A Shropshire Lad Part 7

Bring, in this timeless grave to throw, No cypress, sombre on the snow; Snap not from the bitter yew His leaves that live December through; Break no rosemary, bright with rime And sparkling to the cruel clime; Nor plod the winter land to look For willows in the icy brook To cast them leafless round him: bring No spray that ever buds in spring.

But if the Christmas field has kept Awns the last gleaner overstept, Or shrivelled flax, whose flower is blue A single season, never two; Or if one haulm whose year is o'er Shivers on the upland frore, -Oh, bring from hill and stream and plain Whatever will not flower again, To give him comfort: he and those Shall bide eternal bedfellows Where low upon the couch he lies Whence he never shall arise.

XLVII

THE CARPENTER'S SON

"Here the hangman stops his cart: Now the best of friends must part.

Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live, lads, and I will die."

"Oh, at home had I but stayed 'Prenticed to my father's trade, Had I stuck to plane and adze, I had not been lost, my lads."

"Then I might have built perhaps Gallows-trees for other chaps, Never dangled on my own, Had I but left ill alone."

"Now, you see, they hang me high, And the people pa.s.sing by Stop to shake their fists and curse; So 'tis come from ill to worse."

"Here hang I, and right and left Two poor fellows hang for theft: All the same's the luck we prove, Though the midmost hangs for love."

"Comrades all, that stand and gaze, Walk henceforth in other ways; See my neck and save your own: Comrades all, leave ill alone."

"Make some day a decent end, Shrewder fellows than your friend.

Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live, lads, and I will die."

XLVIII

Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong.

Think rather,-call to thought, if now you grieve a little, The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long.

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn; Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry: Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born.

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun.

Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: Let us endure an hour and see injustice done.

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation- Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?

XLIX

Think no more, lad; laugh, be jolly: Why should men make haste to die?

Empty heads and tongues a-talking Make the rough road easy walking, And the feather pate of folly Bears the falling sky.

Oh, 'tis jesting, dancing, drinking Spins the heavy world around.

If young hearts were not so clever, Oh, they would be young for ever: Think no more; 'tis only thinking Lays lads underground.

L

_ Clunton and Clunbury, Clungunford and Clun, Are the quietest places Under the sun. _

In valleys of springs of rivers, By Ony and Teme and Clun, The country for easy livers, The quietest under the sun,

We still had sorrows to lighten, One could not be always glad, And lads knew trouble at Knighton When I was a Knighton lad.

By bridges that Thames runs under, In London, the town built ill, 'Tis sure small matter for wonder If sorrow is with one still.

And if as a lad grows older The troubles he bears are more, He carries his griefs on a shoulder That handselled them long before.

Where shall one halt to deliver This luggage I'd lief set down?

Not Thames, not Teme is the river, Nor London nor Knighton the town:

'Tis a long way further than Knighton, A quieter place than Clun, Where doomsday may thunder and lighten And little 'twill matter to one.

LI

Loitering with a vacant eye Along the Grecian gallery, And brooding on my heavy ill, I met a statue standing still.

Still in marble stone stood he, And stedfastly he looked at me.

"Well met," I thought the look would say, "We both were fashioned far away; We neither knew, when we were young, These Londoners we live among."

Still he stood and eyed me hard, An earnest and a grave regard: "What, lad, drooping with your lot?

I too would be where I am not.

I too survey that endless line Of men whose thoughts are not as mine.

Years, ere you stood up from rest, On my neck the collar prest; Years, when you lay down your ill, I shall stand and bear it still.

Courage, lad, 'tis not for long: Stand, quit you like stone, be strong."

So I thought his look would say; And light on me my trouble lay, And I slept out in flesh and bone Manful like the man of stone.

LII

Far in a western brookland That bred me long ago The poplars stand and tremble By pools I used to know.

There, in the windless night-time, The wanderer, marvelling why, Halts on the bridge to hearken How soft the poplars sigh.

He hears: long since forgotten In fields where I was known, Here I lie down in London And turn to rest alone.

There, by the starlit fences, The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.

LIII