Complete Works of William Hope Hodgson
Page 197
“But if no ‘Harm’ ye work in any wise
Ye certainly have done no active ‘Wrong’,
Likewise, if guiltless ye of doing ‘Good’,
Ye cannot be appraised for working ‘Right’.
“In later lives ye shall then bear the weight
Of all the ‘Harm’ and ‘Good’ ye e’er have worked,
And have ye done much active ‘Good’ or ‘Harm’
Your joys shall be the greater or the less.
“Likewise, if ye live free from active ‘Good’,
Equally so from working and ‘Harm’,
Your bliss shall be not great, nor sorrow deep
I wish yet joy in life so negative!”
Thus ceased the Sea, and from the gloom about,
There came a song sung in a sleepy voice,
As though one sang while sleeping.
Thus it was:
“There is no keen delight within that Place,
But rather lang’rous joy,
As though one looked across the World of Sleep
And saw the dreamy face
Of the great soul of Peace rise from the deep
Where slumberous dreams are borne,
Far from the place where fears destroy,
Far from the place where morn
Is but a messenger of tears and pain
Destroying slumber’s reign.”
The Sea was quiet awhile; then its voice,
Soft with an undernote of sympathy,
Came in a gentle song with promise filled:
“Thou poor tired soul
(Who sing’st in dreams)
With utter toil dismayed,
Comfort! Thy goal The Deep of Rest
Is nearer than it seems,
And there, though joy has been delayed,
Thou shalt an aeon sleep,
Waking, in dreams, to fuller zest
Of peace in that vast Deep.”
Some timid moments fled, while silence reigned;
Then from the night above, a voice swept down,
Filled in each tone with a poor soul’s despair:
“For all the years borne in the arms of Time
Shall not this burden ease, nor comfort me;
Shall not upraise me from this dire despair.
No more the sky is blue - the sun shines not,
And my whole prayer is but to be forgot,
And in myself this dreariness forget
In death, where all shall be as though ‘twere not!”
Prompt was the Sea’s reply:
“Thou sorry soul,
It seems to me thou art too full of grief
To reason, or thou had’st not come to this.
“Doubtless, thou hast done wrong; yet is this life
But one in many, and thou shalt have chance
To do some good, whereby thy harm shall be
Somewhat more balanced, though not blotted out;
For a done wrong never dies; ‘twere as absurd
Almost as thinking cause had no effect;
Yet, likewise, good dies never; so thou shalt
Lay up in this, for future lives, some store
Of righteous deeds; for in the Last Life thou
Shalt live eternally tremendous life
In the great culmination of thy deeds,
Both good and harmful; therefore do thy best
Towards good deeds.”
A moment’s quiet there was;
Then cried that poor remorseful one in doubt
“What are good deeds within the sight of God?
No more than filthiest rags my mightiest good!
How shall these save my soul from lasting woe?
How with my evil shall my good compare?
I cannot hope to win to peace through deeds
That must, at best, sicken God’s purity!”
No hesitation was there in reply:
“Thou must not think God reasonless - He has
Endowed thee with such powers as suit this state:
Thy righteousness, to His, may truly be
As filthy rags to a most glorious robe;
But thou hast not God’s strength, so trouble not,
And do remember that He is most just,
Expecting not of thee more than is meet:
So shall thy deeds of good count unto thee,
(Because of poor proficiency in right)
Equal, in this life, to much greater good
Worked in some future life of vaster power.
“Calm thee, dear soul! Now shake off thy remorse;
Lose not one instant, but begin to live
As thou would’st live were each succeeding day
The last that thou would’st know. Be comforted
In the hard work of doing good, spite of
Thy cross-grained human nature, which rebels
Against the will’s authority, yet is
So diff’rent when well curbed and drawn by love.
“Farewell awhile, O soul. I may meet thee
In some far world, working to happiness,
Ah! then how gladly shall my heart leap up!”
The Sea ceased from its speaking; and at last,
My pent up feelings streamed abroad - I spoke:
“O, Sea!
Listening to thee,
I learn!
I go beneath time’s crust!
We tread near on the life which is to be.
Thy wisdom soothes my soul. Thy sense is just!
Thou hast no talk of hells which ever burn;
But that through many lives we are evolved
By slow development (quick revolution slowed),
Until all doubt, by preparation solved,
Attain we to the Last Life - God’s Abode.”
The Sea was silent, and across the deeps
A gentle voice came softly, and began:
“Lately, within my sleep, of future times,
Of the most future times this world shall know
My dreams have been.
“I saw thee, O thou Sea,
‘Mid the red loneliness of an evening’s birth,
Wrapped in the quietude of an aching still.
“Along thy shore I wandered, and my tears,
Born of thy silence, well but could not fall.
“I, who from out eternity had sped,
Only to look upon thy face once more,
Saw thy dead form; for with this world, wert thou
Dead in the arms of Time, who once held me
Likewise when dead, ere I passed yonder, where,
Through a whole multitude of years, my dreams
Only had been of thee.
