PR 
 
 VIA TRIUMPHALIS 
 
 EDWARD I. THOMPSON 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
VIA TRIUMPHALIS 
 
By the same Writer 
 
 THE KNIGHT MYSTIC 
 
 THE ENCHANTBD LADY 
 
 JOHN is PRISON 
 
 ESSERDALE BRIDGE 
 
 WALTHAM THICKETS 
 
 MESOPOTAMIA* VERSES 
 
 SAUL 
 
 VAE VICTIS 
 
 BEYOSD BAGHDAD WITH THE LEICEPTBRSHIRES 
 
 RABJKDRASATH TAGORE 
 
VIA TRIUMPHALIS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD J. THOMPSON 
 
 HUMPHREY MILFORD 
 
 OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 LONDON, BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, MADRAS 
 
 1922 
 
Printed at the KANARKSE MISSION PRESS AMD BOOK DEPOT, MANOALOKE 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 
 861.098 
 
Mount Scopus Dedication 
 
 WHILE the sun, amid blood-red skies, on the 
 Prophet's Height 
 
 Sank from our sight, 
 Or on Moab Hills the moon rose globed and large, 
 
 Like a giant's targe, 
 
 Where the Roman camped, when the darkening 
 heavens grew loud 
 
 With the rushing crowd 
 Of wings, of a host that flocked, foul, hard, without pity* 
 
 Round the dying city, 
 Where now grew the fruited vines, and Olivet's spurs, 
 
 With a young wood of firs 
 Green-fledged, low-murmured as with sough of the sea 
 
 And, with rosemary 
 Sweet-coppiced, scented the evening air as with spice 
 
 Out of Paradise, 
 How have we two, in the fragrant, wonderful hour 
 
 When Night, like a flower, 
 Opened about us, watched the fireflies flitting 
 
 Around us sitting, 
 And laughed at Athene's owl, all staring-eyed 
 
 And ruffled in pride, 
 
 As he leaned from his perch in the almond-bush, 
 each horn 
 
 As sharp as a thorn! 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PA. OB. 
 
 VIA TRIOMPHALIS 9 
 
 DEATH'S INITIATE 15 
 
 THE WALKER IN THE LILIBS 17 
 
 BETH-HORON 22 
 
 THE LAST VIGIL 25 
 
 BUSH AND BIRD -jt; 
 
 LUDD 27 
 
 JUNE IN JUDAEA 28 
 
 Is HOSPITAL, DAMASCUS 29 
 
 QUESTIONING 31 
 
 FROM THE WILDERNESS 32 
 
 Fiant Lilia '.\?, 
 
 ABANA LYRICS, r AND n ... 34 
 
 DAMASCUS ORCHARDS 3(i 
 
 THE YARMUK VALLEY 37 
 
 ON KRNISEH 38 
 
 NYMPH is THE BRAKE 40 
 
 THE OWL AND THE LADY 41 
 
 SMOKING REEDS 43 
 
 WILLIAM TREES 43 
 
 A MATTER FOR THE POLICE 44 
 
 NORTON COMMON 45 
 
 FIVE ELMS . 46 
 
 TWELFTH NIGHT 47 
 
 HALF-LIGHTS 48 
 
 THIS AJCCIENT THORN 49 
 
 WILD BROOM 50 
 
PAGE 
 
 BARKEN SLOE 52 
 
 STARLIGHT 54 
 
 THE PILLARS OF HERCULES 55 
 
 SHADOWS 06 
 
 FREEDOM 57 
 
 THE CLOUD-MESSENGER 58 
 
 THE VICTOR 09 
 
 MID-AUGUST GO 
 
 BANIAN VERSES i, n, AND in 61 
 
 EGRETS IN RAIN 63 
 
 CRERN PIGEON 64 
 
 EVENING VOLUNTARY 66 
 
 ENCOURAGEMENT TO PIPALS 67 
 
 REBUKE TO BANIANS 68 
 
 SPECTATORS 69 
 
 HIMALAYAN BULBUL 70 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH 71 
 
 CHURCH REFORM 73 
 
 A YELLOW MOON 74 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN 75 
 
 THE BANIAN'S GUESTS 76 
 
 THROUGH THE RAIN 77 
 
 EKTESWAK Mela 78 
 
 FLOWERS IN BOWL 80 
 
 RETROSPECT 82 
 
 RECOLLECTION 83 
 
 INVOCATION 85 
 
 EPILOGUE 86 
 
Via Triumphalis 
 
 THE deep, clear, racing brook; the bridge 
 Spanning both tide and river 
 And linking the Road* 
 Whereby they came, 
 Graving on rock each sequent name - 
 Briton and Greek, 
 Frank and Assyrian, 
 Roman and Ramessid! 
 On the far bank, where winds make quiver 
 Those creepers hanging like woodnymphs' hair, 
 Under the tangle the shapes are hid, 
 (Time-blurred) and arrowy script which speak 
 Of the march of the arrogant Xinevite. 
 At hand, see the Stoic's entablature, 
 Rock-cut, which blazons Aurelius' boast! 
 New, glaring, white, 
 Lo, at its side what words proclaim, 
 Where the tide thrusts tongue-like in from the coast, 
 And the rains and the years' slow drift 
 Have buried the Flint-Man's tools, where pale 
 Pink flowers the branched asphodels lift, 
 Lo, there what words flaunt the tale, 
 
 * The Dog River Lycus of Strabo north of Beirut. The immemorial 
 coast roail crosses it. There are over ten Egyptian and Assyrian inscriptions 
 on the rocks also a Greek, and one by Marcus Aurelias, Arab and French 
 inscriptions, and now ours. 
 
 9 
 
At the Ages' end how my comrades strode, 
 
 Late in the centuries, last up the Conquerors' Road ! 
 
 But rocks with their deeds let the Victors fill ! 
 
 We have found a bliss that transcends their skill. 
 
 So, leaving the chiselled cliffs that declare 
 
 Whose fames would fain with the rocks endure, 
 
 And leaving the ancient sea, whose waves 
 
 Of merchant and corsair whisper and dream, 
 
 Checking the bragging, garrulous stream 
 
 With name for name, his Turk to their Tyrian, 
 
 Strike in, to the hills' wild heart! Strike in! 
 
 Let your wonder begin! 
 
 Lift, lift your eyes, 
 
 And thrill with surprise, 
 
 Aye, shout for the sight, 
 
 Far in, beyond height upon height, 
 
 Of Sannin, of, shouldering and snowy, that culminant 
 
 ridge, 
 
 Clear, beautiful, white, 
 And cleansing the vision! 
 
 Strike in, with the clear, rushing water beside us, 
 And .... that light at the valley's end! 
 Ah, the tall, swaying, feather-topped grass, 
 Deep as where the boar lurked when he slew 
 Adonis! At foot of the glade, 
 A pampas, a wind-ruffled palisade 
 Of thyrses such as the Sylvans bear, 
 In the river-sand 
 
 10 
 
For a kindly purpose set, be sure, 
 
 Since they hide, when the good Pan wills, 
 
 A man and a maid alone in the hills, 
 
 Alone, with all Gods to connive and befriend, 
 
 Where, placed for a guard, the great fells stand! 
 
 Lo, the brambles drooping, as when at the fair, 
 
 Proud, desolate Goddess, all wild, as she flew, 
 
 All anguished, they caught, and her blood splashed 
 
 the thorn, 
 
 Splashed the rending briars, 
 And the Syrian uplands rang to her wail 
 For the hunter-lover all gashed and slain, 
 And the mocking caves, 
 Whose floors the Flint-Man's weapons strew, 
 From dripping, ice-pillared, vast recesses, 
 Her sorrow cast back in derision! 
 Lo, the brambles trail, rich-ruddy with fruit, 
 And, as for memorial, lift where we pass 
 Red boughs! And the rose-thickets, tinct with grain 
 Of Autumn's glory, with scarlet leaves 
 Dashed through and through, 
 Blush deep with haws, as once with roses, 
 And glow, as a withered covert when fire's 
 Hot tongues in the dry sticks flicker and shoot! 
 But the Hill-Gods call; and they chide us, 
 Who on our steep path linger; 
 
 They have scattered the way with their signs to guide us; 
 And they wait their Child, 
 
 It 
 
The Lady for whom snowy crest, steep vale, 
 
 Were a home, and in lonely, elf-beloved closes 
 
 The Forest and Winds were a foster-folk, 
 
 Till one, by whose speech a magic woke 
 
 Subtler than breathed from their music wild, 
 
 Drew near, and she turned, being mortal maid, 
 
 Leaving immortal lovers to mourn. 
 
 But she comes to your valleys again! 
 
 And a golden circle the crocus weaves, 
 
 Idly, to hold her fast, who by spell 
 
 Stronger by far, can escape at will! 
 
 Yet blossom, and spill 
 
 Through the fairy cracks your vanishing gold! 
 
 Vainglorious, flaunt ! She is here to behold ! 
 
