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diff --git a/old/plghp10.txt b/old/plghp10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0e40b27 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/plghp10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1919 @@ +Project Gutenberg Etext The Pilgrims of Hope, by William Morris +#9 in our series by William Morris + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END* + + + + + +This etext was produced from the 1915 Longmans, Green and Company edition +by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + + +THE PILGRIMS OF HOPE + +by William Morris + + + + +Contents: + + The Message of the March Wind + The Bridge and the Street + Sending to the War + Mother and Son + New Birth + The New Proletarian + In Prison--and at Home + The Half of Life Gone + A New Friend + Ready to Depart + A Glimpse of the Coming Day + Meeting The War-Machine + The Story's Ending + + + +THE MESSAGE OF THE MARCH WIND + + + +Fair now is the springtide, now earth lies beholding + With the eyes of a lover the face of the sun; +Long lasteth the daylight, and hope is enfolding + The green-growing acres with increase begun. + +Now sweet, sweet it is through the land to be straying + Mid the birds and the blossoms and the beasts of the field; +Love mingles with love, and no evil is weighing + On thy heart or mine, where all sorrow is healed. + +From township to township, o'er down and by tillage + Far, far have we wandered and long was the day, +But now cometh eve at the end of the village, + Where over the grey wall the church riseth grey. + +There is wind in the twilight; in the white road before us + The straw from the ox-yard is blowing about; +The moon's rim is rising, a star glitters o'er us, + And the vane on the spire-top is swinging in doubt. + +Down there dips the highway, toward the bridge crossing over + The brook that runs on to the Thames and the sea. +Draw closer, my sweet, we are lover and lover; + This eve art thou given to gladness and me. + +Shall we be glad always? Come closer and hearken: + Three fields further on, as they told me down there, +When the young moon has set, if the March sky should darken, + We might see from the hill-top the great city's glare. + +Hark, the wind in the elm-boughs! From London it bloweth, + And telling of gold, and of hope and unrest; +Of power that helps not; of wisdom that knoweth, + But teacheth not aught of the worst and the best. + +Of the rich men it telleth, and strange is the story + How they have, and they hanker, and grip far and wide; +And they live and they die, and the earth and its glory + Has been but a burden they scarce might abide. + +Hark! the March wind again of a people is telling; + Of the life that they live there, so haggard and grim, +That if we and our love amidst them had been dwelling + My fondness had faltered, thy beauty grown dim. + +This land we have loved in our love and our leisure + For them hangs in heaven, high out of their reach; +The wide hills o'er the sea-plain for them have no pleasure, + The grey homes of their fathers no story to teach. + +The singers have sung and the builders have builded, + The painters have fashioned their tales of delight; +For what and for whom hath the world's book been gilded, + When all is for these but the blackness of night? + +How long and for what is their patience abiding? + How oft and how oft shall their story be told, +While the hope that none seeketh in darkness is hiding + And in grief and in sorrow the world groweth old? + + +Come back to the inn, love, and the lights and the fire, + And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet; +For there in a while shall be rest and desire, + And there shall the morrow's uprising be sweet. + +Yet, love, as we wend the wind bloweth behind us + And beareth the last tale it telleth to-night, +How here in the spring-tide the message shall find us; + For the hope that none seeketh is coming to light. + +Like the seed of midwinter, unheeded, unperished, + Like the autumn-sown wheat 'neath the snow lying green, +Like the love that o'ertook us, unawares and uncherished, + Like the babe 'neath thy girdle that groweth unseen, + +So the hope of the people now buddeth and groweth - + Rest fadeth before it, and blindness and fear; +It biddeth us learn all the wisdom it knoweth; + It hath found us and held us, and biddeth us hear: + +For it beareth the message: "Rise up on the morrow + And go on your ways toward the doubt and the strife; +Join hope to our hope and blend sorrow with sorrow, + And seek for men's love in the short days of life." + +But lo, the old inn, and the lights and the fire, + And the fiddler's old tune and the shuffling of feet; +Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire, + And to-morrow's uprising to deeds shall be sweet. + + + +THE BRIDGE AND THE STREET + + + +In the midst of the bridge there we stopped and we wondered + In London at last, and the moon going down, +All sullied and red where the mast-wood was sundered + By the void of the night-mist, the breath of the town. + +On each side lay the City, and Thames ran between it + Dark, struggling, unheard 'neath the wheels and the feet. +A strange dream it was that we ever had seen it, + And strange was the hope we had wandered to meet. + +Was all nought but confusion? What man and what master + Had each of these people that hastened along? +Like a flood flowed the faces, and faster and faster + Went the drift of the feet of the hurrying throng. + +Till all these seemed but one thing, and we twain another, + A thing frail and feeble and young and unknown; +What sign mid all these to tell foeman from brother? + What sign of the hope in our hearts that had grown? + + +We went to our lodging afar from the river, + And slept and forgot--and remembered in dreams; +And friends that I knew not I strove to deliver + From a crowd that swept o'er us in measureless streams, + +Wending whither I knew not: till meseemed I was waking + To the first night in London, and lay by my love, +And she worn and changed, and my very heart aching + With a terror of soul that forbade me to move. + +Till I woke, in good sooth, and she lay there beside me, + Fresh, lovely in sleep; but awhile yet I lay, +For the fear of the dream-tide yet seemed to abide me + In the cold and sad time ere the dawn of the day. + +Then I went to the window, and saw down below me + The market-wains wending adown the dim street, +And the scent of the hay and the herbs seemed to know me, + And seek out my heart the dawn's sorrow to meet. + +They passed, and day grew, and with pitiless faces + The dull houses stared on the prey they had trapped; +'Twas as though they had slain all the fair morning places + Where in love and in leisure our joyance had happed. + +My heart sank; I murmured, "What's this we are doing + In this grim net of London, this prison built stark +With the greed of the ages, our young lives pursuing + A phantom that leads but to death in the dark?" + +Day grew, and no longer was dusk with it striving, + And now here and there a few people went by. +As an image of what was once eager and living + Seemed the hope that had led us to live or to die. + +Yet nought else seemed happy; the past and its pleasure + Was light, and unworthy, had been and was gone; +If hope had deceived us, if hid were its treasure, + Nought now would be left us of all life had won. + + +O love, stand beside me; the sun is uprisen + On the first day of London; and shame hath been here. +For I saw our new life like the