Part 4

And, towering to seaward in legions, They paused at a spot Overbending the Race— That engulphing, ghast, sinister place— Whither headlong they plunged, to the fathomless regions Of myriads forgot.

XVI

And the spirits of those who were homing Passed on, rushingly, Like the Pentecost Wind; And the whirr of their wayfaring thinned And surceased on the sky, and but left in the gloaming Sea-mutterings and me.

December 1899.

SONG OF THE SOLDIERS’ WIVES

AT last! In sight of home again, Of home again; No more to range and roam again As at that bygone time? No more to go away from us And stay from us?— Dawn, hold not long the day from us, But quicken it to prime!

Now all the town shall ring to them, Shall ring to them, And we who love them cling to them And clasp them joyfully; And cry, “O much we’ll do for you Anew for you, Dear Loves!—aye, draw and hew for you, Come back from oversea.”

III

Some told us we should meet no more, Should meet no more; Should wait, and wish, but greet no more Your faces round our fires; That, in a while, uncharily And drearily Men gave their lives—even wearily, Like those whom living tires.

And now you are nearing home again, Dears, home again; No more, may be, to roam again As at that bygone time, Which took you far away from us To stay from us; Dawn, hold not long the day from us, But quicken it to prime!

THE SICK GOD

IN days when men had joy of war, A God of Battles sped each mortal jar; The peoples pledged him heart and hand, From Israel’s land to isles afar.

His crimson form, with clang and chime, Flashed on each murk and murderous meeting-time, And kings invoked, for rape and raid, His fearsome aid in rune and rhyme.

III

On bruise and blood-hole, scar and seam, On blade and bolt, he flung his fulgid beam: His haloes rayed the very gore, And corpses wore his glory-gleam.

Often an early King or Queen, And storied hero onward, knew his sheen; ’Twas glimpsed by Wolfe, by Ney anon, And Nelson on his blue demesne.

But new light spread. That god’s gold nimb And blazon have waned dimmer and more dim; Even his flushed form begins to fade, Till but a shade is left of him.

That modern meditation broke His spell, that penmen’s pleadings dealt a stroke, Say some; and some that crimes too dire Did much to mire his crimson cloak.

VII

Yea, seeds of crescive sympathy Were sown by those more excellent than he, Long known, though long contemned till then— The gods of men in amity.

VIII

Souls have grown seers, and thought out-brings The mournful many-sidedness of things With foes as friends, enfeebling ires And fury-fires by gaingivings!

He scarce impassions champions now; They do and dare, but tensely—pale of brow; And would they fain uplift the arm Of that faint form they know not how.

Yet wars arise, though zest grows cold; Wherefore, at whiles, as ’twere in ancient mould He looms, bepatched with paint and lath; But never hath he seemed the old!

Let men rejoice, let men deplore. The lurid Deity of heretofore Succumbs to one of saner nod; The Battle-god is god no more.

POEMS OF PILGRIMAGE

GENOA AND THE MEDITERRANEAN (March, 1887)

O EPIC-FAMED, god-haunted Central Sea, Heave careless of the deep wrong done to thee When from Torino’s track I saw thy face first flash on me.