 And let the quaint, small spikes unfold 
 
 Of dwarf bee-orchis! And clefts be lit 
 
 With cyclamens' flaming, brushed-up tresses ! 
 
 We have come to the heart 
 
 Of the hills, where the Great Gods dwell, 
 
 Who, wise themselves, wish lovers well; 
 
 And the wilderness deepens round, 
 
 Slope on slope, thicket on thicket piled, 
 
 And the river is hushed by the River-God's finger, 
 
 And hums, as it slips through the stones. 
 
 Plucking apart 
 
 The carob-boughs, we will climb and sit, 
 
 Where a giant boulder juts 
 
 Far out, and the eyes can look 
 
 12 
 
Up to the ridge which the thin firs crown, 
 
 Can look down 
 
 Over the sharp, stiff, gleaming fence 
 
 Of ilex, and over the sprawling, dense 
 
 Jungle of fragrant, wax-berried myrtle, 
 
 To the quiet-singing brook. 
 
 Not ten miles hence, 
 
 In the copse where the Hunter died, 
 
 From his blood -drops sown in the soil 
 
 Sprang, purple and large, 
 
 The windflowers aflush by the river's marge, 
 
 And in rifts and ruts 
 
 Of the storm-seamed fells aflutter, aglow; 
 
 And, Spring by Spring, these brakes still know 
 
 Whose presence quickens the hallowed ground! 
 
 For Kypris walks, 
 
 Where the drab, hard rocks to her grace are foil, 
 
 Foil till the hem of her swaying kirtle 
 
 Touches the herb and the budded stalks; 
 
 When brute Earth atones 
 
 For the murdered boy, for the harboured boar, 
 
 For the shrinking flesh that the briars once tore, 
 
 Atones, with worship of blossom and leaf, 
 
 For the wanton wrong, for the bitter grief; 
 
 And Lycus, thridding his purfled mazes, 
 
 His voice to a jubilant chant upraises; 
 
 And Kypris walks, and the glimmering sheen 
 
 Of her robes waves, emerald-green on the green. 
 
 13 
 
We have come, we are here ! 
 
 And the myrtle's delicate breath and flowers 
 
 Make wild! O Gods of this river, these bowers, 
 
 These airs snowy-cool, upon you I call 
 
 In triumph! O Lebanon, Father of all, 
 
 Great cedar-proud King! 
 
 Lo, the Mountain-Queen whom I bring, 
 
 The Lady the Forest blesses ! 
 
 Though I praise you, my head above all I rear, 
 
 Who more than her fosterfolk am dear, 
 
 Whom her will for lover and lord confesses! 
 
 14 
 
Death's Initiate 
 
 T7LOWERED fields, where happy children played 
 
 and hearts 
 
 Were joyful, as the moon full-orbed shone down, 
 Blessing rose-thickets loud with nightingales - 
 Those paths were mine, and, had I lived, my feet 
 Had been your foremost, meting out your way. 
 But now my peace is made, my face is set, 
 And here, with will at rest and lifted hands 
 Of invocation, on her grace I wait, 
 Whom now I cry for. Blossom-Queen o' the Dead! 
 Lover of poppy-crimson paths (as these 
 Are red with flowers whose seed no God shall own, 
 Nor any man their sowing boast)! Blest Child 
 O' the pitiful Earth, Kore whose lifted lids 
 Are sunlight on bare fields and glimmering brows 
 Of lilies, trembling for the joy they know ! 
 Turn favourable eyes this way, and look 
 On me, who over mountain-slopes as fair 
 As thine have wandered, gathering flowers as fair, 
 But now, with all my withered crowns put by, 
 Gaze toward thy throne, where those have taken stand 
 Whom Spring shall garland nevermore, nor voice 
 Of mortal praise awaken. (Yet for these 
 My love sleeps never, neither shall the heart 
 Remain forgetful, vainly though I sing 
 Honour for these, whom face to face I knew.) 
 
 15 
 
But thou, their Queen, dear Lady of flowers and ghosts, 
 
 Swaying with eyes, not sceptre, toward thy seat 
 
 These men, thy friends and subject-souls that came 
 
 Most lover-glad (for proud compulsion drove, 
 
 Of valour, Lady, and joy to thy fair realm,), 
 
 Now look on me, on me who strive and dream, 
 
 Desiring those brave presences, and here, 
 
 (Where idly Spring with blosmy tread goes by, 
 
 And idly Summer and Autumn scatter fruit 
 
 And harvest, such a Winter shuts from sight 
 
 The mind they move no longer), wait, aware 
 
 That where the treasure is the heart abides, 
 
 The heart not now a pilgrim, howsoe'er 
 
 The wearied body plods and dreams of home! 
 
 Now gaze on me; and, as thy Mother takes 
 
 The dead year to her breast, and gathers in 
 
 The faded leaf and brown, so thou, her Child, 
 
 With no less pity than hers, command to thee 
 
 Thy servant-seasons all (though other fan 
 
 Than gaze o' the eyes which shone through Enna once 
 
 It needs not, since a zeal is mine that leaps 
 
 As fire to thy white throne), and bid awaken 
 
 The wind of my deliverance, wafting near 
 
 This life, which flutters, a leaf and dancing waif, 
 
 That soon, with dear companions compassed round, 
 
 I may in Hades praise thee, last and best 
 
 Of Gods, who gave the dead-in-life thy boon 
 
 Of death, and blossomed peace before thy throne ! 
 
The Walker in the Lilies 
 
 "T^OR me, Death might have had the hated road* 
 
 -*- Whereby that March we strode 
 
 The burnt-up scrub, the thorn, the festering sand, 
 
 The flies that cursed that Mesopotamian land, 
 
 The sandfly plague, the choking, hideous leap 
 
 Of swirling dust, a hell-broth pot astir, 
 
 One seething buzz and blur ! 
 
 But . . . that, a later day, beneath the steep 
 
 Jebel Hamrin,f 
 
 Young flowers should peep, 
 
 By shaded waters, where a flushing breeze 
 
 Touched into gracious life the Spring's first green, 
 
 Where red anemones, 
 
 Poppies, and hyacinths blue, 
 
 Swayed, and where rosy heads of ainaryllis 
 
 O'ertopped the wheat 
 
 That Death should from those rough and grim, 
 
 Gaunt hills those lion's teeth, fit place for him! 
 
 Come down, and walk God's lilies! 
 
 Death walking through the lilies! 
 
 Not as, in Palestine, 
 
 Christ walked among them ! 
 
 Ah, here was one did wrong them, 
 
 *Thc inarch from Kut to Baghdad, February-March, 1917. 
 fOur disaster at Jebel Hamrin, towards the Persian foothills, March 
 1917. The only experience of fighting in decent country, in Mesopotamia. 
 
 17 -2 
 
Dashing with blood their cups of morning dew! 
 Reddening their waters pure to Devil's Wine! 
 Trampling a vintage foul with hateful feet! 
 Ah, Guest of Cana! See what guest was here, 
 Mocking Spring's marriage-feast with deadly fear ! 
 
 Nay, but in Palestine, 
 When tulips were most fine, 
 When cistus flowered, and iris, when a rush 
 Of lilies stormed the naked rocks, why, then, 
 Men must walk on, nor heed the bullet's whine; 
 Though a sleeve would flush 
 
 With bursting veins beneath, and one would stop ; 
 And another drop, 
 
 With sobbing throat, and blood spirt out and stain 
 An earth already rich with brightest grain, 
 All colours, and, with poppies' sanguine glow 
 And tulips, staring windflowers, red enow. 
 In Palestine, 
 
 I know the hill where Service sleeps, and where 
 Boy Penfold died, and there 
 The flowers wash up in seas, as if to meet 
 The seas that run from Cyprus, lapping round 
 Old Arsufs ruined pillars and haunted ground ; 
 Flow up to meet the seas there's cliff, and sand, 
 A strip; then, either way, the flower-tides beat, 
 Foam-flowers and earth-flowers, blue o' the waves 
 that way 
 
 18 
 
And green o' the field this hand. 
 
 And you might search the world before you'd find 
 
 A place more to the mind 
 
 Of peaceful hearts and such as need to pray. 
 
 Yet all that summer-tide 
 
 This was no spot for dreams you used to hurry 
 
 (Walking, of course,) through marguerites, and start 
 
 When from the long grass quails would whirr and 
 
 flurry 
 
 (Start, and, the moment after, 
 Curse them with nervous laughter). 
 Away on Bedouin's Knoll 
 
 Five-nines would rap; and if you stayed a spell 
 By the cactus-hedged fig-grove and midway well 
 (Midway to Piffer Ridge from the beach), just then 
 Some damned gunner would shoot they can't abide 
 That things should rest, these men that shoot he'd 
 
 shoot ; 
 
 Johnny * 'd be quick on suit ; 
 Over your head would drone an answering shell. 
 Or be vicious rush of a pipsqueak, landing where, 
 In one more minute, at most, your feet must fare. 
 At times you laughed to exchange the flowers for a 
 
 tomb 
 
 On Argyle Ridge, to drive deep down to the gloom 
 Of rock-cut graves where, in the hill's rough heart, 
 
 * 'Johnny Turk." 
 