bars of a prison, + And hope grew a-cold, and I parleyed with fear. + +Ah! I sadden thy face, and thy grey eyes are chiding! + Yea, but life is no longer as stories of yore; +From us from henceforth no fair words shall be hiding + The nights of the wretched, the days of the poor. + +Time was we have grieved, we have feared, we have faltered, + For ourselves, for each other, while yet we were twain; +And no whit of the world by our sorrow was altered, + Our faintness grieved nothing, our fear was in vain. + +Now our fear and our faintness, our sorrow, our passion, + We shall feel all henceforth as we felt it erewhile; +But now from all this the due deeds we shall fashion + Of the eyes without blindness, the heart without guile. + +Let us grieve then--and help every soul in our sorrow; + Let us fear--and press forward where few dare to go; +Let us falter in hope--and plan deeds for the morrow, + The world crowned with freedom, the fall of the foe. + +As the soldier who goes from his homestead a-weeping, + And whose mouth yet remembers his sweetheart's embrace, +While all round about him the bullets are sweeping, + But stern and stout-hearted dies there in his place; + +Yea, so let our lives be! e'en such that hereafter, + When the battle is won and the story is told, +Our pain shall be hid, and remembered our laughter, + And our names shall be those of the bright and the bold. + +NOTE--This section had the following note in The Commonweal. It is the +intention of the author to follow the fortunes of the lovers who in the +"Message of the March Wind" were already touched by sympathy with the +cause of the people. + + + +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? + + + +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. + + + +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. + + + +THE NEW PROLETARIAN + + + +How near to the goal are we now, and what shall we live to behold? +Will it come a day of surprise to the best of the hopeful and bold? +Shall the sun arise some morning and see men falling to work, +Smiling and loving their lives, not fearing the ill that may lurk +In every house on their road, in the very ground that they tread? +Shall the sun see famine slain, and the fear of children dead? +Shall he look adown on men set free from the burden of care, +And the earth grown like to himself, so comely, clean and fair? +Or else will it linger and loiter, till hope deferred hath spoiled +All bloom of the life of man--yea, the day for which we have toiled? +Till our hearts be turned to stone by the griefs that we have borne, +And our loving kindness seared by love from our anguish torn. +Till our hope grow a wrathful fire, and the light of the second birth +Be a flame to burn up the weeds from the lean impoverished earth. + +What's this? Meseems it was but a little while ago +When the merest sparkle of hope set all my heart aglow! +The hope of the day was enough; but now 'tis the very day +That wearies my hope with longing. What's changed or gone away? +Or what is it drags at my heart-strings?--is it aught save the coward's +fear? +In this little room where I sit is all that I hold most dear - +My love, and the love we have fashioned, my wife and the little lad. +Yet the four walls look upon us with other eyes than they had, +For indeed a thing hath happened. Last week at my craft I worked, +Lest oft in the grey of the morning my heart should tell me I shirked; +But to-day I work for us three, lest he and she and I +In the mud of the street should draggle till we come to the workhouse or +die. + +Not long to tell is the story, for, as I told you before, +A lawyer paid me the money which came from my father's store. +Well, now the lawyer is dead, and a curious tangle of theft, +It seems, is what he has lived by, and none of my money is left. +So I who have worked for my pleasure now work for utter need: +In "the noble army of labour" I now am a soldier indeed. + +"You are young, you belong to the class that you love," saith the rich +man's sneer; +"Work on with your class and be thankful." All that I hearken to hear, +Nor heed the laughter much; have patience a little while, +I will tell you what's in my heart, nor hide a jot by guile. +When I worked pretty much for my pleasure I really worked with a will, +It was well and workmanlike done, and my fellows knew my skill, +And deemed me one of themselves though they called me gentleman Dick, +Since they knew I had some money; but now that to work I must stick, +Or fall into utter ruin, there's something gone, I find; +The work goes, cleared is the job, but there's something left behind; +I take up fear with my chisel, fear lies 'twixt me and my plane, +And I wake in the merry morning to a new unwonted pain. +That's fear: I shall live it down--and many a thing besides +Till I win the poor dulled heart which the workman's jacket hides. +Were it not for the Hope of Hopes I know my journey's end, +And would wish I had ne'er been born the weary way to wend. + +Now further, well you may think we have lived no gentleman's life, +My wife is my servant, and I am the servant of my wife, +And we make no work for each other; but country folk we were, +And she sickened sore for the grass and the breath of the fragrant air +That had made her lovely and strong; and so up here we came +To the northern slopes of the town to live with a country dame, +Who can talk of the field-folks' ways: not one of the newest the house, +The woodwork worn to the bone, its panels the land of the mouse, +Its windows rattling and loose, its floors all up and down; +But this at least it was, just a cottage left in the town. +There might you sit in our parlour in the Sunday afternoon +And watch the sun through the vine-leaves and fall to dreaming that soon +You would see the grey team passing, their fetlocks wet with the brook, +Or the shining mountainous straw-load: there the summer moon would look +Through the leaves on the lampless room, wherein we sat we twain, +All London vanished away; and the morn of the summer rain +Would waft us the scent of the hay; or the first faint yellow leaves +Would flutter adown before us and tell of the acres of sheaves. + +All this hath our lawyer eaten, and to-morrow must we go +To a room near my master's shop, in the purlieus of Soho. +No words of its shabby meanness! But that is our prison-cell +In the jail of weary London. Therein for us must dwell +The hope of the world that shall be, that rose a glimmering spark +As the last thin flame of our pleasure sank quavering in the dark. + +Again the rich man jeereth: "The man is a coward, or worse - +He bewails his feeble pleasure; he quails before the curse +Which many a man endureth with calm and smiling face." +Nay, the man is a man, by your leave! Or put yourself in his place, +And see if the tale reads better. The haven of rest destroyed, +And nothing left of the life that was once so well enjoyed +But leave to live and labour, and the glimmer of hope deferred. +Now know I the cry of the poor no more as a story heard, +But rather a wordless wail forced forth from the weary heart. +Now, now when hope ariseth I shall surely know my part. + + +There's a little more to tell. When those last words were said, +At least I was yet a-working, and earning daily bread. +But now all that is changed, and meseems adown the stair +That leads to the nethermost pit, man, wife and child must fare. + +When I joined the Communist folk, I did what in me lay +To learn the grounds of their faith. I read day after day +Whatever books I could handle, and