MACMILLAN BROWN POEM

Otago Daily Times, Issue 18625, 5 August 1922, Page 18

MACMILLAN BROWN POEM

THE PRIZE COMPOSITION. The first biennial competition for the MacMillan Brown poem prize of £2O, provided out of funds presented to the University of Otago by Professor J. MacMillan Brown, was won by Mr Darnel Ferguson Aitken. A condition of the competition is that'the poems submitted by candidates shall be imaginative English compositions. Tho subject on this occasion was tho couplet from Tennyson s ‘ Lockeley Hall”:- , The battle flags were farld In the Parliament o! man, the Federation of the world. The following is the prize composition;— Pebsonjs. The Spirit of the Storm. The Spirit of War. Chorus of Dead Warriors. i , Chorus of Furies. / The Spirit of Sorrow. <' The Spirit of tho Dawn. The Spirit of Peace. The scene is above the Senate-House of the Parliament of man. Time: In tho Future. The Spirit op the Storm. Storm-cloud and thunder,, sweep Across the angry eky; , . v Ye marshalled hosts of elemental war* Wake the whole world from sleep; Drown the storm-petrel’s cry , With tumult louder than the cannons Wind of tho ice-bound ' northland wild and free,, ' \ Over the waters fly, Rouse the tempestuous deep, Hurl the waves on high, And lash to fury the nnmtying sea. Turn then thy rage upon thA fertile plain. Shatter its million flowers. Smite flat the fields of grain, Uproot the stubborn tree, And howl around these new-uprisen towers, —’Tis the Storm King’s decree. The S>pibit op War. 0 thou that ridest on the uncurbed winds, Spirit of kindred temper with mine own, Strike with thin all-destroying humoa.no This decorated pile of smoothe-hewn stone; Bid thy tornado’s blast raze to the ground Its paltry pinnocles, nor let remain Buttress or pillar, gable or ruined mound. Or sign, or vestige, that may mark its site. For here, O Spirit of the Tempest, here. When the new dawn has spread its pencilled light, The federated nations of the world, - The senate of an universal peace, i Meet and take counsel to abolish war. What, shall wo see the high red-burning star Of Mars for over to tho nadir hurled? Or do the fond fools think that war will , cease Whenever they see fit to say it must? Far down in the unfathomable depths Of man’s mysterious mind the battle-lust Is rooted, and he cannot pluck it out. But gone, alas, is the wild ecstasy Of hard-fought field, the doer> soulnstirring shout , , Of onslaught, the hot turmoil of the fight, The full joy of accomplished victory. Ay, gone—for war has grown mechanical, Engine fights engine; men do but ignite The all-destroying vapours, and then crawl Skulking for shelter, grovelling in the mire. But in the days of old it wa« not oo« Then was war counted glorious, and its fire Burned with an inextinguishable glow Within the breast of every min of worth. Thus did the mighty empires of the earth, Egypt and Babylon, Persia and Greece and Home, Rise from the dust and carve their burning fame Upon the pillars of eternity. What names shine through the centuries, Like stars in the sky’s unremembered dome ? < Xerxes, Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar, Attila, and Charlemagne, Tamour, Napoleon—Were not these all Warriors? And shall their splendour wane '■ At this late hour? For man has turned his back On all the glorious pageantiy of war. Its heroism, its manly exercise, Its fame and glory, these he would despise, Drowning his nobleness in, sloth. Nay, , more: That highest passion that a man can know, The love of fatherland, he would decry, Since it breeds war. But stay! at that word, 10, . Upon the storm’s black pinion’s hither fly Shades of a thousand, thousand armed hosts, i That on tho world’s unnumbered battlefields , Were made immortal. Speak, ye solemn ghosts, Already the loud tempest’s thunder yields Chorus or Dead Warriors. Where is the glory of Marathon, That set the breathless world aflome? Thermopylae, where is thy fame? And Salamis?—For over gone! Gene is the fierce rough Viking blood, That filled the old Norse warrior’s veins. And drove wild 80110 and hie thanes Southward across the foaming flood. The fiery heroism and stern Dogged resolve that never yields, 1 No more fills Europe’s battlefields With hearts that for their country burn. Man seeks no more the dazzling heights Of honour that these heroes scaled: The petty sacrifice entailed, His feeble cowardice affrights! Ah. no! for men have courage still; Their natures have not changed with time; The restive strength of manhood’s prime, The love of peace can never fcilL We are thy subjects; hail, O King! All-glorious war can never' end Thy power immortal doth transcend Man’s pitiable murmuring. Chorus or Furies. From the dark caverns of eternal night, WKfere misery forever site and moans Uncomforted, with swift relentless flight, We follow in the train of wax. The groans Of bleeding nations are our breath; our food f Is carrion flesh; our wine is human blood. FAMINE 1 revel in the agonising pangs Of ever-gnawing hunger. I arise Amid earth’s desolation, and my fangs Are glutted in starvation's agonies. Behold, ye Nations, shudder and abhor; For I am Famine and I spring from War. PESTILENCE. I strike, apd there is none that can restrain; I breathe, and on-, the world my horrid breath Breeds foul ' disease and suffering and pain, Hot fever and delirium and death. Behold, ye Nations, shudder end abhor; For I am Pestilence that follows War. Fear. T lay my iron claws upon man’s soul, And vague wild terrors of , the darkness spread, ‘ Like subtle deadly poison, through his whole Being, an infinite and nameless dread. Behold, ye Nations, shudder end abhor; For I am Fear, concatenate with War. Chorus. But - who is this approaching, treading slow ■Upon the first faint rays of early morn, Clad in a long black vesture as in woe, Her hair uhravelled and her face forlorn ? / Even the storm in pity doth abate. We must sway. Day breaks. The hour is late. The Spirit op Sorrow. Weep, ye fast-fleeing storm-clouds, weep your tain; Mourn for the sorrow and the suffering Of this sad world. While these proud fighters sing War’s glory and war’s glamour, they retain No thought of all 'the broken bleeding hearts They left behind them —the hot, burning tears , Of womanhood bereaved. The long dull years Heal not the pain; tho open wound still smarts. How many thousand homes has war left bare, Robbed of . their chief support! How many lives Made desolate) Weep, mothers, sisters, wives, Till your sobs stifle all but your despair. The Spirit op the Dawn. Amid the golden haze That shimmers in the east, After the tempest, a new day is born. The sun with hair ablaze, Prom night’s black caves released, Bursts o’er the mountains on the blushing morn. Upon the river trees and battered corn, The flashing sunbeams dance A« though they would erase,

Now that the storm hae ceased, All traco of its late fury. Swift they glance Upon the heaving waters of the sea, Over whoso wide expanse The south wind murmurs low, Albeit merrily, Its message like an olden-time romance, That Dawn has banished woe. The Spirit op Peace. 0 Spirit of the new-born day, whose light Scatters the) darkness end the tempest, lo With you I have arisen o’er the night Of the war-weary world, to bring it peace. You distant towers, that shatter, far below, The golden sunbeams in a thousand bright Reflections, like a many-facedl jewel, Crown my new temple, marking man’s release Shorn Wat’s unmitigated sovereignty. Now at their long-delayed, long-wished-for birth, Famine and Pestilence and Fear, those cruel Relentless Furies, will no more roam free Among the nations, preying on mankind, And Peace will reign for ever on the earth. The full and unsapped energy of man Will turn to industry. Prosperity, Such as was never known or dreamed before, Over the world will spread on every wind. The fleets of commerce, riding on the sea, Will penetrate even to the farthest shore, And into every land and clime will bear The earth’s abundance in their laden holds. Where is the fame of war that can compare With the great triumphs of immortal art, Where man essayeth, godlike, to create, And not destroy: Music, the utterance Of all the deep emotions of the heart; Painting and Sculpture, which first imitate, And then conceive perfection; Poetry, Which, hand in hand with grave Melpomene Expresses soul and mind, feeling and thought, Passion and meditation—the whole range Of human nature; and that other, least Of all the arts, since men by it have sought Utility, even Architecture, claims This one unique distinction, that it reared The Senate House of Peaoe. Yo who come From the four comers of the 'dearth, resolved To make an end of war, whose very names As long as time endures will be revered, Into my polace hero I welcome you; And may the projects fair that are .evolved In your sage conclaves load the world to peace. But there is more, yet nw«e, that ye must do. What of the party conflict, bitter strife Of class ■ with class,- whose canker still is rife Within the nations, gnawing at their heart? When these are rooted out, and the sore healed, Then shall the heavy veil of sorrow' part, And Joy, in light and beauty, bo revealed. As that great Emperor- of Zarafshon-d, Returning from Angora's victory, After the desert’s endless tracts of sand, Saw, in tha distance, green with herb and tree, The vale of Oxus, like o fairy land; And, pressing on, found love and rest in Samarcand.