Verses. II

Fitzgerald, Gerald, C.M. Banks Ltd., Printers, Wellington, N.Z., 1932

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The original publication details are as follows:

Title: Verses. II / by Gerald FitzGerald.

Author: Fitzgerald, Gerald

Published: C.M. Banks Ltd., Printers, Wellington, N.Z., 1932

Verses

II

This Volume is One of a Small Edition Numbering Thirty

Printed for Private Circulation Only

With cAuthor’s Compliments.

Presented to

by Qerald tyitzQerald

Preface

Nec turpem senectam

degere, nec cithara carentem.

CfT ROMETHEUS stole fire from heaven, and suffered for it. If, from the gods of the Lucretian Olympus, any one stole the secret of their happiness, it would be of less value to us than fire; man being fitted only for the alternation of light and darkness, the joy whose complement is sorrow. Mr. Gerald FitzGerald has neither stolen fire from heaven, nor analgesia. But the chosen readers of his verses owe him thanks for a very precious gift: he helps us to understand how to deserve happiness. He does not irritate us with advice to renounce all that men prize; on the other hand, he would hardly agree with Plato, that happiness implies such public esteem as springs from sufficiency of means and social position. At times Mr. FitzGerald’s muse seems to lament the flight of the “wild swan of youth:” but what he really shows is the comforting truth that happiness belongs not to the first but rather to the last third of life. Aristotle pricked the bubble of the vaunted happiness of youth, showing that the young can be deemed happy not on the ground of their own experience, but of our confidence in the promise they show.

Mr. FitzGerald shows us combined the three great sources of contentment: gardening: the love of the sea: a creative artistic interest. How many poets could be quoted in praise of the working gardener's lot, from Virgil to Voltaire! But Virgil’s Tarentine gardener is

best to quote, for he was an intensive cultivator of a tiny patch, like Mr. Fitzgerald, and an old sailor-man, too; Mr. FitzGerald, in his holidays, is as loyal to the sea as he is loyal to his garden at week-ends; and the sea inspires several poems in this volume, among them the delightful “Taiko Bay.” To these sources of contentment Mr. FitzGerald adds Horace's chief requirement of a happy old age, the joy of lyrical expression.

What the late Sir John Findlay appreciated most in Mr. FitzGerald was his humour, and there is here one humorous poem that would have delighted Sir John. I should like to thank him even more for the lesson of "Words,” and for the undidactic, unpretentious, nay unintended lesson in happiness.

G. W. VON Zedlitz.

5

Apologia.

You ask me why I sing?

This my reply

Emotion welling up must light its torch

Spontaneously. So sing the birds! The Wind

Thus blows! Free flows the tide around the world

Who knows from what inheritance we phrase?

Through centuries from ages past our lives

We mould in ruts ploughed by tradition’s share.

The songs we sing are thoughts of byegone days.

The footsteps of our sires the paths we tread

Today. And so once more we tune our lute!

Let Rythm control the melody we sing—

Sincerity be seen through eyes of truth

And Sympathy be garbed in robes of white—

The stainless vestment of simplicity

So may we sing to all! Some few may hear!

The Derelict.

The day is fine—horizon clear—

Some little wavelets here and there—

The ocean undulation too—

With nothing else to note in view

Yet stay! Some flotsam lies afloat

Some passing ship has lost a boat

And, though the boat no signal flies,

A man is there who strangely cries.

With hands upraised and mouthing cry,

He cursed the sea, the sun, and sky.

With frightful oaths he cursed the ship,

From which the boat had chanced to slip

He cursed the Master and the Mate

And prayed for them a dreadful fate

He cursed his former mates —the crew

And each of them whose name he knew

But most of all, with palsied lips,

He cursed the men who made the ships

For them he prayed a special Hell

With lurid flame and sulphur smell

Then, thinking of the ships he knew

(And cursing them most foully too),

His imprecations made it plain

He’d never go to sea again

Twas thrice accurs’d that day—said he-

When like a fool he went to sea

His lot he might have cast ashore

And damned the sea for evermore

13

He’d dry the sea right out of hand.

And make it firm and solid land,

Where all the world as honest tars,

Should go their ways in motor cars.

Then, after cursing all the day,

Exhausted nature had her way

With nothing more to curse—he wept —

And finally lay down and slept

Now here we pause and look askance,

To mark the wayward course of chance.

A vessel from some port remote

Came sailing by and saw the boat.

Then standing close and heaving to.

The Master sent away a crew

To salve the boat (if good and sound)

And thus the derelict was found.

And when no longer weak and sore,

The wretched man was put ashore,

To seek employment where he could,

He’d scarcely means to buy his food.

With very little work to do,

Save here and there a job or two.

He found in time and money spent

But little love, and less content

A disillusioned friendless man

He drifted on without a plan

Then, cursing as to the manner born,

Went back to sea, bound round the Horn

14

Diggers.

(N.Z.E.F., 1914)

Can’t you 'ear the trumpets brayin

W’en the column comes in sight

With the ba’nets all a flashin

Little sunny spots of light

An’ the girls an’ boys a runnin

At the side to see the show

With the Diggers steady marchin

To the place they ’ave to go?

Can’t you ’ear the crump of marchin

As the big battalion comes

It’s the crump of all the Diggers

Steppin’ timely to the drums.

