Part 3

A WIFE IN LONDON (December, 1899)

I THE TRAGEDY

SHE sits in the tawny vapour That the City lanes have uprolled, Behind whose webby fold on fold Like a waning taper The street-lamp glimmers cold.

A messenger’s knock cracks smartly, Flashed news is in her hand Of meaning it dazes to understand Though shaped so shortly: He—has fallen—in the far South Land . . .

II THE IRONY

’Tis the morrow; the fog hangs thicker, The postman nears and goes: A letter is brought whose lines disclose By the firelight flicker His hand, whom the worm now knows:

Fresh—firm—penned in highest feather— Page-full of his hoped return, And of home-planned jaunts by brake and burn In the summer weather, And of new love that they would learn.

THE SOULS OF THE SLAIN

The thick lids of Night closed upon me Alone at the Bill Of the Isle by the Race {253}— Many-caverned, bald, wrinkled of face— And with darkness and silence the spirit was on me To brood and be still.

No wind fanned the flats of the ocean, Or promontory sides, Or the ooze by the strand, Or the bent-bearded slope of the land, Whose base took its rest amid everlong motion Of criss-crossing tides.

III

Soon from out of the Southward seemed nearing A whirr, as of wings Waved by mighty-vanned flies, Or by night-moths of measureless size, And in softness and smoothness well-nigh beyond hearing Of corporal things.

And they bore to the bluff, and alighted— A dim-discerned train Of sprites without mould, Frameless souls none might touch or might hold— On the ledge by the turreted lantern, farsighted By men of the main.

And I heard them say “Home!” and I knew them For souls of the felled On the earth’s nether bord Under Capricorn, whither they’d warred, And I neared in my awe, and gave heedfulness to them With breathings inheld.

Then, it seemed, there approached from the northward A senior soul-flame Of the like filmy hue: And he met them and spake: “Is it you, O my men?” Said they, “Aye! We bear homeward and hearthward To list to our fame!”

VII

“I’ve flown there before you,” he said then: “Your households are well; But—your kin linger less On your glory arid war-mightiness Than on dearer things.”—“Dearer?” cried these from the dead then, “Of what do they tell?”

VIII

“Some mothers muse sadly, and murmur Your doings as boys— Recall the quaint ways Of your babyhood’s innocent days. Some pray that, ere dying, your faith had grown firmer, And higher your joys.

“A father broods: ‘Would I had set him To some humble trade, And so slacked his high fire, And his passionate martial desire; Had told him no stories to woo him and whet him To this due crusade!”

“And, General, how hold out our sweethearts, Sworn loyal as doves?” —“Many mourn; many think It is not unattractive to prink Them in sables for heroes. Some fickle and fleet hearts Have found them new loves.”

“And our wives?” quoth another resignedly, “Dwell they on our deeds?” —“Deeds of home; that live yet Fresh as new—deeds of fondness or fret; Ancient words that were kindly expressed or unkindly, These, these have their heeds.”

XII

—“Alas! then it seems that our glory Weighs less in their thought Than our old homely acts, And the long-ago commonplace facts Of our lives—held by us as scarce part of our story, And rated as nought!”

XIII

Then bitterly some: “Was it wise now To raise the tomb-door For such knowledge? Away!” But the rest: “Fame we prized till to-day; Yet that hearts keep us green for old kindness we prize now A thousand times more!”

XIV

Thus speaking, the trooped apparitions Began to disband And resolve them in two: Those whose record was lovely and true Bore to northward for home: those of bitter traditions Again left the land,