L'Envoie
The Death of Queen Elizabeth
Only
So lonely,
Was ever woman quite so lonely?
Clad in a rich bejewelled dress, unchanged
For nigh a week, her stiff ruff disarranged,
Her fierce eyes staring dully at the floor,
Fear on that face, which ne'er knew fear before—
Elizabeth.
Finger on lip she sits. Time has outgrown
That gorgeous England, which was once her own.
Those solemn courtiers pacing to and fro
Outside the palace, neither care nor know
The dying Queen is lonely!
Ha what was that? Plotters within the gate?
And she, contemptuous victim once of hate
And score of plots, plunges her naked sword
Thrice through the arras, which had never stirred—
Afraid!—Elizabeth?
Huddled amidst the pillows, gaunt and old,
She shivers, this gay daughter of a gold
Entrancing age. The debonair gallant
Who sang her, now the mocking sycophant.
The ministers she trusted, gone. The throne
She loved with all her passion, left for one
Of stock and seed she loathed. Mere English, she
Shrinks from the new and cold sobriety
Of chill advancing fashion. Only Death
To woo this poor—this great Elizabeth!
Was ever woman quite so lonely?
The Plea of the Antarctic
The best people to judge are those who served under Captain Scott. Had we been in the same place as the victims we should have wished our bodies to remain at rest where we had given our best efforts in the cause we earnestly believed in.—Commander Evans.
Out of the ice-bound realms a clear voice said,
"Give me the right to bury my great dead.
No green-girt lands can honour them as I,
Nor wrap them round in such pale purity.
"Leave them with me, alone in my white world,
Place England's flag above their cairns unfurled.
I need great souls! Great Hero souls to bless
And consecrate my snowy wilderness."
The Stranger in London
'Tis a big, big place!—
And the clouds that gather the grey skies in
Are frayed by chimneys black and old,
Serried stacks of grime and sin.
And every road and every street
Has a secret tale to guard and hold,
Mid the echoing tones of passing feet.
Oh weary place!
Brimmed up with life, confused in sound,
I have little part in your daily round,
For I wander lonely—stranger bound.
There are houses surely which open their door
To those they know,
For me they stand in a formal row
Story on story, floor upon floor,
Shielding themselves from the crimson sun,
From the on-rolling mutter
Of traffic and wagon, of footstep and cry,
With curtain and shutter.
Mute houses which shun
All light, sound and me
Inexorably.
Sometimes when I toss on my pillow at night,
When the spluttering rain
Spreads the smuts on the pane,
I dream that those mansions relax their grim pride
And opening wide
Their intimate hearts to me,
Chill taciturnity
Melts in the warmth of rich colour and fire.
Vast halls are alight
With radiant desire
To show hospitality.
Lavish regality
Squanders the staircase in flowers and green.
And I wander unseen
Through the great pillared corridors, kiss the soft red
Of the shimmering hangings; the sensuous glow
Ablaze in the hearth thrills me throughly, I know
There is place for me there, in those homes I thought dead.
But sleep's "Open, Sesame"
Fails with the light,
Forcing the hopes of me
Back into night.
Never to open, never to see
Stern cold houses
Closed to me!
Gathering storms which smirch the sky,
Burst your bonds, for up on high
May I come in?
I have no part in this world, no home,
No love to hold me. Bid me come,
I would warm myself at your great round sun,
I would open your windows one by one.
Your little stars and your crescent moon.
I am tired and thin,
I think I shall come and see you soon.
May I come in, may I come in?
The Transvaal in June
Under the deep blue vault
Of a hot relentless sky,
Burns the hot red deep, and the hot red road,
And the choking dust like a rust corrode
Soars up in spirals high.
Under the sun-gilt span
Of a hot and brazen sky,
Cries the thirsty drift for a summer rain,
Baring its naked stones in vain
And its mud in misery.
Under the cloudless curve
Of a wide remorseless sky
Sleeps the patchy scrub of the sweeping veld
And the slim blue gums, and the wattle belt
Where the shrike broods watchfully.