 19 2* 
 
The Amorite hid his dead, and now the men 
 Of Keely's watch were delving, gnome and troll. 
 
 The bitter way that led,f 
 
 Bridging the poisonous brook 
 
 Of Jordan, bursting Gilead's frowning rocks 
 
 (The way the Londons and the Anzacs took), 
 
 The bitter way that led 
 
 To where Es-Salt, high on its crater-rim, 
 
 Forgets the Ghor, which heat and dust bedim ; 
 
 Bordered with hollyhocks, 
 
 That way shone red, 
 
 A ribbon, a gay, proud, glittering way that lit 
 
 The strong, fierce hills whose untamed heart it split. 
 
 But through the hollyhocks, more bright by far, 
 
 And more erect, and with a nobler star 
 
 Of beauty glimmering on their brows, were those 
 
 Who went, and knew that, ere the journey's close, 
 
 Death through the sheen of hollyhocks would walk, 
 
 And their dear blood would flow, 
 
 Tinting the gray, unblossoming thorn to glow 
 
 Redder than dawn, redder than flower on stalk. 
 
 God, since we men have made 
 
 Such havoc in Thy flowers (these flowers that fade, 
 Yet are so sweet to clothe the hills and fling 
 Over the stones a rainbow light in Spring), 
 
 t Allenby's failures East of Jordan, March and April, 1918. 
 
 20 
 
Forbid that in Thy Kingdom any dwell, 
 
 Save children, and those child-like hearts that died ; 
 
 Or change our wills by spell 
 
 Of Thy great love, and take us to Thy side! 
 
 Grant, where Thy heavenly hill is, 
 
 There may be flowers and children, Death being dead! 
 
 That, howsoe'er those slopes be tulip-red, 
 
 He walks not there among the lilies! 
 
 21 
 
Beth-Horon 
 
 NIGH south from Jaffa, leaving the gray beach 
 And glinting sea, strike in, until you reach 
 A plain, whose wide arms, seized of wheat and oil, 
 With flowers and foison crown a bounteous soil, 
 A plain that, warm with fostering airs that bless, 
 Sleeps in the lap of its own loveliness. 
 Yet pause not here; though Heaven and Earth may 
 
 sing 
 
 Congratulation, and Eternal Spring 
 After her lilies sow incessant flowers, 
 And temper with sea-winds the hotter hours, 
 Yet there's a spot my thoughts prefer to trace, 
 So long as Memory keeps her sovran place. 
 Behind the fields a rifted, narrow pass 
 Leads in, and shouldering mountains heave and mass, 
 Whose highest fell still carries scar and sign 
 Of one fierce hour, however bramble-vine 
 Sprawl on the stones, and wild-rose over rocks, 
 Confusedly heaped, trail a loose arm, and stocks 
 Of live-oak bristle with armed, emerald leaves. 
 Starved hawthorns thrust up soiled and ragged sleeves 
 From ground that seems of Nature's coarsest plinth 
 Compact, one drab mosaic; terebinth 
 (Dwarf, to be sure; nought comes to stature here, 
 Where briar and hawthorn flower in fifty year) 
 Crops out in spots; and scattered fig-trees stand; 
 
 22 
 
And there's an oliveyard on your left hand, 
 
 As up the slope you climb, at top to find 
 
 The line of stones the Londons crouched behind. 
 
 We had machine-guns here; see, still the ground 
 
 With empty cartridges and round on round 
 
 Of unused ammunition strewn! Hard by, 
 
 Tins, belts, a shirt, and rotting helmets lie. 
 
 The hill-foot has its graves; but of that strife 
 
 The tale is dead, and here insurgent Life, 
 
 In briar and brave, green ilex lifting, fain 
 
 Would of that wrath rub out the hateful stain, 
 
 And, for the sterile hour that slew and hurt, 
 
 Would, as she may, her ancient place assert. 
 
 Yet these loose stones, hurriedly flung together, 
 
 Shall witness, through the storms of fiercest weather, 
 
 Of what a storm once swept an earlier day 
 
 And tossed men's lives like withered leaves away. 
 
 Lo, as, by tracing trench and mound, we tell 
 
 Ere history dawned where warriors fought and fell, 
 
 And know, by ditch and tower and builded ramp, 
 
 Where once the Legion kept their busy camp, 
 
 So here, if any follow after, bearing 
 
 Like blood with us or for our story caring, 
 
 Though centuries hence, they of our day shall read, 
 
 Scratched on the hill's hard brow, our graven screed: 
 
 Here how we lay, one bitter dusk of winter, 
 
 When bullets glanced and bit the rocks, and splinter 
 
 And nosecap sang, and all the air was torn 
 
 23 
 
With iron, and shattered stone, and twisted thorn; 
 Here how we laughed, and ducked, and mocked the foe, 
 And kept the height. 
 
 They, seeing this, shall know. 
 
 24 
 
The Last Vigil 
 
 UNDER the swaying boughs of the apple, 
 Where gracious snows drip down, 
 Knee-deep in early flowers I stand, 
 Waiting, at watch where the sunbeams dapple 
 The spring-time, flecking with silver the brown 
 And emerald, glowing wave-bright on my drawn brand. 
 
 So should he wait the inevitable end, 
 Knowing the Sun his helper, Earth his friend, 
 The man for whom of His pure love God made 
 The thirsty desert with light and shadow a glade, 
 And the red field a meadow, where round his feet 
 A grass of lilies rippled, and wild buds sweet. 
 
 25 
 
Bush and Bird 
 
 A S down the Kedron Valley I was riding, 
 ** Where olives veil the rock-cut tombs, I saw 
 An owl, who neither for myself had awe 
 Nor of that glaring hour had thought save scorn, 
 But ruffed his wings and perked each feathered horn, 
 In anger that I came; but I was glad. 
 For why? You ask, as chiding 
 A mind so lightly stirred. 
 Know then, this joy I had 
 For sunlight on gray leaf and ragged stone; 
 But most to see, vouchsafed to me alone. 
 There, on Athene's bush, Athene's bird. 
 
 26 
 
Ludd 
 
 plant the cactus here, 
 -- Lest men forget Thy death; 
 For all the air 
 Is one sweet breath 
 
 With orange-groves, and fields, in flowers arrayed, 
 Have with the fostering winds this compact made, 
 That all who through this happy greenness fare 
 Shall wander lulled from grief, or wake to see 
 The flower-crammed Bush its rich memorials rear 
 Of Cana's Feast in holy Galilee. 
 Wherefor with this sharp thorn, 
 Fetched overseas, men since Thy day supplant 
 Our too-soft thoughts, and oil and wine would scant, 
 To oliveyard and orange-grove set bourn, 
 Lest men forget Thy death, 
 Dreaming of Galilee and Nazareth. 
 
 27 
 
June in Judcea 
 
 "IVTOW, in this summer's heat, 
 * ^ Our hills are withered ; cliff and rocky fell 
 Shed their brief crowns; only, beside our feet, 
 The way's still proud with golden asphodel. 
 
 The fairy halberds, thrust 
 
 I' the storied turf where Spring encamped so late, 
 Tarnish, their steel-bright edges burn to rust 
 Iris is down, the ridge is void of state. 
 
 With golden asphodel 
 
 The way's still proud; but tulip's tongue is dust; 
 Red windflower's gone ; and poppy's flames abate ; 
 On the swaying roads a white dust dances fleet. 
 
 28 
 
In Hospital, Damascus 
 
 OLORD, our Governor, 
 Is not my lot more strange 
 Than any fabled tale of flux and change! 
 This man who sits, my bed beside, 
 Scanning a skit with seeming-careless eyes, 
 Yet heard last mail his wife had died 
 His house of life about him tumbled lies. 
 That dear, remembered lad, 
 My brother, who two years ago lay down 
 For his last sleep on earth; and he, my friend 
 Of youth, whose generous, patient days had end 
 Where on his grave the rocks of Moab frown- 
 Needs must Thou be, O Mind, and needs in Thee 
 Our. diverse paths have rest and unity- 
 Needs must Thou be, or else I must go mad! 
 
 Why hast Thou cast about Thee 
 
 Thick darkness and a cloud? 
 
 Love Whom we travail for? 
 
 Ah, see the hearts of all the nations bowed ! 
 
 The men who bear without Thee 
 
 Trouble and anguish and a breaking mind; 
 
 Women who needs must carry to the grave 
 
 Their wrong of motherhood unrealised, 
 
 Who in their hearts a locked-up casket bear 
 
 Of yearning love no other life can share, 
 
 29 
 
Whose eyes the hot tears blind, 
 
 Seeing that alien earth and senseless wave 
 
 Have hid the hearts wherein their own hearts had 
 
 Life and a poured-forth joy that made them glad. 
 
 Why hast Thou so with darkness shut Thee round, 
 
 Whereby Thou art not found ? 
 