heard about and about +What talk was going amongst them; and I burned up doubt after doubt, +Until it befel at last that to others I needs must speak +(Indeed, they pressed me to that while yet I was weaker than weak). +So I began the business, and in street-corners I spake +To knots of men. Indeed, that made my very heart ache, +So hopeless it seemed; for some stood by like men of wood; +And some, though fain to listen, but a few words understood; +And some but hooted and jeered: but whiles across some I came +Who were keen and eager to hear; as in dry flax the flame +So the quick thought flickered amongst them: and that indeed was a +feast. +So about the streets I went, and the work on my hands increased; +And to say the very truth betwixt the smooth and the rough +It was work and hope went with it, and I liked it well enough: +Nor made I any secret of all that I was at +But daily talked in our shop and spoke of this and of that. + +Then vanished my money away, and like a fool I told +Some one or two of the loss. Did that make the master bold? +Before I was one of his lot, and as queer as my head might be +I might do pretty much as I liked. Well now he sent for me +And spoke out in very words my thought of the rich man's jeer: +"Well, sir, you have got your wish, as far as I can hear, +And are now no thief of labour, but an honest working man: +Now I'll give you a word of warning: stay in it as long as you can, +This working lot that you like so: you're pretty well off as you are. +So take another warning: I have thought you went too far, +And now I am quite sure of it; so make an end of your talk +At once and for ever henceforth, or out of my shop you walk; +There are plenty of men to be had who are quite as good as you. +And mind you, anywhere else you'll scarce get work to do, +Unless you rule your tongue;--good morning; stick to your work." + +The hot blood rose to my eyes, somewhere a thought did lurk +To finish both him and the job: but I knew now what I was, +And out of the little office in helpless rage did I pass +And went to my work, a SLAVE, for the sake of my child and my sweet. +Did men look for the brand on my forehead that eve as I went through the +street? +And what was the end after all? Why, one of my shopmates heard +My next night's speech in the street, and passed on some bitter word, +And that week came a word with my money: "You needn't come again." +And the shame of my four days' silence had been but grief in vain. + +Well I see the days before me: this time we shall not die +Nor go to the workhouse at once: I shall get work by-and-by, +And shall work in fear at first, and at last forget my fear, +And drudge on from day to day, since it seems that I hold life dear. +'Tis the lot of many millions! Yet if half of those millions knew +The hope that my heart hath learned, we should find a deed to do, +And who or what should withstand us? And I, e'en I might live +To know the love of my fellows and the gifts that earth can give. + + + +IN PRISON--AND AT HOME + + + +The first of the nights is this, and I cannot go to bed; +I long for the dawning sorely, although when the night shall be dead, +Scarce to me shall the day be alive. Twice twenty-eight nights more, +Twice twenty-eight long days till the evil dream be o'er! +And he, does he count the hours as he lies in his prison-cell? +Does he nurse and cherish his pain? Nay, I know his strong heart well, +Swift shall his soul fare forth; he is here, and bears me away, +Till hand in hand we depart toward the hope of the earlier day. +Yea, here or there he sees it: in the street, in the cell, he sees +The vision he made me behold mid the stems of the blossoming trees, +When spring lay light on the earth, and first and at last I knew +How sweet was his clinging hand, how fair were the deeds he would do. + +Nay, how wilt thou weep and be soft and cherish a pleasure in pain, +When the days and their task are before thee and awhile thou must work +for twain? +O face, thou shalt lose yet more of thy fairness, be thinner no doubt, +And be waxen white and worn by the day that he cometh out! +Hand, how pale thou shalt be! how changed from the sunburnt hand +That he kissed as it handled the rake in the noon of the summer land! + +Let me think then it is but a trifle: the neighbours have told me so; +"Two months! why that is nothing and the time will speedily go." +'Tis nothing--O empty bed, let me work then for his sake! +I will copy out the paper which he thought the News might take, +If my eyes may see the letters; 'tis a picture of our life +And the little deeds of our days ere we thought of prison and strife. + +Yes, neighbour, yes I am early--and I was late last night; +Bedless I wore through the hours and made a shift to write. +It was kind of you to come, nor will it grieve me at all +To tell you why he's in prison and how the thing did befal; +For I know you are with us at heart, and belike will join us soon. +It was thus: we went to a meeting on Saturday afternoon, +At a new place down in the West, a wretched quarter enough, +Where the rich men's houses are elbowed by ragged streets and rough, +Which are worse than they seem to be. (Poor thing! you know too well +How pass the days and the nights within that bricken hell!) +There, then, on a bit of waste we stood 'twixt the rich and the poor; +And Jack was the first to speak; that was he that you met at the door +Last week. It was quiet at first; and dull they most of them stood +As though they heeded nothing, nor thought of bad or of good, +Not even that they were poor, and haggard and dirty and dull: +Nay, some were so rich indeed that they with liquor were full, +And dull wrath rose in their souls as the hot words went by their ears, +For they deemed they were mocked and rated by men that were more than +their peers. +But for some, they seemed to think that a prelude was all this +To the preachment of saving of souls, and hell, and endless bliss; +While some (O the hearts of slaves!) although they might understand, +When they heard their masters and feeders called thieves of wealth and of +land, +Were as angry as though THEY were cursed. Withal there were some that +heard, +And stood and pondered it all, and garnered a hope and a word. +Ah! heavy my heart was grown as I gazed on the terrible throng. +Lo! these that should have been the glad and the deft and the strong, +How were they dull and abased as the very filth of the road! +And who should waken their souls or clear their hearts of the load? + +The crowd was growing and growing, and therewith the jeering grew; +And now that the time was come for an ugly brawl I knew, +When I saw how midst of the workmen some well-dressed men there came, +Of the scum of the well-to-do, brutes void of pity or shame; +The thief is a saint beside them. These raised a jeering noise, +And our speaker quailed before it, and the hubbub drowned his voice. +Then Richard put him aside and rose at once in his place, +And over the rags and the squalor beamed out his beautiful face, +And his sweet voice rang through the tumult, and I think the crowd would +have hushed +And hearkened his manly words; but a well-dressed reptile pushed +Right into the ring about us and screeched out infamies +That sickened the soul to hearken; till he caught my angry eyes +And my voice that cried out at him, and straight on me he turned, +A foul word smote my heart and his cane on my shoulders burned. +But e'en as a kestrel stoops down Richard leapt from his stool +And drave his strong right hand amidst the mouth of the