Collected Poems Volume II Part 86

Puff reeled between, laughing. 'd.a.m.n you,' cried Kit, And, catching the fat swine by his round soft throat, Hurled him headlong, crashing across the tables, To lie and groan in the red bilge of wine That washed the scuppers.

Kit gave him not one glance.

'Archer,' he said in a whisper.

Instantly A long thin rapier flashed in Archer's hand.

The ship was one wild uproar. Women screamed And huddled together. A drunken clamorous ring Seethed around Marlowe and his enemy.

Kit drew his dagger, slowly, and I knew Blood would be spilt.

'Here, take my rapier, Kit!'

I cried across the crowd, seeing the lad Was armed so slightly. But he did not hear.

I could not reach him.

All at once he leapt Like a wounded tiger, past the rapier point Straight at his enemy's throat. I saw his hand Up-raised to strike! I heard a harlot's scream, And, in mid-air, the hand stayed, quivering, white, A frozen menace.

I saw a yellow claw Twisting the dagger out of that frozen hand; I saw his own steel in that yellow grip, His own lost lightning raised to strike at him!

I saw it flash! I heard the driving grunt Of him that struck! Then, with a shout, the crowd Sundered, and through the gap, a blank red thing Streaming with blood came the blind face of Kit, Reeling, to me! And I, poor drunken I, Held my arms wide for him. Here, on my breast, With one great sob, he burst his heart and died."

Nash ceased. And, far away down Friday Street, The crowder with his fiddler wailed again:

"_Blaspheming Tambolin must die And Faustus meet his end.

Repent, repent, or presentlie To h.e.l.l ye must descend._"

And, as in answer, Chapman slowly breathed Those mightiest lines of Marlowe's own despair:

"_Think'st thou that I who saw the face of G.o.d, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand h.e.l.ls?_"

"Ah, you have said it," said Nash, "and there you know Why Kit desired your hand to crown his work.

He reverenced you as one whose temperate eyes Austere and grave, could look him through and through; One whose firm hand could grasp the reins of law And guide those furious horses of the sun, As Ben and Will can guide them, where you will.

His were, perchance, the n.o.blest steeds of all, And from their nostrils blew a fierier dawn Above the world. That glory is his own; But where he fell, he fell. Before his hand Had learned to quell them, he was dashed to the earth.

'Tis yours to show that good men honoured him.

For, mark this, Chapman, since Kit Marlowe fell.

There will be fools that, in the name of Art, Will wallow in the mire, crying 'I fall, I fall from heaven!'--fools that have only heard From earth, the rumour of those golden hooves Far, far above them. Yes, you know the kind, The fools that scorn Will for his lack of fire Because he quells the storms they never knew, And rides above the thunder; fools of Art That skip and vex, like little vicious fleas, Their only Helicon, some green madam's breast.

Art! Art! O, G.o.d, that I could send my soul, In one last wave, from that night-hidden wreck, Across the sh.o.r.es of all the years to be; O, G.o.d, that like a crowder I might shake Their blind dark cas.e.m.e.nts with the pity of it, Piers Penniless his ballad, a poor sc.r.a.p, That but for lack of time, and hope and pence, He might have bettered! For a dead man's sake, Thus would the wave break, thus the crowder cry:--

Dead, like a dog upon the road; Dead, for a harlot's kiss; The Apollonian throat and brow, The lyric lips, so silent now, The flaming wings that heaven bestowed For loftier airs than this!

The sun-like eyes whose light and life Had gazed an angel's down, That burning heart of honey and fire, Quenched and dead for an apple-squire, Quenched at the thrust of a mummer's knife, Dead--for a taffeta gown!

The wine that G.o.d had set apart, The n.o.blest wine of all, Wine of the grapes that angels trod, The vintage of the glory of G.o.d, The crimson wine of that rich heart, Spilt in a drunken brawl,

Poured out to make a steaming bath That night in the Devil's Inn, A steaming bath of living wine Poured out for Circe and her swine, A bath of blood for a harlot To supple and sleek her skin.

And many a fool that finds it sweet Through all the years to be, Crowning a lie with Marlowe's fame, Will ape the sin, will ape the shame, Will ape our captain in defeat; But--not in victory;

Till Art become a leaping-house, And Death be crowned as Life, And one wild jest outshine the soul Of Truth ... O, fool, is this your goal?

You are not our Kit Marlowe, But the drunkard with the knife;

Not Marlowe, but the Jack-o'-Lent That lured him o'er the fen!

O, ay, the tavern is in its place, And the punk's painted smiling face, But where is our Kit Marlowe The man, the king of men?

Pa.s.sion? You kiss the painted mouth, The hand that clipped his wings, The hand that into his heart she thrust And tuned him to her whimpering l.u.s.t, And played upon his quivering youth As a crowder plucks the strings.

But he who dared the thunder-roll, Whose eagle-wings could soar, Buffeting down the clouds of night, To beat against the Light of Light, That great G.o.d-blinded eagle-soul, We shall not see him, more."

V

THE COMPANION OF A MILE

THWACK! _Thwack_! One early dawn upon our door I heard the bladder of some motley fool Bouncing, and all the dusk of London shook With bells!

I leapt from bed,--had I forgotten?--I flung my cas.e.m.e.nt wide and craned my neck Over the painted Mermaid. There he stood, His right leg yellow and his left leg blue, With jingling cap, a sheep-bell at his tail, Wielding his eel-skin bladder,--_bang! thwack! bang!_--Catching a comrade's head with the recoil And skipping away! All Bread Street dimly burned Like a reflected sky, green, red and white With littered branches, ferns and hawthorn-clouds; For, round Sir Fool, a frolic morrice-troop Of players, poets, prentices, mad-cap queans, Robins and Marians, coloured like the dawn, And sparkling like the greenwood whence they came With their fresh boughs all dewy from the dark, Clamoured, _Come down! Come down, and let us in!_ High over these, I suddenly saw Sir Fool Leap to a sign-board, swing to a conduit-head, And perch there, gorgeous on the morning sky, Tossing his crimson c.o.c.ks...o...b..to the blue And crowing like Chanticleer, _Give them a rouse! Tickle it, tabourer!

Nimbly, la.s.ses, nimbly! Tuck up your russet petticoats and dance! Let the Cheape know it is the first of May!_

And as I seized shirt, doublet and trunk-hose, I saw the hobby-horse come cantering down, A pasteboard steed, dappled a rosy white Like peach-bloom, bridled with purple, bitted with gold, A crimson foot-cloth on his royal flanks, And, riding him, His Majesty of the May! Round him the whole crowd frolicked with a shout, And as I stumbled down the crooked stair I heard them break into a dance and sing:--

SONG

I

Into the woods we'll trip and go, Up and down and to and fro, Under the moon to fetch in May, And two by two till break of day, A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying!

Wisdom trips not? Even so-- Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go.

II

Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying, Though Love knows no denying!

Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing!

"_Chorus_," the great Fool tossed his gorgeous crest, And l.u.s.tily crew against the deepening dawn, "_Chorus_," till all the Cheape caught the refrain, And, with a double thunder of frolic feet, Its ancient nut-brown tabors woke the Strand:--

A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying!

Wisdom trips not? Even so,-- Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go.

Into the Mermaid with a shout they rushed As I shot back the bolts, and _bang, thwack, bang,_ The bladder bounced about me. What cared I?

This was all England's holy-day! "Come in, My yellow-hammers," roared the Friar Tuck Of this mad morrice, "come you into church, My nightingales, my sc.r.a.ps of Lincoln green, And hear my sermon!" On a window-seat He stood, against the diamonded rich panes In the old oak parlour and, throwing back his hood, Who should it be but Ben, rare Ben himself?

The wild troup laughed around him, some a-sprawl On tables, kicking parti-coloured heels, Some with their Marians jigging on their knees, And, in the front of all, the motley fool Cross-legged upon the rushes.

O, I knew him,-- Will Kemp, the player, who danced from London town To Norwich in nine days and was proclaimed Freeman of Marchaunt Venturers and hedge-king Of English morrice-dancery for ever!

His nine-days' wonder, through the countryside Was hawked by every ballad-monger. Kemp Raged at their shake-rag Muses. None but I Guessed ever for what reason, since he chose His anticks for himself and, in his games, Was more than most May-fools fantastical.

I watched his thin face, as he rocked and crooned, Shaking the squirrels' tails around his ears; And, out of all the players I had seen, His face was quickest through its clay to flash The pa.s.sing mood. Though not a muscle stirred, The very skin of it seemed to flicker and gleam With little summer lightnings of the soul At every fleeting fancy. For a man So quick to bleed at a pin-p.r.i.c.k or to leap Laughing through h.e.l.l to save a b.u.t.terfly, This world was difficult; and perchance he found In his fantastic games that open road Which even Will Shakespeare only found at last In motley and with some wild straws in his hair.

But "Drawer! drawer!" bellowed Friar Ben, "Make ready a righteous breakfast while I preach;-- Tankards of nut-brown ale, and cold roast beef, Cracknels, old cheese, flaunes, tarts and clotted cream.

Hath any a wish not circ.u.mscribed by these?"

"A white-pot custard, for my white-pot queen,"

Cried Kemp, waving his bauble, "mark this, boy, A white-pot custard for my queen of May,-- She is not here, but that concerns not thee!-- A white-pot Mermaid custard, with a crust, Lashings of cream, eggs, apple-pulse and spice, A little sugar and manchet bread. Away!

Be swift!"

And as I bustled to and fro, The Friar raised his big brown fists again And preached in mockery of the Puritans Who thought to strip the moonshine wings from Mab, Tear down the May-poles, rout our English games, And drive all beauty back into the sea.

Then laughter and chatter and clashing tankards drowned All but their May-day jollity a-while.

But, as their breakfast ended, and I sank Gasping upon a bench, there came still more Poets and players crowding into the room; And one--I only knew him as Sir John-- Waved a great ballad at Will Kemp and laughed, "Atonement, Will, atonement!"

"What," groaned Kemp, "Another penny poet? How many lies Does _this_ rogue tell? Sir, I have suffered much From these Melpomenes and strawberry quills, And think them better at their b.l.o.o.d.y lines On _The Blue Lady_. Sir, they set to work At seven o'clock in the morning, the same hour That I, myself, that's _Cavaliero_ Kemp, With heels of feather and heart of cork, began Frolickly footing, from the great Lord Mayor Of London, tow'rds the worshipful Master Mayor Of Norwich."