Part 3

III SENDING TO THE WAR

IT was down in our far-off village that we heard of the war begun, But none of the neighbours were in it save the squire’s thick-lipped son, A youth and a fool and a captain, who came and went away, And left me glad of his going. There was little for us to say Of the war and its why and wherefore—and we said it often enough; The papers gave us our wisdom, and we used it up in the rough. But I held my peace and wondered; for I thought of the folly of men, The fair lives ruined and broken that ne’er could be mended again; And the tale by lies bewildered, and no cause for a man to choose; Nothing to curse or to bless—just a game to win or to lose.

But here were the streets of London—strife stalking wide in the world; And the flag of an ancient people to the battle-breeze unfurled. And who was helping or heeding? The gaudy shops displayed The toys of rich men’s folly, by blinded labour made; And still from naught to nothing the bright-skinned horses drew Dull men and sleek-faced women with never a deed to do; While all about and around them the street-flood ebbed and flowed, Worn feet, grey anxious faces, grey backs bowed ’neath the load. Lo the sons of an ancient people! And for this they fought and fell In the days by fame made glorious, in the tale that singers tell.

We two we stood in the street in the midst of a mighty crowd, The sound of its mingled murmur in the heavens above was loud, And earth was foul with its squalor—that stream of every day, The hurrying feet of labour, the faces worn and grey, Were a sore and grievous sight, and enough and to spare had I seen Of hard and pinching want midst our quiet fields and green; But all was nothing to this, the London holiday throng. Dull and with hang-dog gait they stood or shuffled along, While the stench from the lairs they had lain in last night went up in the wind, And poisoned the sun-lit spring: no story men can find Is fit for the tale of their lives; no word that man hath made Can tell the hue of their faces, or their rags by filth o’er-laid: For this hath our age invented—these are the sons of the free, Who shall bear our name triumphant o’er every land and sea. Read ye their souls in their faces, and what shall help you there? Joyless, hopeless, shameless, angerless, set is their stare: This is the thing we have made, and what shall help us now, For the field hath been laboured and tilled and the teeth of the dragon shall grow.

But why are they gathered together? what is this crowd in the street? This is a holiday morning, though here and there we meet The hurrying tradesman’s broadcloth, or the workman’s basket of tools. Men say that at last we are rending the snares of knaves and fools; That a cry from the heart of the nation against the foe is hurled, And the flag of an ancient people to the battle-breeze unfurled. The soldiers are off to the war, we are here to see the sight, And all our griefs shall be hidden by the thought of our country’s might. ’Tis the ordered anger of England and her hope for the good of the Earth That we to-day are speeding, and many a gift of worth Shall follow the brand and the bullet, and our wrath shall be no curse, But a blessing of life to the helpless—unless we are liars and worse— And these that we see are the senders; these are they that speed The dread and the blessing of England to help the world at its need.

Sick unto death was my hope, and I turned and looked on my dear, And beheld her frightened wonder, and her grief without a tear, And knew how her thought was mine—when, hark! o’er the hubbub and noise, Faint and a long way off, the music’s measured voice, And the crowd was swaying and swaying, and somehow, I knew not why, A dream came into my heart of deliverance drawing anigh. Then with roll and thunder of drums grew the music louder and loud, And the whole street tumbled and surged, and cleft was the holiday crowd, Till two walls of faces and rags lined either side of the way. Then clamour of shouts rose upward, as bright and glittering gay Came the voiceful brass of the band, and my heart beat fast and fast, For the river of steel came on, and the wrath of England passed Through the want and the woe of the town, and strange and wild was my thought, And my clenched hands wandered about as though a weapon they sought.

Hubbub and din was behind them, and the shuffling haggard throng, Wandering aimless about, tangled the street for long; But the shouts and the rhythmic noise we still heard far away, And my dream was become a picture of the deeds of another day. Far and far was I borne, away o’er the years to come, And again was the ordered march, and the thunder of the drum, And the bickering points of steel, and the horses shifting about ’Neath the flashing swords of the captains—then the silence after the shout— Sun and wind in the street, familiar things made clear, Made strange by the breathless waiting for the deeds that are drawing anear. For woe had grown into will, and wrath was bared of its sheath, And stark in the streets of London stood the crop of the dragon’s teeth. Where then in my dream were the poor and the wall of faces wan? Here and here by my side, shoulder to shoulder of man, Hope in the simple folk, hope in the hearts of the wise, For the happy life to follow, or death and the ending of lies, Hope is awake in the faces angerless now no more, Till the new peace dawn on the world, the fruit of the people’s war.