Under the sullen glare
Of the grim unblinking sky
The hot dorp pants, the red roofs daze,
The mule tracks scorch, the iron-stones blaze
In their sun-struck agony.
Johannesburg
Miraculous city!
Thoughts stupendous to crush the wise,
Buildings monstrous which brush the skies!
Raise your eyes
In awe. Yet pity
This marvellous, golden, mushroom city.
Hear the roar!
Like the moan of the sea, when the wave curls back
From the granite rock which whirls it back,
A great unceasingly grinding drone
In a heavy unyielding monotone.
'Tis the frenzied wail of the lost in pain,
The shriek of the damned raised in vain,
Again! again!
And the stamping machine with a brutal joy
Wrenches the gold from its quartz alloy,
Crushing the tortured stone to dust
As it yields the ore
To the vast unquenchable thirst for lust.
Feel the south wind!
As it sweeps the veld with its icy breath,
Biting the scrub with its teeth of death,
lifting the dust like a phantom shroud
From the tailing heaps, in a veil of cloud.
Scattering the belching smoke, which flies
From the chimney line that marks the rise
Of the Main Reef ridge.
Some devil's bridge
To bind the town to the broad full plain
Which rolls beyond, like the boundless main.
Precocious town!
The forward child of a youthful state
So young in years. So rich, so great
In gilt renown,
And glittering fate!
Oh! ponder deep, all ye! Yet pity
This marvellous, golden, old-young city!
In the Land of the Silences
She stood before the tent, a winging tent
In thicknesses of canvas, taut and strong,
Burning beneath a sun unreticent,
Raised upon planks, and lashed with rope and thong.
And she was fair, a sprig of English May,
Born for the kiss of merriment and day.
Wide from the tent, like swell on swell of sea
The great veld swept and rolled in curves away,
A shabby patch of God's eternity
Neglected by the angels, bare and grey,
Wind-swept and solitary. Dick and she
Had made this veld their home for seasons three.
Well she remembered that first reckless ride,
Their wedding journey over spruit and land,
The barbed-wire straggling snares, the kopje side,
The crumbling blockhouse dreaming of command,
Holding a loot of empty pot and tin,
Which once had held a soldier guard within.
The mud-dogged drift, the dust all baked and red
Twisting in spiral devils, raw as rust,
Those lonely crosses leaning on their dead,
Murmuring Africa was never just.
"She knows no pity," shrieked the fierce South wind,
"She steals your youth and stultifies your mind."
On, on they flew, past Kaffir boom and kraal,
Thorn wacht-een-beetje, fleshy aloe clump,
Through the charred stretches of the high Transvaal,
By meerkat hole, and rounded white-ant hump
Of tunnelled earth. She laughed; the air was wild,
Strong with exhilaration, undefiled.
At last they reined. Across the scrub and veld
Dick pointed with his sjambok to the white
Outspreading tent, then to the wattle belt
That marshalled thinly in the shimmering light.
"There lies our home, dear love, for you and me."
She looked up gladly, smiled him tenderly.
Summer had followed winter, radiant, rich,
Reckless with life, extravagant in bloom,
Mad for the first wild draught of water, which
Burst from the thunder-clouds, whose massive gloom
Blackened the skies, then splitting, ripped and tore
Deep gorges through the tracks, with deafening roar.
The storms swept by. A fairyland of green
Mantled the waking plains; wide star-like flowers
Sprang to their feet; the streams ran strong and clean,
The soft mimosa sprinkled into showers
Of golden balls. The oleander hedge
Swayed to the line of gums with leaves on edge.
And it was summer now. Beth crossed the sloot,
Grown arrogant with rains, which lapped her square
Of gorgeous garden, swirling to the spruit
Beyond, in childish hurry. Was he there?
She scanned the far horizon. No, no sign—
Of man or beast to break the distance line.