“And then, O Sea,
E’en as I peered, through tears, across thy face,
I saw a movement in thy depths, as though
Thy life still stayed within thee; then afar
I heard a sad, strange voice, despairingly
Come wailing o’er thy wastes. And, O Great One!
’Twas full awhile ere I perceived ’twas thou
Whose dying voice sang o’er thy breathless plains,
Joining the awful gloom, whose palpitance
Of momentary blackness and anon of grey,
Pulsed nights and wintry dawnings o’er thy face.
“And this long-cold, forgotten world, whose bulk,
Dying, but held itself, its soul, O, Sea,
Echoed the sad’ning cadence of thy song -
The singing of thy dying voice, so that
In the last days of this old world thy voice,
Singing a song of agony ‘mid gloom,
Came backward through the years unto my soul, until
It seemed to me that all the tears of life
Had spoken in thy song.
“That son, O, Sea,
With its sad rhythms, is past human tongue
To sing; so I but conjure up its sense,
Though haltingly, and lacking all its
power,
And all the sad’ning terror and the woe
Which trembled through its undertones, much as
A dirge moans ever in the lower notes
Of some cold, wintry gale o’er lonely shores:
“‘The world is dying, and I am alone,
In the deep silence, while the nearing sun
Belches an awful flare of lurid fire
Across the starkness of the dying world
And far across my almost silenced breast.
“‘Done is my task of teaching life to me;
No more the old emotions stir my soul;
I am at peace, who ages was at war
With the great elements of strife that rose
And tortured me to fury in my youth.
Stilled is my anger in the long gone days;
Steeped is my heart in tears in its deep place;
Gone are the souls who loved me in the past,
And I am here alone - Oh! so alone!
“‘In a dim, far-off time, halfway between
The loneliness of two eternities,
I brood apart upon a dying world,
And pray that I were something more, or less,
Than what I am. For me there is no place
Beyond this place!
“‘And now how I do feel
The pulsing of my heart at lowest ebb.
“‘What is before me? Who can tell? - Not I!
Perhaps ’tis better that I do not know.
“‘Even the mountains that upreared their crests
Upon my boundaries, have died, and now
They sleep upon the bosom of the world;
And only my slow breathing on flat shores
Tells that the pulse of life is with me yet.
“‘Now a great sense of cold oppresses me!
I wonder if this be indeed the end;
Nay, surely not; for God is great, and He
Shall do no less for me than other souls;
And yet, ’tis strange how doubt creeps in when death
Draws nigh. ’Tis the great test. If faith survive,
In some new life I shall not need to shame.
“‘I will have faith, as I have always taught!
And yet, methinks if God were brought to die
He would have wondrous sympathy with me,
As, doubtless, now He has.
“‘Ah! colder still!
My God, who loved me in my youth and prime
Be with me now in this supremest test!
“‘Haste thee now, Death! - ’Tis such a natural fear!
And yet, I know thou dost but shore the sea
Of some tremendous life where holier thoughts
May keep the mind at peace...Ah! haste thee, Death!’
“Thus far I gat, and then a darkness came,
And thou wast hidden, and I was awake.”
Then ceased the voice, and in the furthest East
Shone the dear light of dawn, that emblem of
The dawn that crowns death’s night. And from the West
There rose a sudden wind refreshingly,
That filled the air with hope, and murmured low
A message to the Sea from far beyond
The sudden gate of death. And in the East
The tender lights still grew.
And afar the world
Reached up her sombre hills among the glow,
Into the pure, ethereal waters of
That sea of trembling hues which spumed and beat
Softly upon the shore of night, and surged
In beauteous sprays of foamy light above
The gloomy cliffs that edge the dayless shore,
And poured its living foam upon the world
In cataracts of light....
THE END
The Poems
22 February 1917, University of London’s Officers’ Training Corps Guard of Honour — Hodgson joined this corps, following the outbreak of war.
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
THE HELL O! O! CHAUNTY
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
BEYOND THE DAWNING
THE CALLING OF THE SEA
DOWN THE LONG COASTS
EIGHT BELLS
GREY SEAS ARE DREAMING OF MY DEATH
STORM
SONG OF THE SHIP
THE PLACE OF STORMS
THE SHIP
THOU LIVING SEA
THE PIRATES
THE SONG OF THE GREAT BULL WHALE
THE SOBBING OF THE FRESHWATER
THE MORNING LANDS
LOST
REST
THE VOICE OF THE OCEAN
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
BEYOND THE DAWNING
BRING OUT YOUR DEAD
DOWN THE LONG COASTS
EIGHT BELLS
GREY SEAS ARE DREAMING OF MY DEATH
GREY SEAS ARE DREAMING OF MY DEATH
I COME AGAIN
I HAVE BORNE MY LORD A SON
LISTENING
LITTLE GARMENTS
LOST
MY BABE MY BABE
O PARENT SEA!