 12. 1. 1919 
 
 30 
 
Questioning 
 
 'T^HOU Living Purpose, dimly understood, 
 
 Thou Whom I held for known, 
 And Whom I served, a Will beyond my own, 
 What is this word 
 
 Now in the darkness of my spirit heard? 
 And what this questioning, whether ill or good 
 I know not, so my heart is vexed 
 And all my mind perplexed ? 
 Whether Thou art at all, or just and wise 
 (As once we held) and good past all surmise, 
 Or evil, is a thing hid from my eyes, 
 That only know Thou art not to be found. 
 
 Pity the heart Thy hands have made, the will 
 In darkness wavering, fain to serve thee still! 
 Now, ere the day in cloud and mist go out, 
 Answer, and save! Now, in this dusk of doubt, 
 To this poor, flickering mind that perisheth, 
 Ah, speak, with some clear word, of life, not death ! 
 
 31 
 
From the Wilderness 
 
 'T^HIS is he that came 
 -*- Praising God in flame. 
 
 Through the desert's burning air, 
 With lips too parched for prayer . . . 
 
 And in battle's gulfing tide, 
 When friend and helper died .... 
 
 Lord, when clamant fears were loud, 
 This is he nor bowed 
 Nor denied the Name, 
 Nay, but overcame. 
 
 Whence this man, so hurt and frail, 
 
 So set, as in a jail, 
 
 'Mid days that suffered wrong, 
 
 He shall stand among 
 
 The angels, who excel in grace 
 
 Yet shall yield him place. 
 
 And, should they question why, 
 
 These his scars shall cry, 
 
 Shall answer and proclaim: 
 
 This is he that came 
 
 Praising God in flame. 
 
 32 
 
Plant Lilia 
 
 GOD said : Let there be lilies. 
 He touched the grasses; 
 And in their beds such stir 
 Lived, as with day's awakening, when the East 
 Whitens, and darkness passes. 
 So spread apart 
 Their crowding stems, and from the blades which 
 
 thickened 
 
 (To fence from hurt 
 
 The frail, sweet glory that was now their heart) 
 First squills upgrew, 
 Lifting their bells so delicately blue; 
 And then, more grossly girt, 
 Red tulips flickered, flaunting heads of flame, 
 And amaryllids came. 
 
 In the gray rocks, where thistle and cringeing bur 
 Clog the starved soil, blue crocus quickened, 
 And yellow gleam 
 
 Of gagea ; and, beside the wimpling stream, 
 'Mid fern and shade of swaying tutsan, stood 
 Arums, that wrap their beauty with green hood. 
 Last, when Spring called a feast, 
 With flowers whose eyes are stars they lit the hills, 
 And made of daffodils 
 
 Their summoning trumpets; and no meaner plinth 
 Would serve for hall's mosaic, but hyacinth; 
 While irids were the lavish grass they threw, 
 
 In rushes' lieu. 
 
 33 3 
 
Abana Lyrics 
 
 i. 
 
 ~\JOW that the winds of winter 
 
 * ^ Waken on Lebanon, 
 
 Abana's struggling waves, 
 
 Chill from their frozen caves, 
 
 Rush by the green excess 
 
 Of tangled ferns, and press 
 
 Through the flowering mints and cress. 
 
 Scurry away and hide you, 
 
 Desolate days! Run on! 
 
 All heavily though you go, 
 
 Dark with your turbid woe, 
 
 Hasten, and give you room 
 
 To Love, that would lead, for gloom, 
 
 Rivulets crowned with bloom! 
 
 34 
 
11. 
 
 ^V\ 7HERE Abana's seven brooks flow, 
 
 * * The poplars toss and lift 
 Tremulous leaves, that show 
 Shimmer of lights that shift - 
 Shadow; and lights that gleam; 
 Emerald leaves and white: 
 By Abana's sevenfold stream, 
 Prince Naaman's old delight. 
 
 But I, where the trickling drops 
 Gather together, and run, 
 To burst through the bramble-copse 
 And dazzle and dance in sun, 
 Far rather walk, to behold, 
 Where the cresses make their bed, 
 What delicate buds unfold, 
 What mints their sweetness shed. 
 
 Here the rich maidenhair 
 Droops; and the waters fall, 
 Murmuring, hushed from glare, 
 Over the mossed cliff-wall. 
 I think, as I walk, of a land 
 Silver with springs, with bowers 
 Green -- of my heart, that was sand 
 But is cool with fountain and flowers. 
 
 35 3* 
 
Damascus Orchards 
 
 T OVELY with almond-blossom and flooded water, 
 ** With wind-flushed sheen of swaying orchard- 
 meadows ; 
 
 With azure starred of infrequent grape-hyacinth; 
 Misted blue with the fig-groves' wintry haze; 
 Ruddy with budded apricot ; snowy with apple - 
 Damascus, now into April glory awakening. 
 
T IGHT green of tamarisk shows 
 
 ' Pale on the dark, sharp oleander-leaves; 
 
 Deep through a jungle Yarmuk flows, 
 
 With loop and curve his swift path cleaves; 
 
 And the long valley glows, 
 
 A burnished shield, far-sheeted with gold, 
 
 With light packed full as the hills can hold. 
 
 Though tamarisk's head's but a clouded dust, 
 
 His beauty faded, his youth grown pale, 
 
 Red hollyhocks 
 
 Flower from the steep, rough rocks; 
 
 Rose-laurels over the oil-black shale 
 
 Their fragrant, pink-tipped spears upthrust; 
 
 And the reed-muffled brook through the vale 
 
 Runs glad, for the Goat-God lies - 
 
 Great Pan, whom mosquitoes trouble not, 
 
 Who, being a Baal, 's immune from flies - 
 
 Piping at ease in some wind-cool grot. 
 
 37 
 
On Keniseh 
 
 T)LEAK Lebanon's crest 
 
 *-* You cross, and look down 
 
 To the sea's unrest, 
 
 Breaking a thousand fathoms below, 
 
 Where by Berytus spread 
 
 Sand-reaches red 
 
 And olives fence the Syrians' town. 
 
 And once in November 
 
 I came where the lines 
 
 Began of stiff pines, 
 
 And from Magoras' verge 
 
 The upward surge 
 
 Of myrtle and oak 
 
 In thin waves broke 
 
 On that darker screen; 
 
 When lo! a sea 
 
 Of Lebanon heather! 
 
 Ked-fiowing, a sea 
 
 Round the rough, grim pines! 
 
 When Kypris appears, 
 With Spring, and uncloses 
 Her stores of delight, 
 Then with pink and white 
 Of sweet rock-roses 
 
This covert is bright, 
 And the cliff-sides hold 
 Great pools of gold, 
 Where broom flowers free. 
 But . . . this was November! 
 Chill mists straying; 
 Winds, and swaying 
 Pines yes, and heather, 
 Which I had not seen 
 For these eight years. 
 So God I remember 
 And praise for the heather, 
 For the Cumberland weather 
 And red, flowing heather. 
 
 39 
 
Nymph in the Brake 
 
 TVTYMPH in the brake, thou fair deceiver, hence, 
 * ^ Nor with thy treacherous seeming mock the sense ! 
 
 I thought yon thorn to sudden blossom burst; 
 
 I dreamt that Spring flashed forth ; and wondering, 
 
 'Whence', 
 
 I cried, 'this glow where 'twas December erst?' 
 Nymph in the brake, thou bright deceiver, hence! 
 
 I thought yon woodland lane before me flowered ; 
 That through its gloom a mystic opulence 
 Of dewy stars was on the brambles showered. 
 Nymph in the brake, thou vain deceiver, hence ! 
 
 Nymph in the brake, arrived to mock the sense 
 With gleam and flight! Thou dear deceiver, hence! 
 
 40 
 
OWL in the hollybush, 
 Sitting so still, 
 With wide eyes staring 
 What Fear climbs the hill? 
 
 Sit close in your covert, 
 Your crimson-set fence 
 Of sharp, glowing leaves! 
 What, bird ! You flit hence ! 
 
 Now, through the winter eve 
 Tinted with flame, 
 Riding, a Lady 
 Along the wood came. 
 
 Over damp, drifted leaves 
 That deadened her pace, 
 She rode, nor slacked rein 
 Till she saw the round face; 
 
 Then, checking her horse, 
 She raised her fair head 
 To the frost-polished leaves 
 And berries deep red. 
 
 41 
 
If the bird were a man, 
 He would leap for the sight, 
 But the foolish old owl 
 Is already in flight! 
 
 On the pale, flushing skies, 
 To wet fields he flits down, 
 And is lost, as he settles, 
 Brown wings, in the brown. 
 
 42 
 
Smoking Reeds 
 
 SEE how the struggling fire 
 From the damp heap in a white wraith escapes! 
 But, deep within, the red heart fiercelier glows, 
 Till with a leap the ghost becomes a god, 
 And shouts and dances on his shrivelling cage. 
 
 Willian Trees 
 
 'T^HE winter evening spills 
 
 Its store of quietness ineffable, 
 And from its horn of beauty fills 
 The empty elms with sunset. 
 