Stay, was that he beyond the drift? Ah no,
Only her wishes trembling in the air
And mirage heat. A train sedate and slow
Wheeled round the kopje far away. The glare
Of brazen sun beat in her eyes. Too late!—
He would not come to-night! In lonely state
She must endure these o'ercharged dragging hours,
This th' unspoken horror of her life,
The dread that sapped her strength, and drained her powers,
The guarded secret of a brave man's wife!
Dick would come back to-morrow with the light
Of morn. But fear would be her Lord to-night.
Beth turned her to the stoep. With sensuous breath
The moonflower drenched the garden in its scent,
Ardent, voluptuous, and white as death
It hung long blossoms, heavy with intent.
The morning glories folded into sleep.
Lay purple in undress, and slumber deep.
Behind the wattles rose the circled moon,
Splashing her silver over poort and track.
The boys went chattering to their kraals, and soon
Long shadows ribbed the tent in white and black.
Beth closed the entrance fast, then slowly sped,
A lonely woman, to a lonely bed.
Come away,
Come away,
Come, come, come away,
For the moon,
For the moon
Wove a shroud in the day,
All of white,
All of white,
Which she flings over all
In the night,
In the night
Like a pall,
In the night, in the night.
Come away,
Come away,
Come, come, come away,
For the moon,
For the moon
Threw my blossoms a ray,
They are white,
Deadly white,
And their petals are pale,
Wan and light.
Do not fail,
Come away—in the night.
Come away,
Come away,
Come, come, come away,
For the moon,
For the moon
Wove a shroud in the day,
And my scent,
Oh my scent
Which I waft over all,
Is of death!
Feel its breath!
And the moon made a pall
Which she lent to us all,
To us all!
Come away.... Come away,
Come,
Come,
Come....
"Come, come!"—The sleeper moved. An argent shroud
Woven with silver cross-stitch into stars.
Was that the moonflower singing from the cloud?
Why were its petals bruised and veined with scars?
"Come!"—It was not the moonflower. Wide awake
Beth started up. That voice!—For pity's sake!
That dear loved voice. The midnight echoed clear,
Rang with that urgent summons from the veld,
That startling premonition. Far and near
Cries shivered through her brain. Dick's voice. She felt
It vibrant in her ears. A call, for her.
She sprang up quickly, every sense astir.
Down past the shadowed garden, through the kloof,
She knew the way, she followed to the cry.
No stealthy footpad, sound of howl or hoof
Could scare her in the awful mystery
Of God-begotten knowledge. Dick had called,
Terrestrial things nor checked her, nor appalled.
"This is the shroud," she murmured. Over all
The moon had spread her splendour, cold and white.
"This is the shining drapery, the pall,
This hoary sheet of clean pellucid light."
Grasping a small revolver in her hand
She hurried on, across the broken land.
A mighty Silence wrapped the veld in dreams.
The breath of night hung in the soundless air.
A wilderness unknown, unconquered streams
Lay with the Universe, at one, to dare
In majesty of nature, undisturbed
The flux of centuries, untrod, uncurbed.
The white world grew before her. Silhouettes
Of shadowed kopjes struck against the sky.
The vlei gleamed fitfully. With sharp-edged frets
The coarse grass cut the horizon lustily.
The dancing moonway on the swollen drift
Broke into patterns on the current swift.
Thwarted. Beth stared in piteous dismay.
A frantic river, wild with recent rains,
Largened beyond all daring, barred her way.
Flooding the plains, drunk with illicit gains
It dashed with savage fury, tossing high
Its waters over bank and boundary.
The girl looked anxiously around. Below
The river widened, shallowing its bed,
Seeming to flow on leisurely and slow.
Above, it narrowed to a ravine, fed
By the Fountains. Three bald-headed rocks
Stood solemnly midstream on thick-set hocks.
Straightly she turned towards the upper reach.
The portly rocks as old and grey as time
Offered a bridge. On past the sunken beach
Of unclean ooze, the sea of gathered slime,
Across the hunching boulders, where the course
Of huddled waters broke their angry force.
