Collected Poems 1897 - 1907, by Henry Newbolt Part 12

A Sower

With sanguine looks And rolling walk Among the rooks He loved to stalk,

While on the land With gusty laugh From a full hand He scattered chaff.

Now that within His spirit sleeps A harvest thin The sickle reaps;

But the dumb fields Desire his tread, And no earth yields A wheat more red.

A Song Of Exmoor

The Forest above and the Combe below, On a bright September morn!

He's the soul of a clod who thanks not G.o.d That ever his body was born!

So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away!

Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

So hurry along, the stag's afoot, The Master's up and away!

Halloo! Halloo! we'll follow it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Hark to the tufters' challenge true, 'Tis a note that the red-deer knows!

His courage awakes, his covert he breaks, And up for the moor he goes!

He's all his rights and seven on top, His eye's the eye of a king, And he'll beggar the pride of some that ride Before he leaves the ling!

Here comes Antony bringing the pack, Steady! he's laying them on!

By the sound of their chime you may tell that it's time To harden your heart and be gone.

Nightacott, Narracott, Hunnacott's pa.s.sed, Right for the North they race: He's leading them straight for Blackmoor Gate, And he's setting a pounding pace!

We're running him now on a breast-high scent, But he leaves us standing still; When we swing round by Westland Pound He's far up Challacombe Hill.

The pack are a string of struggling ants, The quarry's a dancing midge, They're trying their reins on the edge of the Chains While he's on Cheriton Ridge.

He's gone by Kittuck and Lucott Moor, He's gone by Woodc.o.c.k's Ley; By the little white town he's turned him down, And he's soiling in open sea.

So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away!

We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

So hurry along, we'll both be in, The crowd are a parish away!

We're a field of two, and we've followed it through From Bratton to Porlock Bay!

Fidele's Gra.s.sy Tomb

The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair, His eyes were alive and clear of care, But well he knew that the hour was come To bid good-bye to his ancient home.

He looked on garden, wood, and hill, He looked on the lake, sunny and still: The last of earth that his eyes could see Was the island church of Orchardleigh.

The last that his heart could understand Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand: "Bury the dog at my feet," he said, And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.

Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed, Staunch to love and strong at need: He had dragged his master safe to sh.o.r.e When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.

From that day forth, as reason would, He was named "Fidele," and made it good: When the last of the mourners left the door Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.

They buried him there at his master's feet, And all that heard of it deemed it meet: The story went the round for years, Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.

Bishop of Bath and Wells was he, Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh; And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed That Bishop may write or Parson read.

The sum of it was that a soulless hound Was known to be buried in hallowed ground: From scandal sore the Church to save They must take the dog from his masters grave.

The heir was far in a foreign land, The Parson was wax to my Lord's command: He sent for the s.e.xton and bade him make A lonely grave by the sh.o.r.e of the lake.

The s.e.xton sat by the water's brink Where he used to sit when he used to think: He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out, And his argument left him free from doubt.

"A Bishop," he said, "is the top of his trade: But there's others can give him a start with the spade: Yon dog, he carried the Squire ash.o.r.e, And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.

The grave was dug; the mason came And carved on stone Fidele's name; But the dog that the s.e.xton laid inside Was a dog that never had lived or died.

So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed, Till, a long time after, the church decayed, And, laying the floor anew, they found In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.

As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells No more of him the story tells; Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince, And died and was buried a century since.

And whether his view was right or wrong Has little to do with this my song; Something we owe him, you must allow; And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.

The Squire in the family chantry sleeps, The marble still his memory keeps: Remember, when the name you spell, There rest Fidele's bones as well.

For the s.e.xton's grave you need not search, 'Tis a nameless mound by the island church: An ignorant fellow, of humble lot--- But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.

Moonset

Past seven o'clock: time to be gone; Twelfth-night's over and dawn shivering up: A hasty cut of the loaf, a steaming cup, Down to the door, and there is Coachman John.

Ruddy of cheek is John and bright of eye; But John it appears has none of your grins and winks; Civil enough, but short: perhaps he thinks: Words come once in a mile, and always dry.

Has he a mind or not? I wonder; but soon We turn through a leafless wood, and there to the right, Like a sun bewitched in alien realms of night, Mellow and yellow and rounded hangs the moon.

Strangely near she seems, and terribly great: The world is dead: why are we travelling still?

Nightmare silence grips my struggling will; We are driving for ever and ever to find a gate.

"When you come to consider the moon," says John at last, And stops, to feel his footing and take his stand; "And then there's some will say there's never a hand That made the world!"

A flick, and the gates are pa.s.sed.