fool. +Then all was mingled together, and away from him was I torn, +And, hustled hither and thither, on the surging crowd was borne; +But at last I felt my feet, for the crowd began to thin, +And I looked about for Richard that away from thence we might win; +When lo, the police amidst us, and Richard hustled along +Betwixt a pair of blue-coats as the doer of all the wrong! + +Little longer, friend, is the story; I scarce have seen him again; +I could not get him bail despite my trouble and pain; +And this morning he stood in the dock: for all that that might avail, +They might just as well have dragged him at once to the destined jail. +The police had got their man and they meant to keep him there, +And whatever tale was needful they had no trouble to swear. + +Well, the white-haired fool on the bench was busy it seems that day, +And so with the words "Two months," he swept the case away; +Yet he lectured my man ere he went, but not for the riot indeed +For which he was sent to prison, but for holding a dangerous creed. +"What have you got to do to preach such perilous stuff? +To take some care of yourself should find you work enough. +If you needs must preach or lecture, then hire a chapel or hall; +Though indeed if you take my advice you'll just preach nothing at all, +But stick to your work: you seem clever; who knows but you might rise, +And become a little builder should you condescend to be wise? +For in spite of your silly sedition, the land that we live in is free, +And opens a pathway to merit for you as well as for me." + +Ah, friend, am I grown light-headed with the lonely grief of the night, +That I babble of this babble? Woe's me, how little and light +Is this beginning of trouble to all that yet shall be borne - +At worst but as the shower that lays but a yard of the corn +Before the hailstorm cometh and flattens the field to the earth. + +O for a word from my love of the hope of the second birth! +Could he clear my vision to see the sword creeping out of the sheath +Inch by inch as we writhe in the toils of our living death! +Could he but strengthen my heart to know that we cannot fail; +For alas, I am lonely here--helpless and feeble and frail; +I am e'en as the poor of the earth, e'en they that are now alive; +And where is their might and their cunning with the mighty of men to +strive? +Though they that come after be strong to win the day and the crown, +Ah, ever must we the deedless to the deedless dark go down, +Still crying, "To-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow yet shall be +The new-born sun's arising o'er happy earth and sea" - +And we not there to greet it--for to-day and its life we yearn, +And where is the end of toiling and whitherward now shall we turn +But to patience, ever patience, and yet and yet to bear; +And yet, forlorn, unanswered as oft before to hear, +Through the tales of the ancient fathers and the dreams that mock our +wrong, +That cry to the naked heavens, "How long, O Lord! how long?" + + + +THE HALF OF LIFE GONE + + + +The days have slain the days, and the seasons have gone by +And brought me the summer again; and here on the grass I lie +As erst I lay and was glad ere I meddled with right and with wrong. +Wide lies the mead as of old, and the river is creeping along +By the side of the elm-clad bank that turns its weedy stream, +And grey o'er its hither lip the quivering rushes gleam. +There is work in the mead as of old; they are eager at winning the hay, +While every sun sets bright and begets a fairer day. +The forks shine white in the sun round the yellow red-wheeled wain, +Where the mountain of hay grows fast; and now from out of the lane +Comes the ox-team drawing another, comes the bailiff and the beer, +And thump, thump, goes the farmer's nag o'er the narrow bridge of the +weir. +High up and light are the clouds, and though the swallows flit +So high o'er the sunlit earth, they are well a part of it, +And so, though high over them, are the wings of the wandering herne; +In measureless depths above him doth the fair sky quiver and burn; +The dear sun floods the land as the morning falls toward noon, +And a little wind is awake in the best of the latter June. + +They are busy winning the hay, and the life and the picture they make, +If I were as once I was, I should deem it made for my sake; +For here if one need not work is a place for happy rest, +While one's thought wends over the world, north, south, and east and +west. +There are the men and the maids, and the wives and the gaffers grey +Of the fields I know so well, and but little changed are they +Since I was a lad amongst them; and yet how great is the change! +Strange are they grown unto me; yea, I to myself am strange. +Their talk and their laughter mingling with the music of the meads +Has now no meaning to me to help or to hinder my needs, +So far from them have I drifted. And yet amidst them goes +A part of myself, my boy, and of pleasure and pain he knows, +And deems it something strange when he is other than glad. +Lo now! the woman that stoops and kisses the face of the lad, +And puts a rake in his hand and laughs in his laughing face - +Whose is the voice that laughs in the old familiar place? +Whose should it be but my love's, if my love were yet on the earth? +Could she refrain from the fields where my joy and her joy had birth, +When I was there and her child, on the grass that knew her feet +Mid the flowers that led her on when the summer eve was sweet? + +No, no, it is she no longer; never again can she come +And behold the hay-wains creeping o'er the meadows of her home; +No more can she kiss her son or put the rake in his hand +That she handled a while agone in the midst of the haymaking band. +Her laughter is gone and her life; there is no such thing on the earth, +No share for me then in the stir, no share in the hurry and mirth. + +Nay, let me look and believe that all these will vanish away, +At least when the night has fallen, and that she will be there mid the +hay, +Happy and weary with work, waiting and longing for love. +There will she be, as of old, when the great moon hung above, +And lightless and dead was the village, and nought but the weir was +awake; +There will she rise to meet me, and my hands will she hasten to take, +And thence shall we wander away, and over the ancient bridge +By many a rose-hung hedgerow, till we reach the sun-burnt ridge +And the great trench digged by the Romans: there then awhile shall we +stand, +To watch the dawn come creeping o'er the fragrant lovely land, +Till all the world awaketh, and draws us down, we twain, +To the deeds of the field and the fold and the merry summer's gain. + +Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams of the day or the night, +When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past delight. +She is gone. She was and she is not; there is no such thing on the earth +But e'en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and dearth +That I cannot name or measure. + Yet for me and all these she died, +E'en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might betide. +Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day's work shall fail. +Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale +Of how and why she died, and why I am weak and worn, +And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was born: +But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray +To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier day. +Of the great world's hope and anguish to-day I scarce can think: +Like