 Low fields lie blue in distance ; the grove throws 
 A shadow-copse on the gleaming lake's repose. 
 Against the darkness glows 
 One lamp, a diamond. 
 
 43 
 
A Matter for the Police 
 
 as late from Cumnor hill 
 To Oxford town I went, 
 
 Words which transcend poor shepherd's skill 
 A signboard did present. 
 Haply some clerk who wears the gown 
 Can set their purport free .... 
 'Bear left in centre of the town 
 For Banbury'. 
 
 Thyrsis, it seems an oversight 
 
 To leave a bear at large, 
 
 Yet who shall blame the fearful wight 
 
 Who so forsook his charge ? 
 
 Was it for this grew Banbury cross, 
 
 Her longed-for guest delayed ? 
 
 Is she still peevish o'er the loss ? 
 
 Still in the shade ? 
 
 O vanished days of high romance, 
 
 Which had of bears no lack ! 
 
 Can it be true, this wondrous chance? 
 
 And come the dragons back? 
 
 In Oxford streets of grave renown 
 
 Be there such toys to see ? 
 
 'Bear left in centre of the town 
 
 For Banbury!' 
 
 44 
 
Norton Common 
 
 T^LOWING at last, now Fix 
 
 -- Through willowherb's jungle of gray, dry sticks 
 
 Straggles, while thwart-flung twig and grasses 
 
 In flakes of shadow his waves thrust down. 
 
 Black-berried privet cowers, drab, forlorn, 
 
 And the ragged thorn 
 
 Out of all his swelling, crimson crown 
 
 Scarce a handful lifts of wrinkled haws. 
 
 Flits furtive jay round bushes brown, 
 
 And, with sudden rush under briar's red clusters, 
 
 Fugitive blackbird flusters. 
 
 Through the mist-suffused air, fine-drawn like gauze, 
 
 A filni3 r wraith, December passes, 
 
 And, seeming at rest in the heaven's half-height, 
 
 The sun that should climb hangs mild and white. 
 
 45 
 
Five Elms 
 
 TTIVE elms against a sunset, 
 *- The cawing rooks' bare towers; 
 Pink flush of budded almond; 
 White glow of damson flowers - 
 
 Gaze, heart, and from the vision 
 Gain peace for weary hours ! 
 Seer of a thousand sunsets 
 And countless nights of flowers! 
 
 46 
 
Twelfth Night 
 
 "XTOW is the time to build the fire which shows 
 
 * ^ With what fair rites our Holy-tide must close ; 
 
 For, as the Wise Men came with gifts, so we 
 
 Finish the Feast of God's Nativity 
 
 With incense such as puts their pomps to shame. 
 
 Laurel now gives up its green ghost in flame 
 
 And pungent mists that mount to roof and rafter, 
 
 Falling, a cloudy fragrance, brief while after. 
 
 Bright-blazing holly, brightlier-blazing yew, 
 
 Fierce-spluttering, die; with sprigs of Mary's Dew,* 
 
 And snapping, resinous pine (more sweet than myrrh), 
 
 And polished barberry, swart juniper, 
 
 Neat box, and ivy dull, and (last to go) 
 
 White-waxen-berried, tough-leaved mistletoe. 
 
 Nay, for the end, in pagan rite allow 
 
 To burn of sombre yew one crackling bough, 
 
 That so the gracious little Lars who dwell 
 
 With us and this our hearth have guarded well, 
 
 May take the spitting fire for leaping salt. 
 
 Nor will the season's King impute for fault 
 
 That our glad spirits on this holy night 
 
 Invoked the flickering wraith of old delight. 
 
 * Rosemary. 
 
 47 
 
Half- Lights 
 
 1VTOW on this shadowed mood 
 ^ ^ What message falls? 
 As one who hears in a wood 
 Echo of vanishing calls, 
 Surely I caught through stir 
 Of the minutes' tick low cries? 
 Caught through the candle's blur 
 Light of remembered eyes? 
 
 I am listening, would ye speak ! 
 Ah, if your love were here, 
 He would be strong, now weak! 
 The vision dimmed would clear! 
 Ruined and foiled though left, 
 I should repel Death's scorn ! 
 More than the Strong Man's theft 
 Would from his grasp be torn ! 
 
 48 
 
Tliis Ancient TJiorn 
 
 'T^HIS ancient thorn now like a beggar stands, 
 
 Thrusting through tattered sleeves its agued hands 
 That shake to the chill breeze, a mendicant 
 For such poor boon as niggard skies will grant 
 (Dribbling, as misers might, faint, straggling beams, 
 Bronze rays of light, for Summer's golden streams). 
 Yet in old days this beggar was a Chief, 
 Regal with flowery crown and emerald leaf; 
 To beast and bird his bounteous house was free, 
 A haunt of building wren and singing bee, 
 Each scented bough of shining pensioners 
 More full than is the fire-bright, gracious furze 
 Scale-burnished beetles, chafers, hoverer-flies, 
 And moths with powdered plumes and soft, deep eyes. 
 Here, where his subjects made their choice resort, 
 The Elvish Monarch held his jolly court, 
 Under a canopy rich-garlanded, 
 Where warm night-winds a fragrant incense shed. 
 Yet still one branch survives; and still, with Spring, 
 Life will flood back to this dead, dreaming thing, 
 The swelling sap will rise, the old delight 
 Wrap up one wrinkled arm with blossomed white. 
 
 49 
 
Wild Broom 
 
 O PERISHING, wasteful Broom, 
 Each spur and spire 
 
 A splendour outleaping, a flickering fire, 
 Thou wilt burn thyself out! 
 Why lavish thy gold 
 
 On this bleak hillside where no eyes behold, 
 Save the flitting birds, that pass unaware, 
 And the scuttering bunnies who never care ? 
 Be thrifty, and keep for the bare, dark days 
 Some wisp of bright raiment, some spark of thy blaze! 
 Be wiser, O Broom! 
 Be wastrel no longer, but mindful of doom ! 
 
 But the Broom - 
 
 I flame, I expire; 
 
 I am Beauty's plumage, my wings are a fire; 
 
 For a boon, neither buying nor sold, 
 
 I scatter my gold. 
 
 I have made this hillside one far-trumpeted shout. 
 
 Sky and field may behold, 
 
 And the wind-ragged rout 
 
 Of tumultous clouds, 
 
 The passionate dawn, and the hurrying crowds 
 
 Of fear-stricken lives, they may pause, they may listen 
 
 To my pealing thanksgiving, 
 
 My clamouring glory, my fierce boughs that glisten 
 
 50 
 
And blaze to dry scrub, as I perish by living. 
 Your chaffer I flout, 
 
 Your marts and your pricings, your wisdom I scout. 
 But oh, the mad joy as I burn myself out ! 
 
 51 
 
Barren Sloe 
 
 O BLACKTHORN myriad-budded, 
 Lifting your tiny fists of clenched white! 
 Be braver, Bush, for Winter is vanished quite! 
 Your fears forget, and open your hands shut tight! 
 Now for eyes' delight 
 
 Your treasures unlock, that our ways be flooded 
 With beauty ! With snowy blossom thick 
 Each naked bough, each bare, sharp stick 
 Cover, that hither whoever strays 
 May shout unawares, as he stands at gaze! 
 Ah, Bush, there is wrath through the copse! 
 The blackbird chides, as he calls to his mate; 
 The rook, as he tugs in the elm-tree tops, 
 For his nest the branches tearing, drops 
 The twig from his beak, and guffaws in amaze; 
 Scream- voiced jay is harshly scolding; 
 Robin and wren hold gossip, beholding; 
 You make them feel cold, shrill squirrels chatter; 
 Bunny sits up and ponders the matter; 
 Chaffinch and thrush, in a tumult of scorn, 
 Cry 'Fie on the Bush of the bare, black thorn!' 
 O Bush, you are laggard, are late! 
 Why, elm has flowered, the raspberry brakes 
 Are dreaming of buds! Even bramble knows, 
 The forest slut, with her drab, slack ways, 
 That her autumn finery tawdry shows! 
 
 52 
 
She is getting new leaves. Bold furze is ablaze ! 
 See, pussy-willows their halls have decked 
 For a marriage-feast, where in silk attire 
 And robes gold-powdered the lovers have come; 
 And a jubilant quire 
 
 Rushes in, till the chambers rock with hum 
 Of the minstrel-bees, till the whole house sings. 
 Clumsy and joyous, big bumble shakes 
 The catkined stems; peacock butterfly flits 
 From his winter niche, to the golden-flecked, 
 Mad, blossoming trees, and in sunlight sits, 
 Forgetting how storms his glory have specked, 
 Fanning and shutting his faded wings. 
 
 53 
 
Starlight 
 
 OCEAN, that eating Pride, 
 Seizes the sullen lands; 
 Wave after wave, with rushing tide 
 He ploughs the frightened sands. 
 
