Part 9

XII

When with the staff of Benedek, On the plateau of Königgrätz, You saw below that wedgeing speck; Foresaw proud Austria rammed to wreck, Where Chlum drove deep in smoky jets.

February 1887.

TO CHILDREN: FOR TYRANTS

STRIKE not thy dog with a stick! I did it yesterday: Not to undo though I gained The Paradise: heavy it rained On Kobold’s flanks, and he lay.

Little Bruno, our long-ear pup, From his hunt had come back to my heel. I heard a sharp worrying sound, And Bruno foamed on the ground, With Koby as making a meal.

III

I did what I could not undo Were the gates of the Paradise shut Behind me: I deemed it was just. I left Koby crouched in the dust, Some yards from the woodman’s hut.

He bewhimpered his welting, and I Scarce thought it enough for him: so, By degrees, through the upper box-grove, Within me an old story hove, Of a man and a dog: you shall know.

The dog was of novel breed, The Shannon retriever, untried: His master, an old Irish lord, In an oaken armchair snored At midnight, whisky beside.

Perched up a desolate tower, Where the black storm-wind was a whip To set it nigh spinning, these two Were alone, like the last of a crew, Outworn in a wave-beaten ship.

VII

The dog lifted muzzle, and sniffed; He quitted his couch on the rug, Nose to floor, nose aloft; whined, barked; And, finding the signals unmarked, Caught a hand in a death-grapple tug.

VIII

He pulled till his master jumped For fury of wrath, and laid on With the length of a tough knotted staff, Fit to drive the life flying like chaff, And leave a sheer carcase anon.

That done, he sat, panted, and cursed The vile cross of this brute: nevermore Would he house it to rear such a cur! The dog dragged his legs, pained to stir, Eyed his master, dropped, barked at the door.

Then his master raised head too, and sniffed: It struck him the dog had a sense That honoured both dam and sire. You have guessed how the tower was afire. The Shannon retriever dates thence.

I mused: saw the pup ease his heart Of his instinct for chasing, and sink Overwrought by excitement so new: A scene that for Koby to view Was the seizure of nerves in a link.

XII

And part sympathetic, and part Imitatively, raged my poor brute; And I, not thinking of ill, Doing eviller: nerves are still Our savage too quick at the root.

XIII

They spring us: I proved it, albeit I played executioner then For discipline, justice, the like. Yon stick I had handy to strike Should have warned of the tyrant in men.

XIV

You read in your History books, How the Prince in his youth had a mind For governing gently his land. Ah, the use of that weapon at hand, When the temper is other than kind!

At home all was well; Koby’s ribs Not so sore as my thoughts: if, beguiled, He forgives me, his criminal air Throws a shade of Llewellyn’s despair For the hound slain for saving his child.

POEMS AND LYRICS OF THE JOY OF EARTH

THE WOODS OF WESTERMAIN

ENTER these enchanted woods, You who dare. Nothing harms beneath the leaves More than waves a swimmer cleaves. Toss your heart up with the lark, Foot at peace with mouse and worm, Fair you fare. Only at a dread of dark Quaver, and they quit their form: Thousand eyeballs under hoods Have you by the hair. Enter these enchanted woods, You who dare.