The New Morning Part 6

They have finished with the faces, the dreadful little faces, The little eyeless faces of the drowned."_

THE VINDICTIVE

How should we praise those lads of the old _Vindictive_ Who looked Death straight in the eyes, Till his gaze fell, In those red gates of h.e.l.l?

England, in her proud history, proudly enrolls them, And the deep night in her remembering skies With purer glory Shall blazon their grim story.

There were no throngs to applaud that hushed adventure.

They were one to a thousand on that fierce emprise.

The sh.o.r.es they sought Were armoured, past all thought.

O, they knew fear, be a.s.sured, as the brave must know it, With youth and its happiness bidding their last good-byes; Till thoughts, more dear Than life, cast out all fear.

For if, as we think, they remembered the brown-roofed homesteads, And the scent of the hawthorn hedges when daylight dies, Old happy places, Young eyes and fading faces;

One dream was dearer that night than the best of their boyhood, One hope more radiant than any their hearts could prize.

The touch of your hand, The light of your face, England!

So, age to age shall tell how they sailed through the darkness Where, under those high, austere, implacable stars, Not one in ten Might look for a dawn again.

They saw the ferry-boats, _Iris_ and _Daffodil_, creeping Darkly as clouds to the s.h.i.+mmering mine-strewn bars, Flash into light!

Then thunder reddened the night.

The wild white swords of the search-lights blinded and stabbed them, The sharp black shadows fought in fantastic wars.

Black waves leapt whitening, Red decks were washed with lightning.

But, under the twelve-inch guns of the black land-batteries The hacked bright hulk, in a glory of crackling spars, Moved to her goal Like an immortal soul;

That, while the raw rent flesh in a furnace is tortured, Reigns by a law no agony ever can shake, And s.h.i.+nes in power Above all shocks of the hour.

O, there, while the decks ran blood, and the star-sh.e.l.ls lightened The old broken s.h.i.+p that the enemy never could break, Swept through the fire And grappled her heart's desire.

There, on a wreck that blazed with the soul of England, The lads that died in the dark for England's sake Knew, as they died, Nelson was at their side;

Nelson, and all the ghostly fleets of his island, Fighting beside them there, and the soul of Drake!-- Dreams, as we knew, Till these lads made them true.

_How should we praise you, lads of the old Vindictive, Who looked death straight in the eyes, Till his gaze fell In those red gates of h.e.l.l?_

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPS OF CHELTENHAM

When hawthorn buds are creaming white, And the red foolscap all stuck with may, Then la.s.ses walk with eyes alight, And it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.

For the chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham town, Sooty of face as a swallow of wing, Come whistling, singing, dancing down With white teeth flas.h.i.+ng as they sing.

And Jack-in-the green, by a clown in blue, Walks like a two-legged bush of may, With the little wee lads that wriggled up the flue Ere Cheltenham town cried "dancing day."

For brooms were short and the chimneys tall, And the gipsies caught 'em these blackbirds cheap, So Cheltenham bought them, spry and small, And shoved them up in the dark to sweep.

For Cheltenham town was cruel of old, But she has been gathering garlands gay, And the little wee lads are in green and gold, For it's chimney-sweepers' dancing day.

And red as a rose, and blue as the sky, With teeth as white as their faces are black, The master-sweeps go dancing by, With a gridiron painted on every back.

But when they are ranged in the market-place, The clown's wife comes with an iron spoon, And cozens a penny for her sweet face To keep their golden throats in tune.

Then, hus.h.i.+ng the riot of that mad throng, And sweet as the voice of a long-dead May, A wandering pedlar lifts 'em a song, Of chimney-sweepers' dancing day;

And the sooty faces, they try to recall....

As they gather around in their spell-struck rings....

But n.o.body knows that singer at all Or the curious old-time air he sings:--

Why are you dancing, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham, And where did you win you these may-coats so fine; For some are red as roses, and some are gold as daffodils, But who, ah, who remembers, now, a little lad of mine?

Lady, we are dancing, as we danced in old England When the may was more than may, very long ago: As for our may-coats, it was your white hands, lady, Filled our sooty hearts and minds with blossom, white as snow.

It was a beautiful face we saw, wandering through Cheltenham.

It was a beautiful song we heard, very far away, Weeping for a little lad stolen by the gipsies, Broke our hearts and filled 'em with the glory of the may.

Many a little lad had we, chirruping in the chimney-tops, Twirling out a sooty broom, a blot against the blue.

Ah, but when we called to him, and when he saw and ran to her, All our winter ended, and our world was made anew.

Then she gave us may-coats of gold and green and crimson, Then, with a long garland, she led our hearts away, Whispering, "Remember, though the boughs forget the hawthorn, Yet shall I return to you, that was your lady May."--

But why are you dancing now, O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham, And why are you singing of a May that is fled?-- O, there's music to be born, though we pluck the old fiddle-strings, And a world's May awaking where the fields lay dead.

And we dance, dance, dreaming of a lady most beautiful That shall walk the green valleys of this dark earth one day, And call to us gently, "O chimney-sweeps of Cheltenham, I am looking for my children. Awake, and come away."

TO A SUCCESSFUL MAN

(_What the Ghosts Said_)