 Through crowded years of wrong 
 Filching our fruitful miles, 
 He has decked out his bosom strong 
 With flashing, emerald isles. 
 
 A bitter thief! but yet 
 
 His swelling wraths assuage. 
 
 For a new play the sands are set ; 
 
 New lights attend the stage. 
 
 He is but a drowsy roar, 
 Far from these glistening shelves; 
 With link and lamp the dancing shore 
 'S a festival of elves. 
 
 54 
 
The Pillars of Hercules 
 
 '"pUSCAN or Tyrian, Athenian bold, 
 
 Arab or Spaniard, ghosts of voyageurs old, 
 Thrice-valiant hearts who sailed these middle seas, 
 Seeking the pillared gates of Hercules, 
 A westward-beating scud, a flying drift 
 Thrusting to sunset and the land's steep rift! 
 Great, vanished friends, the self-same sights ye had 
 And with the self-same glories were made glad, 
 Who saw the white sierras shoulder aloft 
 Their snowfields tall, whence airs blow cool and soft, 
 Who watched the puffins from the tranquil wave 
 Spring, and the circling gulls ! But ye were brave ! 
 Knowing no earth beyond, but waters waste! 
 While I float on, nor fear lest currents haste, 
 Nor think, beyond these cliffs, of i'inis-terre, 
 Sure of new capes where'er my bark can fare, 
 Scorning all rumoured tale of God-cursed straits 
 Or let of wildered waves and storm-clashed gates. 
 
Shadoius 
 
 "VTE clouds and trees that cast 
 
 Your shadows on the lake, 
 Upon my mind you shall 
 No shadows make. 
 
 For like a loving face 
 From heaven you bend, 
 Saying, how great the peace 
 That would befriend. 
 
 Going my joyous way, 
 I hate the day's hot shine, 
 And drink your calm, sweet rest 
 Like cool, rich wine. 
 
 Fall closer, closer yet! 
 And thrust fierce light afar ! 
 Keep back the climbing moon 
 And eve's proud star. 
 
 56 
 
Freedom 
 
 ~\ 1 7HY should I shrink from life, 
 * * Who have seen death's face ? 
 How should I, if I would, 
 For fear find place? 
 
 Anger and scorn of men 
 He leaves aside, 
 Who has trampled into shards 
 His brittle pride. 
 
 Strange words are cast about, 
 And shouts arise, 
 That these are foiled, and that 
 Has won the prize! 
 
 But from my cherished hopes 
 This boast remains: 
 No crown I seek, whose limbs 
 Will brook no chains! 
 
 57 
 
Tlie Cloud- Messenger 
 
 HPHESE clouds that all my heavens overcast 
 
 Keep some their place awhile, then die in rain; 
 Others, before the scurrying winds amain, 
 Flee to where, hill on giant hill amassed, 
 Sown with white brooks, darkened with forests vast, 
 The towering homes of cold and moist disdain 
 The rank, wet flats, lush fields, hot, winking plain. 
 Cloud, wind, may flee; but me here toil holds fast. 
 
 So, like the exiled servant of the God, 
 I watch the changing skies. If wind and cloud 
 My thought might bear, then paths by me untrod 
 Should speak my message ; peaks which mists enshroud 
 Would clang it ; rains would write it on the sod : 
 Dark trees would whisper; cataracts cry aloud. 
 
 58 
 
The Victor 
 
 "pvEAREST, if God should take 
 *-' This life of mine, so fraught 
 With valour for your sake, 
 Though once a thing of naught 
 (When Death so poor a prey 
 Passed by and scorned to slay), 
 
 The Angels, far-renowned 
 And tired of earthly feats, 
 Seeing a man so crowned 
 And singing in their streets, 
 And seeking whence he had 
 A right so brave and glad, 
 
 Would say : 'His days were well ; 
 Failure he knew; and pain; 
 Living, he walked in Hell; 
 Saw hopes and comrades slain; 
 Yea, joys were, leaf by leaf, 
 Shattered by winds of grief. 
 
 'Yet even this Tree, so bare, 
 Blossomed, and filled with song. 
 A Lady wise and fair, 
 Doing her brightness wrong, 
 This man from all the crowd, 
 Made with her beauty proud.' 
 
 59 
 
Mid- August 
 
 A LL in a golden gown 
 ** Now c?a/ upstands : 
 The rains no longer drown 
 The patient lands. 
 
 In the mango-boughs all day 
 The squirrel shrills; 
 The mynas' angry play 
 The sunlight fills. 
 
 From joy the butterflies 
 Have ceased to flit, 
 Nor at your coming rise, 
 But bask and sit; 
 
 And, while the whole world sings, 
 In the path arow, 
 Fanning their gaudy wings, 
 They burn and glow. 
 
 CO 
 
Banian Verses 
 
 NOW for their winter feast 
 In the banian boughs joy-tremulous guests are 
 
 shrilling ; 
 
 The tree is a laurelled priest, 
 
 His old palms spreading, the air with blessing filling. 
 The winds fly forth from his hands, 
 And wide through the ways his benedictions scatter 
 'Lo', they cry, 'where he stands, 
 Offering fruits, four on each four-leaved platter! 
 Priest and host, he calls, 
 He beckons you in to the feast he has consecrated!' 
 
 Wings to his windy halls 
 
 Rush in, till a hungry horde is gorged and sated. 
 
 61 
 
11. 
 
 AS a swarm of bees in a flowery bush aswing, 
 That sways to their weight, so now to the banian 
 
 seeding 
 
 The birds fly up, and flutter, three parts awing. 
 Ah, Banian, see at your breast your children feeding! 
 They cry, they clutch, for the red berries thrust and 
 
 wrestle ; 
 
 Your fruit is their life, they cling in your breast 
 and nestle. 
 
 in. 
 
 T ORD, when I hear Thy feasting birds in Thy banian, 
 
 -* ' Greatly do I rejoice; 
 
 For I have buoyant moods which lack a voice; 
 
 But these are fluttering pleasures, a jubilant throng, 
 
 Discordant gratitudes, far too happy for song. 
 
 See how they tug and rend the ripe, red berries! 
 
 This is their orchard, these their harvest of cherries! 
 
 Lord, let my praise go up with them from Thy banian! 
 
 62 
 
Egrets in Rain 
 
 /"^ATTLE-egrets amid the cows 
 ^^ Strutting and stalking, 
 
 Swaying and rocking, solemnly, stiltedly walking, 
 Why, when it rains, do you squat on the fence, 
 Huddled and fuddled and muddled, 
 With heads all sunken, with rough, ruffled, dense 
 White feathers touzled, as if you could thus 
 Ward off the cold storm, the heavens' damp fuss? 
 You are welted and belted and pelted, 
 You are wretched and wet, 
 
 But, for all your martyrlike airs, no pity you get! 
 You have banians, bamboos, 
 Or pipals, or mangoes, whichever you choose 
 Why, any tree pould give you a house 
 Yet you sit in the rain, 
 
 With bodies that scold, and drowned looks that 
 complain! 
 
 G3 
 
Green Pigeon 
 
 KEEN pigeon came to our pipal, 
 The giant who year by year for a festival-tide 
 His chambers that rock with kindly mirth flings wide 
 (He is regal in bounty, our pipal). 
 He was crammed with excited mynas and saw-voiced 
 
 crows, 
 
 At his base each night the jackals gorged in rows 
 (He has pensioners man3 r , the pipal) ; 
 Kingcrows fluttered, and tiny wings were flitting, 
 Aloft an indifferent, bald-browed kite was sitting 
 (He too had a use for our pipal) ; 
 When, slipping in like tremulous, timid flame, 
 To the vulgar, screaming mob our shy guests came 
 (Green pigeon came to the pipal); 
 Softer their plumes than the clouds' swan-down, and 
 
 the sheen 
 
 Of rainbows burnished their forest gold and green 
 (They had robbed the woods for our pipal) ; 
 And the screeching parrots were shamed, and the 
 
 kokils' clamour 
 Died on the wind, and the coppersmith stilled his 
 
 hammer 
 
 (There was peace in the swaying pipal) ; 
 The roller hushed, as he rocketed out to the light 
 His robes were gaudy, glaring, garishly bright 
 (Green pigeon had come to the pipal) ; 
 
 64 
 
The kingcrow ceased to bully, the myna to scold; 
 A gentler green was glowing, a glimmering gold 
 (Green pigeon had come to our pipal). 
 
 65 
 
Evening Voluntary 
 
 NOW is the time of the great evening peace, 
 When light and shadow lie side by side, 
 Chequering the fields; day's oppression and pride 
 Are ending, the long misery and heat. 
 The coppersmith* flags at his forge ; his hammer's beat, 
 Tonk, tonk, tonk, sounds but at intervals. 
 A cool breath stirs; voices of birds awaken; 
 A kingcrow chases a kite; pert, golden-eyed, 
 A myna struts ; on a sudden the air is shaken 
 With yelling laughter of kokils; an oriole calls; 
 These in their fashion all witness their joy of release. 
 Their fierce, proud Lord forgoes his power to oppress. 
 
