12.06.2008, 20:09
Hesepe
I
A lonely camp and small amidst the miles
Of the Westphalian plain, where islanded
In the green waste our simple lives are led
Out of the troubled world. Here morning smiles
Splendidly, and the mustering twilight wiles
To a strange sense of peace consummated
Over these low-hung woods, where setting red
And oval the sun the yearning eye beguiles.
Then as the white and sheeted vapour steals
Along the flats lagoon-like, comes a breath
Of anguish from the void, where still is hurled
Nation on nation; and the spirit feels
A tidal presence of o'erwhelming death
Stir through this weird backwater of the world.
II
How hard it is to think upon this shoal
Of Inanition that the world's ablaze.
How hard to link these lazy summer days
With ends and issues that will not unroll
Their length in aeons - mankind's furthest goal,
Perpending in the thick and murderous haze
Of yonder battle-hurricane that lays
Legions to rest till the last tattoo roll.
On sun-beat sand the busy ants deploy;
Industrious spiders ply their little looms;
With brush and pencil or with book we toy.
The quiet evening nears; the beetle booms.
God blazes at the world. Hell gapes for joy.
And Europe whitens with those nameless tombs.
III
Scanted of life and vented on this shore,
Where but the salt and ailless ocean plies
His tide of time with soulless fall and rise,
We conn the unfeatured waste from pole to pole.
Dayly the gray remorseless waters roll
Out of the blank of gray remorseless skies,
And nothing happens. Then we close sick eyes,
And sadly the soul communes with the soul -
When often o'er night's face a sudden glow
Of Boreal splendour palpitating plays,
And the long runners, shaking tress-like, show
Our life's plan in a vision which betrays
Our secrets to our pillows; and we know
Our selves more clearly than in happier days.
IV
When in this deep Re-entrant's sullen shade,
What hour night's middle watches change reliefs,
The mind compiles the roster of its griefs,
Before the inward eye there oft parade
Life's serried loves, appointed and arrayed
For high inspection, potentates and chiefs,
And armed retainers whom some bond enfeoffs,
And all precisely marshalled grade by grade.
Then we discern at length where each doth stand,
In front or rear, and what the rank they bear;
The acquainted Mass, the Intimates, the band
Of such as do the forward stations share.
And last the One with none on either hand.
And thou art She, whose ring and seal I wear.
V
What time in empty hour awhile relaxed,
Around my cage's circuit I have paced,
Sunk in myself, and broodingly I have traced
These late appalling issues, I have taxed
My country with a weakening will: "Thou slack'st
Thy effort, England." Then some sight hath braced
My soul, and from my mind the doubt effaced.
England, it is not energy thou lack'st!
I felt it when one morn there sudden flew
Around the camp new life and boisterous cheer,
Unlike the mood of those who hitherto
Our wants supplied, and something did endear
The noise of labour to us, and we knew
That English orderlies at length were here.
VI
My Countrymen! The years that have gone by
Since Hengist came with Horsa from the sea,
Find the same substance in you, fiercely free,
Yet of that fundamental liberty,
The soul's state, oft unable to descry
The deeper import, your simplicity,
Your limit, only natural chivalry
Redeeming what your insight doth deny.
Unskilled to conn the inwardness of things,
There is a health about you keeps you clean,
Derisive of all high pretence that chimes
Not with your plainness, sound. Your laughter rings
Over hard toil, and all things grandly mean
Your humour shatters, punctures, or sublimes.
VII
With little tasks we wile the hours away,
Each bringing shyly forth his piteous store
Of erudition, oft-times dubious lore,
Since memory cupboards all we dare to say.
One tells us how to mine, one how to lay
A crop of good Rhodesian maize. Nay more,
The skirts of metaphysics we explore,
And touch the dread fringe of psychology.
O to be hidden here amongst the seams
Of History's garment, while the whole world rocks
Upon its base! When every day that gleams
Tells us that England still against all shocks
Raises her front; and starting from our dreams,
Each morning Hesepe the lonely mocks!