War in the world abroad a thousand leagues away, While custom’s wheel goes round and day devoureth day. Peace at home!—what peace, while the rich man’s mill is strife, And the poor is the grist that he grindeth, and life devoureth life?

IV MOTHER AND SON

NOW sleeps the land of houses, and dead night holds the street, And there thou liest, my baby, and sleepest soft and sweet; My man is away for awhile, but safe and alone we lie; And none heareth thy breath but thy mother, and the moon looking down from the sky On the weary waste of the town, as it looked on the grass-edged road Still warm with yesterday’s sun, when I left my old abode, Hand in hand with my love, that night of all nights in the year; When the river of love o’erflowed and drowned all doubt and fear, And we two were alone in the world, and once, if never again, We knew of the secret of earth and the tale of its labour and pain.

Lo amidst London I lift thee, and how little and light thou art, And thou without hope or fear, thou fear and hope of my heart! Lo here thy body beginning, O son, and thy soul and thy life; But how will it be if thou livest, and enterest into the strife, And in love we dwell together when the man is grown in thee, When thy sweet speech I shall hearken, and yet ’twixt thee and me Shall rise that wall of distance, that round each one doth grow, And maketh it hard and bitter each other’s thought to know? Now, therefore, while yet thou art little and hast no thought of thine own, I will tell thee a word of the world, of the hope whence thou hast grown,

Of the love that once begat thee, of the sorrow that hath made Thy little heart of hunger, and thy hands on my bosom laid. Then mayst thou remember hereafter, as whiles when people say All this hath happened before in the life of another day; So mayst thou dimly remember this tale of thy mother’s voice, As oft in the calm of dawning I have heard the birds rejoice, As oft I have heard the storm-wind go moaning through the wood, And I knew that earth was speaking, and the mother’s voice was good.

Now, to thee alone will I tell it that thy mother’s body is fair, In the guise of the country maidens who play with the sun and the air, Who have stood in the row of the reapers in the August afternoon, Who have sat by the frozen water in the highday of the moon, When the lights of the Christmas feasting were dead in the house on the hill, And the wild geese gone to the salt marsh had left the winter still. Yea, I am fair, my firstling; if thou couldst but remember me! The hair that thy small hand clutcheth is a goodly sight to see; I am true, but my face is a snare; soft and deep are my eyes, And they seem for men’s beguiling fulfilled with the dreams of the wise. Kind are my lips, and they look as though my soul had learned Deep things I have never heard of. My face and my hands are burned By the lovely sun of the acres; three months of London-town And thy birth-bed have bleached them indeed—“But lo, where the edge of the gown” (So said thy father one day) “parteth the wrist white as curd From the brown of the hands that I love, bright as the wing of a bird.”

Such is thy mother, O firstling, yet strong as the maidens of old, Whose spears and whose swords were the warders of homestead, of field and of fold. Oft were my feet on the highway, often they wearied the grass; From dusk unto dusk of the summer three times in a week would I pass To the downs from the house on the river through the waves of the blossoming corn. Fair then I lay down in the even, and fresh I arose on the morn, And scarce in the noon was I weary. Ah, son, in the days of thy strife, If thy soul could harbour a dream of the blossom of my life! It would be as sunlit meadows beheld from a tossing sea, And thy soul should look on a vision of the peace that is to be.

Yet, yet the tears on my cheek! And what is this doth move My heart to thy heart, beloved, save the flood of yearning love? For fair and fierce is thy father, and soft and strange are his eyes That look on the days that shall be with the hope of the brave and the wise. It was many a day that we laughed as over the meadows we walked, And many a day I hearkened and the pictures came as he talked; It was many a day that we longed, and we lingered late at eve Ere speech from speech was sundered, and my hand his hand could leave. Then I wept when I was alone, and I longed till the daylight came; And down the stairs I stole, and there was our housekeeping dame (No mother of me, the foundling) kindling the fire betimes Ere the haymaking folk went forth to the meadows down by the limes; All things I saw at a glance; the quickening fire-tongues leapt Through the crackling heap of sticks, and the sweet smoke up from it crept, And close to the very hearth the low sun flooded the floor, And the cat and her kittens played in the sun by the open door. The garden was fair in the morning, and there in the road he stood Beyond the crimson daisies and the bush of southernwood. Then side by side together through the grey-walled place we went, And O the fear departed, and the rest and sweet content!