Now they’re soldiers ’oove been trainin

'ow to drill an’ ’andle guns,

An’ they uster be civilians.

Office clerks an’ farmers’ sons

Can you see the chap ’oos ridin

At the side upon ’is ’orse

With the red an' gold-laced *potac-

That’s the Brigadier of corse!

E commands the 'ole battalion-

An’, by cripcs. ’e knows it too-

For they ’ave to get a move on

W’cn ’e tells ’em what to do

*Head covering—Cap

15

You'll observe ’e isn’t smilin

But is lookin’ straight a’ead

That's because 'e’s speculatin

Of the time w’en 'ell be dead

For ’e knows the chanst of battles

An’ the risks V as to run

An’ 'e’s old enough to figure

Modern fightin' isn’t fun!

But the band is playin' lusty

\n’ the Diggers’ ’eads is ’igh,

An’ they ’ardly think a moment

Of the time to say ’’Goodbye

An' they aven't started thinkin

Of the thing that seems so plain

That a number of those Diggers

Won't come marchin’ ’ome again

Can you see the transport lyin

Dazzle painted at the pier

She is waitin’ for the Diggers

An’ she'll get ’em, never fear

An’ as soon as they’re aboard ’er

She will turn ’er ’ead to sea,

An’ she’ll take them to the fightin

Just wherever that may be

There are some who think that fightin

Is a glorious career

But they little know the ’errors

Of a battlefield that's near.

But whenever I see soldiers

Marchin’ out to meet their fate

Struth—l realise 'ow dreadful

Is the crime of ’uman ’ate

16

17

W’en the bands are playin’ rag time

An’ the marchin’ crump I ’ear

I never want to sing an’ shout

An’ I never want to cheer.

But just to myself I w’isper

Fho’ it almost makes me cry

Gord! I ’ope you come back—Diggers

Best o’ luck! My lads! Goodbye

The Yacht Windward

January, 1931

In the fabric of the Nation

Be the texture broad or fine

There’s a bright thread interlacing

As a slender golden line

Thus the spirit of adventure

Always shines within the race

No rewards are its objective,

Though it finds an honoured place

It will seek in face of danger

For the secret unrevealed

Or will fare in spite of hardship

To explore an unknown field.

Twas in search of high adventure

That the “Windward” sailed the sea,

With a youthful yachting skipper

And an active crew of three.

They had studied navigation

And the sailing master’s craft

I heir little ship was stable

And in order fore and aft.

And they made their cast in safety

O'er the hazard of the deep,

Where the lonely Chatham Islands

Watch the crested billows sweep.

18

Thence they quit in happy sunlight

Near the closing of the day.

Wafted out by gentle breezes

With the dancing waves at play.

With her sails all set and drawing

She was swiftly out of sight

And beyond the dim horizon

In the glowing summer night

Never message came thereafter

To assuage the anxious strain

Though the air was quick with calling

And the sea was searched in vain

A steamship passing inwards

Claimed to sight a little yawl

Standing Sou’West, off the coastline—-

Name unknown—and that was all!

Aye the silence broods unbroken

While bereavement can but weep,

For the sea gives up no secrets

It has buried fathoms deep!

She had sailed an unknown traverse

Through the yeasty tidal rips,

To the haven where she anchored

In the port of missing ships.

Let it not be held against them

That the task remained undone

They essayed a brave endeavour

And they very nearly won

The “Windward” left Wellington December 25, 1930; arrived at Chatham Islands January 1, 1931, leaving January 6, 1931; not since been heard from. Supposed to have been sighted by S.S. “Enton” about thirty miles off Coast, but contact not verified.

19

The South-East Wind

My home is in the snowclad waste

Where all is white and chill

Where bergs of shining ice are launched

To wander as they will

Where Frost is King to reign supreme

With none to say him nay

With Hail and Sleet as satellites

To illustrate his sway

When the gates are flung wide open

And a frenzy drives me forth,

Who shall dare to stem the onslaught

When my course sets roaring North

The stoutest sails I rive to shreds

In gusts of wanton ease

And harried ships engulf beneath

The greybacked creaming seas.

But in the broader spaces where

The latitudes are long,

My roaring wanes to murmur,

And my shrieking dies to song

The incense from the forest

I can waft as scented breath

And none who feel my zephyr

Can account my hand in Death

But whether cyclone whirling

As a hurricane set free,

Or a frolic o’er the cornfield

As a laughing child in glee,

I can stimulate the weary

And refresh the tired mind,

With my ozone from the snowfield

Of the Polar South East wind

20

Memories

By the fire’s uncertain flicker

In the slow descending gloaming,

When the glory of the daylight

Has gone down behind the hill

When the busy hum of commerce

Leaves the city, and the droning

Of the breakers on the coast line

Makes the silence deeper still

Then our thoughts go out adreaming

In the years so far behind us,

7 hat it seems another life when all

Was fresh and green and young:

And we wander on in mazes

Of the woodland to remind us,

When we heard the blythest music

That the birds have ever sung

And around the hearth beside us

Gather old familiar faces:

And we hear again the voices

That we heard so long ago,

When in friendship, that from memory

No lapse of time effaces,

Hand in hand we roamed together

In the summer fields aglow

In a flood of recollection

Falls the silent tear unbidden

At the shrine of all we loved in Youth

So long since passed away

And we blankly view the future

With its destines deep hidden

As the night draws close her mantle

And the past has gained a day

14

Alone

There are folks whose occupation

Is a whirl of song and jest

There are those who fare sedately

In a home with children blest.

There are some by nature restless

Such as neither toil nor spin

None of these is ever lonely

Till old age comes creeping in

But when bleak old age comes nodding

When “the wild swan Youth” has flown

What a prospect greets the friendless —

One who plods on his way alone

Then the past in endless vistas,

But recalls a rainbow youth.

Where the mind may go adreaming

Down the avenues of truth.

And the forms so long forgotten

Take their places on the stage.

Where they re-enact their record

As remembered page by page.

It was then the future counted

In a present racing fast

Now the vision, looking backward,

From the hill tops, is the past

15

Childhood

The tussock hills are calling me

Are calling me in vain

To leave the city’s toil and smoke

And be a child again

To wander on the breezy slope

And watch the thistle blow

Her downy children everywhere—

Ah! Wouldn’t I like to go

The skylark nearly out of sight

Is trilling all day long,

High overhead on flutt’ring wing

His deft chromatic song.

The soaring kestrel wheels aloft

In stately sentry-go

His watchful eye on all that moves—

What wouldn’t I give to go

To wake again the child’s amaze

At Heav’n’s great vault of blue

To fashion fairy palaces

Of wondrous shape and hue —

To live a single hour that’s gone

And never a sorrow know

In childhood’s vanished land of dreams—

Dear land, I shall never know

23

The Passing of Day

The daylight is laying its tired head

As a little child on its downy bed

On clouds that have gathered to greet the sun

In another land where the day’s begun

\nd ever the dew as a tear is shed

f\t the shrine of day that is passed and dead

The night wind is crooning a sad refrain,

From the cooling shore to the breathing main

And high overhead as a lamp afar

In the boundless vault is a shining star

The light of whose torch in its depth is born

To behold the earth when the sun has gone.

Beyond in the distance and far away.

Is the strife of sound that awakes the day;

And the trembling leaves are all whisp’ring low

To the creeping shadows that darker grow

Till all is enwrapt in a silence deep

A.nd the day has passed—as a child to sleep

24

Friendship.

When the Earth no longer holds me

And my shell is laid aside

Where shall the mind seek refuge?

Where may the spirit bide?

If a spirit leaves the body

In flight no eye can see,

What value has the present?

What can the future be?

The bias of tradition

In countless ages past

Cries vision of a palace

Where spirits fare at last

Where all is rest and peaceful

Beyond the reach of woe

Where love and truth abiding

In trust forever go.

A softened neutral sunshine

On all around is bent

Where disembodied spirits

Are said to be content

But purpose all so lacking

In heritage thus bound

Creates (in understanding)

Antipathy profound.

25

Could destiny be guided

By aspiration’s hand

A fairer mansion rises

In a future Fairyland.

I he home remembrance offers

To friendship’s sacred ties

Is princely habitation

No spirit need despise.

My spirit’s sole ambition

To dwell (by friendship led)

In the mind of friends still living

As a picture of the dead.

26

Zaccheus

Zaccheus stood forth and said: “Lo! If I have done

wrong to any man I restore him fourfold.”

Zaccheus, as we’ve summed him up

Was just a vain conceited pup

His "standing forth" could only mean

An urge to spout, and thus be seen!

The while to noise his boast abroad

Of restitution for a fraud.

Of fourfold capital repaid

On claims (if any) justly made

He must have known each thing he’d done

When he had swindled anyone

If so what need to qualify

Or compensations multiply?

Hysterical excitement gains

Support from all such shallow brains:

And opportunities arise

For those who love to advertise

And so, like scum from Devil’s broth

We see Zaccheus "standing forth!”

27

Taiko Bay

(Arapawa Island, Queen Charlotte Sound.)

There’s a daily bath of sunshine

Always glowing on the strand.

Where the shrill cicadas chorus

Swells a never ceasing band

And the breezes waft a perfume

That is borrowed from the glade,

Where the music of the brooklet

Plays beneath the forest shade.

Let the breezes hear your troubles

They have heard such tales before

In the chanting of their courses

O’er the ocean and the shore.

There's a line of shining wavelets

Always breaking on the strand

Where you rest your weary body

Lying prone upon the sand

For the sun is high above you

In his vault of tender blue,

And the wavelets’ undulations

Are Obeisances to you,

Tell your sorrows to the ocean

It will understand your plight

For the sea has many secrets

That will never see the light

28

29

There’s a whisper in the forest

In the rustling of the leaves,

Where the breezes sway the tree tops

And the sunlight interweaves.

There is sanctuary sacred

In the dimly shaded nook

For the grievously afflicted

Whom a callous world forsook

Breathe your travail to the forest

For its sympathies are deep

It will offer you protection

And your secrets ever keep

The Muse

A poet kneeling to the muse

Thus penitently craved

For inspiration to enlive

The verses that he graved.

“The Characters I mould in verse

And deck with raiment fine,

Seem not to palpitate with life

Nor glow with light divine.

I see them strut upon the stage

To play their settled parts,

As images of wood or stone,

That have no human hearts.

They move with stiff and palsied limbs

As if all hope had fled,

And scarcely seem to be alive—

They might as well be dead!

“I long to see the blood of life

Flow redly in their veins:

To guide the play of love and hate

Where deep emotion reigns.

“The blush that dyes the maiden's cheek

I fain would paint in part

That sympathy would recognise

As evidence of art

30

“The pain of Death that wrings the heart

With grief, no hand may still-—■

Portrayal of such agonies

But yet evade my skill

“How may a strain of melody

Be tuned to greet the ear

To set the pulses mad with joy

Or cringe in abject fear

(The Muse Speaks).

‘Without the breath of living fire

No art can point the way—

The marble cold as marble stays—

The clay is always clay

‘The midnight oil you vainly burn

To limn your deeds of worth,

Will mesh you in the pedant’s coil

A stage devoid of mirth

“The soul in travail supplicates

A grief that you have known

The pain that wracks your creatures mind

Is anguish all your own.

You cannot bring the dead to life

The dead are always dead

The tears that dim your puppet’s eyes

Are tears that you must shed

Unfettered flight on passion's wing

Must stand in high reveal

Such breath of life must be your own

Such joys be those you feel

31

Not always may the saintly win

Immaculate renown

The weak who falter by the way

May often wear the crown

If you would ultimately find

With life the art to blend

The joys—the griefs—e’en Death itself

Must guide you to the end

25

The Inner Harbour Lights

(Somes Island, Wellington

If you look across the water

You may see me ev’ry night

Where I keep the faithful watches

As the Inner Harbour Light

I am not a constellation

As all mariners should mind,

For I flash two brace of seconds,

Then for single six I’m blind

When the haughty liner passes

With her blazing lights aglow

Or the sturdy little coasters

Nose their way into a blow

Then my beam will make a pathway

As a guide toward the main

"May good fortune smile upon you

’Till you venture back again

When the Winter gales are roaring

When the waves are lashed with foam

And the frightened little coasters

Are all scurrying for home

Then I flash my light in greeting

As I show them where to steer

You may drop your anchor safely

For no harm will reach you here

When the long long day has ended

When the night is falling fast

And we’re steering for the haven

Where the ships all come at lasi

May the friendly beacon flashing

Call a welcome from the deep.

You may safely ride to anchor

For the time has come to sleep.

26

The Starlings

There's a pair of happy starlings

That have built themselves a nest

Whereon the patient mother sits

With eggs beneath her breast

All through the weary hours of day

And the dreams of lonely night

She steadfastly maintains her watch

To hatch her brood aright

And everyday at intervals

The husband comes to see

That all is well; and then he calls

To her most plaintively

I’m waiting here,” he seems to say

‘Good cheer! my love. Good cheer

The moment you can leave the nest

You’ll find me waiting here

He greets her from the chimney top,

The highest point of all

He knows that she will hear him

And will understand his call

I love each day to contemplate

Such joyous married state

The mother’s sense of duty

The devotion of her mate

34

The Abominable Consonant

What ghastly fiend obsessed by hate

Invented consonants, that fate

Might hold such curse inviolate

These crackling sounds—this devil’s brew—

I hat strains the tongue and larynx, too

What service can such scullions do?

Unnecessary, harsh, and hard

Despair of scribe—-the bane of bard

And all who simple sounds regard

An alphabet that far exceeds

All bounds of reasonable needs

A garden choked with noxious weeds

Does nature in her wisdom teach

The use of consonants in speech

Or otherwise such fact impeach?

The modest sheep out in the wild

Communicates with mate or child

In purest vowels undefiled

The lion’s roar—the donkey’s bray

Expresses what they wish to say

No consonants for such as they

The mournful owl proclaims his woes

As down the forest vale he goes-

The vowel sounds are all he knows.

35

The purest messages of love

Are chastely murmured by the dove,

As echoes from the Heav’n above.

I he jungle knows no wildest spot

Where consonants may be begot

Giraffes and Zebras need them not

If nature’s great vocab’lar

Accepts the vowels as they be

Oh! Cursed fate! Then why can’t we

36

Tempus Fugit.

We saw, when we were very young

The world through childish eyes

Each morning’s sunlight as it came

Brought us a glad surprise

No day was ever long enough,

No night but came too soon

And pulsing life sped all day long

From morn till afternoon.

But though the days were crowned with joy,

And silent nights held sway,

The gala days and holidays

Seemed all too far away

Our birthdays tarried over long

Youth found it hard to wait

Our great ambition, at a bound

To climb to man’s estate

Thence through succeeding middle age

The years slipped nimbly bye

Distractions came with daily needs

Our thoughts to occupy

The mind in each appointed task

Was all we had to spare—

None saw beyond the passing days

The road we had to fare

At last the final stage is set

Where time, that used to crawl

Now gallops on at headlong speed

When-as the seasons fall

No striving now to spur the jade

No future to unlock!

Our only friend the byegone years

Our enemy the clock!

30

Boy Scouts

“The Boy Scouts have resolved that it is their duty to warn every woman seen smoking of the evils of the practice, and to ask them politely to desist.” —Press telegram.

In the motley crowd of people

Aggregating many sorts,

There’s a troop of little heroes

Who parade in khaki shorts,

With the colours of the Boy Scouts—

We shall see what that imports.

In their military duty

They have vowed a solemn pact

That each one of them will daily

Seek to do some useful act

You may think that I’m romancing,

But I’m merely stating fact

Now a deed may be quite humble

Or spectacular, or great

Just a simple act of kindness,

Or a scheme more intricate.

But a Scout who does his Duty

Must score one upon the slate.

So quite recently it happened

That when meeting for review,

They had pondered long and deeply

In the search for something new—

Good deeds, it seemed, had petered out

There were no more to do!

38

After grave deliberation

On occurrences they’d seen

They resolved to give attention

To the vice of nicotine:

Because it was increasing,

And was worse than it had been.

So forthwith the order issued

That the Scouts should cast their net

Over every female smoking

Either pipe or cigarette

Their duty to these smokers

Was to warn them when they met

One may face the lion rampant

Or the charging buffalo,

These be doughty acts of courage

As each one of us may know

But to beard a woman smoker

Holy Moses! What a go

But its Boy Scouts to the rescue

And they needn’t look for thanks

For the matrons will berate them

And the flappers kick their shanks.

They would slap the face of Colonels

Or of any other ranks

So their faces may be battered

And their shins be black and blue

And their uniforms be tattered

In the battles they’ve been through.

But the Scouts have done a duty

That I’m blowed if I could do!

32

Words

When the sun is slowly sinking,

When the lamp is burning low,

And the mind is feebly groping

In its last expiring glow

Then regret stands unavailing

As a wraith beside the bed,

For the speech too freely spoken,

And the words that were left unsaid.

For the sting concealed in satire,

For the jest that dripped with gall

For the shaft barbed green in venom

That was loosed beyond recall

For the wound—half healed—reopened

For the rent veil torn aside,

And a wretched secret blazoned

As dust on the face of pride.

For unuttered words to comfort

Bereavement’s cruel stress.

For the words to greet misfortune

As balm in grim duress.

And the words for love to harvest

In Love's exalted plane

Unuttered words! Unspoken words!

They never come again

40

41

Temper

Oh. It’s all very well to pretend

That you’re ever my very best friend

Though you say so to-day

As you’re always away

It is plain that you mean to offend

And it’s all very well to unbend

And to try for neglect to amend

When the magical spell

As you know very well

Has been broken—And that is the end!

Vale

(M.E.F-G., December sth, 1928)

Her place is vacant. And the end she craved

Came gently as the falling dew to earth.

fV peaceful drifting from anxiety

In dreamless sleep, without a waking thought

Across the shallows on a calm ebb tide

Out to the ocean—And the Great Unknown

For her the tyrant Time that knows no end

Had ceased to vex with importunities.

The subtleties of living show had passed,

The clamour of the pageant stilled to naught

Bhe day had ended, and a pallid moon

But saw the coming of a perfect rest

42

In Memoriam

W.A.S., Aug. 29/28

The bell is tolling—ln the vibrant air

Each mournful stroke chimes sadly to the ear

For thus is tolled the knell of one who goes

Beyond the gate of life which all must pas:

But those to whom the gift of friendship mean

Affectionate regard returned in full

Are left bereaved to face an empty world-

A marble tombstone, and a mound of eartf

The end that death has sought to make is not

An end that memory consents to know

While recollection keeps undimmed the shrine

Wherein the lamp of friendship ever glows.

We see in the pallid face—like moulded wax

The dignity and silence of the dead

No semblance of the image we recall

When radiant life and movement filled the scene

The kindliness and joy of life that dwelt

Abidingly through all the passing years

The facile wit that never stooped to hurt—

The sympathy for wounds that ever healed

A generosity that never failed

When tales of pity claimed attentive ear

Such is the picture that the mind will keep

Alive in all the future to the end

And if another life should be our lot

And recognition be a right therein

How gladly should we clasp the welcome hand

And once again reclaim affection’s friend

43

Milestones

Last night when I was sleeping—

My vagrant thought astray —

I dreamt that I was plodding

Along a shining way

Till sore of foot and weary.

For the way was long and hard,

I paused beside a milestone

And lay down upon the sward.

Then looking all around, and on

The milestone close at hand

I tried to read the figures

Which I failed to understand

For no matter how I read them

While they seemed to be quite plain

I could never grasp the meaning

Though I tried and tried again.

Then looking back I noticed

Outspaced in plain review

An endless row of milestones

Each like the one I knew

And some were bright and shining

In the light the sun had made

While others grey and gloomy

Stood enwrapt in sombre shade

44

And anon I tried to count them

As each came within my sight

But refraction set them dancing

And I could not count aright

But however many milestones

I thought there must be more—

I'd passed all those behind me

How many were before?

So then I gazed intently

On the road I had to fare

To see how many milestones

Had been erected there

And here a strange dilemma

Confronted my essay

I saw no far horizon

Nor any shining way

Nor were there any milestones

To be counted as I wist

And everything before m

Was concealed in veils of mist

And then I saw the answer Thus:—

The PAST stands in array.

The FUTURE’S eyes are sightless

We only know To-DAY.”

And so the night departed

I\ s another morning broke

My dream grew faint and vanished

And with the day I woke

45

Work and Recreation

The able man who does no work

And ev’ey day contrives to shirk

The daily tasks all men must meet

Forfeits thereby the right to eat

The ancient writ ’’Root Hog! Or die!”

To all such cases needs apply

Such common sense is there to scan;

For who would feed an idle man?

But work of all and ev’ry kind,

Although it elevates the mind

Must not, because of business strife,

Absorb the whole of daily life

Both mind and body now and then

Have need of change from desk and pen

Relief from Stress of sordid things

A meed of recreation brings.

Then it’s Hey for the staff and the knapsack load

The sunlit hill, and the winding road

For the dancing boat in the white capped seas,

And the bellying sail in the salted breeze

And its Hey for the camp in the starlit night

With the scented smoke when the fire’s alight

For the tales of the day, and the next day’s quest,

The welcome couch, and the well earned rest

46

And there's time to recall when the day is sped,

The friends of our youth who are long since dead.

As the past is unrolled to our saddened gaze

In the light and the laughter of former days.

Then it's back once more to the desk and pen

And the work to be done in the tasks of men,

With the suntanned face, and the care free mind

To shoulder the wheel in the daily grind.

47

The Reaper

When the race has nearly ended

In the tale of added years,

How-so may we greet THE REAPER

When he finally appears?

Will there be a time for protest?

Will excuses reach his ear

Will the stage resound with anger

Or the mind be chilled with fear?

When a knightly monarch passes

With his courtiers round the bed.

And a nation waits in silence

While the prayers are being said

If his life and acts are blameless,

And he leaves a happy land,

Then with lofty resignation

Will he take THE REAPER’S hand?

When the night is black with anger

And the shrieking storm fiends ride,

Then the sailor feels the presence

Of THE REAPER by his side.

All traditions of his calling

Keep the sailor to his task;

Just a glance his recognition

Never question his to ask

48

In the clash and din of battle

That obscures the light of day

Ev’ry soldier knows THE REAPER

Is not very far away

But the discipline of ages

With the soldier ever stays

Calm salute—his only greeting

Tis an order! He obeys!

When the advocate has spoken

And his brief is laid aside

He may contemplate his labour

As a fast receding tide.

Well he knows that special pleading

Though it be by Master Mind

Will not influence THE REAPER

From the path that is designed

Though the sleek and crafty trickster

Who has grasped a meed of wealth,

May attempt in vain concealment

To escape by means of stealth.

He will writhe in futile anguish

To recall his shameful past

When the unrelenting REAPER

Stands before him at the last

After weary years of sickness

When vitality is low

And the time that passes quickly

Seems interminably slow

Then our arms are raised in greeting

As on welcome friend bestowed

When we see THE REAPER comin;

Limply slowly down the road

49

When the vital forces leave us

As we share the common fate.

And we rest behind the rampart

With the sentry at the gate

We can hear the footsteps coming

As along the path they wend,

'Who goes there?” The sentry’s challenge

Back the answer comes—"A friend.”

Friend advance. The countersign give,

E’er I deign to let you pass.”

Here the countersign is TEMPUS,

And I bear the scythe and glass.”

“All is well. You’ve been expected.

Thus we hear the sentry say

“Pass in, friend, (in joyous welcome).

“You have now the right of way.”

50

The Coronation.

EDWARD VII, 1902.

I

Edward—the King, whose crown awaits him her

Whereto in welcome rolls this tide of men

From every corner, every clime and land

As young birds winging to the parent nest

To hail the passing of a great event

And found tradition for the years unborn

Welcome and greeting! Aye, and thrice again!

II

Son of that gentle sire, who years agone

Came to our shores a stranger, to a land

Of strangers, but as homeward coming, stayed

And won the people’s love, and kept it safe

Until the end came, as it comes to all

Heir to that noble Queen who reigned from youth

To age, whose sway was firm, but just and kind,

Lhan whom no ruler yet won more regard

Who watched her country’s giant strides to fame

And passing, waked a sorrow deep and wide

That held the land, and yet is scarce allayed

Welcome! Thrice Welcome

111

Should this mighty throng

Turn its gaze onward through those misty years

That hold the secrets of all future time

Seeking the nation’s destiny beyond

To them might come this thought

Our King! Our Lord!

44

How bends his mind on this? and how on that?

Will he support the People, or the Class

And then for guide roll back the tide of years

To scan the scroll that tells their nation's tale

IV

When once the people murmur'd, overwrought

By stern demands for tax to feed some war,

And goaded, broke at last beyond restraint

And marched—a sullen horde—to right their wrongs,

Their leader blundered—in his pride—and fell

Slain from his horse before the youthful king

Who, great in courage bred from proud descent

Rose up to face the mass, crying aloud

lam your King—your Leader! Follow me!

And so fared on to peace, and promises

In which bad counsel made him almost fail

Would this King keep such pledge the other broke

V

And once anon the land became convulsed

By strife of creeds—the old against the new

And bigots rent a breach by cruel zeal

Until religion fell a blighting curse,

And fear smote all men, e’en beside their hearths.

