Vagabond and Other Poems from Punch | Page 6

St. Crag
was burnt to ashes!
But in the smoke that drifted on the Green
Queer freaks of vision
weirdly wrought were seen:
For on that shifting background each one
saw
His own reflection and recoiled in awe;
Saw himself there, a
bright light shining through him,
Not as he thought himself, but as
men knew him.
Before this sudden and revealing sense
Each rag of
sham, each tatter of pretence
Withered and vanished, as dissolved in

air,
And left the shuddering human creature bare.
But when they
turned and looked upon a friend
They saw a sight that all but made
amend:
For they beheld him as a radiant spirit
Indued with virtue
and surpassing merit,
Not vain or dull or mean or keen for pelf,
But
splendid--as he mostly saw himself.
Darville and Fall were drawn to
one another,
And both to Bent as to their heart's own brother;
And a
strange feeling grew in every breast,
A self-defeating altruistic zest

Which from that moment's flash composed their strife,
Informed their
nature and controlled their life.
But when they sought the Gipsy, him
they found,
His dark eyes staring, dead upon the ground.
THE BIRD IN THE ROOM
A robin skimmed into the room,
And blithe he looked and jolly,
A
foe to every sort of gloom,
And, most, to melancholy.
He cocked
his head, he made no sound,
But gave me stare for stare back,

When, having fluttered round and round,
He perched upon a
chair-back.
I rose; ah, then, it seemed, he knew
Too late his reckless error:

Away in eager haste he flew,
And at his tail flew terror.
Now here,
now there, from wall to floor,
For mere escape appealing,
He fled
and struck against the door
Or bumped about the ceiling.
I went and flung each window wide,
I drew each half-raised blind up;

To coax him out in vain I tried;
He could not make his mind up.

He flew, he fell, he took a rest,
And off again he scuffled
With
parted beak and panting breast
And every feather ruffled.
At length I lured him to the sill,
All dazed and undivining;
Beyond
was peace o'er vale and hill,
And all the air was shining.

I stretched
my hand and touched him; then
He made no more resistance,
But
left the cramped abode of men
And flew into the distance.

Is life like that? We make it so;
We leave the sunny spaces,
And
beat about, or high or low,
In dark and narrow places;
Till, worn
with failure, vexed with doubt,
Our strength at last we rally,
And
the bruised spirit flutters out
To find the happy valley.
KILLED IN ACTION
RUPERT is dead, and RUPERT was my friend;
"Only surviving son
of"--so it ran--
"Beloved husband" and the rest of it.
But six months
back I saw him full of life,
Ardent for fighting; now he lies at ease

In some obscure but splendid field of France,
His strivings over and
his conflicts done.
He was a fellow of most joyous moods
And
quaint contrivings, ever on the point
Of shaking fame and fortune by
the hand
But always baulked of meeting them at last.
He could not
brook--and always so declared--
The weak pomposities of little men,

Scorned all the tin-gods of our petty world,
And plunged headlong
into imprudences,
And smashed conventions with a reckless zeal,

Holding his luck and not himself to blame
For aught that might betide
when reckoning came.
But he was true as steel and staunch as oak.

And if he pledged his word he bore it out
Unswerving to the finish,
and he gave
Whate'er he had of strength to help a friend.
When the great summons came he rushed to arms,
Counting no cost
and all intent to serve
His country and to prove himself a man.
Yet
he could laugh at all his ardour too
And find some fun in glory, as a
child
Laughs at a bauble but will guard it well.
Now he is fall'n, and
on his shining brow
Glory has set her everlasting seal.
I like to think how cheerily he talked
Amid the ceaseless tumult of
the guns,
How, when the word was given, he stood erect,
Sprang
from the trench and, shouting to his men,

Led them forthright to
where the sullen foe
Waited their coming; and his brain took fire,

And all was exultation and a high
Heroic ardour and a pulse of joy.


"Forward!" his cry rang out, and all his men
Thundered behind him
with their eyes ablaze,
"Forward for England! Clear the beggars out!

Remember--" and death found him, and he fell
Fronting the
Germans, and the rush swept on.
Thrice blesséd fate! We linger here and droop
Beneath the heavy
burden of our years,
And may not, though we envy, give our lives

For England and for honour and for right;
But still must wear our
weary hours away,
While he, that happy fighter, in one leap,
From
imperfection to perfection borne,
Breaks through the bonds that
bound him to the earth.
Now of his failures is a triumph made;
His
very faults are into virtues turned;
And, reft for ever from the haunts
of men,
He wears immortal honour and is joined
With those who
fought for England and are dead.
EPITAPH
FOR AN ENGLISH SOLDIER AND AN INDIAN SOLDIER
BURIED TOGETHER IN FRANCE
When the fierce bugle thrilled alarm,
From