a ghost from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds I +shrink. +I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge, +And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt ridge, +And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will I gaze, +And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the haze; +And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall see, +What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be? + +O fool, what words are these? Thou hast a sorrow to nurse, +And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a curse, +No sting it has and no meaning--it is empty sound on the air. +Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare +That they have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been +That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean. +And thou, thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon; +Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon. + + + +A NEW FRIEND + + + +I have promised to tell you the story of how I was left alone +Sick and wounded and sore, and why the woman is gone +That I deemed a part of my life. Tell me when all is told, +If you deem it fit that the earth, that the world of men should hold +My work and my weariness still; yet think of that other life, +The child of me and of her, and the years and the coming strife. + +After I came out of prison our living was hard to earn +By the work of my hands, and of hers; to shifts we had to turn, +Such as the poor know well, and the rich cannot understand, +And just out of the gutter we stood, still loving and hand in hand. + +Do you ask me if still amidst all I held the hunt in view, +And the hope of the morning of life, all the things I should do and undo? +Be easy, I am not a coward: nay little prudence I learned, +I spoke and I suffered for speaking, and my meat by my manhood was +burned. +When the poor man thinks--and rebels, the whip lies ready anear; +But he who is rebel and rich may live safe for many a year, +While he warms his heart with pictures of all the glory to come. +There's the storm of the press and the critics maybe, but sweet is his +home, +There is meat in the morn and the even, and rest when the day is done, +All is fair and orderly there as the rising and setting sun - +And I know both the rich and the poor. + Well, I grew bitter they said; +'Tis not unlike that I did, for bitter indeed was my bread, +And surely the nursling plant shall smack of its nourishing soil. +And here was our life in short, pinching and worry and toil, +One petty fear thrust out by another come in its place, +Each scrap of life but a fear, and the sum of it wretched and base. +E'en so fare millions of men, where men for money are made, +Where the poor are dumb and deedless, where the rich are not afraid. +Ah, am I bitter again? Well, these are our breeding-stock, +The very base of order, and the state's foundation rock; +Is it so good and so safe that their manhood should be outworn +By the struggle for anxious life, the dull pain dismally borne, +Till all that was man within them is dead and vanished away? +Were it not even better that all these should think on a day +As they look on each other's sad faces, and see how many they are: +"What are these tales of old time of men who were mighty in war? +They fought for some city's dominion, for the name of a forest or field; +They fell that no alien's token should be blazoned on their shield; +And for this is their valour praised and dear is their renown, +And their names are beloved for ever and they wear the patriot's crown; +And shall we then wait in the streets and this heap of misery, +Till their stones rise up to help us or the far heavens set us free? +For we, we shall fight for no name, no blazon on banner or shield; +But that man to man may hearken and the earth her increase yield; +That never again in the world may be sights like we have seen; +That never again in the world may be men like we have been, +That never again like ours may be manhood spoilt and blurred." + +Yea even so was I bitter, and this was my evilest word: +"Spend and be spent for our hope, and you at least shall be free, +Though you be rugged and coarse, as wasted and worn as you be." +Well, "bitter" I was, and denounced, and scarcely at last might we stand +From out of the very gutter, as we wended hand in hand. +I had written before for the papers, but so "bitter" was I grown, +That none of them now would have me that could pay me half-a-crown, +And the worst seemed closing around us; when as it needs must chance, +I spoke at some Radical Club of the Great Revolution in France. +Indeed I said nothing new to those who had learned it all, +And yet as something strange on some of the folk did it fall. +It was late in the terrible war, and France to the end drew nigh, +And some of us stood agape to see how the war would die, +And what would spring from its ashes. So when the talk was o'er +And after the stir and excitement I felt the burden I bore +Heavier yet for it all, there came to speak to me +A serious well-dressed man, a "gentleman," young I could see; +And we fell to talk together, and he shyly gave me praise, +And asked, though scarcely in words, of my past and my "better days." +Well, there,--I let it all out, and I flushed as I strode along, +(For we were walking by now) and bitterly spoke of the wrong. +Maybe I taught him something, but ready he was to learn, +And had come to our workmen meetings some knowledge of men to learn. +He kindled afresh at my words, although to try him I spake +More roughly than I was wont; but every word did he take +For what it was really worth, nor even laughter he spared, +As though he would look on life of its rags of habit bared. + +Well, why should I be ashamed that he helped me at my need? +My wife and my child, must I kill them? And the man was a friend indeed, +And the work that he got me I did (it was writing, you understand) +As well as another might do it. To be short, he joined our band +Before many days were over, and we saw him everywhere +That we workmen met together, though I brought him not to my lair. +Eager he grew for the Cause, and we twain grew friend and friend: +He was dainty of mind and of body; most brave, as he showed in the end; +Merry despite of his sadness, quick-witted and speedy to see: +Like a perfect knight of old time as the poets would have them to be. +That was the friend that I won by my bitter speech at last. +He loved me; he grieved my soul: now the love and the grief are past; +He is gone with his eager learning, his sadness and his mirth, +His hope and his fond desire. There is no such thing on the earth. +He died not unbefriended--nor unbeloved maybe. +Betwixt my life and his longing there rolls a boundless sea. +And what are those memories now to all that I have to do, +The deeds to be done so many, the days of my life so few? + + + +READY TO DEPART + + + +I said of my friend new-found that at first he saw not my lair; +Yet he and I and my wife were together here and there; +And at last as my work increased and my den to a dwelling grew, +He came there often enough, and yet more together we drew. +Then came a change in the man; for a month he kept away, +Then came again and was with us for a fortnight every day, +But often he sat there silent, which was little his wont with us. +And at first I had no inkling of what constrained him thus; +I might have thought that he faltered, but now and again there came, +When we spoke of the Cause and its doings, a flash