Fairies and Fusiliers Part 6

_R_. "But if that's truly so," I cried, "quick, now, Through these great oaks and see the famous bough

"Where once a nonsense built her nest With skulls and flowers and all things queer, In an old boot, with patient breast Hatching three eggs; and the next year ..."

_S_. "Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did."

Said he, "Before this quaint mood fails, We'll sit and weave a nonsense hymn,"

_R_. "Hanging it up with monkey tails In a deep grove all hushed and dim...."

_S_. "To glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees,"

_R_. "Planted in dreams by pious Portuguese,"

_S_. "Which men are wise beyond their time, And wors.h.i.+p nonsense, no one more."

_R_. "Hard by, among old quince and lime, They've built a temple with no floor,"

_S_. "And whosoever wors.h.i.+ps in that place, He disappears from sight and leaves no trace."

_R_. "Once the Galatians built a fane To Sense: what duller G.o.d than that?"

_S_. "But the first day of autumn rain The roof fell in and crushed them flat."

_R_. "Ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls When nonsense is foundation for the walls."

I tell him old Galatian tales; He caps them in quick Portuguese, While phantom creatures with green scales Scramble and roll among the trees.

The hymn swells; on a bough above us sings A row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings.

NOT DEAD

Walking through trees to cool my heat and pain, I know that David's with me here again.

All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.

Caressingly I stroke Rough hark of the friendly oak.

A brook goes bubbling by: the voice is his.

Turf burns with pleasant smoke; I laugh at chaffinch and at primroses.

All that is simple, happy, strong, he is.

Over the whole wood in a little while Breaks his slow smile.

A BOY IN CHURCH

"Gabble-gabble,... brethren,... gabble-gabble!"

My window frames forest and heather.

I hardly hear the tuneful babble, Not knowing nor much caring whether The text is praise or exhortation, Prayer or thanksgiving, or d.a.m.nation.

Outside it blows wetter and wetter, The tossing trees never stay still.

I s.h.i.+ft my elbows to catch better The full round sweep of heathered hill.

The tortured copse bends to and fro In silence like a shadow-show.

The parson's voice runs like a river Over smooth rocks. I like this church: The pews are staid, they never s.h.i.+ver, They never bend or sway or lurch.

"Prayer," says the kind voice, "is a chain That draws down Grace from Heaven again."

I add the hymns up, over and over, Until there's not the least mistake.

Seven-seventy-one. (Look! there's a plover!

It's gone!) Who's that Saint by the lake?

The red light from his mantle pa.s.ses Across the broad memorial bra.s.ses.

It's pleasant here for dreams and thinking, Lolling and letting reason nod, With ugly serious people linking Sad prayers to a forgiving G.o.d....

But a dumb blast sets the trees swaying With furious zeal like madmen praying.

CORPORAL STARE

Back from the line one night in June, I gave a dinner at Bethune-- Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal Money could buy or batman steal.

Five hungry lads welcomed the fish With shouts that nearly cracked the dish; Asparagus came with tender tops, Strawberries in cream, and mutton chops.

Said Jenkins, as my hand he shook, "They'll put this in the history book."

We bawled Church anthems _in choro_ Of Bethlehem and Hermon snow, With drinking songs, a jolly sound To help the good red Pommard round.

Stories and laughter interspersed, We drowned a long La Ba.s.see thirst-- Trenches in June make throats d.a.m.ned dry.

Then through the window suddenly, Badge, stripes and medals all complete, We saw him swagger up the street, Just like a live man--Corporal Stare!

Stare! Killed last May at Festubert.

Caught on patrol near the Boche wire, Tom horribly by machine-gun fire!

He paused, saluted smartly, grinned, Then pa.s.sed away like a puff of wind, Leaving us blank astonishment.

The song broke, up we started, leant Out of the window--nothing there, Not the least shadow of Corporal Stare, Only a quiver of smoke that showed A f.a.g-end dropped on the silent road.

THE a.s.sAULT HEROIC

Down in the mud I lay, Tired out by my long day Of five d.a.m.ned days and nights, Five sleepless days and nights, ...

Dream-s.n.a.t.c.hed, and set me where The dungeon of Despair Looms over Desolate Sea, Frowning and threatening me With aspect high and steep-- A most malignant keep.

My foes that lay within Shouted and made a din, Hooted and grinned and cried: "Today we've killed your pride; Today your ardour ends.

We've murdered all your friends; We've undermined by stealth Your happiness and your health.

We've taken away your hope; Now you may droop and mope To misery and to Death."

But with my spear of Faith, Stout as an oaken rafter, With my round s.h.i.+eld of laughter, With my sharp, tongue-like sword That speaks a bitter word, I stood beneath the wall And there defied them all.

The stones they cast I caught And alchemized with thought Into such lumps of gold As dreaming misers hold.

The boiling oil they threw Fell in a shower of dew, Refres.h.i.+ng me; the spears Flew harmless by my ears, Struck quivering in the sod; There, like the prophet's rod, Put leaves out, took firm root, And bore me instant fruit.

My foes were all astounded, Dumbstricken and confounded, Gaping in a long row; They dared not thrust nor throw.

Thus, then, I climbed a steep b.u.t.tress and won the keep, And laughed and proudly blew My horn, _"Stand to! Stand to!

Wake up, sir! Here's a new Attack! Stand to! Stand to!"_

THE POET IN THE NURSERY

The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling In a dim library, just behind the chair From which the ancient poet was mum-mumbling A song about some Lovers at a Fair, Pulling his long white beard and gently grumbling That rhymes were beastly things and never there.

And as I groped, the whole time I was thinking About the tragic poem I'd been writing,...