I
A lonely camp and small amidst the miles
Of the Westphalian plain, where islanded
In the green waste our simple lives are led
Out of the troubled world. Here morning smiles
Splendidly, and the mustering twilight wiles
To a strange sense of peace consummated
Over these low-hung woods, where setting red
And oval the sun the yearning eye beguiles.
Then as the white and sheeted vapour steals
Along the flats lagoon-like, comes a breath
Of anguish from the void, where still is hurled
Nation on nation; and the spirit feels
A tidal presence of o'erwhelming death
Stir through this weird backwater of the world.
II
How hard it is to think upon this shoal
Of Inanition that the world's ablaze.
How hard to link these lazy summer days
With ends and issues that will not unroll
Their length in aeons - mankind's furthest goal,
Perpending in the thick and murderous haze
Of yonder battle-hurricane that lays
Legions to rest till the last tattoo roll.
On sun-beat sand the busy ants deploy;
Industrious spiders ply their little looms;
With brush and pencil or with book we toy.
The quiet evening nears; the beetle booms.
God blazes at the world. Hell gapes for joy.
And Europe whitens with those nameless tombs.
III
Scanted of life and vented on this shore,
Where but the salt and ailless ocean plies
His tide of time with soulless fall and rise,
We conn the unfeatured waste from pole to pole.
Dayly the gray remorseless waters roll
Out of the blank of gray remorseless skies,
And nothing happens. Then we close sick eyes,
And sadly the soul communes with the soul -
When often o'er night's face a sudden glow
Of Boreal splendour palpitating plays,
And the long runners, shaking tress-like, show
Our life's plan in a vision which betrays
Our secrets to our pillows; and we know
Our selves more clearly than in happier days.
IV
When in this deep Re-entrant's sullen shade,
What hour night's middle watches change reliefs,
The mind compiles the roster of its griefs,
Before the inward eye there oft parade
Life's serried loves, appointed and arrayed
For high inspection, potentates and chiefs,
And armed retainers whom some bond enfeoffs,
And all precisely marshalled grade by grade.
Then we discern at length where each doth stand,
In front or rear, and what the rank they bear;
The acquainted Mass, the Intimates, the band
Of such as do the forward stations share.
And last the One with none on either hand.
And thou art She, whose ring and seal I wear.
V
What time in empty hour awhile relaxed,
Around my cage's circuit I have paced,
Sunk in myself, and broodingly I have traced
These late appalling issues, I have taxed
My country with a weakening will: "Thou slack'st
Thy effort, England." Then some sight hath braced
My soul, and from my mind the doubt effaced.
England, it is not energy thou lack'st!
I felt it when one morn there sudden flew
Around the camp new life and boisterous cheer,
Unlike the mood of those who hitherto
Our wants supplied, and something did endear
The noise of labour to us, and we knew
That English orderlies at length were here.
VI
My Countrymen! The years that have gone by
Since Hengist came with Horsa from the sea,
Find the same substance in you, fiercely free,
Yet of that fundamental liberty,
The soul's state, oft unable to descry
The deeper import, your simplicity,
Your limit, only natural chivalry
Redeeming what your insight doth deny.
Unskilled to conn the inwardness of things,
There is a health about you keeps you clean,
Derisive of all high pretence that chimes
Not with your plainness, sound. Your laughter rings
Over hard toil, and all things grandly mean
Your humour shatters, punctures, or sublimes.
VII
With little tasks we wile the hours away,
Each bringing shyly forth his piteous store
Of erudition, oft-times dubious lore,
Since memory cupboards all we dare to say.
One tells us how to mine, one how to lay
A crop of good Rhodesian maize. Nay more,
The skirts of metaphysics we explore,
And touch the dread fringe of psychology.
O to be hidden here amongst the seams
Of History's garment, while the whole world rocks
Upon its base! When every day that gleams
Tells us that England still against all shocks
Raises her front; and starting from our dreams,
Each morning Hesepe the lonely mocks!