 I will seek the woods, the shining quietness 
 Of sal and flowering laurel there wait till falls 
 The drift of darkening shadows, and memory throws 
 Over loved trees and spirit her cloak of repose. 
 
 * The blue barbet. 
 
 66 
 
Encouragement to Pipals 
 
 TRANCING pipal leaves! 
 
 ' Net of the glowing silver that follows dawn ! 
 
 In endless revel you spend the hours. 
 
 At noon, if some chance wind come straying, 
 
 Instantly all your hosts are playing! 
 
 Rufflers, your points are flashing! You are swaying 
 
 A thousand ways at once, a twinkling sea ! 
 
 You have no flowers, 
 
 Nor at your feet a sunlit, emerald lawn, 
 
 But, O you rogues who intern the wandering light 
 
 And make your captive scatter his gold, 
 
 Who dance, dance, dance, 
 
 As reapers dance round their tied-up sheaves, 
 
 Dance, dance, dance, 
 
 As the waves dance, you who are waves of a tree ! 
 
 Joy have you brought to me, 
 
 Joy your joyous steps to behold, 
 
 Joy as deep as has come from sight 
 
 Of many a flower's fair countenance! 
 
 67 
 
Rebuke to Banians 
 
 "D ED-BERRIED banian, still unsatisfied, 
 * *- For all your swelling bulk and verdurous pride 
 Of sweeping branches, throwing out new sprays 
 And fibres ever, seeking still to raise 
 Fresh pillars and augment your kingdom vast, 
 Fenced from the sun and the destructive blast 
 Of the wild month of rains, that strips and tears 
 Tough pipals and to earth the siris bears, 
 Uproots the sturdy jack, and maims the teak ! 
 Somewhat in envy, banian, do I speak ; 
 Yet not unjustly. If my tree could show 
 One-tenth so rich a pomp, such scarlet glow 
 Of green-set fruit that feeds the scuffling bats 
 And eager birds, and even for sordid rats 
 Scatters a largesse. . .such a shining roof 
 Of glossy leaves, Night's Temple huge, sun-proof, 
 With cool, deep glooms where gods and flies awhile 
 Shelter from noon. . .with many a dappled aisle, 
 Where rays of light in harmless arrows fall, 
 And tired winds sleep, and birds forget to call. . . 
 If this were mine, I should not grab more land 
 Or seek proportions vaster, lot more grand; 
 I would not still of waxing empire dream, 
 Chamber to chamber add, and giant beam 
 With beam inlay, an endless swink and toil ; 
 With nervous, itching fingers still more soil 
 Grasp and for yet more swollen kingdom strive ! 
 
 No, I should rest, and save my soul alive. 
 
 68 
 
Spectators 
 
 a wind, which drives like a hooded snake 
 The dust before it, crying: 'Get out of the way, 
 You little fellows ! The Champions are coming to play, 
 So clear this world, our pitch! Run away, and hide!' 
 And the black-cloaked, dignified myna steps aside; 
 And that pert cockney, the chattering squirrel, 
 Runs for his life ; the roller, impudent swank, 
 Who sits on the goalpost, sunning his gaudy wings, 
 Drawing all eyes in the shimmer, says 'I'm off!'; 
 The coppersmith closes his forge, and even the crow 
 Sidles to shelter. 
 
 Gray clouds veil the sky, 
 Armies gathered in silence; then a swaying, 
 Wavering wall of rain sweeps over the field ; 
 The round-headed, glossy-leaved jacks are all acurtsy, 
 Bobbing and bending this way and that they yield. 
 The great game, rain and wind at football together, 
 Holds a million eyes, of a host that take secret station 
 And watch with swelling, speechless indignation. 
 
 69 
 
Himalayan Eulbul 
 
 "^IRE-CAPPED bulbul, flame-mantilla'd friend, 
 -*- How will this mask of joy and fear have end ? 
 Thou in the branches swaying, hurling about 
 Thy body, so that all thy actions shout, 
 Thou hast no care except to indulge the thrill 
 Of winds that roam the pine-sharp-scented hill, 
 Which bear thy reckless body as a boat, 
 That now shoots rapids, now aloft will float. 
 Yet, in the night, of hawk and knife-beaked owl 
 And sinuous snake and cruel claws that prowl 
 Thy dreams are rife, and agonised cries 
 Through the still darkness I have heard arise. 
 Then airs which sport with thee by day can make 
 Each huddled bough with drowsy terror shake. 
 
 70 
 
Life and Death 
 
 AT the Bengali service, which was long, 
 With endless droning hymns, with droned-out 
 
 prayer 
 
 Which seemed to make the universe its care, 
 Working the springing spirit of man deep wrong, 
 A drowsy, fumbling rumble of parrot-phrase, 
 Dull, dull ! My hat, but it was dull ! 
 So dull, it seemed to daze, 
 Sandbagging thought, vaguely vexing the ear 
 And brain, which were too wise to admit and hear. . . 
 Suddenly at the preacher's back there shone, 
 Framed in an open window, a glorious sight, 
 A mighty banian; and my heart was gone 
 To service there, with squirrel and pagan bird, 
 With butterflies, and leaves, by sharp gusts stirred. 
 Do you not see? The whole thing was living! 
 There was worship, there was prayer, there thanks- 
 giving ! 
 
 The tree was glad ; its spreading boughs were resting; 
 A million happy lives, wild with elation, 
 Scampered and flew, or in its depths were nesting; 
 Shadow and light, in magical alternation, 
 Chequered the clear, brown earth ; with flooded light 
 Its towering body was bathed, its leaves were bright. 
 Here were dead books, drugged souls, here apathy, 
 Murmuring chant, and aimless, nerveless word, 
 
 71 
 
Wandering in endless track, about and about 
 But ah, how bright the Tree! 
 How good the Life without! 
 
 72 
 
Church Reform 
 
 TTVERY church should have behind the pulpit 
 
 r 
 
 * ' A window taking up the whole of the wall ; 
 Behind the window there should be a tree, 
 Banian, or oak, or beech, or ash, or elm, 
 Magnolia, wattle, chestnut, baobab, 
 Mangrove, sandal, cedar of Lebanon, 
 (Anyway, something huge, with roomy arms). 
 Squirrels and every sort of bird should here 
 Be cherished I would have it felony 
 To bring a gun within a thousand yards, 
 Unless to shoot a preacher once a year; 
 And even he, I think, might be let off, 
 If the church stewards kept the tree well stocked. 
 
A Yellow Moon 
 
 A yellow moon, and lilies white - 
 ^"*- Against a mango screen, 
 A pleasaunce set for Love's delight, 
 With lawns of sloping green. 
 
 White bela, Champa's pungent whorls, 
 Nagkeshar, wiser far, 
 If here he brought the Rose of Girls, 
 To win his timid war! 
 
 His bee-strung bow, his arrows five, 
 The silly Thief might burn! 
 My heart, through ever} r vein alive, 
 To one dear face would turn! 
 
 74 
 
"DENEATH this pipal, on a verminous mat, 
 
 -"-^ With skin-clad ribs and withered shank she lies, 
 
 Dying by inches, after her fierce day 
 
 Of labour carrying water, bearing babes, 
 
 And nameless menial tasks the anguished toil 
 
 For the scant meal which came with so much fear. 
 
 Though we escape the rending hands of pain, 
 
 And shaking fevers, famine's choking grip, 
 
 When we have slaved, and striven, and brought 
 
 forth life, 
 
 Have sheltered youth to power, for our reward 
 Await us age, and agues, twitching limbs, 
 And brain too worn to care save for release. 
 
Tlie Banian's Guests 
 
 HHHESE sojourners of a day and night pause here, 
 -*- One with the friendly life of tree and road. 
 
 Against the many-twisted serpent-trunk 
 
 They prop a sheet of corrugated iron, 
 
 Filched from some railway-shed, and hang with pots 
 
 The bumps and cracks provided for their use ; 
 
 A lean, appalling 'pie' keeps guard on goods 
 
 That kites and lepers would be loath to pinch ; 
 
 Their stolen kerosene tins crows inspect 
 
 And pass them, certified as empty found. 
 
 Beneath a better bivouac by far 
 
 Than those I had in Mesopotamian sands, 
 
 Black, matted heads peep out and watch the world. 
 
 76 
 
TJirough the Rain 
 
 T SAW a jungle-dweller, dark, unclad 
 L Except for waist-rag in his ears he had 
 Rosettes of oleander, glimmering red 
 Stars on the close-webbed blackness of his head. 
 Stark in the drizzling eve he stood, and made 
 Tough sa/-roots leap beneath his mattock's blade. 
 His smoky hut, and hungry, squalid brood, 
 Waiting these sticks to cook their scanty food, 
 Sufficed, and at his toil he smote amain, 
 Flaunting his gladness through the cheerless rain. 
 
 77 
 
Ekteswar Mela. 
 
