St. Barbara

By

G. K. Chesterton

www.freeclassicebooks.com

Contents

TO F. C. IN MEMORIAM PALESTINE, ’19. 3

THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA.. 4

ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.. 8

THE SWORD OF SURPRISE. 9

A WEDDING IN WAR-TIME. 10

THE MYSTERY. 12

“THE MYTH OF ARTHUR”. 13

THE OLD SONG.. 14

THE TRINKETS. 16

THE PHILANTHROPIST. 17

ON THE DOWNS. 18

THE RED SEA.. 20

MEMORY. 22

THE ENGLISH GRAVES. 23

NIGHTMARE. 24

A SECOND CHILDHOOD.. 25

“MEDIÆVALISM”. 26

POLAND.. 27

THE HUNTING OF THE DRAGON.. 28

SONNET. 29

FANTASIA.. 30

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 31

TO CAPTAIN FRYATT. 32

FOR FOUR GUILDS: 33

I. THE GLASS-STAINERS. 33

II. THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS. 34

III. THE STONE-MASONS. 35

IV. THE BELL-RINGERS. 36

THE CONVERT. 37

SONGS OF EDUCATION: 38

I. HISTORY. 38

II. GEOGRAPHY. 40

III. FOR THE CRÊCHE. 41

IV. CITIZENSHIP. 42

V. THE HIGHER MATHEMATICS. 43

VI. HYGIENE. 44

TO F. C. IN MEMORIAM PALESTINE, ’19

Do you remember one immortal     Lost moment out of time and space,     What time we thought, who passed the portal     Of that divine disastrous place     Where Life was slain and Truth was slandered     On that one holier hill than Rome,     How far abroad our bodies wandered     That evening when our souls came home?

The mystic city many-gated,     With monstrous columns, was your own:     Herodian stones fell down and waited     Two thousand years to be your throne.     In the grey rocks the burning blossom     Glowed terrible as the sacred blood:     It was no stranger to your bosom     Than bluebells of an English wood.

Do you remember a road that follows     The way of unforgotten feet,     Where from the waste of rocks and hollows     Climb up the crawling crooked street     The stages of one towering drama     Always ahead and out of sight ...     Do you remember Aceldama     And the jackal barking in the night?

Life is not void or stuff for scorners:     We have laughed loud and kept our love,     We have heard singers in tavern corners     And not forgotten the birds above:     We have known smiters and sons of thunder     And not unworthily walked with them,     We have grown wiser and lost not wonder;     And we have seen Jerusalem.

THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA

(St. Barbara is the patron saint of artillery and of those in     danger of sudden death.)

When the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain,     We stood and drank of the last free air we never could taste again:     They had led us back from the lost battle, to halt we knew not where     And stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with our despair.     The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless lands     And a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands.

“There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to Rome;     And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home;     Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor,     That lead to a low door at last; and beyond there is no door.”

And the Breton to the Norman spoke, like a small child spoke he,     And his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the sea:     “There are more windows in one house than there are eyes to see,     There are more doors in a man’s house, but God has hid the key:     Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnesseth     Barbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden death.”

It seemed the wheel of the world stood still an instant in its turning,     More than the kings of the earth that turned with the turning of Valmy       mill:     While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were burning,     Still as the heart of a whirlwind the heart of the world stood still.

“Barbara the beautiful         Had praise of lute and pen:         Her hair was like a summer night         Dark and desired of men.

Her feet like birds from far away         That linger and light in doubt;         And her face was like a window         Where a man’s first love looked out.

Her sire was master of many slaves         A hard man of his hands;         They built a tower about her         In the desolate golden lands,

Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs,         Planned with an ancient plan,         And set two windows in the tower         Like the two eyes of a man.”

Our guns were set toward the foe; we had no word, for firing.     Grey in the gateway of St. Gond the Guard of the tyrant shone;     Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and retiring,     The Breton line went backward and the Breton tale went on.

“Her father had sailed across the sea         From the harbour of Africa         When all the slaves took up their tools         For the bidding of Barbara.

She smote the bare wall with her hand         And bad them smite again;         She poured them wealth of wine and meat         To stay them in their pain.

And cried through the lifted thunder         Of thronging hammer and hod         ‘Throw open the third window         In the third name of God.’

Then the hearts failed and the tools fell,         And far towards the foam,         Men saw a shadow on the sands         And her father coming home.”

Speak low and low, along the line the whispered word is flying     Before the touch, before the time, we may not loose a breath:     Their guns must mash us to the mire and there be no replying,     Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final dice to death.

“There were two windows in your tower,         Barbara, Barbara,         For all between the sun and moon         In the lands of Africa.

Hath a man three eyes, Barbara,         A bird three wings,         That you have riven roof and wall         To look upon vain things?”

Her voice was like a wandering thing         That falters yet is free,         Whose soul has drunk in a distant land         Of the rivers of liberty.

“There are more wings than the wind knows         Or eyes than see the sun         In the light of the lost window         And the wind of the doors undone.

For out of the first lattice         Are the red lands that break         And out of the second lattice         Sea like a green snake,

But out of the third lattice         Under low eaves like wings         Is a new corner of the sky         And the other side of things.”

It opened in the inmost place an instant beyond uttering,     A casement and a chasm and a thunder of doors undone,     A seraph’s strong wing shaken out the shock of its unshuttering,     That split the shattered sunlight from a light behind the sun.

“Then he drew sword and drave her         Where the judges sat and said         ‘Caesar sits above the gods,         Barbara the maid.

Caesar hath made a treaty         With the moon and with the sun,         All the gods that men can praise         Praise him every one.