SON, sorrow and wisdom he taught me, and sore I grieved and learned As we twain grew into one; and the heart within me burned With the very hopes of his heart. Ah, son, it is piteous, But never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee thus; So may these lonely words about thee creep and cling, These words of the lonely night in the days of our wayfaring. Many a child of woman to-night is born in the town, The desert of folly and wrong; and of what and whence are they grown? Many and many an one of wont and use is born; For a husband is taken to bed as a hat or a ribbon is worn. Prudence begets her thousands: “Good is a housekeeper’s life, So shall I sell my body that I may be matron and wife.” “And I shall endure foul wedlock and bear the children of need.” Some are there born of hate—many the children of greed. “I, I too can be wedded, though thou my love hast got.” “I am fair and hard of heart, and riches shall be my lot.” And all these are the good and the happy, on whom the world dawns fair. O son, when wilt thou learn of those that are born of despair, As the fabled mud of the Nile that quickens under the sun With a growth of creeping things, half dead when just begun? E’en such is the care of Nature that man should never die, Though she breed of the fools of the earth, and the dregs of the city sty. But thou, O son, O son, of very love wert born, When our hope fulfilled bred hope, and fear was a folly outworn; On the eve of the toil and the battle all sorrow and grief we weighed, We hoped and we were not ashamed, we knew and we were not afraid.

Now waneth the night and the moon—ah, son, it is piteous That never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee thus. But sure from the wise and the simple shall the mighty come to birth; And fair were my fate, beloved, if I be yet on the earth When the world is awaken at last, and from mouth to mouth they tell Of thy love and thy deeds and thy valour, and thy hope that nought can quell.

V NEW BIRTH

IT was twenty-five years ago that I lay in my mother’s lap New born to life, nor knowing one whit of all that should hap: That day was I won from nothing to the world of struggle and pain, Twenty-five years ago—and to-night am I born again.

I look and behold the days of the years that are passed away, And my soul is full of their wealth, for oft were they blithe and gay As the hours of bird and of beast: they have made me calm and strong To wade the stream of confusion, the river of grief and wrong.

A rich man was my father, but he skulked ere I was born, And gave my mother money, but left her life to scorn; And we dwelt alone in our village: I knew not my mother’s “shame,” But her love and her wisdom I knew till death and the parting came. Then a lawyer paid me money, and I lived awhile at a school, And learned the lore of the ancients, and how the knave and the fool Have been mostly the masters of earth: yet the earth seemed fair and good With the wealth of field and homestead, and garden and river and wood; And I was glad amidst it, and little of evil I knew As I did in sport and pastime such deeds as a youth might do, Who deems he shall live for ever. Till at last it befel on a day That I came across our Frenchman at the edge of the new-mown hay, A-fishing as he was wont, alone as he always was; So I helped the dark old man to bring a chub to grass, And somehow he knew of my birth, and somehow we came to be friends, Till he got to telling me chapters of the tale that never ends; The battle of grief and hope with riches and folly and wrong. He told how the weak conspire, he told of the fear of the strong; He told of dreams grown deeds, deeds done ere time was ripe, Of hope that melted in air like the smoke of his evening pipe; Of the fight long after hope in the teeth of all despair; Of battle and prison and death, of life stripped naked and bare. But to me it all seemed happy, for I gilded all with the gold Of youth that believes not in death, nor knoweth of hope grown cold. I hearkened and learned, and longed with a longing that had no name, Till I went my ways to our village and again departure came.

Wide now the world was grown, and I saw things clear and grim, That awhile agone smiled on me from the dream-mist doubtful and dim. I knew that the poor were poor, and had no heart or hope; And I knew that I was nothing with the least of evils to cope; So I thought the thoughts of a man, and I fell into bitter mood, Wherein, except as a picture, there was nought on the earth that was good; Till I met the woman I love, and she asked, as folk ask of the wise, Of the root and meaning of things that she saw in the world of lies. I told her all I knew, and the tale told lifted the load That made me less than a man; and she set my feet on the road.

So we left our pleasure behind to seek for hope and for life, And to London we came, if perchance there smouldered the embers of strife Such as our Frenchman had told of; and I wrote to him to ask If he would be our master, and set the learners their task. But “dead” was the word on the letter when it came back to me, And all that we saw henceforward with our own eyes must we see. So we looked and wondered and sickened; not for ourselves indeed: My father by now had died, but he left enough for my need; And besides, away in our village the joiner’s craft had I learned, And I worked as other men work, and money and wisdom I earned. Yet little from day to day in street or workshop I met To nourish the plant of hope that deep in my heart had been set. The life of the poor we learned, and to me there was nothing new In their day of little deeds that ever deathward drew. But new was the horror of London that went on all the while That rich men played at their ease for name and fame to beguile The days of their empty lives, and praised the deeds they did, As though they had fashioned the earth and found out the sun long hid; Though some of them busied themselves from hopeless day to day With the lives of the slaves of the rich and the hell wherein they lay. They wrought meseems as those who should make a bargain with hell, That it grow a little cooler, and thus for ever to dwell.

So passed the world on its ways, and weary with waiting we were. Men ate and drank and married; no wild cry smote the air, No great crowd ran together to greet the day of doom; And ever more and more seemed the town like a monstrous tomb To us, the Pilgrims of Hope, until to-night it came, And Hope on the stones of the street is written in letters of flame.

This is how it befel: a workmate of mine had heard Some bitter speech in my mouth, and he took me up at the word, And said: “Come over to-morrow to our Radical spouting-place; For there, if we hear nothing new, at least we shall see a new face; He is one of those Communist chaps, and ’tis like that you two may agree.” So we went, and the street was as dull and as common as aught you could see; Dull and dirty the room. Just over the chairman’s chair Was a bust, a Quaker’s face with nose cocked up in the air; There were common prints on the wall of the heads of the party fray, And Mazzini dark and lean amidst them gone astray. Some thirty men we were of the kind that I knew full well, Listless, rubbed down to the type of our easy-going hell. My heart sank down as I entered, and wearily there I sat While the chairman strove to end his maunder of this and of that. And partly shy he seemed, and partly indeed ashamed Of the grizzled man beside him as his name to us he named. He rose, thickset and short, and dressed in shabby blue, And even as he began it seemed as though I knew The thing he was going to say, though I never heard it before. He spoke, were it well, were it ill, as though a message he bore, A word that he could not refrain from many a million of men. Nor aught seemed the sordid room and the few that were listening then Save the hall of the labouring earth and the world which was to be. Bitter to many the message, but sweet indeed unto me, Of man without a master, and earth without a strife, And every soul rejoicing in the sweet and bitter of life: Of peace and good-will he told, and I knew that in faith he spake, But his words were my very thoughts, and I saw the battle awake, And I followed from end to end; and triumph grew in my heart As he called on each that heard him to arise and play his part In the tale of the new-told gospel, lest as slaves they should live and die.

He ceased, and I thought the hearers would rise up with one cry, And bid him straight enrol them; but they, they applauded indeed, For the man was grown full eager, and had made them hearken and heed: But they sat and made no sign, and two of the glibber kind Stood up to jeer and to carp his fiery words to blind. I did not listen to them, but failed not his voice to hear When he rose to answer the carpers, striving to make more clear That which was clear already; not overwell, I knew, He answered the sneers and the silence, so hot and eager he grew; But my hope full well he answered, and when he called again On men to band together lest they live and die in vain, In fear lest he should escape me, I rose ere the meeting was done, And gave him my name and my faith—and I was the only one. He smiled as he heard the jeers, and there was a shake of the hand, He spoke like a friend long known; and lo! I was one of the band.

And now the streets seem gay and the high stars glittering bright; And for me, I sing amongst them, for my heart is full and light. I see the deeds to be done and the day to come on the earth, And riches vanished away and sorrow turned to mirth; I see the city squalor and the country stupor gone. And we a part of it all—we twain no longer alone In the days to come of the pleasure, in the days that are of the fight— I was born once long ago: I am born again to-night.

VI THE NEW PROLETARIAN