of his eager flame, +And he seemed himself for a while; then the brightness would fade away, +And he gloomed and shrank from my eyes. + Thus passed day after day, +And grieved I grew, and I pondered: till at last one eve we sat +In the fire-lit room together, and talked of this and that, +But chiefly indeed of the war and what would come of it; +For Paris drew near to its fall, and wild hopes 'gan to flit +Amidst us Communist folk; and we talked of what might be done +When the Germans had gone their ways and the two were left alone, +Betrayers and betrayed in war-worn wasted France. + +As I spoke the word "betrayed," my eyes met his in a glance, +And swiftly he turned away; then back with a steady gaze +He turned on me; and it seemed as when a sword-point plays +Round the sword in a battle's beginning and the coming on of strife. +For I knew though he looked on me, he saw not me, but my wife: +And he reddened up to the brow, and the tumult of the blood +Nigh blinded my eyes for a while, that I scarce saw bad or good, +Till I knew that he was arisen and had gone without a word. +Then I turned about unto her, and a quivering voice I heard +Like music without a meaning, and twice I heard my name. +"O Richard, Richard!" she said, and her arms about me came, +And her tears and the lips that I loved were on my face once more. +A while I clung to her body, and longing sweet and sore +Beguiled my heart of its sorrow; then we sundered and sore she wept, +While fair pictures of days departed about my sad heart crept, +And mazed I felt and weary. But we sat apart again, +Not speaking, while between us was the sharp and bitter pain +As the sword 'twixt the lovers bewildered in the fruitless marriage bed. +Yet a while, and we spoke together, and I scarce knew what I said, +But it was not wrath or reproaching, or the chill of love-born hate; +For belike around and about us, we felt the brooding fate. +We were gentle and kind together, and if any had seen us so, +They had said, "These two are one in the face of all trouble and woe." +But indeed as a wedded couple we shrank from the eyes of men, +As we dwelt together and pondered on the days that come not again. + +Days passed and we dwelt together; nor Arthur came for awhile; +Gravely it was and sadly, and with no greeting smile, +That we twain met at our meetings: but no growth of hate was yet, +Though my heart at first would be sinking as our thoughts and our eyes +they met: +And when he spake amidst us and as one we two agreed, +And I knew of his faith and his wisdom, then sore was my heart indeed. +We shrank from meeting alone: for the words we had to say +Our thoughts would nowise fashion--not yet for many a day. + +Unhappy days of all days! Yet O might they come again! +So sore as my longing returneth to their trouble and sorrow and pain! + +But time passed, and once we were sitting, my wife and I in our room, +And it was in the London twilight and the February gloom, +When there came a knock, and he entered all pale, though bright were his +eyes, +And I knew that something had happened, and my heart to my mouth did +arise. +"It is over," he said "--and beginning; for Paris has fallen at last, +And who knows what next shall happen after all that has happened and +passed? +There now may we all be wanted." + I took up the word: "Well then +Let us go, we three together, and there to die like men." + +"Nay," he said, "to live and be happy like men." Then he flushed up red, +And she no less as she hearkened, as one thought through their bodies had +sped. +Then I reached out my hand unto him, and I kissed her once on the brow, +But no word craving forgiveness, and no word of pardon e'en now, +Our minds for our mouths might fashion. + In the February gloom +And into the dark we sat planning, and there was I in the room, +And in speech I gave and I took; but yet alone and apart +In the fields where I once was a youngling whiles wandered the thoughts +of my heart, +And whiles in the unseen Paris, and the streets made ready for war. +Night grew and we lit the candles, and we drew together more, +And whiles we differed a little as we settled what to do, +And my soul was cleared of confusion as nigher the deed-time drew. + +Well, I took my child into the country, as we had settled there, +And gave him o'er to be cherished by a kindly woman's care, +A friend of my mother's, but younger: and for Arthur, I let him give +His money, as mine was but little, that the boy might flourish and live, +Lest we three, or I and Arthur, should perish in tumult and war, +And at least the face of his father he should look on never more. +You cry out shame on my honour? But yet remember again +That a man in my boy was growing; must my passing pride and pain +Undo the manhood within him and his days and their doings blight? +So I thrust my pride away, and I did what I deemed was right, +And left him down in our country. + And well may you think indeed +How my sad heart swelled at departing from the peace of river and mead, +But I held all sternly aback and again to the town did I pass. +And as alone I journeyed, this was ever in my heart: +"They may die; they may live and be happy; but for me I know my part, +In Paris to do my utmost, and there in Paris to die!" +And I said, "The day of the deeds and the day of deliverance is nigh." + + + +A GLIMPSE OF THE COMING DAY + + + +It was strange indeed, that journey! Never yet had I crossed the sea +Or looked on another people than the folk that had fostered me, +And my heart rose up and fluttered as in the misty night +We came on the fleet of the fishers slow rolling in the light +Of the hidden moon, as the sea dim under the false dawn lay; +And so like shadows of ships through the night they faded away, +And Calais pier was upon us. Dreamlike it was indeed +As we sat in the train together, and toward the end made speed. +But a dull sleep came upon me, and through the sleep a dream +Of the Frenchman who once was my master by the side of the willowy +stream; +And he talked and told me tales of the war unwaged as yet, +And the victory never won, and bade me never forget, +While I walked on, still unhappy, by the home of the dark-striped perch. +Till at last, with a flash of light and a rattle and side-long lurch, +I woke up dazed and witless, till my sorrow awoke again, +And the grey of the morn was upon us as we sped through the poplar plain, +By the brimming streams and the houses with their grey roofs warped and +bent, +And the horseless plough in the furrow, and things fair and innocent. +And there sat my wife before me, and she, too, dreamed as she slept; +For the slow tears fell from her eyelids as in her sleep she wept. +But Arthur sat by my side and waked; and flushed was his face, +And his eyes were quick to behold the picture of each fair place +That we flashed by as on we hurried; and I knew that the joy of life +Was strongly stirred within him by the thought of the coming strife. +Then I too thought for a little, It is good in grief's despite, +It is good to see earth's pictures, and so live in the day and the light. +Yea, we deemed that to death we were hastening, and it made our vision +clear, +And we knew the delight of our life-days, and held their sorrow dear. + +But now when we came unto Paris and were out in the sun and the street, +It was strange to see the faces that our wondering eyes did meet; +Such joy and peace and pleasure! That folk were glad we knew, +But knew not the why and the wherefore; and we who had just come through +The vanquished land and down-cast, and there