Complete Works of William Hope Hodgson
Page 191
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
CAPTAIN GUNBOLT CHARITY AND THE PAINTED LADY
CONTRABAND OF WAR
FROM INFORMATION RECEIVED
FROM THE TIDELESS SEA
FROM THE TIDELESS SEA
FROM THE TIDELESS SEA PART ONE
FROM THE TIDELESS SEA PART TWO
GREY SEAS ARE DREAMING OF MY DEATH
MY HOUSE SHALL BE CALLED THE HOUSE OF PRAYER
MY LADY’S JEWELS
ON THE BRIDGE
THE ADVENTURE OF THE GARTER
THE ADVENTURE OF THE HEADLAND
THE ADVENTURE WITH THE CLAIM JUMPERS
THE BELLS OF THE “LAUGHING SALLY”
THE CALL IN THE DAWN
THE CAPTAIN OF THE ONION BOAT
THE CASE OF THE CHINESE CURIO DEALER
THE DERELICT
THE DIAMOND SPY
THE DRUM OF SACCHARINE
THE FIFTH MESSAGE
THE FINDING OF THE GRAIKEN
THE GATEWAY OF THE MONSTER
THE GERMAN SPY
THE GETTING EVEN OF “PARSON” GUYLES
THE HORSE OF THE INVISIBLE
THE HOUSE AMONG THE LAURELS
THE ISLAND OF THE UD
THE LOSING OF THE HOMEBIRD
THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT
THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT
THE PROBLEM OF THE PEARLS
THE RED HERRING
THE SEA HORSES
THE SEARCHER OF THE END HOUSE
THE SHAMRAKEN HOMEWARD-BOUNDER
THE STONE SHIP
THE THING IN THE WEEDS
THE THING INVISIBLE
THE VOICE IN THE NIGHT
THE WHISTLING ROOM
THROUGH THE VORTEX OF A CYCLONE
WE TWO AND BULLY DUNKAN
The Poetry Collections
In 1913, Hodgson and his wife moved to Sanary-sur-Mer, in the south of France
INTRODUCTION TO THE POETRY
Hodgson was a prolific writer of poetry, but was sceptical of a poet’s ability to earn a living by writing verse — on one occasion he even argued (possibly in jest) that poets might earn a living by writing inscriptions for tombstones. As a result of his scepticism, most of the poetry published during his lifetime appeared as epigraphs or dedications in his work, such as ‘Madre Mia’, which appears as a dedication in his first novel The Boats of the “Glen Carrig”, or the poems that accompanied the American publication of The Dream of X (1912). Yet, the sheer amount of poetry written by Hodgson makes it obvious that this was a medium which was very important to him as a means of personal expression.
Two volumes of his poetry were published by Hodgson’s widow in 1920, while forty-eight more verses were published in the 2005 collection, The Lost Poetry of W. H. Hodgson. As more poems come to light, a further complete edition is also in preparation.
Hodgson’s poems are varied in theme and form, ranging from sea shanties to epic verse. Unsurprisingly, however, his poems tend to echo the main themes of his prose fiction — the fragility of human life and knowledge, the inevitability of death and the mysteries of the sea.
Hodgson, c. 1915
THE GHOST PIRATES, A CHAUNTY, AND ANOTHER STORY
THE HELL O! O! CHAUNTY
Chaunty Man .. Man the capstan, bullies!
Men ...... Ha!-o-o! Ha!-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Capstan-bars, you tarry souls!
Men ...... Ha!-o-o! Ha!-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Take a turn!
Men ...... Ha!-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Stand by to fleet!
Men ...... Ha!-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Stand by to surge!
Men ...... Ha!-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Ha! — o-o-o-o!
Men ...... TRAMP!
And away we go!
Chaunty Man .. Hark to the tramp of the
bearded shellbacks!
Men ...... Hush!
O hear ’em tramp!
Chaunty Man .. Tramping, stamping —
treading, vamping,
While the cable
comes in ramping.
Men ...... Hark!
O hear ’em stamp!
Chaunty Man .. Surge when it rides!
Surge when it rides!
Round-o-o-o
handsome as it slacks!
Men ...... Ha!-o-o-o-o!
hear ’em ramp!
Ha!-oo-o-o!
hear ’em stamp!
Ha!-o-o-o-o-oo!
Ha!-o-o-o-o-o-o!
Chorus .... They’re shouting now; oh! hear ‘em
A-bellow as they stamp: —
Ha!-o-o-o! Ha!-o-o-o!
Ha!-o-o-o!
A-shouting as they tramp!
Chaunty Man .. O hark to the haunting chorus
of the capstan and the bars!
Chaunty-o-o-o
and rattle crash —
Bash against the stars!
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o-o!
Tramp and go!
Ha-a!-o-o-o!
Ha-a!-o-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Hear the pawls a-ranting: with
the bearded men a-chaunting;
While the brazen dome above ‘em
Bellows back the ‘bars.’
Men ...... Hear and hark!
O hear ‘em!
Ha-a!-o-o!
