Songs of the Army of the Night Part 8

Sit there dreaming in your gardens, looking out upon the sea, Till the night-time closes round you and the wind is on the lea.

Enter then within your chambers in the rich and quiet light; Never think of us who struggle in the tempest and the night.

Soothe your fancy with your visions; bend a gracious senile ear To the praise your guests are murmuring in the tone you love to hear.

Honoured of your Queen, and honoured of the gentlest and the best, Lord and commoner and rich-man, smirking tenant, shopman, priest, All distinguished and respectable, the s.h.i.+ny sons of light, O what, O what are these who call you coward in the night?

Ay, what are we who struggled for the cause of Science, say, Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, Hackel, marshalling our stern array?

We who raised the cry for Culture, Goethe's spirit leading on, Marching gladly with our captains, Renan, Arnold, Emerson?

We, we are not tinkers, tinkers of the kettle cracked and broke, Tailors squatted cross-legged, patching at the greasy worn-out cloak!

We are those that faced mad Fortune, cried: "The Truth, and only she!

Onward, upward! If we perish, we at least will perish free!"

We have lost our souls to win them, in the house and in the street Falling stabbed and poisoned, making a victory of defeat.

We have lost the happy present, we have paid death's heavy debt, We have won, have won the Future, and its sons shall not forget!

Enter, then, within your chamber in the rich and quiet light; Never think of us who struggle in the tempest and the night; Spread your nostrils to the incense, hearken to the murmured hymn Of the praising people, rising from the temple fair and dim.

Ah, but we here in the tempest, we here struggling in the night, See the wors.h.i.+ppers out-stealing; see the temple emptying quite; See the G.o.dhead turning ghostlike; see the pride of name and fame Paling slowly, sad and sickly, with forgetfulness and shame! . . .

Darker, darker grows the night now, louder, louder cries the wind; I can hear the dash of breakers and the deep sea moves behind, I can see the ghostlike phalanx rus.h.i.+ng on the crumbling sh.o.r.e, Slowly but surely shattering its rampart evermore.

And my comrade's voice is calling, and his solitary cry On the great dark swift air-currents like Fate's summons sweepeth by.

Farewell, then, whom once I loved so, whom a boy I thrilled to hear Urging courage and reliance, loathing acquiescent fear.

I must leave you; I must wander to a strange and distant land, Facing all that Fate shall give me with her hard unequal hand- I once more anew must face them, toil and trouble and disease, But these a man may face and conquer, for there waits him death and peace And the freedom from dishonour and denial e'er confessed Of what he knows is truest, what most beautiful and best!

O farewell, then! I must leave you. You have chosen. You are right.

You have made the great refusal; you have shunned the wind and night.

You have won your soul, and won it-No, not lost it, as they tell- Happy, blest of G.o.ds and monarchs, O a long, a long farewell!

_Freshwater_, _Isle of Wight_.

FAREWELL TO THE MARKET.

"SUSANNAH AND MARY-JANE."

Two little darlings alone, Clinging hand in hand; Two little girls come out To see the wonderful land!

Here round the flaring stalls They stand wide-eyed in the throng, While the great, the eloquent huckster Perorates loud and long.

They watch those thrice-blessed mortals, The dirty guzzling boys, Who partake of dates, periwinkles, Ices and other joys.

And their little mouths go wide open At some of the brilliant sights That little darlings may see in the road Of Edgware on Sat.u.r.day nights.

The eldest's name is Susannah; She was four years old last May.

And Mary-Jane, the youngest, Is just three years old to-day.

And I know all about their cat, and Their father and mother too, And "Pigshead," their only brother, Who got his head jammed in the flue.

And _they_ know several particulars Of a similar sort of me, For we went up and down together For over an hour, we three.

And Susannah walked beside me, As became the wiser and older, Fast to one finger, but Mary-Jane Sat solemnly up on my shoulder.

And we bought some sweets, and a monkey That climbed up a stick "quite nice."

And then last we adjourned for refreshments, And the ladies had each an ice.

And Susannah's ice was a pink one, And she sucked it up so quick, But Mary-Jane silently proffered Her ice to me for a lick.

And then we went home to mother, And we found her upon the floor, And father was trying to balance His shoulders against the door.

And Susannah said "O" and "Please, sir, We'll go in ourselves, sir!" And We kissed one another and parted, And they stole in hand in hand.

And it's O for my two little darlings I never shall see again, Though I stand for the whole night watching And crying here in the rain!

II.

"HERE AND THERE."

IN THE PIT.

"CHANT OF THE FIREMEN."

"This is the steamer's pit.

The ovens like dragons of fire Glare thro' their close-lidded eyes With restless hungry desire.

"Down from the tropic night Rushes the funnelled air; Our heads expand and fall in; Our hearts thump huge as despair.

"'Tis we make the bright hot blood Of this throbbing inanimate thing; And our life is no less the fuel Than the coal we shovel and fling.

"And lest of this we be proud Or anything but meek, We are well cursed and paid- Ten s.h.i.+llings a week!"

_Round_, _round_, _round in its tunnel_ _The shaft turns pitiless strong_, _While lost souls cry out in the darkness_: "_How long_, _O Lord_, _how long_?"

A MAHOMMADAN s.h.i.+P FIREMAN.

Up from the oven pit, The h.e.l.l where poor men toil, At the sunset hour he comes Clean-clothed, washed from soil.

On the fo'c's'le head he kneels, His face to the hallowed West.

He prays, and bows and prays.

Does he pray for death and rest?

TO INDIA.

O India, India, O my lovely land- At whose sweet throat the greedy English snake, With fangs and lips that suck and never slake, Clings, while around thee, band by stifling band, The loathsome shape twists, chaining foot and hand- O from this death-swoon must thou never wake, From limbs enfranchised these foul fetters to shake, And, proud among the nations, to rise and stand?

Nay, but thine eyes, thine eyes wherein there stays The patience of that august faith that scorns The tinsel creed of Christ, dream still and gaze Where, not within the timeless East and haze, The haunt of that wan moon with fading horns, There breaks the first of Himalayan morns!

TO ENGLAND.