at St. Denis e'en now +Had seen the German soldiers, and heard their bugles blow, +And the drum and fife go rattling through the freshness of the morn - +Yet here we beheld all joyous the folk they had made forlorn! +So at last from a grey stone building we saw a great flag fly, +One colour, red and solemn 'gainst the blue of the spring-tide sky, +And we stopped and turned to each other, and as each at each did we gaze, +The city's hope enwrapped us with joy and great amaze. + +As folk in a dream we washed and we ate, and in all detail, +Oft told and in many a fashion, did we have all yesterday's tale: +How while we were threading our tangle of trouble in London there, +And I for my part, let me say it, within but a step of despair, +In Paris the day of days had betid; for the vile dwarf's stroke, +To madden Paris and crush her, had been struck and the dull sword broke; +There was now no foe and no fool in the city, and Paris was free; +And e'en as she is this morning, to-morrow all France will be. +We heard, and our hearts were saying, "In a little while all the earth--" +And that day at last of all days I knew what life was worth; +For I saw what few have beheld, a folk with all hearts gay. +Then at last I knew indeed that our word of the coming day, +That so oft in grief and in sorrow I had preached, and scarcely knew +If it was but despair of the present or the hope of the day that was due +- +I say that I saw it now, real, solid and at hand. + +And strange how my heart went back to our little nook of the land, +And how plain and clear I saw it, as though I longed indeed +To give it a share of the joy and the satisfaction of need +That here in the folk I beheld. For this in our country spring +Did the starlings bechatter the gables, and the thrush in the thorn-bush +sing, +And the green cloud spread o'er the willows, and the little children +rejoice +And shout midst a nameless longing to the morning's mingled voice; +For this was the promise of spring-tide, and the new leaves longing to +burst, +And the white roads threading the acres, and the sun-warmed meadows +athirst. +Once all was the work of sorrow and the life without reward, +And the toil that fear hath bidden, and the folly of master and lord; +But now are all things changing, and hope without a fear +Shall speed us on through the story of the changes of the year. +Now spring shall pluck the garland that summer weaves for all, +And autumn spread the banquet and winter fill the hall. +O earth, thou kind bestower, thou ancient fruitful place, +How lovely and beloved now gleams thy happy face! + +And O mother, mother, I said, hadst thou known as I lay in thy lap, +And for me thou hopedst and fearedst, on what days my life should hap, +Hadst thou known of the death that I look for, and the deeds wherein I +should deal, +How calm had been thy gladness! How sweet hadst thou smiled on my weal! +As some woman of old hadst thou wondered, who hath brought forth a god of +the earth, +And in joy that knoweth no speech she dreams of the happy birth. + +Yea, fair were those hours indeed, whatever hereafter might come, +And they swept over all my sorrow, and all thought of my wildered home. +But not for dreams of rejoicing had we come across the sea: +That day we delivered the letters that our friends had given to me, +And we craved for some work for the cause. And what work was there +indeed, +But to learn the business of battle and the manner of dying at need? +We three could think of none other, and we wrought our best therein; +And both of us made a shift the sergeant's stripes to win, +For diligent were we indeed: and he, as in all he did, +Showed a cheerful ready talent that nowise might be hid, +And yet hurt the pride of no man that he needs must step before. +But as for my wife, the brancard of the ambulance-women she wore, +And gently and bravely would serve us; and to all as a sister to be - +A sister amidst of the strangers--and, alas! a sister to me. + + + +MEETING THE WAR-MACHINE + + + +So we dwelt in the war-girdled city as a very part of its life. +Looking back at it all from England, I an atom of the strife, +I can see that I might have seen what the end would be from the first, +The hope of man devoured in the day when the Gods are athirst. +But those days we lived, as I tell you, a life that was not our own; +And we saw but the hope of the world, and the seed that the ages had +sown, +Spring up now a fair-blossomed tree from the earth lying over the dead; +Earth quickened, earth kindled to spring-tide with the blood that her +lovers have shed, +With the happy days cast off for the sake of her happy day, +With the love of women foregone, and the bright youth worn away, +With the gentleness stripped from the lives thrust into the jostle of +war, +With the hope of the hardy heart forever dwindling afar. + +O Earth, Earth, look on thy lovers, who knew all thy gifts and thy gain, +But cast them aside for thy sake, and caught up barren pain! +Indeed of some art thou mindful, and ne'er shalt forget their tale, +Till shrunk are the floods of thine ocean and thy sun is waxen pale. +But rather I bid thee remember e'en these of the latter days, +Who were fed by no fair promise and made drunken by no praise. +For them no opening heaven reached out the martyr's crown; +No folk delivered wept them, and no harvest of renown +They reaped with the scythe of battle; nor round their dying bed +Did kindly friendly farewell the dew of blessing shed; +In the sordid streets of the city mid a folk that knew them not, +In the living death of the prison didst thou deal them out their lot, +Yet foundest them deeds to be doing; and no feeble folk were they +To scowl on their own undoing and wail their lives away; +But oft were they blithe and merry and deft from the strife to wring +Some joy that others gained not midst their peaceful wayfaring. +So fared they, giftless ever, and no help of fortune sought. +Their life was thy deliverance, O Earth, and for thee they fought; +Mid the jeers of the happy and deedless, mid failing friends they went +To their foredoomed fruitful ending on the love of thee intent. + +Yea and we were a part of it all, the beginning of the end, +That first fight of the uttermost battle whither all the nations wend; +And yet could I tell you its story, you might think it little and mean. +For few of you now will be thinking of the day that might have been, +And fewer still meseemeth of the day that yet shall be, +That shall light up that first beginning and its tangled misery. +For indeed a very machine is the war that now men wage; +Nor have we hold of its handle, we gulled of our heritage, +We workmen slaves of machines. Well, it ground us small enough +This machine of the beaten Bourgeois; though oft the work was rough +That it turned out for its money. Like other young soldiers at first +I scarcely knew the wherefore why our side had had the worst; +For man to man and in knots we faced the matter well; +And I thought, well to-morrow or next day a new tale will be to tell. +I was fierce and not afraid; yet O were the wood-sides fair, +And the crofts and the sunny gardens, though death they harboured there! +And few but fools are fain of leaving the world outright, +And the story over and done, and an end of the life and the light. +No hatred of life, thou knowest, O Earth, mid the bullets I bore, +Though pain and grief oppressed me that I never may suffer more. +But in those days past over did life and death seem one; +Yea the life had we attained to which could never be undone. + +You