Ha-a!-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Hurling songs towards the
heavens — !
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o!
Ha-a!-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Hush! O hear ‘em!
Hark! O hear ‘em!
Hurling oaths among their spars!
Men ...... Hark! O hear ‘em!
Hush! O hear ‘em!
Chaunty Man .. Tramping round between the
bars!
Chorus .... They’re shouting now; oh! hear
A-bellow as they stamp: —
Ha-a!-o-o-o! Ha-a!-o-o-o!
Ha-a!-o-o-o!
A-shouting as they tramp!
Chaunty Man .. O do you hear the
capstan-chaunty!
Thunder round the pawls!
Men ...... Click a-clack,
a-clatter
Surge!
And scatter bawls!
Chaunty Man .. Click-a-clack, my bonny boys,
while it comes in handsome!
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o!
Hear ’em clack!
Chaunty Man .. Ha-a!-o-o! Click-a-clack!
Men ...... Hush! O hear ’em pant!
Hark! O hear ’em rant!
Chaunty Man .. Click, a-clitter, clicker-clack.
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o!
Tramp and go!
Chaunty Man .. Surge! And keep away the slack!
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o!
Away the slack:
Ha-a!-o-o!
Click-a-clack
Chaunty Man .. Bustle now each jolly Jack.
Surging easy! Surging e-a-s-y!!
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o!
Surging easy
Chaunty Man .. Click-a-clatter —
Surge; and steady!
Man the stopper there!
All ready?
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o!
Ha-a!-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Click-a-clack, my bouncing boys:
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o!
Tramp and go!
Chaunty Man .. Lift the pawls, and come back
easy.
Men ...... Ha-a!-o-o!
Steady-o-o-o-o!
Chaunty Man .. Vast the chaunty!
Vast the capstan!
Drop the pawls! Be-l-a-y!
Chorus .... Ha-a!-o-o! Unship the bars!
Ha-a!-o-o! Tramp and go!
Ha-a!-o-o! Shoulder bars!
Ha-a!-o-o! And away we blow!
Ha-a!-o-o-o!
Ha-a!-o-o-o-o!
Ha-a!-o-o-o-o-o!
Please note: the fiction that appeared this collection can be viewed in the Short Stories sect
ion of the eBook.
“POEMS” AND “THE DREAM OF X”
CONTENTS
I HAVE BORNE MY LORD A SON
BRING OUT YOUR DEAD
I COME AGAIN
SONG OF THE GREAT BULL WHALE
SPEAK WELL OF THE DEAD
LITTLE GARMENTS
THE SOBBING OF THE FRESHWATER
O PARENT SEA!
LISTENING
MY BABE MY BABE
THE NIGHT WIND
GREY SEAS ARE DREAMING OF MY DEATH
I HAVE BORNE MY LORD A SON
‘I have borne my lord a child;’
I kneel before him — it doth not degrade!
Before him there in his bright armour ringing.
‘Lo! Thine, Lord! See, he smiled!
Thou who must be obeyed —
Whom I obey, with each glad heart-throb singing!’
‘Lord, I am well content:
Beneath thy visor, thy stern eyes,
Masked with all Manhood’s grandeur, do contain
(With fiercer passions blent)
That which doth tyrannise,
So splendidly o’er my heart, without disdain.’
‘I have borne my lord a son.
In agony of glorious shame
He was conceived because it was thy will
Thy Might mine honour won;
With humble love I came
And kneeled me at thy feet, and there was still.’
‘I have borne my lord a son.
Stoop now — Thy visor raise;
Let arms, all steel engirt, engird us twain,
For, Husband, thou hast won
More than my tongue dare phrase;
Though love hath made me Mother without stain.’
BRING OUT YOUR DEAD
Hark to the Trumpets’ voices calling, calling,
With solemn notes and dread,
Over the world with tones appalling:–
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
O Men, who have bartered your souls for gold,
And smiled contempt when the bread was doled,
How shall you feel when the trump is rolled:–
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
Who sold provisions adulterate,
And fattened whilst babies could not grow
On food that was little but colour and show,
What shall you say when through the Gate
The Trumpets roar their eternal hate:–
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
And the Victor who slew his fellows for fame,
Or gain of gold, how bitter his shame
When the menacing Trumpets thunder his name:–
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
And they who dealt Justice, with hearts never stirred
To the glory of Mercy, shall mercy be heard
When the grim Brazen Voices thunder each word:–
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
And the wife who spoke not the winsome word–
And the husband selfish who should have cared–
And the Parent indiff’rent how children fared–
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
And the man who never did harm to any,
Nor took from another so much as a penny,
What of the souls who died for the lack
Of your help to ease Life’s torturous rack?
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
And the men who for money were swift to sell
Aught that might drag weak souls to hell,
What shall they do when the Trumpets knell:–
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
And the roues shall cringe when the Trumpets’ call
Shall sunder their tainted skies, and fall
Upon their ears, as bitter as gall:–
Bring out your Dead! Bring out your Dead!
