Forty-Two Poems | Page 6

of Kings?"
His wondering

mother sings.
THE BALLAD OF HAMPSTEAD HEATH
From Heaven's Gate to Hampstead Heath
Young Bacchus and his crew
Came tumbling down, and o'er the town
Their bursting trumpets blew.
The silver night was wildly bright,
And madly shone the Moon
To hear a song so clear and strong,
With such a lovely tune.
From London's houses, huts and flats,
Came busmen, snobs, and Earls,
And ugly men in bowler hats
With charming little girls.
Sir Moses came with eyes of flame,
Judd, who is like a bloater,
The brave Lord Mayor in coach and pair,
King Edward, in his motor.
Far in a rosy mist withdrawn
The God and all his crew,
Silenus pulled by nymphs, a faun,
A satyr drenched in dew,
Smiled as they wept those shining tears
Only Immortals know,
Whose feet are set among the stars,
Above the shifting snow.

And one spake out into the night,
Before they left for ever,
"Rejoice, rejoice!" and his great voice
Rolled like a splendid river.
He spake in Greek, which Britons speak
Seldom, and circumspectly;
But Mr. Judd, that man of mud,
Translated it correctly.
And when they heard that happy word,
Policemen leapt and ambled:
The busmen pranced, the maidens
danced,
The men in bowlers gambolled.
A wistful Echo stayed behind
To join the mortal dances,
But Mr Judd, with words unkind,
Rejected her advances.
And passing down through London Town
She stopped, for all was lonely,
Attracted by a big brass plate
Inscribed, FOR MEMBERS ONLY.
And so she went to Parliament,
But those ungainly men
Woke up from sleep, and turned about,
And fell asleep again.
LITANY TO SATAN (from Baudelaire.)

O grandest of the Angels, and most wise,
O fallen God, fate-driven
from the skies,
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
O first of exiles who endurest wrong,
Yet growest, in thy hatred, still
more strong,
Satan, at last take pity on our pain!
O subterranean King, omniscient,
Healer of man's immortal
discontent,
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
To lepers and to outcasts thou dost show
That Passion is the Paradise
below.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou by thy mistress Death hast given to man
Hope, the imperishable
courtesan.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou givest to the Guilty their calm mien
Which damns the crowd
around the guillotine.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou knowest the corners of the jealous Earth
Where God has hidden
jewels of great worth.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou dost discover by mysterious signs
Where sleep the buried
people of the mines.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
Thou stretchest forth a saving hand to keep
Such men as roam upon
the roofs in sleep.
Satan, at last take pity on our pain.
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 God'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 Hell, 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 passed 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