FORWARD

A THOUSAND creeds and battle-cries, A thousand warring social schemes, A thousand new moralities, And twenty thousand thousand dreams! Each on his own anarchic way, From the old order breaking free,— Our ruined world desires, you say, Licence, once more, not Liberty. But ah, beneath the struggling foam, When storm and change are on the deep, How quietly the tides come home, And how the depths of sea-shine sleep; And we who march towards a goal, Destroying only to fulfil The law, the law of that great soul Which moves beneath your alien will; We, that like foemen meet the past Because we bring the future, know We only fight to achieve at last A great re-union with our foe; Re-union in the truths that stand When all our wars are rolled away; Re-union of the heart and hand And of the prayers wherewith we pray; Re-union in the common needs, The common strivings of mankind; Re-union of our warring creeds In the one God that dwells behind. Then—in that day—we shall not meet Wrong with new wrong, but right with right; Our faith shall make your faith complete When our battalions re-unite. Forward!—what use in idle words?— Forward, O warriors of the soul! There will be breaking up of swords When that new morning makes us whole.

A SPELL

(An Excellent Way to get a Fairy)

GATHER, first, in your left hand (This must be at fall of day) Forty grains of wild sea-sand Where you think a mermaid lay. I have heard that it is best If you gather it, warm and sweet, Out of the dint of her left breast Where you see her heart has beat. Out of the dint in that sweet sand Gather forty grains, I say; Yet—if it fail you—understand, There remains a better way. Out of this you melt your glass While the veils of night are drawn, Whispering, till the shadows pass, “Nixie—pixie—leprechaun!” Then you blow your magic vial, Shape it like a crescent moon, Set it up and make your trial, Singing, “Elaby, ah, come soon!” Round the cloudy crescent go, On the hill-top, in the dawn, Singing softly, on tip-toe, “Elaby Gathon! Elaby Gathon! Nixie—pixie—leprechaun!” Bring the blood of a white hen Slaughtered at the break of day, While the cock, in the fairy glen, Thrusts his gold neck every way, Over the brambles, peering, calling, Under the ferns, with a sudden fear, Far and wide—as the dews are falling— Clamouring, calling, everywhere. Round the crimson vial go, On the hill-top, in the dawn, Singing softly, on tip-toe, “Nixie—pixie—leprechaun!” If this fail, at break of day, I can show you a better way. Bring the buds of the hazel-copse, Where two lovers kissed at noon; Bring the crushed red wild-thyme tops Where they murmured under the moon. Bring the four-leaved clover also, One of the white, and one of the red, Bring the flakes of the may that fall so Lightly over their bridal bed. Drop them into the vial—so— On the hill-top, in the dawn, Singing softly, on tip-toe, “Nixie—pixie—leprechaun!” And, if once will not suffice, Do it thrice! If this fail, at break of day, There remains a better way. Bring an old and crippled child —Ah, tread softly, on tip-toe!— Tattered, tearless, wonder-wild, From that under-world below, Bring a wizened child of seven Reeking from the City slime, Out of hell into your heaven, Set her knee-deep in the thyme. Feed her—clothe her—even so! Set her on a fairy-throne. When her eyes begin to glow Leave her for an hour—alone. You shall need no spells or charms, On that hill-top, in that dawn. When she lifts her wasted arms, You shall see a veil withdrawn. There shall be no veil between them, Though her head be old and wise! You shall know that she has seen them By the glory in her eyes. Round her irons on that hill Earth has tossed a fairy fire: Watch, and listen, and be still, Lest you baulk your own desire. When she sees four azure wings Light upon her claw-like hand; When she lifts her head and sings, You shall hear and understand: You shall hear a bugle calling Wildly over the dew-dashed down; And a sound as of the falling Ramparts of a conquered town. You shall hear a sound like thunder; And a veil shall be withdrawn, When her eyes grow wide with wonder On that hill-top, in that dawn.

CRIMSON SAILS

WHEN Salomon sailed from Ophir ... The clouds of Sussex thyme That crown the cliffs in mid-July Were all we needed—you and I— But Salomon sailed from Ophir, And broken bits of rhyme Blew to us on the white chalk coast From O, what elfin clime? A peacock butterfly flaunted Its four great crimson wings, As over the edge of the chalk it flew Black as a ship on the Channel blue ... When Salomon sailed from Ophir,— He brought, as the high sun brings, Honey and spice to the Queen of the South, Sussex or Saba, a song for her mouth, Sweet as the dawn-wind over the downs And the tall white cliffs that the wild thyme crowns A song that the whole sky sings:— When Salomon sailed from Ophir, With Olliphants and gold, The kings went up, the kings went down, Trying to match King Salomon’s crown, But Salomon sacked the sunset, Wherever his black ships rolled. He rolled it up like a crimson cloth, And crammed it into his hold. Chorus: Salomon sacked the sunset! Salomon sacked the sunset! He rolled it up like a crimson cloth, And crammed it into his hold. His masts were Lebanon cedars, His sheets were singing blue, But that was never the reason why He stuffed his hold with the sunset sky! The kings could cut their cedars, And sail from Ophir, too; But Salomon packed his heart with dreams And all the dreams were true. Chorus: The kings could cut their cedars, Cut their Lebanon cedars; But Salomon packed his heart with dreams, And all the dreams were true. When Salomon sailed from Ophir, He sailed not as a king. The kings—they weltered to and fro, Tossed wherever the winds could blow; But Salomon’s tawny seamen Could lift their heads and sing, Till all their crowded clouds of sail Grew sweeter than the Spring. Chorus: Their singing sheets grew sweeter, Their crowded clouds grew sweeter, For Salomon’s tawny seamen, sirs, Could lift their heads and sing: When Salomon sailed from Ophir With crimson sails so tall, The kings went up, the kings went down, Trying to match King Salomon’s crown; But Salomon brought the sunset To hang on his Temple wall; He rolled it up like a crimson cloth, So his was better than all. Chorus: Salomon gat the sunset, Salomon gat the sunset; He carried it like a crimson cloth To hang on his Temple wall.