Miscellany of Poetry | Page 3

scabbard the sabre of Sea,?And the spear of Wind shall be my hand's delight.?I shall not descend from the Hill.?Never go down to the Valley;
For I see, on a snow-crowned peak,?The glory of the Lord,?Erect as Orion,?Belted as to his blade.?But the roots of the mountains mingle with mist.?And raving skeletons run thereon.
I shall not go hence,?For here is my Priest,?Who hath broken me in the waters of Disdain.
Here is my Jester,?Who hath mended me on the wheels of Mirth.
Here is my Champion,?Who hath confounded mine ancient Enemy
Ardgay--the slayer of Giants.
OVER THE DEAD
Who in the splendour of a simple thought,?Whether for England or her enemies,?Went in the night, and in the morning died;?Each bleeding piece of human earth that lies?Stark to the carrion wind, and groaning cries?For burial--each Jesu crucified--?Hath surely won the thing he dearly bought,?For wrong is right, when wrong is greatly wrought.
Yet is the Nazarene no thigh of Thor,?To play on partial fields the puppet king?Bearing the battle down with bloody hand.?Serene he towers above the gods of war,?A naked man where shells go thundering--?The great unchallenged Lord of No-Man's Land.

GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
The men that worked for England?They have their graves at home;?And bees and birds of England?About the cross can roam.
But they that fought for England,?Following a falling star,?Alas, alas, for England?They have their graves afar.
And they that rule in England?In stately conclave met,?Alas, alas, for England,?They have no graves as yet.
THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA
(St. Barbara is the patroness of artillery, and of those who are in fear of sudden death.)
When the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain, We stood and drank of the last free air we never could love again; They had led us back from a lost battle, to halt we knew not where, And stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with our despair. The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless lands, And a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands:
"There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to Rome;?And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home. Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor, That lead to a low door at last: and beyond there is no door."
The Breton to the Norman spoke, like a little child spake he, But his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the sea: "There are more windows in one house than there are eyes to see; There are more doors in a man's house, but God has hid the key; Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnesseth?Barbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden death."
It seemed the wheel of the worlds stood still an instant in its turning, More than the kings of the earth that turned with the turning of Valmy mill,?While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were burning, Still as the heart of a whirlwind, the heart of the world stood still.
"Barbara the beautiful had praise of lute and pen,?Her hair was like a summer night, dark and desired of men,?Her feet like birds from far away that linger and light in doubt, And her face was like a window where a man's first love looked out.
"Her sire was master of many slaves, a hard man of his hands; They built a tower about her in the desolate golden lands,?Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs, planned with an ancient plan, And set two windows in the tower, like the two eyes of a man."
Our guns were set towards the foe; we had no word for firing; Grey in the gateways of St. Gond the Guard of the tyrant shone; Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and retiring, The Breton line went backwards and the Breton tale went on.
"Her father had sailed across the sea from the harbour of Africa, When all the slaves took up their tools for the bidding of Barbara; She smote the bare wall with her hand, and bade them smite again, She poured them wealth of wine and meat to stay them in their pain, And cried through the lifted thunder of thronging hammer and hod: 'Throw open the third window in the third name of God!'?Then the hearts failed and the tools fell; and far towards the foam Men saw a shadow on the sands; and her father coming home."
Speak low and low, along the line the whispered word is flying, Before the touch, before the time, we may not lose a breath. Their guns must mash us to the mire and there be no replying Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final dice to Death.
"'There were two windows in your tower, Barbara, Barbara,?For