would have me tell of the fighting? Well, you know it was new to me, +Yet it soon seemed as if it had been for ever, and ever would be. +The morn when we made that sally, some thought (and yet not I) +That a few days and all would be over: just a few had got to die, +And the rest would be happy thenceforward. But my stubborn country blood +Was bidding me hold my halloo till we were out of the wood. +And that was the reason perhaps why little disheartened I was, +As we stood all huddled together that night in a helpless mass, +As beaten men are wont: and I knew enough of war +To know midst its unskilled labour what slips full often are. + +There was Arthur unhurt beside me, and my wife come back again, +And surely that eve between us there was love though no lack of pain +As we talked all the matter over, and our hearts spake more than our +lips; +And we said, "We shall learn, we shall learn--yea, e'en from disasters +and slips." + +Well, many a thing we learned, but we learned not how to prevail +O'er the brutal war-machine, the ruthless grinder of bale; +By the bourgeois world it was made, for the bourgeois world; and we, +We were e'en as the village weaver 'gainst the power-loom, maybe. +It drew on nearer and nearer, and we 'gan to look to the end - +We three, at least--and our lives began with death to blend; +Though we were long a-dying--though I dwell on yet as a ghost +In the land where we once were happy, to look on the loved and the lost. + + + +THE STORY'S ENDING + + + +How can I tell you the story of the Hope and its defence? +We wrought in a narrow circle; it was hither and thither and thence; +To the walls, and back for a little; to the fort and there to abide, +Grey-beards and boys and women; they lived there--and they died; +Nor counted much in the story. I have heard it told since then, +And mere lies our deeds have turned to in the mouths of happy men, +And e'en those will be soon forgotten as the world wends on its way, +Too busy for truth or kindness. Yet my soul is seeing the day +When those who are now but children the new generation shall be, +And e'en in our land of commerce and the workshop over the sea, +Amid them shall spring up the story; yea the very breath of the air +To the yearning hearts of the workers true tale of it all shall bear. +Year after year shall men meet with the red flag over head, +And shall call on the help of the vanquished and the kindness of the +dead. +And time that weareth most things, and the years that overgrow +The tale of the fools triumphant, yet clearer and clearer shall show +The deeds of the helpers of menfolk to every age and clime, +The deeds of the cursed and the conquered that were wise before their +time. + +Of these were my wife and my friend; there they ended their wayfaring +Like the generations before them thick thronging as leaves of the spring, +Fast falling as leaves of the autumn as the ancient singer hath said, +And each one with a love and a story. Ah the grief of the early dead! + "What is all this talk?" you are saying; "why all this long delay?" +Yes, indeed, it is hard in the telling. Of things too grievous to say +I would be, but cannot be, silent. Well, I hurry on to the end - +For it drew to the latter ending of the hope that we helped to defend. +The forts were gone and the foemen drew near to the thin-manned wall, +And it wanted not many hours to the last hour and the fall, +And we lived amid the bullets and seldom went away +To what as yet were the streets by night-tide or by day. +We three, we fought together, and I did the best I could, +Too busy to think of the ending; but Arthur was better than good; +Resourceful, keen and eager, from post to post he ran, +To thrust out aught that was moving and bring up the uttermost man, +He was gone on some such errand, and was absent a little space, +When I turned about for a moment and saw my wife's fair face, +And her foot set firm on the rampart, as she hastened here and there, +To some of our wounded comrades such help as she could to bear. +Then straight she looked upon me with such lovely, friendly eyes +Of the days gone by and remembered, that up from my heart 'gan rise +The choking sobbing passion; but I kept it aback, and smiled, +And waved my hand aloft--But therewith her face turned wild +In a moment of time, and she stared along the length of the wall, +And I saw a man who was running and crouching, stagger and fall, +And knew it for Arthur at once; but voiceless toward him she ran, +I with her, crying aloud. But or ever we reached the man, +Lo! a roar and a crash around us and my sick brain whirling around, +And a white light turning to black, and no sky and no air and no ground, +And then what I needs must tell of as a great blank; but indeed +No words to tell of its horror hath language for my need: +As a map is to a picture, so is all that my words can say. + +But when I came to myself, in a friend's house sick I lay +Amid strange blended noises, and my own mind wandering there; +Delirium in me indeed and around me everywhere. +That passed, and all things grew calmer, I with them: all the stress +That the last three months had been on me now sank to helplessness. +I bettered, and then they told me the tale of what had betid; +And first, that under the name of a friend of theirs I was hid, +Who was slain by mere misadventure, and was English as was I, +And no rebel, and had due papers wherewith I might well slip by +When I was somewhat better. Then I knew, though they had not told, +How all was fallen together, and my heart grew sick and cold. +And yet indeed thenceforward I strove my life to live, +That e'en as I was and so hapless I yet might live to strive. +It was but few words they told me of that murder great and grim, +And how with the blood of the guiltless the city's streets did swim, +And of other horrors they told not, except in a word or two, +When they told of their scheme to save me from the hands of the +villainous crew, +Whereby I guessed what was happening in the main without detail. +And so at last it came to their telling the other tale +Of my wife and my friend; though that also methought I knew too well. +Well, they said that I had been wounded by the fragment of a shell, +Another of which had slain her outright, as forth she ran +Toward Arthur struck by a bullet. She never touched the man +Alive and she also alive; but thereafter as they lay +Both dead on one litter together, then folk who knew not us, +But were moved by seeing the twain so fair and so piteous, +Took them for husband and wife who were fated there to die, +Or, it may be lover and lover indeed--but what know I? + +Well, you know that I 'scaped from Paris, and crossed the narrow sea, +And made my way to the country where we twain were wont to be, +And that is the last and the latest of the tale I have to tell. +I came not here to be bidding my happiness farewell, +And to nurse my grief and to win me the gain of a wounded life, +That because of the bygone sorrow may hide away from the strife. +I came to look to my son, and myself to get stout and strong, +That two men there might be hereafter to battle against the wrong; +And I cling to the love of the past and the love of the day to be, +And the present, it is but the building of the man to be strong in me. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext The Pilgrims of Hope, by William Morris + diff --git a/old/plghp10.zip b/old/plghp10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f52c22f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/plghp10.zip |