the Cardinal, prelate and proud, I who was King of my King, who was sceptre and sway. To me, not to Henry, the princes and potentates bowed. I strode like the sun in his glory on Midsummer Day. My splendour all crashed in decay, The web that my spirit had spun Was swept into dust and undone; I died as the gambler who fails. I was a butcher’s son, but royally dowered With wit and Fortune, which dower smoothed my pathway. Men gave me place: men made me a priest: and helped me. One man there was who checked me, I then being priest, One Paulet, a country gentle, set me in stocks. It is dangerous to check beginning Fortune:— Lads grow; priests become bishops, princes take Kingdoms; And I, that priest in the stocks, was soon most trusted, Chaplain to Calais’ treasurer, employed, besought, My advice asked and taken, and my young wisdom Praised to the King himself, who took me to service. I think that Paulet repented before he died. Henry the Seventh gave me my chance, as follows: He sent me upon a mission to Maximilian, The Emperor, then in Flanders: I staked my all On doing that mission like an angel of God. Therefore, on leaving the King, I sped down river, Helped by the wind and the ebbing tide to Gravesend, Where taking horse I galloped: and all night galloped From post to post across Kent, rousing the ostlers, Flinging myself from reeking horse to the fresh one And galloping through the night with owls and foxes, Till lo, cocks crowed and Heaven grew gray at Dover . . . There, tottering down the beach, I found fair fortune, A ship with her sails cast loose at point of sailing For Calais. I climbed aboard her; in three hours more I was in France upon horseback galloping on. That night I was with the Emperor, in treaty. None ever beat or out-braved me in any treaty When I was facing my man, nor did the Emperor. Next day my treaties were settled: all that next night I galloped for Calais, got there at morning gun Again, found ship; and, getting aboard, wind favoured, In three hours more I was galloping from Dover, And late that night I came to the Court at Richmond. King Henry being abed, I too could take rest After eighty hours spurring from post to post, But I was afoot ere dawn, awaiting Henry As he passed from bed to chapel to early Mass. He, seeing me, chid my not having started forth. I said “I have been: I have now returned, O King.” He seemed both startled and not well pleased, for he said: “That is the worse, for, after you hurried away I thought of a needful point that I had not urged In your commission: nay, a point that was vital, And sent one after you straight to stop and warn you. Did he overtake you?” I answered, “No, Your Grace. As I returned I met him and learned his errand. But as for the needful point, may it please Your Grace, I thought of it myself on my journey Eastwards, How vital it was; and greatly presuming dared (Though without warrant from you) to urge the matter. The Emperor’s self was pleased to agree and seal. Pardon your servant’s assumption in so doing.” Then the King said “I not only pardon, but thank A servant so thoughtful, eager and fortunate.” Friends, from that mission’s happy speed Came Fortune glorious indeed. The old King honoured me: his son Heaped honours on my head: I won Glory and gratitude from men: I was made thrice a Bishop, then Lord Chancellor, Archbishop . . . more, Legate and Cardinal; priests bore Great silver crosses as a show Before me: riches fell like snow About me: and the gay young King Left me to govern everything. My will was Law in Church and State, Through Christendom my will was great. I said and Europe did: one hope, One only, failed me, to be Pope. The Emperor Charles betrayed me there. I was like sunlight making fair All that I shone upon: my house Was beyond telling glorious With quaintly twisted chimneys red Above the dormers and the lead, And halls and galleries made good With joinery in precious wood And flutings running down the grain. I had stories leaded pane by pane Into the windows, that they shewed Shagged Centaurs in the mountain-road Coming towards the haunts of men To ravish women: and agen The Rapes and Loves that Ovid told. And hanging upon rods of gold I had tapestries of silk whereon The Loves of Mars and Venus shone. I had golden cups and plates enough To fit the King with household stuff; Of silver plate I took no heed. My gardens sprang from foreign seed. All that is excellent in fruit, Or beautiful in flower, took root There, with such fragrance, and so bright, Spirits were trancéd with delight . . . And I had many a joy beside: Green woodlands for my stags of pride; Cock-shutes and coney-warrens, stews For many a swift pike and slow luce . . . Half a shire grew meat and bread That my great household might be fed. They who beheld my state, I wis, They only, know what glory is. My state was greater than the King’s. My Herald went with trumpettings Before, with the two crosses, then My mace-man and my pillar-men, Then ushers crying “Way, make way!” Then three and three my picked array In velvet, bearing golden chains. Then sumpter mules and baggage trains. Then spearmen in a bodyguard In scarlet tunics golden starred, And bowmen wearing tawny coats. Then to the cheering of all throats Came the Great Seal majestical, And the Red Hat of the Cardinal, Both borne by noblemen; and then I, the great crimson King of men, Rode stately on a mule of state; Four men with pollaxes of plate Were at my sides, and after me Were seventy horsemen, three and three, Riding great horses, scarlet hung. And men and children sweet of tongue Sang to me as I rode or stayed. I was a god to whom men prayed, A wise god, taking thought for all. In scarlet, under golden pall, I sat like godhead and gave doom. There were five hundred men to whom My daily state gave daily bread. But Henry’s lust to be unwed From Katharine and wed to Anne Was ruin to me: there began Problems I could not shelve nor solve. I strove to change the King’s resolve . . . That failed . . . then I was forced to strive To win him licence to re-wive . . . Yet the Pope saw what wars would be If he should grant the King’s decree. Straight Katharine’s nephew would invade Rome, to avenge her: so he stayed. I saw that if the Pope refused The King’s divorce, there would be loosed On Rome in England, on the Church, Utter destruction that would search Rome’s hold on England and outroot. Such was the seed, such was the fruit. Even as I saw it came to pass . . . That heart of flint and brow of brass Broke Rome in England for his lust. Myself was stricken to the dust; That black-eyed mistress and her lord Put some few martyrs to the sword, And smote me to the broken form Wrapped up in linen for the worm, A dead man without power to stir. I, Cardinal and Minister, I, Chancellor and Legate, lay Under the quire in the clay, Dropping to dust, and all my schemes Dust too, forgotten as men’s dreams. Forgotten as the star that lights A trail thro’ Heaven on winter-nights And falling fades and leaves no trace. I, the Pope’s Legate, the King’s Grace, Am vanished: there remain behind Some gleams, however, from my mind From which men know that there was one Once, who was splendid as the sun; Who bent great brows upon affairs And made Kings’ wills his ploughing-shares, And was the central pin whereon Revolved that Europe that is gone. While I was Sun, the planets shone. [WOLSEY _sinks back_. ANNE _rises_.] THE SEEKER: As you supplanted Katharine, another Supplanted you: this beautiful blithe figure. ANNE: I am the beautiful Queen who was ruined and lost. I am Anne Bullen, whom men still remember with pity. Few have bought terrible days at more pitiful cost. Falling from Queen to the hatred of country and city, Like a rudderless ship I was tossed. Powers made use of my being, Changes too vast for man’s seeing, The Will of the Time passing by. I was a black-eyed witty girl of old When, with my sixteen summers hardly told, I came from France into the English Court. Promptly King Henry wooed me for his sport, As he had wooed my sister (so men said); But I escaped the amorous traps he laid. I was the Queen’s maid, dedicate and vowed To the Queen’s service, and besides was proud. And yet it thrilled me, knowing that the King Loved me past doubt, beyond imagining . . . That that grim palace-bull with bloody horn Came like a ring-dove to my hand for corn. Then, for the Queen, men muttered everywhere: “A barren Queen, and England needs an heir . . . God has pronounced against her: it is plain. Henry should be divorced and wed again, The State demands it . . . If his second choice Were English, surely England would rejoice.” Dignities fell into my father’s hand, Jewels and moneys, titles, manor-land . . . And people whispered: “Lady, if you choose, You can be Queen of England: why refuse?” And others said: “If you were England’s Queen The Reformed Faith would prosper and be green Where now its martyrs perish at the stake. Anne, become Queen for sweet religion’s sake.” Others (and my ambitions) said their say: “How grand to hear the heralds clear the way . . . ‘Way for Queen Anne!’; how exquisite to lead All England’s peeresses as Queen indeed; Call lilied France my brother, ay and bear A future King of England, Henry’s heir . . .” * * * * * When Henry sought divorce and Rome refused, Bitterer tongues spoke, angrier pleas were used:— “Make the King paramount within his realm, Strike off this Roman guidance from the helm, Abase this Spanish Queen who uses Rome. The English King must be supreme at home.” Those whom I knew spoke thus. And hour by hour My spirit saw the images of power, The crown, the scarlet and the pride of place, The thousand eyes on one unseeing face, My Father, Mother, Brother, Sister, all Splendid with gold-work, bearing up my pall. King Henry’s hand on mine, King Henry’s son Mine, to be King when Henry’s reign was done, Were not these glories to a girl, beside Having the great King wooing her for bride? * * * * * ’Tis but a step to Hell; but getting back Takes many a march up jagged rocks, alack! I, who had only youth and Henry’s greed, Staked those for Henry and was queen indeed. Rome was defied, dishonoured, dispossessed, A flooding spring, with me upon its crest, Swept over England, bearing me to power; Men rang the bells for me in that my hour . . . All England’s bells . . . and London’s thousands massed, Scattering roses on me as I passed To have the crown upon my brows at last. Then great guns thundered, trumpets silver-keen Shrilled, and the Prelate cried “God save the Queen!” I was the Queen, and all the battle won If but my little child might be a son. * * * * * My child was a Princess, thereafter came Griefs and disasters putting me to shame . . . Daily the foothold underneath me failed, King Henry wearied of me; foes assailed. Men shouted insults at me in the street, The Court spies sought my blood on catlike feet. When foreign Kings’ ambassadors appeared They did not hail me Queen, they smiled and sneered And called me the King’s woman: but, alas, I was not that . . . another woman was. Jane Seymour, once my waiting-woman, stepped Into the heart that I no longer kept. Henry and she were lovers to the full; I was not merciful nor dutiful; The broken heart is often mad in head. Then was my princely little son born dead, And I was lost. The King deserted me; Round me were enemy on enemy; Some I had humbled or had thwarted, some The friends and followers of the Queen to come. Then I was paid that I had once reviled And used with spite my predecessor’s child; Then I was paid that once I moved the King In wanton hatred to a darker thing. I was well paid in those few weeks of hate, Lost beyond hope, but having still to wait. None but the lovely stand by misery. My brother and some others stood by me. One loyal and a lover to one lost, Such surely is the soul God treasures most. Bitter and utter was the death that fell On those who comforted my weeks of hell. In those few weeks, though nothing outward changed, My death and Henry’s wedding were arranged, My headsman ordered, and most savage ends Prepared by all my foes for all my friends. Then at the tourney as the trumpets blew, Henry arose like one with death to do. One merciless fat sidelong look he gave, From which I knew that he had dug my grave; Then he was gone at gallop, and the fawn Myself, was netted and the toils were drawn. I who was England’s Queen, had now to die. That is forgotten where my ashes lie, And where my spirit is, it is forgiven. O living men, for pity and sweet Heaven, Forgive what misery my thoughtlessness Wrought ere my life was smitten with distress. I, the White Falcon with the starry rod Of roses, am a lesser bird with God. I am in peace where flowers shine like stars. The hates and angers beat against the bars Of Love, that shuts this sunny garden close. When the bells chime the loving overflows Out of the garden and the angers cease; Men’s souls behold a morning star of peace And cry: “O silvery one, Companion of the Sun, Mark not the thing ill-done In the blind Night, But mark the Life begun, The Race still to be run, The Hope that may be won, Now we have light.” [HENRY VIII _rises_.] HENRY: And I am your King and your leader who stood by his strength, You thought you could sway him or hold him, or rule in his name; All three of you prospered, but found out your error at length, All you who attempted to rule me, I made you all tame; You three were but pawns in a game, I used you and let you be lost. Be glad you were worth what you cost, But think not to vex me with blame. I might have been priest, but my brother’s death made me a King; I planned to be worthy the office, a master indeed; I fashioned myself as a goldsmith who fashions a ring, That none in the Kingdom but I should have power to lead. I was not a puppet nor reed, But a master in body and soul, And the weeds that I could not control I cut, as is best for a weed. What if I found myself in earliest youth Bound to a Spanish policy through you? This country also has a part to play, Not at another’s bidding, but her own. Your Spanish friends betrayed me and France failed me, But England did not fail me, nor I her. * * * And you, my Prelate, who made use of England In your Italian game, you also felt A better player than yourself at hand, Who wrecked the Roman scheme. * * * And you, sweet minion, You charmed me many hours, but did not bring The heir the Kingdom wanted:—tales were told Of plottings that should bring the wanted heir: You say, false tales. Perhaps, but they seemed likely to be true To one who knew your nature: you were cast out And with you all your fellows, utterly. I found this Kingdom swayed by foreign powers And left her free of them: I builded up A fleet to keep her: I uprooted all Those states within a state which ruin states; I made myself the head: and any head Which had not wit to bow, I lopped away . . . Good heads among them, too; better than yours. Would I had had a stalwart son or two From those six flimsy women whom I tried. But that which must be is:— One thing I hated:— Disorder;—and another, want of splendour:— Both coming from the want of resolute will In a King’s spirit. Men must think of me As splendid in a splendid time; I did My will as King: and ruled to greater purpose Than any English King since Arthur’s time. K. OF ARAGON: You had great greed Of mastery: no other quality. WOLSEY: And men rejoiced that the dogs licked your blood. ANNE: For all our love, that made your subjects glad. HENRY: A horse rolls when his saddle is taken off, So will a land: but not while this King rode. DESTINY: The star is southing. The year is near to the height, When you must hush till another year be perfect. Back to your quiet, spirits; the midnight comes. [_The_ FIGURES _sink back_.] SEEKER: O spirits, linger: tell me one thing more. DESTINY: What is it that the mortal hungers for? SEEKER: What follows Death? DESTINY: Come to me, I will tell. [SEEKER _goes up the stage. The hour strikes._] KATHARINE: O April flowers, WOLSEY: And summer hours, ANNE: And autumn showers, HENRY: And winter cold! KATHARINE: O days and hours, WOLSEY: And pride and powers, ANNE: We call them ours, HENRY: But cannot hold. DESTINY: The hour passes, the tale is told. PENELOPE PENELOPE _PENELOPE_ _ODYSSEUS_ _EURYCLEIA_ _ATHENE_ SCENE:—_A room in_ PENELOPE’S _palace_, PENELOPE _seated centre on throne_. ODYSSEUS _on bench right_. PENELOPE: O guest, I would first ask you this: who are you, whence you come And what is your city, and who are your parents? ODYSSEUS: O lady, Not any man living upon the wide earth would refuse you Your glory has reached unto heaven, like that of your lord. Would that that godlike one ruled over many brave men Upholding the right, while his black soil grew barley and corn And his trees bent with fruit and his sheep bore strong lambs, and the sea Brought fish, thro’ his ruling, and all of his commonwealth prospered. But now, as I sit in your house, I would ask that you ask Other things, not my kin, not my land, lest you o’erbrim my heart With sorrow in calling to mind: I am one many-sorrowed Nor is it right I should sit in another man’s house Moaning and mourning, for unceasing mourning is evil, And one of your maids, or yourself, being angry, might say That my eyes swam with tears because all of my wits swam with wine. PENELOPE: O stranger, the Deathless Ones ruined my beauty and body, When the Argives went up against Troy with my husband Odysseus If he could return and be minister tending my life My glory and beauty would surely be better than now. Now I mourn; for the powers of evil so press me with evil. For the chieftains who rule in the islands, in wooded Zakynthos. Dulichium, Same, or neighbours in clearly seen Ithaca, Woo my unwilling person and scatter the wealth of my home. Therefore I cannot heed guests, no, nor suppliant men, Nor heralds, though sent from the Elders, but pine for Odysseus, Longing at heart, while they press on their suits, and I plot. First, God breathed this to my wits, that I set up a loom In my room, and weave cloth there, a broadcloth of delicate kind, I said to the suitors, “O nobles, my wooers, hear this. Since godlike Odysseus is dead, cease the urging my marriage Till the cloth has been finished, lest all of my wool-work be waste. A shroud for the hero Laertes to wrap him when Fate Destroy him in length-stretching Death, lest the women should blame me That he should lie shroudless that once had so many possessions.” So I said, and their kingly hearts trusted: then daily I wove There at the great loom, but nightly unpicked it by torchlight. So for three years I triumphed: and all the Achaeans believed. But ah, when the fourth year came round, and the seasons were changing In the dying of months and fulfilment of many long days Then through my house-maids, the heedless sluts, lo, I was caught Unpicking, and blamed, so I finished, unwilling, needs must. Now I can neither fly marriage nor think of a wile. My parents much urge me to marry: my son is much shocked (Now that he knows it) at having our living devoured. For he is a man now, most able to manage a house, May God give him glory . . . But even so, tell me your kin, Whence you come, for you are not the son of a rock, nor the son Of some oak of old stories . . . ODYSSEUS: O Lady, the much honoured wife Of Odysseus, the son of Laertes, why will you not cease From asking my kindred? I’ll tell you: although it will give me More sorrows than mine are already: for so it must be To a man who has been from his country as long as I have now, Much drifting through cities and peoples and suffering sorrows But now I will tell what you ask me. There is a land called Crete in the midst of the wine-bright sea Lovely and wealthy, sea-girdled, with many men in it, Countless, and ninety cities, their tongues all mixed with each other, Achaeans live there, and great-heart Eteocretans. Kydonians, plume-tossing Dorians, godlike Pelasgi. Among then Knossos, the mighty city where Minos Was nine years King and the companion of God. It was there that I saw King Odysseus and gave him my guest gifts, When tumult of tempest had blown him on Crete in his going Troyward, astray from Malea. I, taking him up to my palace, well welcomed him there, With heartiest friendship, there being much plenty at home. And, to those other companions, who followed him there, I gave barley-bread from the storehouse and brought gleaming wine And sacrifice-oxen, that they might be happy at heart. And there for twelve days the godlike Achaeans stayed with us. On the thirteenth day as the wind fell, then he put forth. PENELOPE: Now truly, O stranger, I think I will prove if indeed You guested my lord with his godlike companions abroad There in your palace. Tell me, what clothes did he wear? What was he like? Who were the comrades who followed him? ODYSSEUS: O lady, it’s hard, after such length of time to declare It is now twenty years since he went, setting sail from my country. But yet I will tell you of how he appears in my heart. The godlike Odysseus was wearing a cloak of fine purple Double, and clasped with a gold brooch doubly grooved. The front of the brooch was wrought with a cunning work:— A dog in his forefeet grappled a dappled fawn That gasped as he gripped: and all folk marvelled to see How, altho’ only gold-work, he throttled the deer, While the deer strove with his feet, being minded to fly. I noticed the glittering shirt on Odysseus’ body. Because it was like to the withered dry skin of an onion . . . It had just that soft smoothness, and glossy it was in the sun, A great many women stared at it. A herald, too, followed him; one little older than he. Him, too, I’ll describe, what he was: he was round in the shoulder, Swarthy-skinned, curly-haired and had for his name Eurybates Odysseus honoured him most out of all of his crew Because at heart they were one. PENELOPE: Now, verily, stranger, You, who were pitied before, shall now be both honoured And dear, in my palace: for I, myself, gave him those clothes You tell of, all folded, from out of my room; and I added The glittering brooch to be precious to him; but alas, Not again shall I welcome him home to his dear fatherland. By a fatal decree of the gods he went into his ship To go forth to behold Evil Troy, that is not to be named. ODYSSEUS: O honoured wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, Destroy not your beautiful body nor perish your heart With mourning your husband. I will not in any way blame it For indeed any woman would mourn for a husband destroyed For the man unto whom, in her love, she bare children, although He were worse than Odysseus, who (men say) is peer to the gods But cease now from mourning and lay me up this in your heart. I will tell you the utterest truth, nor deceive you at all. I have heard of Odysseus returning to home; he is near. Alive, in the fertile land of the men of Thesprotia. And brings many treasures and rich as he strays thro’ the land. But his hollow ship and his trusty companions are lost In the wine-bright sea. Not long will the King be far from his friends and country:— Nevertheless I will give you now my oath . . . Now first may Zeus, the highest and best of gods Bear witness here and the hearth of noble Odysseus To which I have come, that this shall be all fulfilled. _Odysseus will come back here within this sun’s cycle,_ _At the old moon’s death and the coming-in of the new._ PENELOPE: O guest, I would that this word might be fulfilled, Swiftly then should you know my friendship and gifts So that any meeting with you should call you blessed. But this does my heart forebode and thus it shall be Odysseus will not come home, nor will you find escort Since there are not now such rulers within the palace As Odysseus was among men—if he really was— To welcome the honoured guests and to speed them forth. [_She goes over to the left._] But, handmaidens, wash this guest’s feet and prepare him a bed Pallet and mantles and glittering rugs, that he come Warmly and snugly to golden-throned Morning to-morrow. And then very early at dawn you must bathe and anoint him So that he dine with Telemachus there in the hall, And it shall be the worse for the one of the wooers Who injures this man, _his_ business shall not thrive However he rage. For how would you learn, O guest, That I am wiser and shrewder than other women If I let you dine in the hall, ill-clad, sun-beaten? ODYSSEUS: O honoured wife of Odysseus, Laertes’ son, Mantles and glittering rugs have been hateful to me, Since first I drew away from the snowy mountains Of Crete, out-bound in the long-oared ship. I’ll lie As formerly in the sleepless nights I stretched, Ay, many a night, in a bed not like a bed Stretched, to await the well-throned glittering morning. And washing of feet is no longer the joy of my heart. Nor shall one of the women now servants here in your house Touch my foot, save some old dame here of old Trusty of heart, who has borne such grief as I. I would not grudge such an one to touch my feet. PENELOPE: Dear guest, not yet has any such wise man come To my house, of all dear guests out of distant lands, To speak such eloquent right in all that he says. I have an old servant here who is wise at heart Who nursed and fostered yonder ill-fated man And carried him in her arms when his mother bare him. She shall wash your feet, although she is feeble now. [PENELOPE _claps her hands_.] But come now, rise now, wise-hearted Eurycleia, And wash one like to your lord . . . for the feet and hands Of Odysseus now will be even as these of his. For men among evils swiftly grow old. EURYCLEIA: Alas! Woe’s me, child, unable to help you, surely our God Loathed you above all mortals although you were righteous For never has mortal yet burned so many thighs Or offerings picked, to God Delighting in Thunder, As you once gave with prayer that yourself might come To a smooth old age and rear your glorious son. Now God has taken from you all day of returning. [EURYCLEIA _now turns to_ ODYSSEUS’ _self, the Stranger_. PENELOPE _goes off left_.] And perhaps the women are mocking Odysseus now In a far-off stranger land in a famous house As the shameless sluts all mock at your presence here. It is to avoid their outrage and many insults That you will not let them bathe your feet. Icarius’ daughter, the prudent Penelope Has ordered me, who am not unwilling, to bathe them For Penelope’s sake and also because of yours. Since my heart is moved within me with pity for you. But come now, ’tend to the word that I shall speak. Many much-suffering strangers have drifted hither, But I say, I have not yet seen one so much like As you, to Odysseus, body and voice and feet. ODYSSEUS: So all men say, who have seen us both with eyes, That we’re very much like each other, as now you notice. [EURYCLEIA _kneels to the washing, the curtain is drawn_. ATHENE _goes rapidly to the centre stage as the curtain closes behind her_.] ATHENE: Now Odysseus sat turned from the hearth Then swiftly he turned to the darkness, he feared in his heart Lest handling his scar she might know it, and facts become clear. She went to her master to bathe him and straightway she knew The wound which the boar had once dealt him with white tusk of old. When the early-born rose-fingered Dawn shone, He went out to hunt with the hounds and Autolycus’ sons. Up the steep, forest-garmented mountain Parnassus, he went And swiftly came up to the windy ravines as the Sun From the soft-flowing deep-flowing Ocean struck bright on the fields. Then the hunters went into a glen, and in front of them went The hounds, on a scent, and behind them Autolycus’ sons, And with them the godlike Odysseus went close to the hounds Poising a long-shadowed spear. There a mighty boar lay In a harbour so tangled that neither the might of wet winds Might blow through its cover, nor bright Sun beat through it with rays Nor thunderstorm pierce it, but masses of many dead leaves lay. Then the noise of the feet of the men and the dogs reached the boar As they came, setting on, and he leaped out in front of his lair Well bristling his hackles and gleaming with flame in his eyes, And stood up against them, and first of them all King Odysseus, Charged, lifting long spear in grapple intending to smite. And rushing, the wild boar forestalled him and struck above knee, Ripping it sideways and tearing much flesh with his tusk, Not reaching the bone of the man. And Odysseus smote him Home, in right shoulder, the point of the bright spear went through. And he fell in the dust with a scream and his life fluttered out. Then the dear sons of Autolycus brittled the boar And bandaged the gash of the noble, godlike Odysseus Staunching the black blood with song: then they straightway returned Back to Autolycus’ palace, and there they well healed him, Giving him glorious gifts, and speedily sent him To Ithaca home in love, glad hosts, glad guest. [_Here_ ATHENE _comes to lower stage, extreme left_.] Now Eurycleia, seeing the scar, at once Knew that she touched Odysseus’ self and straight Her joy and grief took hold of her wits, her eyes Filled with tears, and her clear voice checked, as she said: [_Here_ ATHENE _goes off the stage, the curtain is drawn and displays_ EURYCLEIA _kneeling at_ ODYSSEUS’ _feet, touching his chin as a suppliant_.] EURYCLEIA: You are Odysseus’ self, dear child, and I did not know Before, until I had handled my Lord all over. [ODUSSEUS _grips her throat with his right hand and draws her to him with his left_.] ODYSSEUS: Nurse, why do you wish to destroy me?—You, too, who once nursed me On your own breast—now, when after enduring much woe, I come, in the twentieth year, to my fatherland? But since you have known me, since God has put this in your mind, Silence, lest any one else in the hall spy me out. Or I tell you this, and it will be brought to fulfilment, If God subdues these excellent wooers to me I will not spare you, not though you be my nurse When I kill the other women who serve in my halls. EURYCLEIA: My child, what word has crossed the hedge of your teeth? You know how my mind is firm and not to be won. I’ll stand as stark as a stone or steel; and I tell you (You keep it well in your heart) that if God should grant That you subdue these excellent wooers, I’ll tell you Which of the women dishonour you, which are guiltless. ODYSSEUS: Nurse, why do you speak of these, when there is not need? I’ll notice them well myself and mark each one. You hold to a silent mind and trust to the gods. [EURYCLEIA _goes off, left front_: ODYSSEUS _covers his scar_: PENELOPE _enters, left back_.] PENELOPE: Stranger, I yet must ask you one little thing. Swiftly the hour for untroubled resting is coming To him whom the sweet sleep takes, however much harassed. But to me God gives measureless sorrow, for daylong I mourn, Weeping, appointing the tasks of the maids in the house Yet when the night comes, and all sleep, I am there in my bed And sharp sorrows thronging about me are thick at my heart, Rousing my sorrowing like as the daughter of Pandarus The olive-green singer, sweet singing in new-comen spring Perched in the thick leaves of trees, often altering mode Pours many-toned song in lamenting her child, her dear Itylus, (Son of Zethus, the prince) whom she slew with the bronze through mistake. So hither and thither my mind is tormented asunder, Whether to stay with my son and guard all things unchanged, My treasures, my house-folk, my high-roofed great palace, respecting My vows to my husband, and also the voice of the people, Or go with the best of the Greeks wooing here in the hall? While my son was a child and a light-heart, I could not well marry Nor go from the house of my husband, but now he is grown And come to the measure of manhood, and now he implores me To go from this house, being vexed for his wealth, which the wooers Devour together. But come, now, and hark to my dream and interpret it to me. I keep twenty geese at the farm, eating grain from the pool, I am happy to see them. Now out of the mountain there came A great