The hawk-moth, the currant-moth, the red-striped tiger-moth Shimmered all around me, so white shone those pages; And, in among the blue boughs, the bats flew low.
I slumbered, the history slipped from my hand.
Then I saw a dead man, dreadful in the moon-dawn, The ghost of the master, bowed upon that book.
He muttered as he searched it,--_what vast convulsion Mocks my sexton's curse now, shakes our English clay?_ Whereupon I told him, and asked him in turn Whether he espied any light in those pages Which painted an epoch later than his own.
_I am a shadow_, he said, _and I see none_....
_I am a shadow_, he said, _and I see none_.
Then, O then he murmured to himself (while the moon hung Crimson as a lanthorn of Cathay in that crab-tree), Laughing at his work and the world, as I thought, Yet with some bitterness, yet with some beauty, Mocking his own music, these wraiths of his rhymes:
I
God, when I turn the leaves of that dark book Wherein our wisest teach us to recall Those glorious flags which in old tempests shook And those proud thrones which held my youth in thrall;
When I see clear what seemed to childish eyes The gorgeous colouring of each pictured age; And for their dominant tints now recognise Those prints of innocent blood on every page;
O, then I know this world is fast asleep, Bound in Time's womb, till some far morning break; And, though light grows upon the dreadful deep, We are dungeoned in thick night. We are not awake.
The world's unborn, for all our hopes and schemes; And all its myriads only move in dreams.
II
Read what our wisest chroniclers record:-- A king betrayed both foes and friends to death, Delivered his own country to the sword, And lied, and lied, and lied to his last breath.
He died, the martyred anarch of his time.
What balm is this that consecrates his dust?
The self-same history shudders at the "crime"
Which shed a blood so fragrant, so "august."
Yes. Let our sons by thousands, millions, die; And when the crowned assassin of to-day Stands in the Judgment Hall of Liberty What shall your desolate nations rise and say?
Honour the dog. He's vanquished! He's a king!
So--for our dead--he's too "august" a thing.
III
_It was a crimson twilight, under that crab-tree.
Moths beat about me, and bats flew low.
I read, in a history, the record of our world.
If there be light, said the Master, I am a shadow, and I see none....
I am a shadow, and I see none._
THE WHITE CLIFFS
Woden made the red cliffs, the red walls of England.
Round the South of Devonshire, they burn against the blue.
Green is the water there; and, clear as liquid sunlight, Blue-green as mackerel, the bays that Raleigh knew.
Thor made the black cliffs, the battlements of England, Climbing to Tintagel where the white gulls wheel.
Cold are the caverns there, and sullen as a cannon-mouth, Booming back the grey swell that gleams like steel.
Balder made the white cliffs, the white shield of England (Crowned with thyme and violet where Sussex wheatears fly), White as the White Ensign are the bouldered heights of Dover, Beautiful the scutcheon that they bare against the sky.
_So the world shall sing of them--the white cliffs of England, White, the glory of her sails, the banner of her pride.
One and all,--their seamen met and broke the dread Armada.
Only white may show the world the shield for which they died._
ON THE SOUTH COAST
Come away into the sun and see All the heavens that used to be, Daily, hourly, brought to birth Out of the deep remembering earth.
_This is England, this is the land That holds my heart in her sweet hand.
This is she whose turf, I pray, Will hide me, on her breast, one day._
Cast you down on the close-cropped turf, See how the white cliff spreads the surf, On green-eyed seas that glitter and trail Into the south like a peacock's tail.
Then, come away over the hills of thyme, Where folds like elfin belfries chime Till Eve, in a cloud of her dusky hair, Makes it Elf-land everywhere.
You shall pity the king on his throne.
You shall know what never was known.
All the glory of all the skies Utterly yours in your true love's eyes;
All the bloom to the world's end And all the heavens that over it bend, Compacted in one garden white, The garden of your love's delight.
_This is England, this is the land That holds my soul in her sweet hand.
This is she whose turf, I pray, Will hide me on her heart one day._
OLDER THAN THE HILLS
Older than the hills, older than the sea, Older than the heart of the Spring, O, what is this that breaks From the blind shell, wakes, Wakes, and is gone like a wing?
Older than the sea, older than the moon, Older than the heart of the May, What is this blind refrain Of a song that shall remain When the singer is long gone away?