The streaks predicting streams of blood.
VI
She thinks they may mean something; thinks
They may mean nothing: haply both.
Where darkness all her
daylight drinks,
She fain would find a leader lynx,
Not too much taxing
mental sloth.
VII
Cleft like the fated house in twain,
One half is, Arm! and one, Retrench!
Gambetta's word on dull MacMahon:
'The cow that sees a passing train':
So spies she Russian, German, French.
VIII
She? no, her
weakness: she unbraced
Among those athletes fronting storms!
The muscles less of steel than paste,
Why, they of nature feel distaste
For flash, much more for push, of arms.
IX
The poet sings, and well know we,
That 'iron draws men after it.'
But
toweringwealth may seem the tree
Which bears the fruit INDEMNITY,
And draw as fast as battle's fit,
X
If
feeble be the hand on guard,
Alas, alas! And nations are
Still the mad forces, though the scarred.
Should they once deem our
emblem Pard
Wagger of tail for all save war; -
XI
Mechanically screwed to flail
His flanks by Presses conjuring fear; -
A money-bag with head and tail; -
Too late may
valour then avail!
As you
beheld, my cannonier,
XII
When with the staff of Benedek,
On the
plateau of Koniggratz,
You saw below that wedgeing speck;
Foresaw proud Austria rammed to wreck,
Where Chlum drove deep in smoky jets.
February 1887.
TO CHILDREN: FOR TYRANTS
I
Strike not thy dog with a stick!
I did it yesterday:
Not to undo though I gained
The Paradise: heavy it rained
On Kobold's flanks, and he lay.
II
Little Bruno, our long-ear pup,
From his hunt had come back to my heel.
I heard a sharp worrying sound,
And Bruno foamed on the ground,
With Koby as making a meal.
III
I did what I could not undo
Were the gates of the Paradise shut
Behind me: I deemed it was just.
I left Koby crouched in the dust,
Some yards from the woodman's hut.
IV
He bewhimpered his welting, and I
Scarce thought it enough for him: so,
By degrees, through the upper box-grove,
Within me an old story hove,
Of a man and a dog: you shall know.
V
The dog was of novel breed,
The Shannon retriever, untried:
His master, an old Irish lord,
In an oaken
armchair snored
At
midnight, whisky beside.
VI
Perched up a
desolate tower,
Where the black storm-wind was a whip
To set it nigh
spinning, these two
Were alone, like the last of a crew,
Outworn in a wave-beaten ship.
VII
The dog lifted
muzzle, and sniffed;
He quitted his couch on the rug,
Nose to floor, nose aloft; whined, barked;
And,
finding the signals unmarked,
Caught a hand in a death-grapple tug.
VIII
He pulled till his master jumped
For fury of wrath, and laid on
With the length of a tough knotted staff,
Fit to drive the life flying like chaff,
And leave a sheer carcase anon.
IX
That done, he sat, panted, and cursed
The vile cross of this brute: nevermore
Would he house it to rear such a cur!
The dog dragged his legs, pained to stir,
Eyed his master, dropped, barked at the door.
X
Then his master raised head too, and sniffed:
It struck him the dog had a sense
That honoured both dam and sire.
You have guessed how the tower was afire.
The Shannon retriever dates thence.
XI
I mused: saw the pup ease his heart
Of his
instinct for chasing, and sink
Overwrought by
excitement so new:
A scene that for Koby to view
Was the seizure of nerves in a link.
XII
And part
sympathetic, and part
Imitatively, raged my poor brute;
And I, not thinking of ill,
Doing eviller: nerves are still
Our
savage too quick at the root.
XIII
They spring us: I proved it, albeit
I played executioner then
For
discipline, justice, the like.
Yon stick I had handy to strike
Should have warned of the
tyrant in men.
XIV
You read in your History books,
How the Prince in his youth had a mind
For governing
gently his land.
Ah, the use of that
weapon at hand,
When the
temper is other than kind!
XV
At home all was well; Koby's ribs
Not so sore as my thoughts: if, beguiled,
He forgives me, his
criminal air
Throws a shade of Llewellyn's despair
For the hound slain for saving his child.
THE WOODS OF WESTERMAIN
I
Enter these enchanted woods,
You who dare.
Nothing harms beneath the leaves
More than waves a
swimmer cleaves.
Toss your heart up with the lark,
Foot at peace with mouse and worm,
Fair you fare.
Only at a dread of dark
Quaver, and they quit their form:
Thousand eyeballs under hoods
Have you by the hair.
Enter these enchanted woods,
You who dare.
II
Here the snake across your path
Stretches in his golden bath:
Mossy-footed squirrels leap
Soft as winnowing plumes of Sleep:
Yaffles on a
chuckle skim
Low to laugh from branches dim:
Up the pine, where sits the star,
Rattles deep the moth-winged jar.
Each has business of his own;
But should you
distrust a tone,
Then beware.
Shudder all the
haunted roods,
All the eyeballs under hoods
Shroud you in their glare.
Enter these enchanted woods,
You who dare.
III
Open
hither, open hence,
Scarce a
bramble weaves a fence,
Where the
strawberry runs red,
With white star-flower overhead;
Cumbered by dry twig and cone,
Shredded husks of seedlings flown,
Mine of mole and spotted flint:
Of dire wizardry no hint,
Save mayhap the print that shows
Hasty outward-tripping toes,
Heels to
terror on the mould.
These, the woods of Westermain,
Are as others to behold,
Rich of wreathing sun and rain;
Foliage lustreful around
Shadowed leagues of slumbering sound.
Wavy tree-tops, yellow whins,
Shelter eager minikins,
Myriads, free to peck and pipe:
Would you better? would you worse?
You with them may gather ripe
Pleasures flowing not from purse.
Quick and far as Colour flies
Taking the
delighted eyes,
You of any well that springs
May
unfold the heaven of things;
Have it
homely and within,
And thereof its
likeness win,
Will you so in soul's desire:
This do sages grant t' the lyre.
This is being bird and more,
More than glad
musician this;
Granaries you will have a store