Forty-Two Poems Part 3

Thy power can make the halting Drunkard's feet Avoid the peril of the surging street.

Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou, to console our helplessness, didst plot The cunning use of powder and of shot.

Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thy awful name is written as with pitch On the unrelenting foreheads of the rich.

Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

In strange and hidden places thou dost move Where women cry for torture in their love.

Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Father of those whom G.o.d's tempestuous ire Has flung from Paradise with sword and fire, Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

PRAYER

Satan, to thee be praise upon the Height Where thou wast king of old, and in the night Of h.e.l.l, where thou dost dream on silently.

Grant that one day beneath the Knowledge-tree, When it shoots forth to grace thy royal brow, My soul may sit, that cries upon thee now.

THE TRANSLATOR AND THE CHILDREN

While I translated Baudelaire, Children were playing out in the air.

Turning to watch, I saw the light That made their clothes and faces bright.

I heard the tune they meant to sing As they kept dancing in a ring; But I could not forget my book, And thought of men whose faces shook When babies pa.s.sed them with a look.

They are as terrible as death, Those children in the road beneath.

Their witless chatter is more dread Than voices in a madman's head: Their dance more awful and inspired, Because their feet are never tired, Than silent revel with soft sound Of pipes, on consecrated ground, When all the ghosts go round and round.

OPPORTUNITY (from Machiavelli.)

"But who art thou, with curious beauty graced, O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste?"

"I am that maid whose secret few may steal, Called Opportunity. I hasten by Because my feet are treading on a wheel,

Being more swift to run than birds to fly.

And rightly on my feet my wings I wear, To blind the sight of those who track and spy;

Rightly in front I hold my scattered hair To veil my face, and down my breast to fall, Lest men should know my name when I am there;

And leave behind my back no wisp at all For eager folk to clutch, what time I glide So near, and turn, and pa.s.s beyond recall."

"Tell me; who is that Figure at thy side?"

"Penitence. Mark this well that by decree Who lets me go must keep her for his bride.

And thou hast spent much time in talk with me Busied with thoughts and fancies vainly grand, Nor hast remarked, O fool, neither dost see How lightly I have fled beneath thy hand."

DESTROYER OF s.h.i.+PS, MEN, CITIES

Helen of Troy has sprung from h.e.l.l To claim her ancient throne, So we have bidden friends farewell To follow her alone.

The Lady of the laurelled brow, The Queen of pride and power, Looks rather like a phantom now, And rather like a flower.

Deep in her eyes the lamp of night Burns with a secret flame, Where shadows pa.s.s that have no sight, And ghosts that have no name.

For mute is battle's brazen horn That rang for Priest and King, And she who drank of that brave morn Is pale with evening.

An hour there is when bright words flow, A little hour for sleep, An hour between, when lights are low, And then she seems to weep,

But no less lovely than of old She s.h.i.+nes, and almost hears The horns that blew in days of gold, The shouting charioteers.

And still she breaks the hearts of men, Their hearts and all their pride, Doomed to be cruel once again, And live dissatisfied.

WAR SONG OF THE SARACENS

We are they who come faster than fate: we are they who ride early or late: We storm at your ivory gate: Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware!

Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity die Among women who chatter and cry, and children who mumble a prayer.

But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and we rise with a shout, and we tramp With the sun or the moon for a lamp, and the spray of the wind in our hair.

From the lands, where the elephants are, to the forts of Merou and Balghar, Our steel we have brought and our star to s.h.i.+ne on the ruins of Rum.

We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by G.o.d we will go there again; We have stood on the sh.o.r.e of the plain where the Waters of Destiny boom.

A mart of destruction we made at Jalula where men were afraid, For death was a difficult trade, and the sword was a broker of doom; And the Spear was a Desert Physician who cured not a few of ambition, And drave not a few to perdition with medicine bitter and strong: And the s.h.i.+eld was a grief to the fool and as bright as a desolate pool, And as straight as the rock of Stamboul when their cavalry thundered along: For the coward was drowned with the brave when our battle sheered up like a wave, And the dead to the desert we gave, and the glory to G.o.d in our song.

JOSEPH AND MARY

JOSEPH