Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)
Page 957
You carried to the spirit
The troubles of the flesh.
‘And are you trembling still, dear?
Then let me take your hand;
And I will lead you outward
To a sweet and restful land.
‘You know how once in London
I put my griefs on you;
But I can carry yours now -
Most sweet it is to do!
‘Most sweet it is to do, love,
And very sweet to plan
How I, the helpless woman,
Can help the helpful man.
‘But let me see you smiling
With the smile I know so well;
Forget the world of shadows,
And the empty broken shell.
‘It is the worn-out garment
In which you tore a rent;
You tossed it down, and carelessly
Upon your way you went.
‘It is not YOU, my sweetheart,
For you are here with me.
That frame was but the promise of
The thing that was to be -
‘A tuning of the choir
Ere the harmonies begin;
And yet it is the image
Of the subtle thing within.
‘There’s not a trick of body,
There’s not a trait of mind,
But you bring it over with you,
Ethereal, refined,
‘But still the same; for surely
If we alter as we die,
You would be you no longer,
And I would not be I.
‘I might be an angel,
But not the girl you knew;
You might be immaculate,
But that would not be you.
‘And now I see you smiling,
So, darling, take my hand;
And I will lead you outward
To a sweet and pleasant land,
‘Where thought is clear and nimble,
Where life is pure and fresh,
Where the soul comes back rejoicing
From the mud-bath of the flesh
‘But still that soul is human,
With human ways, and so
I love my love in spirit,
As I loved him long ago.’
So with hands together
And fingers twining tight,
The two dead lovers drifted
In the golden morning light.
But a grey-haired man was lying
Beneath them on a bed,
With a silver-mounted pistol
Still clotted to his head.
THE FRANKLIN’S MAID
(From ‘The White Company’)
The franklin he hath gone to roam,
The franklin’s maid she bides at home;
But she is cold, and coy, and staid,
And who may win the franklin’s maid?
There came a knight of high renown
In bassinet and ciclatoun;
On bended knee full long he prayed -
He might not win the franklin’s maid.
There came a squire so debonair,
His dress was rich, his words were fair.
He sweetly sang, he deftly played -
He could not win the franklin’s maid.
There came a mercer wonder-fine,
With velvet cap and gaberdine;
For all his ships, for all his trade,
He could not buy the franklin’s maid.
There came an archer bold and true,
With bracer guard and stave of yew;
His purse was light, his jerkin frayed -
Haro, alas! the franklin’s maid!
Oh, some have laughed and some have cried,
And some have scoured the countryside;
But off they ride through wood and glade,
The bowman and the franklin’s maid.
THE OLD HUNTSMAN
There’s a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
After you.
The huntsman’s name is Death,
His horse’s name is Time;
He is coming, he is coming
As I sit and write this rhyme;
He is coming, he is coming,
As you read the rhyme I write;
You can hear the hoofs’ low drumming
Day and night.
You can hear the distant drumming
As the clock goes tick-a-tack,
And the chiming of the hours
Is the music of his pack.
You may hardly note their growling
Underneath the noonday sun,
But at night you hear them howling
As they run.
And they never check or falter
For they never miss their kill;
Seasons change and systems alter,
But the hunt is running still.
Hark! the evening chime is playing,
O’er the long grey town it peals;
Don’t you hear the death-hound baying
At your heels?
Where is there an earth or burrow?
Where a cover left for you?
A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow
Brings the Huntsman’s death halloo!
Day by day he gains upon us,
And the most that we can claim
Is that when the hounds are on us
We die game.
And somewhere dwells the Master,
By whom it was decreed;
He sent the savage huntsman,
He bred the snow-white steed.
These hounds which run for ever,
He set them on your track;
He hears you scream, but never
Calls them back.
He does not heed our suing,
We never see his face;
He hunts to our undoing,
We thank him for the chase.
We thank him and we flatter,
We hope — because we must -
But have we cause? No matter!
Let us trust!
SONGS OF THE R OAD
This collection of poetry was first published in 1911.