crook-beaked eagle that struck on their necks and killed all. They lay heaped in hall while he lifted aloft through bright air. And I cried and made clamour although it was only a dream. And the women of Greece with the beautiful hair gathered round me To my pitiful cry that the eagle had slaughtered my geese. But the eagle came back and was perched on an outjutting cornice. And ending my weeping he spoke with the voice of a man. “Courage, O daughter of far-famed Icarius, listen . . . This is no dream but the truth: you shall see it fulfilled. The geese are the wooers, and I was the eagle but now. But _now_ am your husband returned who will bring shameful death On all of the wooers.” So said he. Then sweet sleep released me And I saw all the geese in the hall eating corn from the bin Where they formerly were. ODYSSEUS: O lady, man cannot interpret Your dream, wresting meanings awry, since Odysseus himself Shows how he means to fulfil it: Death comes to the wooers To all of them, all; not a man shall escape death and doom. PENELOPE: Stranger, a dream and the judging a dream are both baffling. Nor are all dreams fulfilled among men. There are two gates of powerless dreams, one of horn, one of ivory, Those which come through the ivory gate, cheat the hope, bearing nothings; Those which come through the doors of wrought horn, they are truly fulfilled To the mortal who sees them; but my dream, I think, came not thence. Good to me, to myself, and my son were it so. I say thus: mind it well. Even now is the evil dawn breaking that sweeps me away From the house of Odysseus, for now I must set up a contest With the axes Odysseus was used to set up in his halls Like the oak blocks of keels, twelve in all; he would stand far apart And hurtle an arrow through all; this I’ll set for the wooers. He who most easily strings my lord’s bow with his hands And shoots through the rings of twelve axes, I’ll follow that man I’ll abandon this house of my marriage, this beautiful house All full of good living . . . I think I shall think of it always, ay, even in dreams. ODYSSEUS: O Lady, the wife of Odysseus, the son of Laertes, Delay not this contest, because many-crafted Odysseus Will be here before these who fondle the well-polished bow Shall string it with sinew and hurtle a shaft through the iron. PENELOPE: O guest, if you would but sit thus in my halls giving comfort Beside me, sleep would not be laid on my eyelids at all. But men may not always be sleepless; the Deathless have made A Fate for each thing among men on the corn-giving world I shall go to my high upper room and there lay me to bed All made with my sorrows and soiled with my weeping since he, Odysseus went forth to see Evil Troy not to be named. There I shall rest; but yourself will lie here in the house, Either stretched on the ground, or let some set a bed for you here. [PENELOPE _goes off, left, down stage_. ODYSSEUS _spreads mats on the ground as though for his bed. He goes up right, and listens._] ODYSSEUS: Those women go out from the house: they are bound for the Wooers . . . Shall I rush out and kill them, each one? Shall I leave them to love Those proud ones this last latest time? For I rage at their evil . . . But bear it, my heart, you have borne a more dog-like thing once, In the day when the unchecked mad Cyclops devoured my mates, You bore it, till cunning had led you safe out of the cave Where you reckoned to die . . . [ATHENE _appears above_.] ATHENE: Why are you watching, most luckless of all men alive? This is your palace, your wife is within in the house, And your son, such a captain as any would wish for a son. ODYSSEUS: Yes, all of these things are the truth, Goddess; rightly you speak, But my heart in my bosom debates, how to put out my hands On these shameless ones, being but one, and themselves always many. But still more I think in my heart. If by God’s help and yours I kill them, how ’scape the Avengers? Advise and command. ATHENE: O doubter, men trust in a sorrier comrade than I, In a mortal, who knows no such counsel; but I am a God Who will faithfully guard you in all of your troubles whatever. I tell you this plainly, should fifty picked squadrons of men Surround us, all minded to kill us, yet still you should win And drive off their cattle and flocks. But let sleep take you now. It is pain to guard all night awake. You shall soon rise from troubles. [_She pours slumber upon_ ODYSSEUS: _he sleeps_.] TRANSCRIBER NOTES Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. [The end of _Minnie Maylow’s Story and Other Tales and Scenes_, by John Masefield.]