 A GES since, in a blinding flash, 
 ** He came to earth, with shattering crash, 
 (Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord) 
 
 Cleaving the quaking skies asunder, 
 With lightning chisel and mallet of thunder, 
 (Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord) 
 
 The tallest simul, from crown to root, 
 He smote, and an old man slew at its foot, 
 (Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord) 
 
 And, after the storm, the people found 
 A jagged rock on the blackened ground 
 (Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord). 
 
 So amid the trees they built a dome, 
 Shrining the stone, the Great God's home; 
 (Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord) 
 
 And, year by year, as the tired year ends, 
 When the God through heaven his war-clouds sends, 
 (Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord) 
 
 When his white plumes flash on the dark expanse, 
 And his thunders rattle, his lightnings dance, 
 (Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord) 
 
 78 
 
Women of barren, aching breast, 
 Women by grievous Fate distressed 
 
 (By Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord), 
 
 With frightened faces and eyes that stare 
 Bright as the pots of fire they bear 
 
 (For Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord), 
 
 In procession move to the shrine, and throw 
 Their burdens down, till the ground's aglow 
 (For Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord); 
 
 Aglow with the tongues that flicker and shoot 
 Like a thousand snakes that sway to a flute 
 (To Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord), 
 
 Then home, through the folk and the clamours loud, 
 On the dust-choked roads which the ox-carts crowd 
 (From Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord), 
 
 With hearts where Hope's red flames upthrust, 
 Lit at those flames which danced in the dust 
 (To Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord), 
 
 They fare, through the eve that's athrob with drum 
 And cymbal's clash, and with shouted hum 
 ' Siva the Sage, Ekteswar's Lord '. 
 
 79 
 
Flowers in Bowl 
 
 'T^HESE tigerlilies' petals curve 
 -*- Back like oryx-horns; their arrogant grace 
 Makes my brain an Arabian Nights; they dance, 
 Sultans in the Damascus of my soul. 
 O sinister, ebony-dotted, beautiful flowers! 
 Mind of the world, that Thou shouldst think of these! 
 
 Fire is a thought of Thine; this pine-fed flame; 
 And smoke which grows from fire: these warm, dark 
 
 firs; 
 
 Flower-downy moths which flit from fir to flame; 
 This wall of mist, which shuts, heaven-high, vale-deep. 
 A thousand things there are whose beauty pains, 
 Tearing the exquisite sense with sharp delight: 
 The broad, gold smile of sunflower; prim device: 
 Of snapdragon, dainty in such different hues; 
 Begonia on these climbing, cloud-wrapt ways; . 
 Demure, red-tongue-outthrusting fuchsia; dense 
 Fragrance of heliotrope; the crinkled floss 
 Of evening primrose, pollened thick, so soft 
 The fingers feel it like a fairy's plumes; 
 Pink sea-thrift carpeting a crumbled cliff; 
 A Cornish moor, bee-murmurous, heather-scented, 
 Sun-drowsy, lulled with chime of double seas; 
 A Cotswold hazel-coppice, primrose-starred; 
 Moonlight on Indian waters; frosty skies 
 
 80 
 
Of cold, bright stars. 
 
 Mind whence my mind was made, 
 Thinker, Dreamer, Painter, Architect ! 
 Why hast Thou so with beauty crammed this world, 
 Which we have crowded close with graves of war, 
 With factories, palaces, and works of art? 
 
 81 
 
Retrospect 
 
 A II, I muse, by any other channel 
 ** Smoothly had this river reached the sea! 
 But this has thwarting sands and black, strait chasms, 
 Roaring gulfs, one eddying jeopardy ! 
 Spate of melting Alp and Andes fills, 
 Sudden torrents rushing from the hills ; 
 Racing Rhone, and Jumna's turbid waves; 
 Rain-augmented Meghna fiercely raves. 
 
 Falls on my ear at last that deeper sound, 
 From vaster swell and waters more profound? 
 Sweep up, O Sea ! and lay these tides to rest 
 And guide the fretted stream to thy strong breast ! 
 
 82 
 
Recollection 
 
 /COMRADE or comrades shall I say? 
 
 ^-^ For Thou wast with a band ! 
 
 Brave hearts, braver than any here, 
 
 Dear, beyond praising dear, 
 
 Lovers of me, beloved friends who perished, 
 
 Protesilaus-like, 'mid scattering spray 
 
 Of those adventurous seas you cast behind, 
 
 Tingeing with blood the new life's hard-bought strand! 
 
 You from the thunder of the conquered surf, 
 
 Through a screaming air and past the death-swept 
 
 sand, 
 
 In a morning deaf with hate, with battle blind, 
 Climbed to the sacred turf. 
 
 Ah, loved with tears, Avith dry-eyed grief, with heart 
 Aching and shrinking! Who, if I could tell 
 Of the deep pangs the mind bears graven well, 
 Would yield belief, when to the day's demand 
 Needs must I take a cloudless face and hand 
 Not faltering, neither tired nor flagging aught, 
 Urged to their task by hid, imperious thought? 
 Gone are the days, the pleasant sights we cherished. . . 
 Spring, and the cowslipped green, the cricket sward, 
 Autumn with health and game, and winter's smart 
 Tingling each limb. Now shine no more for me 
 Your glorious eyes, dim in that Devil's Grave, 
 Nor comes your King. But I through toil-filled years 
 
 83 6* 
 
Have kept the faith, through weariness and fears 
 Longing for breaking dawn. Though rains should lack, 
 Though harvests fail, though friends no more come 
 
 back, 
 
 I shall not fail, who had so dear a Lord, 
 And own such graves hallowing a hostile sea 
 And hard-won cliffs of Life's Gallipoli. 
 
 84 
 
Invocation 
 
 to the smouldering fire of ray heart, 
 Spirit of Inspiration! 
 Scattering sparks, beating the embers, awaking 
 Tongues of flame that dance and shout in elation! 
 Cleaving, piercing, dividing apart 
 Night, which hangs like a huge bat, drowsy and blind! 
 So travellers, thridding their ways 
 On the dull road, shall for a moment pause, 
 And stand in the splendour, clapping their hands for 
 
 delight, 
 
 Or, silent in wondering happiness, stare at the sight, 
 At the swaying shadows, the leaping god who awes 
 Whirling amid the flames' intoxication; 
 With burning eyes shall gaze, 
 
 Lifting glad brows whence the glow shall fade to find 
 In memory's wells its deep, securer station. 
 Spirit of Inspiration ! 
 
 These shall in my bright moment tower, then wend 
 Onward with praise to their dark journey's end. 
 
 85 
 
Epilogue 
 
 1 T 7ITH words as counters, talk of day and night, 
 
 * Sun, moon and stars, using such toys as these, 
 I play, who towards the timeless shape my flight, 
 Seeking a home that knows nor lands nor seas. 
 Hereafter, on the mirror of that mind 
 If any shadow of these times should fall, 
 Amid that brighter world how shall I find 
 Utterance that can my vanished dreams recall, 
 How magical the orange moon arose 
 Over my palms or on stark Moab hills; 
 How musical the brook of Weston flows 
 Through hazel shade which March with windflowers 
 
 fills? 
 
 So, after sleep, its mists of fleeing thought 
 Vainly upon the mind's clear sky are sought. 
 
 86 
 
John in Prison. 
 
 'This volume proclaims Mr. Thompson a poet of high gifts ; he has 
 inspiration, he has sincerity, he has elevated expression, he has a technique 
 that is rarely at fault. Much may be forgiven to one who has "made" 
 half a dozen things that are moving and memorable.' Daily Chronicle. 
 
 Ennerdale Bridge. 
 
 'There are muny individual, beautiful things in this volume, but, above 
 all, it is the fabric on whic-h this poetry is woven that gives it ita rarest 
 quality. Poetry may sometimes seem a thing as distinct from the life and 
 being of its m;iker as a flower in a dull and heedless room. Here, one 
 might say, it is the room itself that at the same time graces and is concen- 
 trated in the flower.' Westminster Gazette. 
 
 ' This sincerely, gravely English thought lodged securely in ihe strange 
 imagery of India is something novel for poetry . . . The interesting thing, 
 the suggestive thiog, about his Indian poems is that they contain the same 
 finely traditional style of thought and outlook and imaginative language 
 the best part of :m essential English nationalism but embodied in colouring 
 and eircumst:uif!3 which are profoundly Indian.' Times Lit. Suppt. 
 
 Vas Victis. 
 
 ' He writes of Syria and of Lebanon in a way that no one but Flecker 
 IIMS surpassed. The Vook has an importance out of all proportion to its 
 hi/.e, and reveals a poet who will go very far. It is our misfortune not to 
 have read any other works of Mr. Thompson ; it will, however, be a 
 pleasant task to watch his certain progress to fame.' The Near East. 
 
 ' Pictures bitten in with a strong, relentless hand ' Times Lit. Suppt. 
 'Almost intolerable in its gaunt pathos'. Aberdeen Daily Journal. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 Form L9-50m-7,'54 (5990)444 
 
 Alt* 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
A 000564563 
 
 FR 
 
 6039 
 T372r