Poems of To-Day: an Anthology Part 8

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.

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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.

_Hilaire Belloc._

36. CHANCLEBURY RING

Say what you will, there is not in the world A n.o.bler sight than from this upper down.

No rugged landscape here, no beauty hurled From its Creator's hand as with a frown; But a green plain on which green hills look down Trim as a garden plot. No other hue Can hence be seen, save here and there the brown Of a square fallow, and the horizon's blue.

Dear checker-work of woods, the Suss.e.x weald.

If a name thrills me yet of things of earth, That name is thine! How often I have fled To thy deep hedgerows and embraced each field, Each lag, each pasture,--fields which gave me birth And saw my youth, and which must hold me dead.

_Wilfrid Blunt._

87. IN ROMNEY MARSH

As I went down to Dymchurch Wall, I heard the South sing o'er the land; I saw the yellow sunlight fall On knolls where Norman churches stand.

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And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, Within the wind a core of sound, The wire from Romney town to Hythe Alone its airy journey wound.

A veil of purple vapour flowed And trailed its fringe along the Straits; The upper air like sapphire glowed; And roses filled Heaven's central gates.

Masts in the offing wagged their tops; The swinging waves pealed on the sh.o.r.e; The saffron beach, all diamond drops And beads of surge, prolonged the roar.

As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, I saw above the Down's low crest The crimson brands of sunset fall, Flicker and fade from out the west.

Night sank: like flakes of silver fire The stars in one great shower came down; Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire Rang out from Hythe to Romney town.

The darkly shining salt sea drops Streamed as the waves clashed on the sh.o.r.e; The beach, with all its organ stops Pealing again, prolonged the roar.

_John Davidson._

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38. A CINQUE PORT

Below the down the stranded town What may betide forlornly waits, With memories of smoky skies, When Gallic navies crossed the straits; When waves with fire and blood grew bright, And cannon thundered through the night.

With swinging stride the rhythmic tide Bore to the harbour barque and sloop; Across the bar the ship of war, In castled stern and lanterned p.o.o.p, Came up with conquests on her lee, The stately mistress of the sea.

Where argosies have wooed the breeze, The simple sheep are feeding now; And near and far across the bar The ploughman whistles at the plough; Where once the long waves washed the sh.o.r.e, Larks from their lowly lodgings soar.

Below the down the stranded town Hears far away the rollers beat; About the wall the seabirds call; The salt wind murmurs through the street; Forlorn the sea's forsaken bride Awaits the end that shall betide.

_John Davidson._

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39. ESs.e.x

I go through the fields of blue water On the South road of the sea.

High to North the East-Country Holds her green fields to me-- For she that I gave over, Gives not over me.

Last night I lay at Good Easter Under a hedge I knew, Last night beyond High Easter I trod the May-floors blue-- Tilt from the sea the sun came Bidding me wake and rue.

Roding (that names eight churches)-- Banks with the paigles dight-- Chelmer whose mill and willows Keep one red tower in sight-- Under the Southern Cross run Beside the ship to-night.

Ah! I may not seek back now, Neither be turned nor stayed.

Yet should I live, I'd seek her, Once that my vows are paid!

And should I die I'd haunt her-- I being what G.o.d made!

England has greater counties-- Their peace to hers is small.

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Low hills, rich fields, calm rivers, In Ess.e.x seek them all,-- Ess.e.x, where I that found them Found to lose them all!

_Arthur Shearly Cripps._

40. A TOWN WINDOW

Beyond my window in the night Is but a drab inglorious street, Yet there the frost and clean starlight As over Warwick woods are sweet.

Under the grey drift of the town The crocus works among the mould As eagerly as those that crown The Warwick spring in flame and gold.

And when the tramway down the hill Across the cobbles moans and rings, There is about my window-sill The tumult of a thousand wings.

_John Drinkwater._

41. MAMBLE

I never went to Mamble That lies above the Teme, So I wonder who's in Mamble, And whether people seem Who breed and brew along there As lazy as the name, And whether any song there Sets alehouse wits aflame.