Would this King hold the scales of justice firm

Check persecution; break the pride of priests

VI

And when fanatical intolerance

Once launched a mighty host against our race

And when the ocean’s rim gave up to view

A cloud of giant sails in crescent form

That swept our seas—a devastating horde

Until the vanquished almost felt the yoke

52

Would this King fling aside the gripping fear

To launch a pigmy fleet in our defence

To cheer those valiant souls who fought such odds

Until the storm cloud burst, and scattered wide

The Great Armada, ’mid the wrack of night?

As when a bird of prey, to hazard all

In one descent, swoops on his shrinking prize,

And, missing clutch, but beats his wings in vain

VII

The tale is told in sorrow and in shame

How sov’reign will and popular mistrust

Wrought mischief ’twixt the Parliament and Throne,

Till each thought evil of the other’s mood,

And strove in arms to vent their bitter hate

Close kindred fought upon opposing sides,

Making the nation’s cleavage absolute,

While fire and sword ran riot in the land

And, when such spiteful fiends had done their worst

The King fell—victim to the People’s will

Would this King, calm and dignified as he

Whose life was forfeit to his broken pledge

Abate or abrogate his Royal will

To let his People probe their narrow creed

And, finding error, turn them back again

With chastened mind to aid the common weal

VIII

Or when that scourge more terrible than war

Fell like the hand of an avenging god

Until the narrow streets and grimy stalls

Reeked with a pestilence: and thousands passed

Beneath that sombre pall of foetid breath

To nameless graves

53

As when some vampire brute

Unleashed springs madly on the quarry s throat

To bury fang and muzzle in the feast

And drain its life's blood, till the frenzied lust

Of slaughter wanes —

So passed that dreadful curse

And then, as if to cleanse the final taint

Of sickness from the land, a mighty wall

Of flame swept hall and cottage into ash

And blackened ruins made the mournful scene

Would this King, when such ills as these befell.

Stand firm beside his race, with heart and hand

To give that aid the strong must give the weak

Or see them fail; or, cause arising, lead

As one has led before, and marshal force

To battle with and quench the holocaust?

IX

When commerce lured our pioneers abroad

To found a state beneath a tropic sun.

And battle for existence with a race

Of aliens, dark and treacherous, whose caste

But served to breed fanatical dislike;

As well to strain for foothold 'mid assaults

From foreign neighbours jealous for their trade.

Our race upheld their ancient claim to rule.

Through scant encouragement, and cruel acts

Of foes who warred outside our nation’s code;

Yet won to greatness as the sum of all,

And swelled our commerce with a vast reward

Would this King, wiser than his peers of old,

Hail trade expansion as his Empire’s due,

And hold in honour those undaunted souls

Who crossed the seas to make a wider home?

54

X

When growing from a sparsely peopled coast

I o claim the rank of continental state.

Emerging from the weakness of the child

I o feel the bounding pulses of the man,

When restless native races had been quelled

And foreign foes had ceded every claim

A sad mistake in government oppressed

The greatest land abroad we ever owned

To meet necessities that elsewhere grew

A tax imposed offended freedom s right

Insistence brought rebellion, and a war

That drained our vital forces to the dregs;

Till at the end the patriotic cause

Rose up triumphant as a free born state,

And yet so rankled recollected wounds,

That war again blazed out to mar their peace,

And show to all the hideous countenance

Of hate between two peoples of one race

And, though long years have passed away since then

But now has friendship made those twain as one

Would this King, beating down the iron pride

That brooked no answer to its arrogance

Forsake the might to press injustice home

And freely grant their rights to free born men

Accepting, as the certain consequence

Such meed of love and dutiful support

As just affection wins from every child?

XI

The pride of every honest man is shocked

Who recollects that not so long ago

Our country plied its trade in human lives—

Both bought and sold to cruel bondage those

Whose very helplessness should have appealed

To us to keep such outrage from their race

48

And, like all customs rooted deep in gain

T his blot upon humanity died hard.

But, thanks to single hearted sacrifice

By one or two, our nation roused itself

At length to understand and right the wrong

And ever since has worked with heart and brain

To stamp such evil out from all the world.

Will our King forward press this noble work.

Until our nation may with pride declaim

That sordid aims are trampled underfoot

By unrewarded succour to the weak?

XII

Such thoughts as these can answer find but one

When age had crept with silent, stealthy tread

Upon that noble Queen who has but left

Her throne to seek in peace that stately rest,

Which forms such fitting sequel to her reign

Whose hand became her guide? Whose counsel smoothed

The weighty cares of office, till they pressed

No harder than her strength could so endure?

What son, whose watchful eye and ready hand

Were bent on service in a mother’s aid

But owns a heart that beats as true as steel!

And when the outer ramparts of the state

Who knew but proxies for the Royal Form,

Had craved that one should see their distant home

And greet his loyal subjects, what reply

Was flashed to them across the rolling seas?

Like Israel, who loved his youngest born

Beyond the pow’r of words to frame such case,

And yet, when urgent need arose, said, “Go

My son!” So said our King. And all the land

Held festival to greet the Royal guest

56

What father, who entrusts his son and heir

To bear his greeting out beyond the seas,

But wins the confidence and trust of all

In whom such ample faith has been reposed

XIII

Such answer being made, what need for more?

I he King is called to sit upon his throne

By right of national inheritance,

But free from theories of the Right Divine,

Apart from holding as of strength assured.