REST
SONG OF THE GREAT BULL WHALE
SONG OF THE SHIP
SPEAK WELL OF THE DEAD
STORM
THE CALLING OF THE SEA
THE HELL O! O! CHAUNTY
THE MORNING LANDS
THE NIGHT WIND
THE PIRATES
THE PLACE OF STORMS
THE SHIP
THE SOBBING OF THE FRESHWATER
THE SOBBING OF THE FRESHWATER
THE SONG OF THE GREAT BULL WHALE
THE VOICE OF THE OCEAN
THOU LIVING SEA
The Non-Fiction
Hodgson joined became a Lieutenant in the Royal Artillery in 1916
THE BAUMOFF EXPLOSIVE
Dally, Whitlaw and I were discussing the recent stupendous explosion which had occurred in the vicinity of Berlin. We were marvelling concerning the extraordinary period of darkness that had followed, and which had aroused so much newspaper comment, with theories galore.
The papers had got hold of the fact that the War Authorities had been experimenting with a new explosive, invented by a certain chemist, named Baumoff, and they referred to it constantly as “The New Baumoff Explosive”.
We were in the Club, and the fourth man at our table was John Stafford, who was professionally a medical man, but privately in the Intelligence Department. Once or twice, as we talked, I had glanced at Stafford, wishing to fire a question at him; for he had been acquainted with Baumoff. But I managed to hold my tongue; for I knew that if I asked out pointblank, Stafford (who’s a good sort, but a bit of an ass as regards his almost ponderous code-of-silence) would be just as like as not to say that it was a subject upon which he felt he was not entitled to speak.
Oh, I know the old donkey’s way; and when he had once said that, we might just make up our minds never to get another word out of him on the matter as long as we lived. Yet, I was satisfied to notice that he seemed a bit restless, as if he were on the itch to shove in his oar; by which I guessed that the papers we were quoting had got things very badly muddled indeed, in some way or other, at least as regarded his friend Baumoff. Suddenly, he spoke:
“What unmitigated, wicked piffle!” said Stafford, quite warm. “I tell you it is wicked, this associating of Baumoff’s name with war inventions and such horrors. He was the most intensely poetical and earnest follower of the Christ that I have ever met; and it is just the brutal Irony of Circumstance that has attempted to use one of the
products of his genius for a purpose of Destruction. But you’ll find they won’t be able to use it, in spite of their having got hold of Baumoff’s formula. As an explosive it is not practicable. It is, shall I say, too impartial; there is no way of controlling it.
“I know more about it, perhaps, than any man alive; for I was Baumoff’s greatest friend, and when he died, I lost the best comrade a man ever had. I need make no secret about it to you chaps. I was ‘on duty’ in Berlin, and I was deputed to get in touch with Baumoff. The government had long had an eye on him; he was an Experimental Chemist, you know, and altogether too jolly clever to ignore. But there was no need to worry about him. I got to know him, and we became enormous friends; for I soon found that he would never turn his abilities towards any new war-contrivance; and so, you see, I was able to enjoy my friendship with him, with a comfy conscience — a thing our chaps are not always able to do in their friendships. Oh, I tell you, it’s a mean, sneaking, treacherous sort of business, ours; though it’s necessary; just as some odd man, or other, has to be a hangsman. There’s a number of unclean jobs to be done to keep the Social Machine running!
“I think Baumoff was the most enthusiastic intelligent believer in Christ that it will be ever possible to produce. I learned that he was compiling and evolving a treatise of most extraordinary and convincing proofs in support of the more inexplicable things concerning the life and death of Christ. He was, when I became acquainted with him, concentrating his attention particularly upon endeavouring to show that the Darkness of the Cross, between the sixth and the ninth hours, was a very real thing, possessing a tremendous significance. He intended at one sweep to smash utterly all talk of a timely thunderstorm or any of the other more or less inefficient theories which have been brought forward from time to time to explain the occurrence away as being a thing of no particular significance.
“Baumoff had a pet aversion, an atheistic Professor of Physics, named Hautch, who — using the ‘marvellous’ element of the life and death of Christ, as a fulcrum from which to attack Baumoff’s theories — smashed at him constantly, both in his lectures and in print. Particularly did he pour bitter unbelief upon Baumoff”s upholding that the Darkness of the Cross was anything more than a gloomy hour or two, magnified into blackness by the emotional inaccuracy of the Eastern mind and tongue.
“One evening, some time after our friendship had become very real, I called on Baumoff, and found him in a state of tremendous indignation over some article of the Professor’s which attacked him brutally; using his theory of the Significance of the ‘Darkness’, as a target. Poor Baumoff! It was certainly a marvellously clever attack; the attack of a thoroughly trained, well-balanced Logician. But Baumoff was something more; he was Genius. It is a title few have any rights to; but it was his!