Modern British Poetry Part 14

THE MOON

Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright; Thy beauty makes me like the child That cries aloud to own thy light: The little child that lifts each arm To press thee to her bosom warm.

Though there are birds that sing this night With thy white beams across their throats, Let my deep silence speak for me More than for them their sweetest notes: Who worships thee till music fails, Is greater than thy nightingales.

THE VILLAIN

While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed where'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; While every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong-- I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood.

THE EXAMPLE

Here's an example from A b.u.t.terfly; That on a rough, hard rock Happy can lie; Friendless and all alone On this unsweetened stone.

Now let my bed be hard, No care take I; I'll make my joy like this Small b.u.t.terfly; Whose happy heart has power To make a stone a flower.

_Hilaire Belloc_

Hilaire Belloc, who has been described as "a Frenchman, an Englishman, an Oxford man, a country gentleman, a soldier, a satirist, a democrat, a novelist, and a practical journalist," was born July 27, 1870. After leaving school he served as a driver in the 8th Regiment of French Artillery at Toul Meurthe-et-Moselle, being at that time a French citizen. He was naturalized as a British subject somewhat later, and in 1906 he entered the House of Commons as Liberal Member for South Salford.

As an author, he has engaged in multiple activities. He has written three satirical novels, one of which, _Mr. Clutterbuck's Election_, sharply exposes British newspapers and underground politics. His _Path to Rome_ (1902) is a high-spirited and ever-delightful travel book which has pa.s.sed through many editions. His historical studies and biographies of _Robespierre_ and _Marie Antoinette_ (1909) are cla.s.sics of their kind. As a poet he is only somewhat less engaging.

His _Verses_ (1910) is a rather brief collection of poems on a wide variety of themes. Although his humorous and burlesque stanzas are refreshing, Belloc is most himself when he writes either of malt liquor or his beloved Suss.e.x. Though his religious poems are full of a fine romanticism, "The South Country" is the most pictorial and persuasive of his serious poems. His poetic as well as his spiritual kinship with G. K. Chesterton is obvious.

THE SOUTH COUNTRY

When I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea; And it's there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle-walls a man may see The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along.

They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pines But I smell the Suss.e.x air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there.

And along the sky the line of the Downs So n.o.ble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end.

Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Suss.e.x Weald; They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field.

By them and the G.o.d of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed.

If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Suss.e.x songs be sung And the story of Suss.e.x told.

I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me.

_Anthony C. Deane_

Anthony C. Deane was born in 1870 and was the Seatonian prizeman in 1905 at Clare College, Cambridge. He has been Vicar of All Saints, Ennismore Gardens, since 1916. His long list of light verse and essays includes several excellent parodies, the most delightful being found in his _New Rhymes for Old_ (1901).

THE BALLAD OF THE _BILLYc.o.c.k_

It was the good ship _Billyc.o.c.k_, with thirteen men aboard, Athirst to grapple with their country's foes,-- A crew, 'twill be admitted, not numerically fitted To navigate a battleship in prose.

It was the good ship _Billyc.o.c.k_ put out from Plymouth Sound, While l.u.s.tily the gallant heroes cheered, And all the air was ringing with the merry bo'sun's singing, Till in the gloom of night she disappeared.

But when the morning broke on her, behold, a dozen ships, A dozen ships of France around her lay, (Or, if that isn't plenty, I will gladly make it twenty), And hemmed her close in Salamander Bay.

Then to the Lord High Admiral there spake a cabin-boy: "Methinks," he said, "the odds are somewhat great, And, in the present crisis, a cabin-boy's advice is That you and France had better arbitrate!"

"Pooh!" said the Lord High Admiral, and slapped his manly chest, "Pooh! That would be both cowardly and wrong; Shall I, a gallant fighter, give the needy ballad-writer No suitable material for song?"

"Nay--is the shorthand-writer here?--I tell you, one and all, I mean to do my duty, as I ought; With eager satisfaction let us clear the decks for action And fight the craven Frenchmen!" So they fought.

And (after several stanzas which as yet are incomplete, Describing all the fight in epic style) When the _Billyc.o.c.k_ was going, she'd a dozen prizes towing (Or twenty, as above) in single file!

Ah, long in glowing English hearts the story will remain, The memory of that historic day, And, while we rule the ocean, we will picture with emotion The _Billyc.o.c.k_ in Salamander Bay!

_P.S._--I've lately noticed that the critics--who, I think, In praising _my_ productions are remiss-- Quite easily are captured, and profess themselves enraptured, By patriotic ditties such as this,

For making which you merely take some dauntless Englishmen, Guns, heroism, slaughter, and a fleet-- Ingredients you mingle in a metre with a jingle, And there you have your masterpiece complete!

Why, then, with labour infinite, produce a book of verse To languish on the "All for Twopence" shelf?

The ballad bold and breezy comes particularly easy-- I mean to take to writing it myself!

A RUSTIC SONG

Oh, I be vun of the useful troibe O' rustic volk, I be; And writin' gennelmen du descroibe The doin's o' such as we; I don't knaw mooch o' corliflower plants, I can't tell 'oes from trowels, But 'ear me mix ma consonants, An' moodle oop all ma vowels!

I talks in a wunnerful dialect That vew can hunderstand, 'Tis Yorkshire-Zummerzet, I expect, With a dash o' the Oirish brand; Sometimes a bloomin' flower of speech I picks from c.o.c.kney spots, And when releegious truths I teach, Obsairve ma richt gude Scots!

In most of the bukes, 'twas once the case I 'adn't got much to do, I blessed the 'eroine's purty face, An' I seed the 'ero through; But now, I'm juist a pairsonage!

A power o' bukes there be Which from the start to the very last page Entoirely deal with me!