The Poems of William Watson Part 6

The ever-l.u.s.trous name of patriot To no man be denied because he saw Where in his country's wholeness lay the flaw, Where, on her whiteness, the unseemly blot.

England! thy loyal sons condemn thee.--What!

Shall we be meek who from thine own b.r.e.a.s.t.s draw Our fierceness? Not ev'n _thou_ shalt overawe Us thy proud children nowise basely got.

Be this the measure of our loyalty-- To feel thee n.o.ble and weep thy lapse the more.

This truth by thy true servants is confess'd-- Thy sins, who love thee most, do most deplore.

Know thou thy faithful! Best they honour thee Who honour in thee only what is best.

VII

RESTORED ALLEGIANCE

Dark is thy trespa.s.s, deep be thy remorse, O England! Fittingly thine own feet bleed, Submissive to the purblind guides that lead Thy weary steps along this rugged course.

Yet ... when I glance abroad, and track the source More selfish far, of other nations' deed, And mark their tortuous craft, their jealous greed, Their serpent-wisdom or mere soulless force, Homeward returns my vagrant fealty, Crying, "O England, shouldst thou one day fall, Shatter'd in ruins by some t.i.tan foe, Justice were thenceforth weaker throughout all The world, and Truth less pa.s.sionately free, And G.o.d the poorer for thine overthrow."

VIII

THE POLITICAL LUMINARY

A skilful leech, so long as we were whole: Who scann'd the nation's every outward part, But ah! misheard the beating of its heart.

Sire of huge sorrows, yet erect of soul.

Swift rider with calamity for goal, Who, overtasking his equestrian art, Unstall'd a steed full willing for the start, But wondrous hard to curb or to control.

Sometimes we thought he led the people forth: Anon he seemed to follow where they flew; Lord of the golden tongue and smiting eyes; Great out of season, and untimely wise: A man whose virtue, genius, grandeur, worth Wrought deadlier ill than ages can undo.

IX

FOREIGN MENACE

I marvel that this land, whereof I claim The glory of sons.h.i.+p--for it _was_ erewhile A glory to be sprung of Britain's isle, Though now it well-nigh more resembles shame-- I marvel that this land with heart so tame Can brook the northern insolence and guile.

But most it angers me, to think how vile Art thou, how base, from whom the insult came, Unwieldly laggard, many an age behind Thy sister Powers, in brain and conscience both; In recognition of man's widening mind And flexile adaptation to its growth: Brute bulk, that bearest on thy back, half loth, One wretched man, most pitied of mankind.

X

HOME-ROOTEDNESS

I cannot boast myself cosmopolite; I own to "insularity," although 'Tis fall'n from fas.h.i.+on, as full well I know.

For somehow, being a plain and simple wight, I am skin-deep a child of the new light, But chiefly am mere Englishman below, Of island-fostering; and can hate a foe, And trust my kin before the Muscovite.

Whom shall I trust if not my kin? And whom Account so near in natural bonds as these Born of my mother England's mighty womb, Nursed on my mother England's mighty knees, And lull'd as I was lull'd in glory and gloom With cradle-song of her protecting seas?

XI

OUR EASTERN TREASURE

In cobwebb'd corners dusty and dim I hear A thin voice pipingly revived of late, Which saith our India is a c.u.mbrous weight, An idle decoration, bought too dear.

The wiser world contemns not gorgeous gear; Just pride is no mean factor in a State; The sense of greatness keeps a nation great; And mighty they who mighty can appear.

It may be that if hands of greed could steal From England's grasp the envied orient prize, This tide of gold would flood her still as now: But were she the same England, made to feel A brightness gone from out those starry eyes, A splendour from that constellated brow?

XII

REPORTED CONCESSIONS

So we must palter, falter, cringe, and shrink, And when the bully threatens, crouch or fly.-- There are who tell me with a shuddering eye That war's red cup is Satan's chosen drink.

Who shall gainsay them? Verily I do think War is as hateful almost, and well-nigh As ghastly, as this terrible Peace whereby We halt for ever on the crater's brink And feed the wind with phrases, while we know There gapes at hand the infernal precipice O'er which a gossamer bridge of words we throw, Yet cannot choose but hear from the abyss The sulphurous gloom's unfathomable hiss And simmering lava's subterranean flow.

XIII

NIGHTMARE

(_Written during apparent imminence of war_)

In a false dream I saw the Foe prevail.

The war was ended; the last smoke had rolled Away: and we, erewhile the strong and bold, Stood broken, humbled, withered, weak and pale, And moan'd, "Our greatness is become a tale To tell our children's babes when we are old.

They shall put by their playthings to be told How England once, before the years of bale, Throned above trembling, puissant, grandiose, calm, Held Asia's richest jewel in her palm; And with unnumbered isles barbaric, she The broad hem of her glistering robe impearl'd; Then, when she wound her arms about the world, And had for va.s.sal the obsequious sea."

XIV

LAST WORD: TO THE COLONIES

Brothers beyond the Atlantic's loud expanse; And you that rear the innumerable fleece Far southward 'mid the ocean named of peace; Britons that past the Indian wave advance Our name and spirit and world-predominance; And you our kin that reap the earth's increase Where crawls that long-backed mountain till it cease Crown'd with the headland of bright esperance:-- Remote compatriots wheresoe'er ye dwell, By your prompt voices ringing clear and true We know that with our England all is well: Young is she yet, her world-task but begun!

By you we know her safe, and know by you Her veins are million but her heart is one.

EPIGRAMS

'Tis human fortune's happiest height to be A spirit melodious, lucid, poised, and whole; Second in order of felicity I hold it, to have walk'd with such a soul.

The statue--Buonarroti said--doth wait, Thrall'd in the block, for me to emanc.i.p.ate.

The poem--saith the poet--wanders free Till I betray it to captivity.

To keep in sight Perfection, and adore The vision, is the artist's best delight; His bitterest pang, that he can ne'er do more Than keep her long'd-for loveliness in sight.

If Nature be a phantasm, as thou say'st, A splendid fiction and prodigious dream, To reach the real and true I'll make no haste, More than content with worlds that only seem.