Читать книгу: «Rebel Verses», страница 4

A. G. Webster

(Painter, Rebel, and Lover of Music)

 
Like old Sebastian Bach, who went alone,
Working, unnoticed, with a single aim,
He lived and moved amongst you all unknown;
You gave him neither honour nor civic fame;
No Freedom of your city crowned his head;
No recognition of his genius came:
But —
Citizens of Lincoln —
I tell you that your greatest citizen is dead!
 

Oh, to be Home

 
Oh! to be home, now that the Autumn's coming,
Where the clover's nodding and the bees are humming,
Where the sun is scorching over fields of hay,
And the country's ready for the harvest day;
Where the bullocks stand knee-deep in meadows, browsing,
Or underneath the shady trees are drowsing,
Where the corn is turning colour, fit to reap,
And in the sun, the horses lie asleep.
 
 
Oh! to be home, now that the harvest's ready,
Now the hay is gathered and the weather's steady,
Now the reaper-sails across the fields are flying,
And the barley – white as driven snow – is dying;
When overhead, the harvest moon rides full,
And daybreak brings a touch of frosty wool;
While stackyards clear, are ready for their turn,
And farmers smile across the level Hurn.
 
 
Oh! to be home, now that the winter's nigh,
And swifts by millions, flit about the sky,
When thatchers all get busy with their pegs,
And horses, out at grass, can stretch their legs;
When inns at night, are full of tired men,
Who've had a bumping harvest in the Fen;
Tis then, tis then, none but a fool would roam;
Tis then, tis then, I wish I were at home.
 

Give Soldiers a Vote?

 
Give soldiers a vote?
Don't talk so blame silly!
They've gone to the War
To beat Kyzer Billy;
And till that be done
There's plenty of fun.
 
 
The war may be pressing
But – Politics first!
Let's keep up the Game,
Though the Heavens should burst;
Then we're sure of our pay,
Till the very Last Day.
 
 
Great Scott! Don't you see
How we stand on the brink?
Give soldiers a vote?
They would say what they think;
And from power and pay
We should rapidly sink.
 
 
So don't talk about it,
Don't mention it now;
Let the men go to war
And the women to plough;
We Statesmen will govern…
The Lord, He knows how!
 

Alone

 
How now my heart! At this most fell cross-road
The night far darker than a pit surrounds,
And only by the lightning's fitful stroke
Can'st see the perils that beset thy course;
Too clear they loom on searing eyeballs flashed;
Certain thy fate whatever twist or turn;
Deep tolls a bell beneath the tempest's roar,
And soon thy long-drawn struggle will be done.
 
 
Thou art too steeped in artifice, old heart!
So cunning that thou hardly art discerned:
In caverns never touched by light of day
Thou stirrest unbeknown;
At first as lusty
As any pliant sapling in the spring,
Soon as the lonely bull's dark hide
Art hard and bitter; weathered by the storms;
Cross-grained, bewildered, thy courage slowly failing;
Thou standest here: forlorn, dismayed, alone.
 
 
Thy years have passed away in that Great Search,
The quest that bruises hearts on hardest stone;
Seeking a refuge from dread loneliness,
Some haven where the soul is not bereaved;
Too often – my heart – hast thou been sorely bruised;
And now at last the truth confronts thy gaze,
Declared by flash against the pitiless night:
'The soul must die as it hath lived – alone.'
Alone! The shuddering echo dies away;
No subterfuge, no shelter is there ever,
There is no anodyne for weary hearts;
For him who stands alone at this cross-road
The only hope is death.
 
 
From nothingness to nothingness thou passest!
As thou wert born —
As thou hast lived, so shalt thou die!
Death is the only refuge: at his visage
All other spectres flee. Remorse that teareth
Like the undying worm, and Failure,
That sheeted gibberer, his brother,
Who like two hounds have haunted thy abode,
Must vanish at his touch:
And soon, thy journey done, thy trouble over,
Wrapped in the mantle of forgetfulness
Thou shalt sleep well.
 

Flesh of our Flesh

 
There is but one irrevocable bond,
Heart of my heart! None other counteth here,
All claims beside must fail, however fond,
But this is surety never to be broken
By us Beloved! the eternal token
Of love made manifest beyond our fear:
Of sweetest deepest draught the living bowl!
Although remorse should tear our hearts in twain,
The world, to part us, rageth now in vain
And life new-born through life doth bind us ever:
Strange incarnation! out of each made whole!
No prayer avails, no penances can sever:
The Holy Ghost – the Spirit – releaseth never
When flesh and blood and spirit beget a soul.
 

This Town is Hell

 
This town is Hell, and all the people in it
Are devils, roasting for their sins like cinders;
They've train and tram instead of lark and linnet,
For sun are lamps, for sky are only windows,
They have no air to breathe, no room to rove,
And crowd so closely that you cannot move;
Robbing each other whilst nobody hinders:
In towns, there is no Providence above.
 
 
If Providence there is above this city,
The fog and smoke must cover it from pity,
For folk are crazed, and run instead of walking,
To catch – they know not what – all nonsense talking.
Old farm! Old farm! I wish I hadn't left you!
And if my time came back, I wouldn't part:
You gave me pleasant thoughts to dwell upon,
And peaceful days and quietness of heart.
 
 
For here, no happiness can come at all,
The nights are cursed by idle folk at play;
Here is no sleepy smell of new mown hay,
Or soothing noise of cattle in their stall;
No scent of may in bloom, or beans in flower,
No drowsy sound of bees among the clover;
But only hooters, droning every hour;
With smoke and dirt and misery all over.
 
 
Sometimes, when dazed by this un-human place
I have remembered me the days so dear,
And seen again the horses out at plough,
Their shoulders pressing forward in the gear:
The smell, the sound, come back with strange surprise,
To think that I am down Long Martin Fen;
It brings the tears into my aching eyes,
To dream that I am farming once again.