Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 17

I

When the Head of Bran Was firm on British shoulders, G.o.d made a man!

Cried all beholders.

Steel could not resist The weight his arm would rattle; He, with naked fist, Has brain'd a knight in battle.

He marched on the foe, And never counted numbers; Foreign widows know The hosts he sent to slumbers.

As a street you scan, That's towered by the steeple, So the Head of Bran Rose o'er his people.

II

'Death's my neighbour,'

Quoth Bran the Blest; 'Christian labour Brings Christian rest.

From the trunk sever The Head of Bran, That which never Has bent to man!

'That which never To men has bowed Shall live ever To shame the shroud: Shall live ever To face the foe; Sever it, sever, And with one blow.

'Be it written, That all I wrought Was for Britain, In deed and thought: Be it written, That while I die, Glory to Britain!

Is my last cry.

'Glory to Britain!

Death echoes me round.

Glory to Britain!

The world shall resound.

Glory to Britain!

In ruin and fall, Glory to Britain!

Is heard over all.'

IIII

Burn, Sun, down the sea!

Bran lies low with thee.

Burst, Morn, from the main!

Bran so shall rise again.

Blow, Wind, from the field!

Bran's Head is the Briton's shield.

Beam, Star, in the West!

Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.

IV

Crimson-footed, like the stork, From great ruts of slaughter, Warriors of the Golden Torque Cross the lifting water.

Princes seven, enchaining hands, Bear the live head homeward.

Lo! it speaks, and still commands: Gazing out far foamward.

Fiery words of lightning sense Down the hollows thunder; Forest hostels know not whence Comes the speech, and wonder.

City-Castles, on the steep, Where the faithful Seven House at midnight, hear, in sleep, Laughter under heaven.

Lilies, swimming on the mere, In the castle shadow, Under draw their heads, and Fear Walks the misty meadow.

Tremble not! it is not Death Pledging dark espousal: 'Tis the Head of endless breath, Challenging carousal!

Brim the horn! a health is drunk, Now, that shall keep going: Life is but the pebble sunk; Deeds, the circle growing!

Fill, and pledge the Head of Bran!

While his lead they follow, Long shall heads in Britain plan Speech Death cannot swallow!

THE MEETING

The old coach-road through a common of furze, With knolls of pine, ran white; Berries of autumn, with thistles, and burrs, And spider-threads, droop'd in the light.

The light in a thin blue veil peered sick; The sheep grazed close and still; The smoke of a farm by a yellow rick Curled lazily under a hill.

No fly shook the round of the silver net; No insect the swift bird chased; Only two travellers moved and met Across that hazy waste.

One was a girl with a babe that throve, Her ruin and her bliss; One was a youth with a lawless love, Who clasped it the more for this.

The girl for her babe hummed prayerful speech; The youth for his love did pray; Each cast a wistful look on each, And either went their way.

THE BEGGAR'S SOLILOQUY

I

Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer, To lie all alone on a ragged heath, Where your nose isn't sniffing for bones or beer, But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath.

The cottagers bustle about the door, And the girl at the window ties her strings.

She's a dish for a man who's a mind to be poor; Lord! women are such expensive things.

II

We don't marry beggars, says she: why, no: It seems that to make 'em is what you do; And as I can cook, and scour, and sew, I needn't pay half my victuals for you.

A man for himself should be able to scratch, But tickling's a luxury:- love, indeed!

Love burns as long as the lucifer match, Wedlock's the candle! Now, that's my creed.

III

The church-bells sound water-like over the wheat; And up the long path troop pair after pair.

The man's well-brushed, and the woman looks neat: It's man and woman everywhere!

Unless, like me, you lie here flat, With a donkey for friend, you must have a wife: She pulls out your hair, but she brushes your hat.

Appearances make the best half of life.