Climbing from rock to rock, from crest to crest,
She threw her weight upon the further bank
Into a clod of mud, whose squelching breast
Received her greedily. She seized the rank
Wild clumps of herbage with her hands, then strove
Until she reached the trusty ridge above.
Over the drift! The whisperings of her soul
Soothed every hindrance to a thing of naught.
The billowing veld, its tawny ceaseless roll
Was but the highway to the end she sought.
Love was her pilot, and by love controlled
Its radiance led her, like the Star of old.
Far to the east a straggling knot of trees
Hinted a farm was nestling in their rear,
The scent of flowers floated on the breeze,
The cattle in their kraals, in safety near
Drowsed in the heavy slumber hours of night.
But to the west she hurried, in her flight.
On, on past trackless scrub, where all around
Like shapeless monsters bulging heap on heap,
Crouched the vast ant heaps on the virgin ground.
And winding in and out them, pressed and deep,
Two wheel spoors scarred the earth. She traced the curve
The cart had chiselled in a sudden swerve.
With feverish haste she followed line on line
Each deep-hewn rut that carved itself in sand.
Here by the grace of heaven was a sign,
A way to realise her dream's command,
Her instinct's prophecy. God! what was that?
Rending the Silences with tear and scrat.
Again! That shot! Then all the world lay still,
Calm in the deep placidity of strength
That recks for nothing human. Passive till
Man desecrates its hallowed peace at length.
But to that sound she fled. For Dick lay west,
His wide eyes staring, blood upon his breast.
Dead, with his face against the cart-wheel. Dead.
A scarlet river flowing, flowing—oh!
His lips were red, his hands—the plains were red!
She knelt beside him, spoke him loudly so
He needs must hear. She bound his wounds in vain,
That nerveless heap would never speak again.
Dawn came at last. No need to wail or cry,
Dick was beyond all help, and none would hear.
She clasped him in her full-souled agony,
Feeling the young gold morning, fresh and clear,
Yet seeing nothing. Stunned to outward things,
She only knew the dullness sorrow brings.
And in her numbness heeded not the red
Tall grasses swaying as they bowed and bent
Beneath a crawling Kaffir, or his head
Rear up, a cringing caterpillar sent
To rob the great white Baas; for plenty slow
Some white men take to die, as black men know.
But if the Baas were dead, beyond all doubt
Slink could be brave. His belly clave the ground.
Had anybody heard the white man's shout,
Caught by the kopjes, echoed in rebound?
Ach! how he wriggled! Now the cart was Slink's,
The scoff, the silver watch, the fiery drinks.
And look, the mules outspanned were plenty good,
So was the stolen gun. He reached the pool
Of crimson where the two-wheeled Cape-cart stood.
He slithered nearer, wet in dewdrops cool,
His rough patched trousers soaked, then sneaking round
Peeped from his vantage to the bleeding ground.
Spooks!—His eyes bulged, down dropped his brutal jaw.
Rooted to where he clung, a-sweat with fright,
The cramps of terror gripping at his maw.
Spooks!—Pallid spooks! He shrieked away the sight
Till the wide veld was reeling. Blurred and pale
A spook arose, to follow on his trail.
It glided nearer, nearer—nearer yet,
Tall as the English mysi far away!
His tongue stuck in his throat, and bleeding wet
He saw the master sitting up at bay!
He heard his name, he heard the still air crack,
Then dropped astonished, wondering, on his back,
Till every spook had vanished. Slink had gone
To make a longer trek, where plains were dim.
And haggard-eyed and worn, stern vengeance done,
Beth huddled by the poor stiff clay of him
She loved, the smoking weapon in her hand
To scare the scavenger of carrion brand.
The hours crawled by. Soaked through with thunder rains
She kept her vigil, loosening her hair
In shining masses o'er him. Wild refrains
Of piteous croonings and of vague despair
Crept to her lips, then died away, unsung,
Hiding their tunes, her shattered dreams among.
