Collected Poems Volume II Part 80

II

What will you say when the world is dying?

What, when the last wild midnight falls Dark, too dark for the bat to be flying Round the ruins of old St. Paul's?

What will be last of the lights to perish?

What but the little red ring we knew, Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherish A fire, a fire, and a friend or two!

_Chorus:_ Up now, answer me, tell me true!

What will be last of the stars to perish?

--The fire that lighteth a friend or two!

III

Up now, answer me, on your mettle Wisest man of the Mermaid Inn, Soberest man on the old black settle, Out with the truth! It was never a sin.-- Well, if G.o.d saved me alone of the seven, Telling me _you_ must be d.a.m.ned, or _you_, "This," I would say, "This is h.e.l.l, not heaven!

Give me the fire and a friend or two!"

_Chorus:_ Steel was never so ringing true: "G.o.d," we would say, "this is h.e.l.l, not heaven!

Give us the fire, and a friend or two!"

III

BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON

The garlands of a Whitsun ale were strewn About our rushes, the night that Raleigh brought Bacon to sup with us. There, on that night, I saw the singer of the _Faerie Queen_ Quietly spreading out his latest cantos For Shakespeare's eye, like white sheets in the sun.

Marlowe, our morning-star, and Michael Drayton Talked in that ingle-nook. And Ben was there, Humming a song upon that old black settle: "Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not ask for wine."

But, meanwhile, he drank malmsey.

Francis Bacon Straddled before the fire; and, all at once, He said to Shakespeare, in a voice that gripped The Mermaid Tavern like an arctic frost:

"_There are no poets in this age of ours, Not to compare with Plautus. They are all Dead, the men that were famous in old days._"

"Why--so they are," said Will. The humming stopped.

I saw poor Spenser, a shy gentle soul, With haunted eyes like starlit forest pools, Smuggling his cantos under his cloak again.

"There's verse enough, no doubt," Bacon went on, "But English is no language for the Muse.

Whom would you call our best? There's Gabriel Harvey, And Edward, Earl of Oxford. Then there's Dyer, And Doctor Golding; while, for tragedy, Thomas, Lord Buckhurst, hath a lofty vein.

And, in a lighter prettier vein, why, Will, There is _thyself!_ But--where's Euripides?"

"Dead," echoed Ben, in a deep ghost-like voice.

And drip--drip--drip--outside we heard the rain Miserably dropping round the Mermaid Inn.

"Thy Summer's Night--eh, Will? Midsummer's Night?-- That's a quaint fancy," Bacon droned anew, "But--Athens was an error, Will! Not Athens!

t.i.tania knew not Athens! Those wild elves Of thy Midsummer's Dream--eh? Midnight's Dream?-- Are English all. Thy woods, too, smack of England; They never grew round Athens. Bottom, too, He is not Greek!"

"Greek?" Will said, with a chuckle, "Bottom a Greek? Why, no, he was the son Of Marian Hacket, the fat wife that kept An ale-house, Wincot-way. I lodged with her Walking from Stratford. You have never tramped Along that countryside? By Burton Heath?

Ah, well, you would not know my fairylands.

It warms my blood to let my home-spuns play Around your cold white Athens. There's a joy In jumping time and s.p.a.ce."

But, as he took The cup of sack I proffered, solemnly The lawyer shook his head. "Will, couldst thou use Thy talents with discretion, and obey Cla.s.sic examples, those mightst match old Plautus, In all except priority of the tongue.

This English tongue is only for an age, But Latin for all time. So I propose To embalm in Latin my philosophies.

Well seize your hour! But, ere you die, you'll sail A British galleon to the golden courts Of Cleopatra."

"Sail it!" Marlowe roared, Mimicking in a fit of thunderous glee The drums and trumpets of his Tamburlaine: "And let her buccaneers bestride the sphinx, And play at bowls with Pharaoh's pyramids, And hale white Egypt with their tarry hands Home to the Mermaid! Lift the good old song That Rob Greene loved. G.o.ds, how the lad would shout it!

Stand up and sing, John Davis!"

"Up!" called Raleigh, "Lift the chanty of Black Bill's Honey-moon, Jack!

We'll keep the chorus going!"

"Silence, all!"

Ben Jonson echoed, rolling on his bench: "This gentle lawyer hath a longing, lads, To hear a right Homeric hymn. Now, Jack!

But wet your whistle, first! A cup of sack For the first canto! Muscadel, the next!

Canary for the last!" I brought the cup.

John Davis emptied it at one mighty draught, Leapt on a table, stamped with either foot, And straight began to troll this mad sea-tale:

CANTO THE FIRST

Let Martin Parker at hawthorn-tide Prattle in Devons.h.i.+re lanes, Let all his pedlar poets beside Rattle their gallows-chains, A tale like mine they never shall tell Or a merrier ballad sing, Till the Man in the Moon pipe up the tune And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring!

_Chorus:_ Till Philip of Spain in England reign, And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring!

All in the gorgeous dawn of day From grey old Plymouth Sound Our galleon crashed thro' the crimson spray To sail the world around: _Cloud i' the Sun_ was her white-scrolled name,-- There was never a lovelier la.s.s For sailing in state after pieces of eight With her bombards all of bra.s.s.

_Chorus:_ Culverins, robinets, iron may-be; But her bombards all of bra.s.s!

Now, they that go down to the sea in s.h.i.+ps, Though piracy be their trade, For all that they pray not much with their lips They know where the storms are made: With the stars above and the sharks below, They need not parson or clerk; But our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, Except--sometimes--in the dark!

_Chorus:_ Now let Kit Marlowe mark!

Our bo'sun Bill was an atheist still, Except--sometimes--in the dark!

All we adventured for, who shall say, Nor yet what our port might be?-- A magical city of old Cathay, Or a castle of Muscovy, With our atheist bo'sun, Bill, Black Bill, Under the swinging Bear, Whistling at night for a seaman to light His little p.o.o.p-lanthorns there.

_Chorus:_ On the deep, in the night, for a seaman to light His little lost lanthorns there.

But, as over the Ocean-sea we swept, We chanced on a strange new land Where a valley of tall white lilies slept With a forest on either hand; A valley of white in a purple wood And, behind it, faint and far, Breathless and bright o'er the last rich height, Floated the sunset-star.

_Chorus:_ Fair and bright o'er the rose-red height, Venus, the sunset-star.

'Twas a marvel to see, as we beached our boat, Black Bill, in that peach-bloom air, With the great white lilies that reached to his throat Like a stained-gla.s.s bo'sun there, And our little s.h.i.+p's chaplain, puffing and red, A-starn as we onward stole, With the disk of a lily behind his head Like a cherubin's aureole.

_Chorus:_ He was round and red and behind his head He'd a cherubin's aureole.

"Hyrcania, land of honey and bees, We have found thee at last," he said, "Where the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees,"

(O, the lily behind his head!) "The honey-comb swells in the purple wood!

'Tis the swette which the heavens distil, Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf!

Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?"

_Chorus:_ "Saith Pliny himself, on my little book-shelf!

Is the world not sweet to thee, Bill?"

Now a man may taste of the devil's hot spice, And yet if his mind run back To the honey of childhood's Paradise His heart is not wholly black; And Bill, Black Bill, from the days of his youth, Tho' his chest was broad as an oak, Had cherished one innocent little sweet tooth, And it itched as our chaplain spoke.

_Chorus:_ He had kept one perilous little tooth, And it itched as our chaplain spoke.

All around was a mutter of bees, And Bill 'gan muttering too,-- "If the honey-comb swells in the hollow trees, (What else can a Didymus do?) I'll steer to the purple woods myself And see if this thing be so, Which the chaplain found on his little book-shelf, For Pliny lived long ago."