Where it not fitting that the people’s love

Should follow in the wake of state entailed?

Bringing to men that rest which keeps them strong

Giving to nations peace to make them great

Holding the needle of our progress true

Hiding swart marbrows of contending arm

But hear if this be true! Rise up, and speak

O Peoples! All whose lands securely sleep

Beneath the ruddy folds of that great flag

Whose red reflection stands for freedom’s gauge

Speak out! Shall this King reign?

XIV

He shall indeed

For we—the motherland—whose well-knit frame

Has borne the burden of the byegone years

Will have no other King. Our travail brought

The outer wards of Empire forth to light

We stand upon tradition—honour bound-

To see right government and justice held

Inviolate. The interwoven strands

That make the meshes of our endless web

Of commerce girth the world, to all men free

As is the air they breathe. The ties of kin

57

And memories of unforgotten days

Are strong within us, and we stand to-day

\s humble subjects stand to greet their King

XV

And we, on whom the sun unclouded beats:

Whose land of temples, shrines, and divers creeds

Has bred for generations in our blood

Those ancient mysteries and mystic rites

That none but oriental minds can feel

For us the Empire keeps an honoured place

A brilliant jewel in the diadem

That marked his Royal mother’s rank and stat

On us the eyes of envy from abroad

Are always fixed, yet never in return

Have we bestowed one single ardent glance

So vainly has our secret wooing fared

And yet we stumbled—once—and, though our fall

Has been forgiven and in part forgot

The lesson served: we stumble not again

No strangers, for the endless sweep of main

Once bore him from his Island home to ours

And there we rendered homage to our Lord

For, though our race be alien—as our speech

This Emperor is ours, and we say “aye

XVI

And we, whose snow clad plains and inland seas

Sweep Northwartls to the silent Arctic floe

Whose birthday fell beside the clang of arms,

And wild disorder wrought by foreign foes

The boundaries that mark our vast estate

Are said to rule an inconvenient line

And point to new allcgience as a gain

And other laws as better than our own

But we, whose hearts and minds arc in accord

Have paid scant heed to speech that prates of change.

58

Our silken bonds nor chafe, nor yet restrain

As fetters drag the slave’s unwilling heel

Our pride is yet to prop the Motherland

To beat her foes aside as they were ours.

E’en now our sons uphold the common cause

In lands far distant from their native home

And fight beside their brothers from your halls.

For us the Empire stands as one. We hail

This King of ours-—no other king we know

XVII

And we, whose arid soil but now has drunk

Full deeply of the blood your sons have shed

Whose dire humiliation has not yet

Been quite atoned. On us the wilting curse

Of anger has been placed, and none may know

What day this sin of sickness may be shrived.

The base ingratitude of treachery

In part was ours. The blame we bear in full

But this we off*: In the future years

When rasping irritation fails to rouse:

When racial hatred dies the death well earned

Our course will set to greatness, and our strength

Will help to keep the empire undissolved

What king but this had soothed our malady?

Had any other Rule our plight discerned

The rod of retribution had been laid

In earnest, and the two-edged gleaming sword

Had bitten deeply in the traitor’s flank,

But he who rose in dignity to hold

The place of petty tyrants now disgraced

Is King for us; such King our country needs.

XVIII

And we, whose island continent outstands

A watch-tow'r on the flanking Southern seas.

Beneath the tropic of the Capricorn

Where ardent sunbeams yearly claim their due

59

Our birth, albeit humble and in shame

Presaged the lusty growth of later years,

Until to-day none question our repute

For have we not as Federated States

Been just baptised? And our certificate —

On which the ink is yet scarce wholly dry—

Does it not bear the sign ‘Victoria ?

Her last great act of state! No firmer bond

Could bind us to the land from which we sprung.

Our sons have died with yours, and dying won

The right to live in memory with those

Who fell in battle for the cause of right

Who fell to bruise oppression’s iron heel

And break the might of tyrants. Thus we say

Our King is he who rules the Motherland

XIX

And we, upon whose lonely sea-girt isles

The billows of the great Pacific sweep—

The youngest born, whose story scarce outruns

The ordinary span of one man’s life

Whose lofty crags, whose lakes and steaming cones

Are remnant of a greater land submerged.

A stalwart native race with us contrives

To live in perfect amity and peace

No whit less loyal to the Throne than we

And ripe to put their honour to the test

Our sons have journeyed to a distant land

To fight beside your own—and some to die;

But recking less of patriotic death

Than jealous of their honour's deep affront

If laggard in their nation’s call to arms.

Unhampered by the taint of feudal right

And free to mould our destinies anew

We hail this King as champion of our cause,

And swear to none allegiance save to him

60

XX

In such wise thus the peoples’ lot is cast

And one stands forth to give their choice effect

This crown is yours: so, too, that sacred trust

To guard your subjects’ lives and libertie

When discord dims good counsel’s light, be calrr

In great responsibility, be strong

If doubt with blinded eyes should take your hand,

Turn back, and ask the People what they wil

f he massive weight of Empire's proudest throne

Is founded on the rock of Peoples' love.”

And at these words a mighty burst of sound

Goes forth, proclaiming that a King is made

The King! The King!”

And each remotest earth

Vibrating feels that concord of acclaim

61