Modern British Poetry Part 23

_Alfred Noyes_

Alfred Noyes was born at Staffordshire, September 16, 1880. He is one of the few contemporary poets who have been fortunate enough to write a kind of poetry that is not only saleable but popular with many cla.s.ses of people.

His first book, _The Loom of Years_ (1902), was published when he was only 22 years old, and _Poems_ (1904) intensified the promise of his first publication. Swinburne, grown old and living in retirement, was so struck with Noyes's talent that he had the young poet out to read to him. Unfortunately, Noyes has not developed his gifts as deeply as his admirers have hoped. His poetry, extremely straightforward and rhythmical, has often degenerated into cheap sentimentalities and cheaper tirades; it has frequently attempted to express programs and profundities far beyond Noyes's power.

What is most appealing about his best verse is its ease and heartiness; this singer's gift lies in the almost personal bond established between the poet and his public. People have such a good time reading his vivacious lines because Noyes had such a good time writing them. Rhyme in a thumping rhythm seems to be not merely his trade but his morning exercise. Noyes's own relish filled and quickened glees and catches like _Forty Singing Seamen_ (1907), the l.u.s.ty choruses in _Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_ (1913), and the genuinely inspired nonsense of the earlier _Forest of Wild Thyme_ (1905).

The least popular work of Noyes is, as a unified product, his most remarkable performance. It is an epic in twelve books of blank verse, _Drake_ (1908), a glowing pageant of the sea and England's drama upon it. It is a spirited echo of the maritime Elizabethans; a vivid and orchestral work interspersed with splendid lyric pa.s.sages and brisk songs. The companion volume, an attempted reconstruction of the literary phase of the same period, is less successful; but these _Tales of the Mermaid Tavern_ (which introduce Shakespeare, Marlowe, Drayton, Raleigh, Ben Jonson, and other immortals) are alive and colorful, if somewhat too insistently rollicking and smoothly lilting.

His eight volumes were a.s.sembled in 1913 and published in two books of _Collected Poems_ (Frederick A. Stokes Company).

SHERWOOD

Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?

Grey and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake; Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn.

Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves, Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June: All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon; Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst.

Merry, merry England is waking as of old, With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold: For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Love is in the greenwood building him a house Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs; Love it in the greenwood: dawn is in the skies; And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes.

Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep: Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep?

Round the fairy gra.s.s-rings frolic elf and fay, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold, Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould, Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red, And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed.

Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together With quarter-staff and drinking-can and grey goose-feather; The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled away In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows; All the heart of England hid in every rose Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap, Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?

Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold, Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep, _Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?_

Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men; Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day;

Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash Rings the _Follow! Follow!_ and the boughs begin to crash; The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly; And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by.

_Robin! Robin! Robin!_ All his merry thieves Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves: Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day.

THE BARREL-ORGAN

There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks low; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And fulfilled it with the sunset glow; And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light; And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night.

And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance, And trolling out a fond familiar tune, And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France, And now it's prattling softly to the moon.

And all around the organ there's a sea without a sh.o.r.e Of human joys and wonders and regrets; To remember and to recompense the music evermore For what the cold machinery forgets ...

Yes; as the music changes, Like a prismatic gla.s.s, It takes the light and ranges Through all the moods that pa.s.s; Dissects the common carnival Of pa.s.sions and regrets, And gives the world a glimpse of all The colours it forgets.

And there _La Traviata_ sighs Another sadder song; And there _Il Trovatore_ cries A tale of deeper wrong; And bolder knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance, Than ever here on earth below Have whirled into--a dance!--

Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)

The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume, The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!) And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.

The nightingale is rather rare and yet they say you'll hear him there At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long halloo And golden-eyed _tu-whit, tu-whoo_ of owls that ogle London.

For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heard At Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!) And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are out You'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorusing for London:--

_Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (is isn't far from London!)_

And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street, In the city as the sun sinks low; And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feet Marking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat, And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet, Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat, In the land where the dead dreams go.

Verdi, Verdi, when you wrote _Il Trovatore_ did you dream Of the City when the sun sinks low, Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured stream On the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seem To be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleam As _A che la morte_ parodies the world's eternal theme And pulses with the sunset-glow?

There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stone In the City as the sun sinks low; There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own, There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone, And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known: They are crammed and jammed in busses and--they're each of them alone In the land where the dead dreams go.

There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the dead In the City as the sun sinks low; And his hand begins to tremble and his face is rather red As he sees a loafer watching him and--there he turns his head And stares into the sunset where his April love is fled, For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is led Through the land where the dead dreams go ...

There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks low; Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweet Just as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meet Mellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feet Are marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheat In the land where the dead dreams go.

So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah, What have you to say When you meet the garland girls Tripping on their way?

All around my gala hat I wear a wreath of roses (A long and lonely year it is I've waited for the May!) If any one should ask you, The reason why I wear it is-- My own love, my true love is coming home to-day.

And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady (_It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!_) Buy a bunch of violets for the lady; While the sky burns blue above:

On the other side the street you'll find it shady (_It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!_) But buy a bunch of violets for the lady, And tell her she's your own true love.

There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street In the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow; And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweet And enriched it with the harmonies that make a song complete In the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet, As it dies into the sunset glow;

And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light, And they've given it a glory and a part to play again In the Symphony that rules the day and night.

And there, as the music changes, The song runs round again; Once more it turns and ranges Through all its joy and pain: Dissects the common carnival Of pa.s.sions and regrets; And the wheeling world remembers all The wheeling song forgets.

Once more _La Traviata_ sighs Another sadder song: Once more _Il Trovatore_ cries A tale of deeper wrong; Once more the knights to battle go With sword and shield and lance Till once, once more, the shattered foe Has whirled into--a dance!

_Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time; Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!) And you shall wander hand in hand with Love in summer's wonderland, Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)_

EPILOGUE

(_From "The Flower of Old j.a.pan"_)