Miscellany of Poetry | Page 3

see Death,
lying in the arms of Life,

And, in the womb of Death, I see Joy.
I
had said 'The spirit of the Earth is white,
But lo! He is red with joy.

He devoureth the meat of many nations,
He absorbeth a vintage of
scarlet.
Though my head be with the stars,
All the flowers of Earth

are singing in mine ears.
Though my foot be planted on the sea-bed.

Yet is it shod with the thunder.
Sorrow for Earth Transient is
passed away,
Pain of martyr'd splendour is no more.
They have left
a fair child in my lap--
A lusty infant shouting to the dawn.
The Ogre of midnight hath perished.
He shivered in the glare of the
mountain,
He screamed upon the sea-swords,
His bowels rushed
out upon the lances of the Wind.
I shall look through the eye of
Mountain,
I shall set in my 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