There is peace with the anointed         Of the scarlet oils of Bel,         With the Fish God, where the whirlpool         Is a winding stair to hell,

With the pathless pyramids of slime,         Where the mitred negro lifts         To his black cherub in the cloud         Abominable gifts,

With the leprous silver cities         Where the dumb priests dance and nod,         But not with the three windows         And the last name of God.’”

They are firing, we are falling, and the red skies rend and shiver us,     Barbara, Barbara, we may not loose a breath—     Be at the bursting doors of doom, and in the dark deliver us,     Who loosen the last window on the sun of sudden death.

“Barbara the beautiful         Stood up as queen set free,         Whose mouth is set to a terrible cup         And the trumpet of liberty.

‘I have looked forth from a window         That no man now shall bar,         Caesar’s toppling battle-towers         Shall never stretch so far.

The slaves are dancing in their chains,         The child laughs at the rod,         Because of the bird of the three wings,         And the third face of God.’

The sword upon his shoulder         Shifted and shone and fell,         And Barbara lay very small         And crumpled like a shell.”

What wall upon what hinges turned stands open like a door?     Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for human eyes,     What light upon what ancient way shines to a far-off floor,     The line of the lost land of France or the plains of Paradise?

“Caesar smiled above the gods,         His lip of stone was curled,         His iron armies wound like chains         Round and round the world,

And the strong slayer of his own         That cut down flesh for grass,         Smiled too, and went to his own tower         Like a walking tower of brass,

And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb;         And far towards the foam         Men saw a shadow on the sands;         And her father coming home....

Blood of his blood upon the sword         Stood red but never dry.         He wiped it slowly, till the blade         Was blue as the blue sky.

But the blue sky split with a thunder-crack,         Spat down a blinding brand,         And all of him lay back and flat         As his shadow on the sand.”

The touch and the tornado; all our guns give tongue together     St. Barbara for the gunnery and God defend the right,     They are stopped and gapped and battered as we blast away the weather.     Building window upon window to our lady of the light.     For the light is come on Liberty, her foes are falling, falling,     They are reeling, they are running, as the shameful years have run,     She is risen for all the humble, she has heard the conquered calling,     St. Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand upon the gun.     They are burst asunder in the midst that eat of their own flatteries,     Whose lip is curled to order as its barbered hair is curled....     Blast of the beauty of sudden death, St. Barbara of the batteries!     That blow the new white window in the wall of all the world.

For the hand is raised behind us, and the bolt smites hard     Through the rending of the doorways, through the death-gap of the       Guard,     For the cry of the Three Colours is in Condé and beyond     And the Guard is flung for carrion in the graveyard of St. Gond,     Through Mondemont and out of it, through Morin marsh and on     With earthquake of salutation the impossible thing is gone,     Gaul, charioted and charging, great Gaul upon a gun,     Tip-toe on all her thousand years and trumpeting to the sun:     As day returns, as death returns, swung backwards and swung home,     Back on the barbarous reign returns the battering-ram of Rome.     While that that the east held hard and hot like pincers in a forge,     Came like the west wind roaring up the cannon of St. George,     Where the hunt is up and racing over stream and swamp and tarn     And their batteries, black with battle, hold the bridgeheads of the       Marne     And across the carnage of the Guard, by Paris in the plain,     The Normans to the Bretons cried and the Bretons cheered again....     But he that told the tale went home to his house beside the sea     And burned before St. Barbara, the light of the windows three,     Three candles for an unknown thing, never to come again,     That opened like the eye of God on Paris in the plain.

ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

The men that worked for England     They have their graves at home:     And bees and birds of England     About the cross can roam.

But they that fought for England,     Following a falling star,     Alas, alas for England     They have their graves afar.

And they that rule in England,     In stately conclave met,     Alas, alas for England     They have no graves as yet.

THE SWORD OF SURPRISE

Sunder me from my bones, O sword of God,     Till they stand stark and strange as do the trees;     That I whose heart goes up with the soaring woods     May marvel as much at these.

Sunder me from my blood that in the dark     I hear that red ancestral river run,     Like branching buried floods that find the sea     But never see the sun.

Give me miraculous eyes to see my eyes,     Those rolling mirrors made alive in me,     Terrible crystal more incredible     Than all the things they see.

Sunder me from my soul, that I may see     The sins like streaming wounds, the life’s brave beat;     Till I shall save myself, as I would save     A stranger in the street.

A WEDDING IN WAR-TIME

Our God who made two lovers in a garden,     And smote them separate and set them free,     Their four eyes wild for wonder and wrath and pardon     And their kiss thunder as lips of land and sea:     Each rapt unendingly beyond the other,     Two starry worlds of unknown gods at war,     Wife and not mate, a man and not a brother,     We thank thee thou hast made us what we are.

Make not the grey slime of infinity     To swamp these flowers thou madest one by one;     Let not the night that was thine enemy     Mix a mad twilight of the moon and sun;     Waken again to thunderclap and clamour     The wonder of our sundering and the song,     Or break our hearts with thine hell-shattering hammer     But leave a shade between us all day long.

Shade of high shame and honourable blindness     When youth, in storm of dizzy and distant things,     Finds the wild windfall of a little kindness     And shakes to think that all the world has wings.     When the one head that turns the heavens in turning     Moves yet as lightly as a lingering bird,     And red and random, blown astray but burning,     Like a lost spark goes by the glorious word.

Make not this sex, this other side of things,     A thing less distant than the world’s desire;     What colour to the end of evening clings     And what far cry of frontiers and what fire     Fallen too far beyond the sun for seeking,     Let it divide us though our kingdom come;     With a far signal in our secret speaking     To hang the proud horizon in our home.

Once we were one, a shapeless cloud that lingers     Loading the seas and shutting out the skies,     One with the woods, a monster of myriad fingers,     You laid on me no finger of surprise.     One with the stars, a god with myriad eyes,     I saw you nowhere and was blind for scorn:     One till the world was riven and the rise     Of the white days when you and I were born.

