Poems by George Meredith Volume I Part 29

He this time the laughter led, Dabbling his oily bullet head.

'--Give me, to suit my moods, An ale-house on a heath, I'll hand the crags and woods To B'elzebub beneath.

A fig for scenery! what scene Can beat a Jacka.s.s on a green?'

Gravely he seem'd, with gaze intense, Putting the question to common sense.

'--Why, there's the ale-house bench: The furze-flower shining round: And there's my waiting-wench, As lissome as a hound.

With "hail Britannia!" ere I drink, I'll kiss her with an artful wink.'

Fair flash'd the foreign landscape while We breath'd again our native Isle.

'--The geese may swim hard-by; They gabble, and you talk: You're sure there's not a spy To mark your name with chalk.

My heart's an oak, and it won't grow In flower-pots, foreigners must know.'

Pensive he stood: then shook his head Sadly; held out his fist, and said:

'--You've heard that Hungary's floor'd?

They've got her on the ground.

A traitor broke her sword: Two despots held her bound.

I've seen her gasping her last hope: I've seen her sons strung up b' the rope.

'Nine gallant gentlemen In Arad they strung up!

I work'd in peace till then:- That poison'd all my cup.

A smell of corpses haunted me: My nostril sniff'd like life for sea.

'Take money for my hire From butchers?--not the man!

I've got some natural fire, And don't flash in the pan; - A few ideas I reveal'd:- 'Twas well old England stood my shield!

'Said I, "The Lord of Hosts Have mercy on your land!

I see those dangling ghosts, - And you may keep command, And hang, and shoot, and have your day: They hold your bill, and you must pay.

'"You've sent them where they're strong, You carrion Double-Head!

I hear them sound a gong In Heaven above!"--I said.

"My G.o.d, what feathers won't you moult For this!" says I: and then I bolt.

'The Bird's a beastly Bird, And what is more, a fool.

I shake hands with the herd That flock beneath his rule.

They're kindly; and their land is fine.

I thought it rarer once than mine.

'And rare would be its lot, But that he baulks its powers: It's just an earthen pot For hearts of oak like ours.

Think! Think!--four days from those frontiers, And I'm a-head full fifty years.

'It tingles to your scalps, To think of it, my boys!

Confusion on their Alps, And all their baby toys!

The mountains Britain boasts are men: And scale you them, my brethren!'

Cluck, went his tongue; his fingers, snap.

Britons were proved all heights to cap.

And we who worshipp'd crags, Where purple splendours burn'd, Our idol saw in rags, And right about were turn'd.

Horizons rich with trembling spires On violet twilights lost their fires.

And heights where morning wakes With one cheek over snow; - And iron-walled lakes Where sits the white moon low; - For us on youthful travel bent, The robing picturesque was rent.

Wherever Beauty show'd The wonders of her face, This man his Jacka.s.s rode, High despot of the place.

Fair dreams of our enchanted life Fled fast from his shrill island fife.

And yet we liked him well; We laugh'd with honest hearts:- He shock'd some inner spell, And rous'd discordant parts.

We echoed what we half abjured: And hating, smilingly endured.

Moreover, could we be To our dear land disloyal?

And were not also we Of History's blood-Royal?

We glow'd to think how donkeys graze In England, thrilling at their brays.

For there a man may view An aspect more sublime Than Alps against the blue:- The morning eyes of Time!

The very a.s.s partic.i.p.ates The glory Freedom radiates!

Ca.s.sANDRA

I

Captive on a foreign sh.o.r.e, Far from Ilion's h.o.a.ry wave, Agamemnon's bridal slave Speaks Futurity no more: Death is busy with her grave.

II

Thick as water, bursts remote Round her ears the alien din, While her little sullen chin Fills the hollows of her throat: Silent lie her slaughter'd kin.

III

Once to many a pealing shriek, Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower, Ilion's fierce prophetic flower Cried the coming of the Greek!

Black in Hades sits the hour.

IV

Eyeing phantoms of the Past, Folded like a prophet's scroll, In the deep's long sh.o.r.eward roll Here she sees the anchor cast: Backward moves her sunless soul.

V

Chieftains, brethren of her joy, Shades, the white light in their eyes Slanting to her lips, arise, Crowding quick the plains of Troy: Now they tell her not she lies.

VI

O the bliss upon the plains, Where the joining heroes clashed Shield and spear, and, unabashed, Challenged with hot chariot-reins G.o.ds!--they glimmer ocean-washed.