But the very devils shall shudder and cower
When the world’s Religions shall feel the power,
And obeying the Trumpets in that grim hour,
Bring out their Dead! Bring out their Dead!
And I, am I guiltless? What shall I cry
When the Trumpets thunder across the sky
To know what soul I have caused to die;
Ah, then, O People, then must I
Bring out my Dead! Bring out my Dead!
I COME AGAIN
I kissed him swiftly ere he went
And gave my soul into his charge,
And he, with head of reverence bent,
Whispered, ‘I come again.’
He went; and all my spirit broke,
And tears were easeless for my pain;
I seemed to die, and only woke
Remembering, ‘I come again.’
The ageing years blew o’er the world,
And left me young still in the hope
Held by those words, with trust empearled,
‘Sweetheart, I come again.’
He sent me word across the sea,
By comrade, with his passing breath,
He had been wholly true to me,
But might not come to me again.
SONG OF THE GREAT BULL WHALE
For Wa-ha! I am hale,
And when I make sail
My thundering bulk roars over the tides,
Roars over the tides,
And everything hides,
Save the Albicore-fool! a-splitting his sides —
A fish kangaroo a-jumping the tides.
For he’s naught but a fish and a half,
Wa! Ha!
A haddock far less than a young bull calf!
With me Wa! Ha! Ha!
He has far too much side
For a bit of a haddock a-jump in the tide!
Yea, I am the Great Bull Whale!
I have shattered the moon when asleep
On the face of the deep, by a stroke of my sweep
I have shattered its features pale.
Like the voice of a wandering gale
Is the smite of my sounding tail,
For Wa-ha! I am hale,
And when I make sail
My thundering bulk roars over the tide,
Roars over the tide,
And scatters it wide,
And laughs at the moon afloat on its side —
’Tis naught but a star that hath died!
For ’tis naught but a star that hath died,
Wa! Ha!
A matter of cinders afloat in the Wide!
With me Wa! Ha! Ha!
It has far too much side
For a bit of a cinder afloat in the tide!
SPEAK WELL OF THE DEAD
Speak well of the Dead in thy hearts,
Speak well of the Dead,
Who are looking on, sorrowful, now;
Speak well of the Silent Clay, sped –
Of the sad, bitter Spirit that starts
At each epithet thou
Hurl’st on the defenceless head.
Speak well of the Dead with thy tongue,
Speak well of the Dead,
If thou can’st, and if not, with a hush
Tell ill of the Silent Clay, sped,
With shame, and no virulence flung
Or words that may crush
A sorrowful soul of the Dead.
Speak well of the Dead in thy soul,
Speak well of the Dead;
If memory tells thee of aught
To shame the Silent Clay, sped,
Remember it only as coal
To burn, and be naught,
To ashes that hurt not the Dead.
Speak well of the Dead with thy pen,
Speak well of the Dead;
Tell not of the sin, but forget
To shame the Silent Clay, sped,
It were better forgot, ah! and when Thou diest, thy debt
They and we may repay to thee, dead.
&nb
sp; Speak well of the Dead, or say naught,
Speak well of the Dead;
Tell not the Ill-thing but to reach,
Through shame of the Silent Clay, sped,
Some life by a lesson grim taught
That shames thee to teach,
And ploughs up the soul of the Dead.
Aye! Speak well of the Dead. Thou must pass!
Speak well of the Dead.
In death, shall thy banner of sins
Fly o’er thy Silent Clay, sped,
And dishonour thee, voiceless? Alas
Brutality wins!
They gloat o’er the sins of the Dead!
Speak well of the Dead or be hushed,
Speak well of the Dead;
How little now matters the fault!
How helpless the Silent Clay, sped!
How dumb is the Soul that is crushed! Aye, halt!
E’er thou speak ill of the Dead.
LITTLE GARMENTS
Chest of terror where they lie!
Drawers to which I steal — and pause,
Pause and quiver, and at last
(Wondering why I cannot die)
Pull them to me — Sorrow’s Doors
Opening drearly on the past.
Little garments that I made,
Wond’ring — Waiting for my child;
Kissed each little tuck and hem;
Then, when finished, gently laid
Each a-ready — Sure God smiled
Sadly, tenderly upon them.
Little shirts! Such little shirts!
Crying dumbly from my Dead:
Each one folded dreadly neat
Is a separate thing that hurts.
Tearful baby socks which tread
On my heart with silent feet.
Little, baggy trouser-things,
That I hold up in the light,
Worn a little at one knee –
Just a little hole that stings
With a sudden, tender fright –
Conjuring up wee knees to me.
Little Garments
Empty! O my little dead One!
Jesu! Jesu! Empty! Empty!
Such wee, pathetic empty shoon,
Vacant through every year that runs;
Though filled with memories for me
Of twinkling feet that went so soon.
Kneeling! Sobbing on my knees;
Little garments ‘gainst my face;
Little garments ‘gainst my breast –
Jesu! all I have are these!
Naught but garments to embrace –
Little things in which he drest!
THE SOBBING OF THE FRESHWATER