Darkens the world: the world-old fetters rattle;     And these that have no hope behind the sun     May feed like bondmen and may breed like cattle,     One in the darkness as the dead are one;     Us if the rended grave give up its glory     Trumpets shall summon asunder and face to face:     We will be strangers in so strange a story     And wonder, meeting in so wild a place.

Ah, not in vain or utterly for loss     Come even the black flag and the battle-hordes,     If these grey devils flee the sign of the cross     Even in the symbol of the crossing swords.     Nor shall death doubt Who made our souls alive     Swords meeting and not stakes set side by side,     Bade us in the sunburst and the thunder thrive     Earthquake and Dawn; the bridegroom and the bride.

Death and not dreams or doubt of things undying,     Of whose the holy hearth or whose the sword;     Though sacred spirits dissever in strong crying     Into Thy hands, but Thy two hands, O Lord,     Though not in Earth as once in Eden standing     So plain again we see Thee what thou art,     As in this blaze, the blasting and the branding     Of this wild wedding where we meet and part.

THE MYSTERY

If sunset clouds could grow on trees     It would but match the may in flower;     And skies be underneath the seas     No topsyturvier than a shower.

If mountains rose on wings to wander     They were no wilder than a cloud;     Yet all my praise is mean as slander,     Mean as these mean words spoken aloud.

And never more than now I know     That man’s first heaven is far behind;     Unless the blazing seraph’s blow     Has left him in the garden blind.

Witness, O Sun that blinds our eyes,     Unthinkable and unthankable King,     That though all other wonder dies     I wonder at not wondering.

“THE MYTH OF ARTHUR”

O learned man who never learned to learn,     Save to deduce, by timid steps and small,     From towering smoke that fire can never burn     And from tall tales that men were never tall.     Say, have you thought what manner of man it is     Of whom men say “He could strike giants down”?     Or what strong memories over time’s abyss     Bore up the pomp of Camelot and the crown.     And why one banner all the background fills,     Beyond the pageants of so many spears,     And by what witchery in the western hills     A throne stands empty for a thousand years.     Who hold, unheeding this immense impact,     Immortal story for a mortal sin;     Lest human fable touch historic fact,     Chase myths like moths, and fight them with a pin.     Take comfort; rest—there needs not this ado.     You shall not be a myth, I promise you.

THE OLD SONG

(On the Embankment in stormy weather.)

A livid sky on London     And like iron steeds that rear     A shock of engines halted,     And I knew the end was near:     And something said that far away, over the hills and far away,     There came a crawling thunder and the end of all things here.     For London Bridge is broken down, broken down, broken down,     As digging lets the daylight on the sunken streets of yore,     The lightning looked on London town, the broken bridge of London town,     The ending of a broken road where men shall go no more.

I saw the kings of London town,     The kings that buy and sell,     That built it up with penny loaves     And penny lies as well:     And where the streets were paved with gold, the shrivelled paper shone       for gold,     The scorching light of promises that pave the streets of hell.     For penny loaves will melt away, melt away, melt away,     Mock the mean that haggled in the grain they did not grow;     With hungry faces in the gate, a hundred thousand in the gate,     A thunder-flash on London and the finding of the foe.

I heard the hundred pin-makers     Slow down their racking din,     Till in the stillness men could hear     The dropping of the pin:     And somewhere men without the wall, beneath the wood, without the wall,     Had found the place where London ends and England can begin.     For pins and needles bend and break, bend and break, bend and break,     Faster than the breaking spears or the bending of the bow     Of pageants pale in thunder-light, ’twixt thunder-load and       thunder-light,     The Hundreds marching on the hills in the wars of long ago.

I saw great Cobbett riding,     The horseman of the shires;     And his face was red with judgment     And a light of Luddite fires:     And south to Sussex and the sea the lights leapt up for liberty,     The trumpet of the yeomanry, the hammer of the squires;     For bars of iron rust away, rust away, rust away,     Rend before the hammer and the horseman riding in,     Crying that all men at the last, and at the worst and at the last,     Have found the place where England ends and England can begin.

His horse-hoofs go before you,     Far beyond your bursting tyres;     And time is bridged behind him     And our sons are with our sires.     A trailing meteor on the Downs he rides above the rotting towns,     The Horseman of Apocalypse, the Rider of the Shires.     For London Bridge is broken down, broken down, broken down;     Blow the horn of Huntingdon from Scotland to the sea—     ... Only a flash of thunder-light, a flying dream of thunder-light,     Had shown under the shattered sky a people that were free.

THE TRINKETS

A wandering world of rivers,     A wavering world of trees,     If the world grow dim and dizzy     With all changes and degrees,     It is but Our Lady’s mirror     Hung dreaming in its place,     Shining with only shadows     Till she wakes it with her face.

The standing whirlpool of the stars,     The wheel of all the world,     Is a ring on Our Lady’s finger     With the suns and moons empearled     With stars for stones to please her     Who sits playing with her rings     With the great heart that a woman has     And the love of little things.

Wings of the whirlwind of the world     From here to Ispahan,     Spurning the flying forests     Are light as Our Lady’s fan:     For all things violent here and vain     Lie open and all at ease     Where God has girded heaven to guard     Her holy vanities.

THE PHILANTHROPIST

(With apologies to a beautiful poem.)

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe decrease     By cautious birth-control and die in peace)     Mellow with learning lightly took the word     That marked him not with them that love the Lord,     And told the angel of the book and pen     “Write me as one that loves his fellow-men:     For them alone I labour; to reclaim     The ragged roaming Bedouin and to tame     To ordered service; to uproot their vine     Who mock the Prophet, being mad with wine,     Let daylight through their tents and through their lives,     Number their camels, even count their wives,     Plot out the desert into streets and squares;     And count it a more fruitful work than theirs     Who lift a vain and visionary love     To your vague Allah in the skies above.”

Gently replied the angel of the pen:     “Labour in peace and love your fellow-men:     And love not God, since men alone are dear,     Only fear God; for you have cause to fear.”

ON THE DOWNS

When you came over the top of the world     In the great day on the Downs,     The air was crisp and the clouds were curled,     When you came over the top of the world,     And under your feet were spire and street     And seven English towns.

And I could not think that the pride was perished     As you came over the down;     Liberty, chivalry, all we cherished,     Lost in a rattle of pelf and perished;     Or the land we love that you walked above     Withering town by town.

For you came out on the dome of the earth     Like a vision of victory,     Out on the great green dome of the earth     As the great blue dome of the sky for girth,     And under your feet the shires could meet     And your eyes went out to sea.

Under your feet the towns were seven,     Alive and alone on high,     Your back to the broad white wall of heaven;     You were one and the towns were seven,     Single and one as the soaring sun     And your head upheld the sky.

And I thought of a thundering flag unfurled     And the roar of the burghers’ bell:     Beacons crackled and bolts were hurled     As you came over the top of the world;     And under your feet were chance and cheat     And the slime of the slopes of hell.

It has not been as the great wind spoke     On the great green down that day:     We have seen, wherever the wide wind spoke,     Slavery slaying the English folk:     The robbers of land we have seen command     The rulers of land obey.

We have seen the gigantic golden worms     In the garden of paradise:     We have seen the great and the wise make terms     With the peace of snakes and the pride of worms,     and them that plant make covenant     With the locust and the lice.

And the wind blows and the world goes on     And the world can say that we,     Who stood on the cliffs where the quarries shone,     Stood upon clouds that the sun shone on:     And the clouds dissunder and drown in thunder     The news that will never be.

Lady of all that have loved the people,     Light over roads astray,     Maze of steading and street and steeple,     Great as a heart that has loved the people:     Stand on the crown of the soaring down,     Lift up your arms and pray.

Only you I have not forgotten     For wreck of the world’s renown,     Rending and ending of things gone rotten,     Only the face of you unforgotten:     And your head upthrown in the skies alone     As you came over the down.

THE RED SEA

Our souls shall be Leviathans     In purple seas of wine     When drunkenness is dead with death,     And drink is all divine;     Learning in those immortal vats     What mortal vineyards mean;     For only in heaven we shall know     How happy we have been.

Like clouds that wallow in the wind     Be free to drift and drink;     Tower without insolence when we rise,     Without surrender sink:     Dreams dizzy and crazy we shall know     And have no need to write     Our blameless blasphemies of praise,     Our nightmares of delight.

For so in such misshapen shape     The vision came to me,     Where such titanian dolphins dark     Roll in a sunset sea:     Dark with dense colours, strange and strong     As terrible true love,     Haloed like fish in phospher light     The holy monsters move.

Measure is here and law, to learn,     When honour rules it so,     To lift the glass and lay it down     Or break the glass and go.     But when the world’s New Deluge boils     From the New Noah’s vine,     Our souls shall be Leviathans     In sanguine seas of wine.

FOR A WAR MEMORIAL

(Suggested Inscription probably not selected by the     Committee.)

The hucksters haggle in the mart     The cars and carts go by;     Senates and schools go droning on;     For dead things cannot die.

A storm stooped on the place of tombs     With bolts to blast and rive;     But these be names of many men     The lightning found alive.

If usurers rule and rights decay     And visions view once more     Great Carthage like a golden shell     Gape hollow on the shore,

Still to the last of crumbling time     Upon this stone be read     How many men of England died     To prove they were not dead.

MEMORY

If I ever go back to Baltimore,     The city of Maryland,     I shall miss again as I missed before     A thousand things of the world in store,     The story standing in every door     That beckons with every hand.

I shall not know where the bonds were riven     And a hundred faiths set free,     Where a wandering cavalier had given     Her hundredth name to the Queen of Heaven,     And made oblation of feuds forgiven     To Our Lady of Liberty.

I shall not travel the tracks of fame     Where the war was not to the strong;     When Lee the last of the heroes came     With the Men of the South and a flag like flame,     And called the land by its lovely name     In the unforgotten song.

If ever I cross the sea and stray     To the city of Maryland,     I will sit on a stone and watch or pray     For a stranger’s child that was there one day:     And the child will never come back to play,     And no-one will understand.

THE ENGLISH GRAVES

Were I that wandering citizen whose city is the world,     I would not weep for all that fell before the flags were furled;     I would not let one murmur mar the trumpets volleying forth     How God grew weary of the kings, and the cold hell in the north.     But we whose hearts are homing birds have heavier thoughts of home,     Though the great eagles burn with gold on Paris or on Rome,     Who stand beside our dead and stare, like seers at an eclipse,     At the riddle of the island tale and the twilight of the ships.

For these were simple men that loved with hands and feet and eyes,     Whose souls were humbled to the hills and narrowed to the skies,     The hundred little lands within one little land that lie,     Where Severn seeks the sunset isles or Sussex scales the sky.

And what is theirs, though banners blow on Warsaw risen again,     Or ancient laughter walks in gold through the vineyards of Lorraine,     Their dead are marked on English stones, their loves on English trees,     How little is the prize they win, how mean a coin for these—     How small a shrivelled laurel-leaf lies crumpled here and curled:     They died to save their country and they only saved the world.

NIGHTMARE

The silver and violet leopard of the night     Spotted with stars and smooth with silence sprang;     And though three doors stood open, the end of light     Closed like a trap; and stillness was a clang.

Under the leopard sky of lurid stars     I strove with evil sleep the hot night long,     Dreams dumb and swollen of triumphs without wars,     Of tongueless trumpet and unanswering gong.

I saw a pale imperial pomp go by,     Helmet and hornèd mitre and heavy wreath;     Their high strange ensigns hung upon the sky     And their great shields were like the doors of death.

Their mitres were as moving pyramids     And all their crowns as marching towers were tall;     Their eyes were cold under their carven lids     And the same carven smile was on them all.

Over a paven plain that seemed unending     They passed unfaltering till it found an end     In one long shallow step; and these descending     Fared forth anew as long away to wend.

I thought they travelled for a thousand years;     And at the end was nothing for them all,     For all that splendour of sceptres and of spears,     But a new step, another easy fall.

The smile of stone seemed but a little less,     The load of silver but a little more:     And ever was that terraced wilderness     And falling plain paved like a palace floor.

Rust red as gore crawled on their arms of might     And on their faces wrinkles and not scars:     Till the dream suddenly ended; noise and light     Loosened the tyranny of the tropic stars.

But over them like a subterranean sun     I saw the sign of all the fiends that fell;     And a wild voice cried “Hasten and be done,     Is there no steepness in the stairs of hell?”

He that returns, He that remains the same,     Turned the round real world, His iron vice;     Down the grey garden paths a bird called twice,     And through three doors mysterious daylight came.

A SECOND CHILDHOOD

When all my days are ending     And I have no song to sing,     I think I shall not be too old     To stare at everything;     As I stared once at a nursery door     Or a tall tree and a swing.

Wherein God’s ponderous mercy hangs     On all my sins and me,     Because He does not take away     The terror from the tree     And stones still shine along the road     That are and cannot be.

Men grow too old for love, my love,     Men grow too old for wine,     But I shall not grow too old to see     Unearthly daylight shine,     Changing my chamber’s dust to snow     Till I doubt if it be mine.

Behold, the crowning mercies melt,     The first surprises stay;     And in my dross is dropped a gift     For which I dare not pray:     That a man grow used to grief and joy     But not to night and day.

Men grow too old for love, my love,     Men grow too old for lies;     But I shall not grow too old to see     Enormous night arise,     A cloud that is larger than the world     And a monster made of eyes.

Nor am I worthy to unloose     The latchet of my shoe;     Or shake the dust from off my feet     Or the staff that bears me through     On ground that is too good to last,     Too solid to be true.

Men grow too old to woo, my love,     Men grow too old to wed:     But I shall not grow too old to see     Hung crazily overhead     Incredible rafters when I wake     And find I am not dead.

A thrill of thunder in my hair:     Though blackening clouds be plain,     Still I am stung and startled     By the first drop of the rain:     Romance and pride and passion pass     And these are what remain.

Strange crawling carpets of the grass,     Wide windows of the sky:     So in this perilous grace of God     With all my sins go I:     And things grow new though I grow old,     Though I grow old and die.

“MEDIÆVALISM”

If men should rise and return to the noise and time of the tourney,     The name and fame of the tabard, the tangle of gules and gold,     Would these things stand and suffice for the bourne of a backward       journey,     A light on our days returning, as it was in the days of old?

Nay, there is none rides back to pick up a glove or a feather,     Though the gauntlet rang with honour or the plume was more than a       crown:     And hushed is the holy trumpet that called the nations together     And under the Horns of Hattin the hope of the world went down.

Ah, not in remembrance stored, but out of oblivion starting,     Because you have sought new homes and all that you sought is so,     Because you had trodden the fire and barred the door in departing,     Returns in your chosen exile the glory of long ago.

Not then when you barred the door, not then when you trod the embers,     But now, at your new road’s end, you have seen the face of a fate,     That not as a child looks back, and not as a fool remembers,     All that men took too lightly and all that they love too late.

It is you that have made no rubric for saints, no raiment for lovers,     Your caps that cry for a feather, your roofs that sigh for a spire:     Is it a dream from the dead if your own decay discovers     Alive in your rotting graveyard the worm of the world’s desire?

Therefore the old trees tower, that the green trees grow and are       stunted:     Therefore these dead men mock you, that you the living are dead:     Since ever you battered the saints and the tools of your crafts were       blunted,     Or shattered the glass in its glory and loaded yourselves with the       lead.

When the usurer hunts the squire as the squire has hunted the peasant,     As sheep that are eaten of worms where men were eaten of sheep:     Now is the judgment of earth, and the weighing of past and present,     Who scorn to weep over ruins, behold your ruin and weep.

Have ye not known, ye fools, that have made the present a prison,     That thirst can remember water and hunger remember bread?     We went not gathering ghosts; but the shriek of your shame is arisen     Out of your own black Babel too loud; and it woke the dead.

POLAND

Augurs that watched archaic birds     Such plumèd prodigies might read,     The eagles that were double-faced,     The eagle that was black indeed;     And when the battle-birds went down     And in their track the vultures come,     We know what pardon and what peace     Will keep our little masters dumb.

The men that sell what others make,     As vultures eat what others slay,     Will prove in matching plume with plume     That naught is black and all is grey;     Grey as those dingy doves that once,     By money-changers palmed and priced,     Amid the crash of tables flapped     And huddled from the wrath of Christ.

But raised for ever for a sign     Since God made anger glorious,     Where eagles black and vultures grey     Flocked back about the heroic house,     Where war is holier than peace,     Where hate is holier than love,     Shone terrible as the Holy Ghost     An eagle whiter than a dove.

THE HUNTING OF THE DRAGON

When we went hunting the Dragon     In the days when we were young,     We tossed the bright world over our shoulder     As bugle and baldrick slung;     Never was world so wild and fair     As what went by on the wind,     Never such fields of paradise     As the fields we left behind:       For this is the best of a rest for men       That men should rise and ride       Making a flying fairyland       Of market and country-side,       Wings on the cottage, wings on the wood,       Wings upon pot and pan,       For the hunting of the Dragon       That is the life of a man.

For men grow weary of fairyland     When the Dragon is a dream,     And tire of the talking bird in the tree,     The singing fish in the stream;     And the wandering stars grow stale, grow stale,     And the wonder is stiff with scorn;     For this is the honour of fairyland     And the following of the horn;

Beauty on beauty called us back       When we could rise and ride,       And a woman looked out of every window       As wonderful as a bride:       And the tavern-sign as a tabard blazed,       And the children cheered and ran,       For the love of the hate of the Dragon       That is the pride of a man.

The sages called him a shadow     And the light went out of the sun:     And the wise men told us that all was well     And all was weary and one:     And then, and then, in the quiet garden,     With never a weed to kill,     We knew that his shining tail had shone     In the white road over the hill:     We knew that the clouds were flakes of flame,     We knew that the sunset fire     Was red with the blood of the Dragon     Whose death is the world’s desire.

For the horn was blown in the heart of the night       That men should rise and ride,       Keeping the tryst of a terrible jest       Never for long untried;       Drinking a dreadful blood for wine,       Never in cup or can,       The death of a deathless Dragon,       That is the life of a man.

SONNET

High on the wall that holds Jerusalem     I saw one stand under the stars like stone.     And when I perish it shall not be known     Whether he lived, some strolling son of Shem,     Or was some great ghost wearing the diadem     Of Solomon or Saladin on a throne:     I only know, the features being unshown,     I did not dare draw near and look on them.

Did ye not guess ... the diadem might be     Plaited in stranger style by hands of hate ...     But when I looked, the wall was desolate     And the grey starlight powdered tower and tree:     And vast and vague beyond the Golden Gate     Heaved Moab of the mountains like a sea.

FANTASIA

The happy men that lose their heads     They find their heads in heaven,     As cherub heads with cherub wings,     And cherub haloes even:     Out of the infinite evening lands     Along the sunset sea,     Leaving the purple fields behind,     The cherub wings beat down the wind     Back to the groping body and blind     As the bird back to the tree.

Whether the plumes be passion-red     For him that truly dies     By headsmen’s blade or battle-axe,     Or blue like butterflies,     For him that lost it in a lane     In April’s fits and starts,     His folly is forgiven then:     But higher, and far beyond our ken,     Is the healing of the unhappy men,     The men that lost their hearts.

Is there not pardon for the brave     And broad release above,     Who lost their heads for liberty     Or lost their hearts for love?     Or is the wise man wise indeed     Whom larger thoughts keep whole?     Who sees life equal like a chart,     Made strong to play the saner part,     And keep his head and keep his heart,     And only lose his soul.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

(The Chief Constable has issued a statement declaring that     carol singing in the streets by children is illegal, and morally     and physically injurious. He appeals to the public to discourage     the practice.—Daily Paper.)

God rest you merry gentlemen,     Let nothing you dismay;     The Herald Angels cannot sing,     The cops arrest them on the wing,     And warn them of the docketing     Of anything they say.

God rest you merry gentlemen,     May nothing you dismay:     On your reposeful cities lie     Deep silence, broken only by     The motor horn’s melodious cry,     The hooter’s happy bray.

So, when the song of children ceased     And Herod was obeyed,     In his high hall Corinthian     With purple and with peacock fan,     Rested that merry gentleman;     And nothing him dismayed.

TO CAPTAIN FRYATT

Trampled yet red is the last of the embers,     Red the last cloud of a sun that has set;     What of your sleeping though Flanders remembers,     What of your waking, if England forget?

Why should you share in the hearts that we harden,     In the shame of our nature, who see it and live?     How more than the godly the greedy can pardon,     How well and how quickly the hungry forgive.

Ah, well if the soil of the stranger had wrapped you,     While the lords that you served and the friends that you knew     Hawk in the marts of the tyrants that trapped you,     Tout in the shops of the butchers that slew.

Why should you wake for a realm that is rotten,     Stuffed with their bribes and as dead to their debts?     Sleep and forget us, as we have forgotten;     For Flanders remembers and England forgets.

FOR FOUR GUILDS:

I. THE GLASS-STAINERS

To every Man his Mystery,     A trade and only one:     The masons make the hives of men,     The domes of grey or dun,     But we have wrought in rose and gold     The houses of the sun.

The shipwrights build the houses high,     Whose green foundations sway     Alive with fish like little flames,     When the wind goes out to slay.     But we abide with painted sails     The cyclone of the day.

The weavers make the clothes of men     And coats for everyone;     They walk the streets like sunset clouds;     But we have woven and spun     In scarlet or in golden-green     The gay coats of the sun.

You whom the usurers and the lords     With insolent liveries trod,     Deep in dark church behold, above     Their lance-lengths by a rod,     Where we have blazed the tabard     Of the trumpeter of God.

II. THE BRIDGE-BUILDERS

In the world’s whitest morning     As hoary with hope,     The Builder of Bridges     Was priest and was pope:     And the mitre of mystery     And the canopy his,     Who darkened the chasms     And domed the abyss.

To eastward and westward     Spread wings at his word     The arch with the key-stone     That stoops like a bird;     That rides the wild air     And the daylight cast under;     The highway of danger,     The gateway of wonder.

Of his throne were the thunders     That rivet and fix     Wild weddings of strangers     That meet and not mix;     The town and the cornland;     The bride and the groom:     In the breaking of bridges     Is treason and doom.

But he bade us, who fashion     The road that can fly,     That we build not too heavy     And build not too high:     Seeing alway that under     The dark arch’s bend     Shine death and white daylight     Unchanged to the end.

Who walk on his mercy     Walk light, as he saith,     Seeing that our life     Is a bridge above death;     And the world and its gardens     And hills, as ye heard,     Are born above space     On the wings of a bird.

Not high and not heavy     Is building of his:     When ye seal up the flood     And forget the abyss,     When your towers are uplifted,     Your banners unfurled,     In the breaking of bridges     Is the end of the world.

III. THE STONE-MASONS

We have graven the mountain of God with hands,     As our hands were graven of God, they say,     Where the seraphs burn in the sun like brands     And the devils carry the rains away;     Making a thrift of the throats of hell,     Our gargoyles gather the roaring rain,     Whose yawn is more than a frozen yell     And their very vomiting not in vain.

Wilder than all that a tongue can utter,     Wiser than all that is told in words,     The wings of stone of the soaring gutter     Fly out and follow the flight of the birds;     The rush and rout of the angel wars     Stand out above the astounded street,     Where we flung our gutters against the stars     For a sign that the first and the last shall meet.

We have graven the forest of heaven with hands,     Being great with a mirth too gross for pride,     In the stone that battered him Stephen stands     And Peter himself is petrified:     Such hands as have grubbed in the glebe for bread     Have bidden the blank rock blossom and thrive,     Such hands as have stricken a live man dead     Have struck, and stricken the dead alive.

Fold your hands before heaven in praying,     Lift up your hands into heaven and cry;     But look where our dizziest spires are saying     What the hands of a man did up in the sky:     Drenched before you have heard the thunder,     White before you have felt the snow;     For the giants lift up their hands to wonder     How high the hands of a man could go.

IV. THE BELL-RINGERS

The angels are singing like birds in a tree     In the organ of good St. Cecily:     And the parson reads with his hand upon     The graven eagle of great St. John:     But never the fluted pipes shall go     Like the fifes of an army all a-row,     Merrily marching down the street     To the marts where the busy and idle meet;     And never the brazen bird shall fly     Out of the window and into the sky,     Till men in cities and shires and ships     Look up at the living Apocalypse.

But all can hark at the dark of even     The bells that bay like the hounds of heaven,     Tolling and telling that over and under,     In the ways of the air like a wandering thunder,     The hunt is up over hills untrod:     For the wind is the way of the dogs of God:     From the tyrant’s tower to the outlaw’s den     Hunting the souls of the sons of men.     Ruler and robber and pedlar and peer,     Who will not harken and yet will hear;     Filling men’s heads with the hurry and hum     Making them welcome before they come.

And we poor men stand under the steeple     Drawing the cords that can draw the people,     And in our leash like the leaping dogs     Are God’s most deafening demagogues:     And we are but little, like dwarfs underground,     While hang up in heaven the houses of sound,     Moving like mountains that faith sets free,     Yawning like caverns that roar with the sea,     As awfully loaded, as airily buoyed,     Armoured archangels that trample the void:     Wild as with dancing and weighty with dooms,     Heavy as their panoply, light as their plumes.

Neither preacher nor priest are we:     Each man mount to his own degree:     Only remember that just such a cord     Tosses in heaven the trumpet and sword;     Souls on their terraces, saints on their towers,     Rise up in arms at alarum like ours:     Glow like great watchfires that redden the skies     Titans whose wings are a glory of eyes,     Crowned constellations by twelves and by sevens,     Domed dominations more old than the heavens,     Virtues that thunder and thrones that endure     Sway like a bell to the prayers of the poor.

THE CONVERT

After one moment when I bowed my head     And the whole world turned over and came upright,     And I came out where the old road shone white,     I walked the ways and heard what all men said,     Forests of tongues, like autumn leaves unshed,     Being not unlovable but strange and light;     Old riddles and new creeds, not in despite     But softly, as men smile about the dead.

The sages have a hundred maps to give     That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree,     They rattle reason out through many a sieve     That stores the sand and lets the gold go free:     And all these things are less than dust to me     Because my name is Lazarus and I live.

SONGS OF EDUCATION:

I. HISTORY

Form 991785, Sub-Section D

The Roman threw us a road, a road,     And sighed and strolled away:     The Saxon gave us a raid, a raid,     A raid that came to stay;     The Dane went west, but the Dane confessed     That he went a bit too far;     And we all became, by another name,     The Imperial race we are.

Chorus

The Imperial race, the inscrutable race,     The invincible race we are.

Though Sussex hills are bare, are bare,     And Sussex weald is wide,     From Chichester to Chester     Men saw the Norman ride;     He threw his sword in the air and sang     To a sort of a light guitar;     It was all the same, for we all became     The identical nobs we are.

Chorus

The identical nobs, individual nobs     Unmistakable nobs we are.

The people lived on the land, the land,     They pottered about and prayed;     They built a cathedral here and there     Or went on a small crusade:     Till the bones of Becket were bundled out     For the fun of a fat White Czar,     And we all became, in spoil and flame,     The intelligent lot we are.

Chorus

The intelligent lot, the intuitive lot,     The infallible lot we are.

O Warwick woods are green, are green,     But Warwick trees can fall:     And Birmingham grew so big, so big,     And Stratford stayed so small.     Till the hooter howled to the morning lark     That sang to the morning star;     And we all became, in freedom’s name,     The fortunate chaps we are.

Chorus

The fortunate chaps, felicitous chaps,     The fairy-like chaps we are.

The people they left the land, the land,     But they went on working hard;     And the village green that had got mislaid     Turned up in the squire’s back-yard:     But twenty men of us all got work     On a bit of his motor car;     And we all became, with the world’s acclaim,     The marvellous mugs we are:

Chorus

The marvellous mugs, miraculous mugs,     The mystical mugs we are.

SONGS OF EDUCATION:

II. GEOGRAPHY

Form 17955301, Sub-Section Z

The earth is a place on which England is found,     And you find it however you twirl the globe round;     For the spots are all red and the rest is all grey,     And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

Gibraltar’s a rock that you see very plain,     And attached to its base is the district of Spain.     And the island of Malta is marked further on,     Where some natives were known as the Knights of St. John.     Then Cyprus, and east to the Suez Canal,     That was conquered by Dizzy and Rothschild his pal     With the Sword of the Lord in the old English way;     And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

Our principal imports come far as Cape Horn;     For necessities, cocoa; for luxuries, corn;     Thus Brahmins are born for the rice-field, and thus,     The Gods made the Greeks to grow currants for us;     Tobacco and petrol and Jazzing and Jews:     The Jazzing will pass but the Jews they will stay;     And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

Our principal exports, all labelled and packed,     At the ends of the earth are delivered intact:     Our soap or our salmon can travel in tins     Between the two poles and as like as two pins;     So that Lancashire merchants whenever they like     Can water the beer of a man in Klondike     Or poison the meat of a man in Bombay;     And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

The day of St. George is a musty affair     Which Russians and Greeks are permitted to share;     The day of Trafalgar is Spanish in name     And the Spaniards refuse to pronounce it the same;     But the Day of the Empire from Canada came     With Morden and Borden and Beaverbrook’s fame     And saintly seraphical souls such as they:     And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

III. FOR THE CRÊCHE

Form 8277059, Sub-Section K

I remember my mother, the day that we met,     A thing I shall never entirely forget;     And I toy with the fancy that, young as I am,     I should know her again if we met in a tram.       But mother is happy in turning a crank       That increases the balance at somebody’s bank;       And I feel satisfaction that mother is free       From the sinister task of attending to me.

They have brightened our room, that is spacious and cool,     With diagrams used in the Idiot School,     And Books for the Blind that will teach us to see;     But mother is happy, for mother is free.       For mother is dancing up forty-eight floors,       For love of the Leeds International Stores,       And the flame of that faith might perhaps have grown cold,       With the care of a baby of seven weeks old.

For mother is happy in greasing a wheel     For somebody else, who is cornering Steel;     And though our one meeting was not very long,     She took the occasion to sing me this song:       “O, hush thee, my baby, the time soon will come       When thy sleep will be broken with hooting and hum;       There are handles want turning and turning all day,       And knobs to be pressed in the usual way;

O, hush thee, my baby, take rest while I croon,     For Progress comes early, and Freedom too soon.”

IV. CITIZENSHIP

Form 8889512, Sub-Section Q

How slowly learns the child at school     The names of all the nobs that rule     From Ponsonby to Pennant;     Ere his bewildered mind find rest,     Knowing his host can be a Guest,     His landlord is a Tennant.

He knew not, at the age of three,     What Lord St. Leger next will be     Or what he was before;     A Primrose in the social swim     A Mr. Primrose is to him,     And he is nothing more.

But soon, about the age of ten,     He finds he is a Citizen,     And knows his way about;     Can pause within, or just beyond,     The line ’twixt Mond and Demi-Mond,     ’Twixt Getting On—or Out.

The Citizen will take his share     (In every sense) as bull and bear;     Nor need this oral ditty     Invoke the philologic pen     To show you that a Citizen     Means Something in the City.

Thus gains he, with the virile gown,     The fasces and the civic crown,     The forum of the free;     Not more to Rome’s high law allied     Is Devonport in all his pride     Or Lipton’s self than he.

For he will learn, if he will try,     The deep interior truths whereby     We rule the Commonwealth;     What is the Food-Controller’s fee     And whether the Health Ministry     Are in it for their health.

V. THE HIGHER MATHEMATICS

Form 339125, Sub-Section M

Twice one is two,             Twice two is four,     But twice two is ninety-six if you know the way to score.             Half of two is one,             Half of four is two,     But half of four is forty per cent. if your name is Montagu:       For everything else is on the square       If done by the best quadratics;       And nothing is low in High Finance       Or the Higher Mathematics.

A straight line is straight             And a square mile is flat:     But you learn in trigonometrics a trick worth two of that.             Two straight lines             Can’t enclose a Space,     But they can enclose a Corner to support the Chosen Race:       For you never know what Dynamics do       With the lower truths of Statics;       And half of two is a touring car       In the Higher Mathematics.

There is a place apart             Beyond the solar ray,     Where parallel straight lines can meet in an unofficial way.             There is a room that holds             The examiner or his clerks,     Where you can square the circle or the man that gives the marks.       Where you hide in the cellar and then look down       On the poets that live in the attics;       For the whole of the house is upside down       In the Higher Mathematics.

VI. HYGIENE

Form 394411102, Sub-Section X

“All practical Eugenists are agreed on the importance of     sleep.”—The Eugenic Congress.

When Science taught mankind to breathe     A little while ago,     Only a wise and thoughtful few     Were really in the know:     Nor could the Youth his features wreathe,     Puffing from all the lungs beneath:     When Duty whispered softly “Breathe!”     The Youth would answer “Blow!”

When Science proved with lucid care     The need of Exercise,     Our thoughtless Youth was climbing trees     Or lightly blacking eyes:     To reckless idlers breaking bounds     For football or for hare-and-hounds,     Or fighting hard for fourteen rounds,     It came as a surprise.

But when she boldly counsels Sleep     To persons when in bed,     Then, then indeed men blush to see     The daybreak blushing red:     The early risers whom we term     Healthy, grow sickly and infirm;     The Early Bird who caught the Worm     Will catch the Germ instead.

For this at least be Science praised     If all the rest be rot,     That now she snubs the priggish child     That quits too soon his cot:     The pharisaic pachyderm     Of spiritual pride shall squirm:     The Early Bird catches the worm,     The Worm that dieth not.

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