Poems by George Meredith Volume Ii Part 29

Yellow flamed the meady sunset; Red runs up the flag of morn.

Signal for the British onset Hiccups through the British horn.

Down these hillmen pour like cattle Sniffing pasture: grim below, Showing eager teeth of battle, In his spear-heads lies the foe.

IV

- Monster of the sea! we drive him Back into his hungry brine.

- You shall lodge him, feed him, wive him, Look on us; we stand in line.

- Pale sea-monster! foul the waters Cast him; foul he leaves our land.

- You shall yield us land and daughters: Stay the tongue, and try the hand.

V

Swift as torrent-streams our warriors, Tossing torrent lights, find way; Burst the ridges, crowd the barriers, Pierce them where the spear-heads play; Turn them as the clods in furrow, Top them like the leaping foam; Sorrow to the mother, sorrow, Sorrow to the wife at home!

VI

Stags, they b.u.t.ted; bulls, they bellowed; Hounds, we baited them; oh, brave!

Every second man, unfellowed, Took the strokes of two, and gave.

Bare as hop-stakes in November's Mists they met our battle-flood: h.o.a.ry-red as Winter's embers Lay their dead lines done in blood.

VII

Thou, my Bard, didst hang thy lyre in Oak-leaves, and with crimson brand Rhythmic fury spent, Aneurin; Songs the churls could understand: Thrumming on their Saxon sconces Straight, the invariable blow, Till they snorted true responses.

Ever thus the Bard they know!

VIII

But ere nightfall, harper l.u.s.ty!

When the sun was like a ball Dropping on the battle dusty, What was yon discordant call?

Cambria's old metheglin demon Breathed against our rushing tide; Clove us midst the threshing seamen:- Gashed, we saw our ranks divide!

IX

Britain then with valedictory Shriek veiled off her face and knelt.

Full of liquor, full of victory, Chief on chief old vengeance dealt.

Backward swung their hurly-burly; None but dead men kept the fight.

They that drink their cup too early, Darkness they shall see ere night.

X

Loud we heard the yellow rover Laugh to sleep, while we raged thick, Thick as ants the ant-hill over, Asking who has thrust the stick.

Lo, as frogs that Winter c.u.mbers Meet the Spring with stiffen'd yawn, We from our hard night of slumbers Marched into the b.l.o.o.d.y dawn.

XI

Day on day we fought, though shattered: Pushed and met repulses sharp, Till our Raven's plumes were scattered: All, save old Aneurin's harp.

Hear it wailing like a mother O'er the strings of children slain!

He in one tongue, in another, Alien, I; one blood, yet twain.

XII

Old Aneurin! droop no longer.

That squat ocean-sc.u.m, we own, Had fine stoutness, made us stronger, Brought us much-required backbone: Claimed of Power their dues, and granted Dues to Power in turn, when rose Mightier rovers; they that planted Sovereign here the Norman nose.

XIII

Glorious men, with heads of eagles, Chopping arms, and cupboard lips; Warriors, hunters, keen as beagles, Mounted aye on horse or ships.

Active, being hungry creatures; Silent, having nought to say: High they raised the lord of features, Saxon-worshipped to this day.

XIV

Hear its deeds, the great recital!

Stout as bergs of Arctic ice Once it led, and lived; a t.i.tle Now it is, and names its price.

This our Saxon brothers cherish: This, when by the worth of wits Lands are reared aloft, or perish, Sole illumes their lucre-pits.

XV

Know we not our wrongs, unwritten Though they be, Aneurin? Sword, Song, and subtle mind, the Briton Brings to market, all ignored.

'Gainst the Saxon's bone impinging, Still is our G.o.dodin played; Shamed we see him humbly cringing In a shadowy nose's shade.

XVI

Bitter is the weight that crushes Low, my Bard, thy race of fire.

Here no fair young future blushes Bridal to a man's desire.

Neither chief, nor aim, nor splendour Dressing distance, we perceive.

Neither honour, nor the tender Bloom of promise, morn or eve.

XVII

Joined we are; a tide of races Rolled to meet a common fate; England clasps in her embraces Many: what is England's state?

England her distended middle Thumps with pride as Mammon's wife; Says that thus she reads thy riddle, Heaven! 'tis heaven to plump her life.

XVIII

O my Bard! a yellow liquor, Like to that we drank of old - Gold is her metheglin beaker, She destruction drinks in gold.

Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressing Hotly for his dues this hour; Tell her that no drunken blessing Stops the onward march of Power.

XIX

Has she ears to take forewarnings She will cleanse her of her stains, Feed and speed for braver mornings Valorously the growth of brains.

Power, the hard man knit for action, Reads each nation on the brow.

Cripple, fool, and petrifaction Fall to him--are falling now!

MEN AND MAN