* * * * *
Jan Rissik trekked him homeward. Half a day
To Cellier's farmstead more. The patient team
Of oxen, plodding slowly on their way,
Bent to the nekstrop. Huick! a thin sharp gleam
Of curling whip flicked at the leader, clean,
Sure as a rapier thrust, and long and lean.
The voorlooper strode on ahead. The boys
Marched to the rhythm of a sing-song chaunt
To ease their work. The wagon's lumbering noise,
The cheering of the oxen, stormed the haunt
Of nature. 'Neath the awning, broad and square
Sat Rissik's vrouw, worn with maternal care.
Her children nestled round her. Two hours yet!
The Dutchman whistled as he jogged along
In leisured haste. He licked his thick lips wet
To loose his tune. A heavy winging throng
Of gorging vultures, black as devil's brood,
Rose swearing on the air, with protests crude.
Some rotting beast! Jan Rissik raised his eyes
To watch the swart aasvogel[B] in their flight,
Cracking his whip to dissipate the flies
That swarmed in thousands. Pestilential! Right
Where his oxen wended, straight in front!
He clambered from his seat with angry grunt,
And pious prayer politely blended, sure
The Powers above would note the quoted text,
Nor heed the fact that while he prayed, he swore!
His keen eyes swept the veld, grave and perplexed.
Two mules strayed fettered by the reim, outspanned,
A cart unhitched, stuck in the khaki sand.
Jan pulled his slouch hat down, and stroked his beard.
The harsh birds croaked, the dingy clotted brown
That stained the earth confirmed the tale he feared.
A woman in the burning dust stooped down
Over a crumpled figure; and a sheen
Of golden tresses veiled it, like a screen.
She rocked her too and fro, a little breath
That might be song, or might be strangled word
Broke from her now and then; but only death
Lay in her arms and answered not, nor heard.
"Come away, come away,
Come, come, come away,
For the moon, for the moon
Made a shroud in the day.
Come away, come away, come, come, the moon,
The flowers are calling, Dick—my love, come soon."
Some hundred yards—Pah! Jan felt strangely sick—
She must have dragged that fearful thing away,
The devil's brood had claimed. The Rooinek
Was safe. Heaven knew how desperate the fray!
The fierce shot spent, the havoc, showed too well
Her awful battle with those fiends from hell.
He spoke her in the Taal; he touched her hand;
She scarcely moved, but with a tear-stained smile
Babbled in words he could not understand,
Nodding her head towards the plains the while.
"The other one is dead. He was so black.
He killed my husband, so I killed him back.
"I want to lay the moonflowers on Dick's breast,
They told me he was calling, so I came;
They kept on nodding, nodding to the west,
I want to have those moonflowers, the same
That told me. Dick is dead. So cold and dead
I don't remember all the flowers said.
"But if we are not very quick, the shroud
Of silver cross-stitch, woven star on star,
Will be quite stolen by the thunder-cloud,
It's creeping, creeping, growling from afar."
"Ja, Ja," the old Boer nodded. "Both are dead."
"One must be buried!" so the good vrouw said.
They laboured hard to dig the white man's bed,
Jan Rissik and his trusty man and boys,
Then laid him gently down. With prayer unsaid
But beating at her throat, no word that cloys
Or mars itself in speech—Beth flung the sod
Over her love—and left him there—with God.
Only a dusty mound to mark his grave,
A dream out-dreamed, a tiny buried cross
From off her neck. The Lord had called, who gave
His rich Acceptance that the world deems loss!
Father, forgive us! For our eyes that see
Only our sorrows—when we should see Thee!
* * * * *
To Cellier's farm Jan Rissik trekked at morn.
The English girl lay sleeping in his cart
Clasped to the Dutch vrouw's breast. No longer torn
By grief and passion, human fears, her heart
Was now at rest; her Christ-soul lulled to peace,
Her hands outstretched, to meet the Great Release.
[B] Aasvogel—vultures.
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
BY WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD.
PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND