A Jongleur Strayed Part 10

Some knew the girl, and some the woman grown, And each was fair, but always 'twas your way To be more beautiful than yesterday, To win where others lose; and Time, the doom Of other faces, brought to yours new bloom.

Now, even from Death you s.n.a.t.c.h mysterious grace, This last perfection for your lovely face.

So with your spirit was it day by day, That spirit unextinguishably gay, That to the very border of the shade Laughed on the muttering darkness unafraid.

We shall be lonely for your lovely face, Lonely for all your great and gracious ways, But for your laughter loneliest of all.

Yet in our loneliness we think of one Lonely no more, who, on the heavenly stair, Awaits your face, and hears your step at last, His dreamer's eyes a glory like the sun, Again in his sad arms to hold you fast, All your long honeymoon in heaven begun.

Thinking on that, O dear and loveliest friend, We, in that bright beginning of this end, Must bate our grief, and count our mortal loss Only as his and your immortal gain, Glad that for him and you it is so well.

Lucy, O Lucy, a little while farewell.

V

OTHER MATTERS, SACRED AND PROFANE

THE WORLD'S MUSQUETEER: TO MARSHAL FOCH

(_Ballade a double refrain_)

Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer, Comrade at arms, on your bronzed cheek we press The soldier's kiss, and drop the soldier's tear; Brother by brother fought we in the stress Of the locked steel, all the wild work that fell For our reluctant doing; we that stormed h.e.l.l And smote it down together, in the sun Stand here once more, with all our fighting done, Garlands upon our helmets, sword and lance Quiet with laurel, sharing the peace they won: Soldier that saved the world in saving France.

Soldier that saved the world in saving France, France that was Europe's dawn when light was none, Clear eyes that with eternal vigilance Pierce through the webs in nether darkness spun, Soul of man's soul, his sentinel upon The ramparts of the world: Ah! France, 'twas well This soldier with the sword of Gabriel Was yours and ours in all that dire duresse, This soldier, gentle as a child, that here Stands shy and smiling 'mid a world's caress-- Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer.

Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer, True knight and succourer of the world's distress His might and skill we laurel, but more dear Our soldier for that "parfit gentlenesse"

That ever in heroic hearts doth dwell, That soul as tranquil as a vesper bell, That glory in him that would glory shun, Those kindly eyes alive with Gascon fun, D'Artagnan's brother--still the old romance Runs in the blood, thank G.o.d! and still shall run: Soldier that saved the world in saving France.

ENVOI

Soldier that saved the world in saving France, Foch, to America's deep heart how near; Betwixt us twain shall never come mischance.

Warrior that fought that war might disappear, Far and for ever far the unborn year That turns the ploughshare back into the spear-- But, must it come, then Foch shall lead the dance: Marshal of France, yet still the Musqueteer.

WE ARE WITH FRANCE

We are with France--not by the ties Of treaties made with tongue in cheek, The ancient diplomatic lies, The paper promises that seek To hide the long maturing guile, Planning destruction with a smile.

We are with France by bonds no seal Of the stamped wax and tape can make, Bonds no surprise of ambushed steel With sneering devil's laughter break; Nor need we any plighted speech For our deep concord, each with each.

As ancient comrades tried and true No new exchange of vows demand, Each knows of old what each will do, Nor needs to talk to understand; So France with us and we with France-- Enough the gesture and the glance.

In a shared dream our loves began, Together fought one fight and won, The Dream Republican of Man, And now as then our dream is one; Still as of old our hearts unite To dream and battle for the Right.

Nor memories alone are ours, But purpose for the Future strong, Across the seas two signal towers, Keeping stern watch against the Wrong; Seeking, with hearts of deep accord, A better wisdom than the Sword.

We are with France, in brotherhood Not of the spirit's task alone, But kin in laughter of the blood: Where Paris glitters in the sun, A second home, like boys, we find, And leave our grown-up cares behind.

SATAN: 1920

I read there is a man who sits apart, A sort of human spider in his den, Who meditates upon a fearful art-- The swiftest way to slay his fellow men.

Behind a mask of gla.s.s he dreams his h.e.l.l: With chemic skill, to pack so fierce a dust Within the thunderbolt of one small sh.e.l.l-- Sating in vivid thought his shuddering l.u.s.t-- Whole cities in one gasp of flame shall die, Swept with an all-obliterating rain Of sudden fire and poison from the sky; Nothing that breathes be left to breathe again-- And only gloating eyes from out the air Watching the twisting fires, and ears attent For children's cries and woman's shrill despair, The crash of shrines and towers in ruin rent.

High in the sun the sneering airmen glide, Glance at wrist-watches: scarce a minute gone And London, Paris, or New York has died!

Scarce twice they look, then turn and hurry on.

And, far away, one in his quiet room Dreams of a fiercer dust, a deadlier fume: The wireless crackles him, "Complete success"; "Next time," he smiles, "in half a minute less!"

To this the climbing brain has won at last-- A nation's life gone like a shrivelled scroll-- And thus To-Day outstrips the dotard Past!

I envy not that man his devil's soul.

UNDER WHICH KING . . . ?

The fight I loved--the good old fight-- Was clear as day 'twixt Might and Right; Satrap and slave on either hand, Tiller and tyrant of the land; One delved the earth the other trod, The writhing worm, the thundering G.o.d.

Lords of an earth they deemed their own, The tyrants laughed from throne to throne, Scattered the gold and spilled the wine, And deemed their foolish dust divine; While, 'neath their heel, sublimely strove The martyred hosts of Human Love.

Such was the fight I dreamed of old 'Twixt Labour and the Lords of Gold; I deemed all evil in the king, In Demos every lovely thing.

But now I see the battle set-- Albeit the same old banners yet-- With no clear issue to decide, With Right and Might on either side; Yet small the rumour is of Right-- But the bared arms of Might and Might Brandish across the hate-filled lands, With blood alike on both their hands.

MAN, THE DESTROYER

O spirit of Life, by whatsoe'er a name Known among men, even as our fathers bent Before thee, and as little children came For counsel in Life's dread predicament, Even we, with all our lore, That only beckons, saddens and betrays, Have no such key to the mysterious door As he that kneels and prays.

The stern ascension of our climbing thought, The martyred pilgrims of the soaring soul, Bring us no nearer to the thing we sought, But only tempt us further from the goal; Yea! the eternal plan Darkens with knowledge, and our weary skill But makes us more of beast and less of man, Fevered to hate and kill.

Loves flees with frightened eyes the world it knew, Fades and dissolves and vanishes away, And the sole art the sons of men pursue Is to out-speed the slayer and to slay: And lovely secrets won From radiant nature and her magic laws Serve but to stretch black deserts in the sun, And glut destruction's jaws.

Life! is it sweet no more? the same blue sky Arches the woods; the green earth, filled with trees, Glories with song, happy it knows not why, Painted with flowers, and warm with murmurous bees; This earth, this golden home, Where men, like unto G.o.ds, were wont to dwell, Was all this builded, with the stars for dome, For man to make it h.e.l.l?

Was it for this life blossomed with fair arts, That for some paltry leagues of stolen land, Or some poor squabble of contending marts, Murder shall smudge out with its reeking hand Man's faith and fanes alike; And man be man no more--but a brute brain, A primal horror mailed and fanged to strike, And bring the Dark again?

Fool of the Ages! fitfully wise in vain; Surely the heavens shall laugh!--the long long climb Up to the stars, to dash him down again!

And all the travail of slow-moving Time And birth of radiant wings, A dream of pain, an agony for naught!

Highest and lowest of created things, Man, the proud fool of thought.