CONTENTS
I. — NARRATIVE VERSES AND SONGS
A HYMN OF EMPIRE
SIR NIGEL’S SONG
THE ARAB STEED
A POST-IMPRESSIONIST
EMPIRE BUILDERS
THE GROOM’S ENCORE
THE BAY HORSE
THE OUTCASTS
THE END
THE WANDERER
BENDY’S SERMON
II. — PHILOSOPHIC VERSES
COMPENSATION
THE BANNER OF PROGRESS
HOPE
RELIGIO MEDICI
MAN’S LIMITATION
MIND AND MATTER
DARKNESS
III — MISCELLANEOUS VERSES
A WOMAN’S LOVE
BY THE NORTH SEA
DECEMBER’S SNOW
SHAKESPEARE’S EXPOSTULATION
THE EMPIRE
A VOYAGE
THE ORPHANAGE
SEXAGENARIUS LOQUITUR
NIGHT VOICES
THE MESSAGE
THE ECHO
ADVICE TO A YOUNG AUTHOR
A LILT OF THE ROAD
J. C. D.
THIS-AND-ALL
February, 1911
FOREWORD
If it were not for the hillocks
You’d think little of the hills;
The rivers would seem tiny
If it were not for the rills.
If you never saw the brushwood
You would under-rate the trees;
And so you see the purpose
Of such little rhymes as these.
Crowborough
I. — NARRATIVE VERSES AND SONGS
A HYMN OF EMPIRE
(Coronation Year, 1911)
God save England, blessed by Fate,
So old, yet ever young:
The acorn isle from which the great
Imperial oak has sprung!
And God guard Scotland’s kindly soil,
The land of stream and glen,
The granite mother that has bred
A breed of granite men!
God save Wales, from Snowdon’s vales
To Severn’s silver strand!
For all the grace of that old race
Still haunts the Celtic land.
And, dear old Ireland, God save you,
And heal the wounds of old,
For every grief you ever knew
May joy come fifty-fold!
Set Thy guard over us,
May Thy shield cover us,
Enfold and uphold us
On land and on sea!
From the palm to the pine,
From the snow to the line,
Brothers together
And children of Thee.
Thy blessing, Lord, on Canada,
Young giant of the West,
Still upward lay her broadening way,
And may her feet be blessed!
And Africa, whose hero breeds
Are blending into one,
Grant that she tread the path which leads
To holy unison.
May God protect Australia,
Set in her Southern Sea!
Though far thou art, it cannot part
Thy brother folks from thee.
And you, the Land of Maori,
The island-sisters fair,
Ocean hemmed and lake be-gemmed,
God hold you in His care!
Set Thy guard over us,
May Thy shield cover us,
Enfold and uphold us
On land and on sea!
From the palm to the pine,
From the snow to the line,
Brothers together
And children of Thee.
God guard our Indian brothers,
The Children of the Sun,
Guide us and walk beside us,
Until Thy will be done.
To all be equal measure,
Whate’er his blood or birth,
Till we shall build as Thou hast willed
O’er all Thy fruitful Earth.
May we maintain the story
Of honest, fearless right!
Not ours, not ours the Glory!
What are we in Thy sight?
Thy servants, and no other,
Thy servants may we be,
To help our weaker brother,
As we crave for help from Thee!
Set Thy guard over us,
May Thy shield cover us,
Enfold and uphold us
On land and on sea!
From the palm to the pine,
From the snow to the line,
Brothers together
And children of Thee.
SIR NIGEL’S SONG
A sword! A sword! Ah, give me a sword!
For the world is all to win.
Though the way be hard and the door be
barred,
The strong man enters in.
If Chance or Fate still hold the gate,
Give me the iron key,
And turret high, my plume shall fly,
Or you may weep for me!
A horse! A horse! Ah, give me a horse,
To bear me out afar,
Where blackest need and grimmest deed,
And sweetest perils are.
Hold thou my ways from glutted days,
Where poisoned leisure lies,
And point the path of tears and wrath
Which mounts to high emprise.
A heart! A heart! Ah, give me a heart,
To rise to circumstance!
Serene and high, and bold to try
The hazard of a chance.
With strength to wait, but fixed as fate,
To plan and dare and do;
The peer of all — and only thrall,
Sweet lady mine, to you!
THE ARAB STEED
I gave the ‘orse ‘is evenin’ feed,
And bedded of ‘im down,
And went to ‘ear the sing-song
In the bar-room of the Crown,
And one young feller spoke a piece
As told a kind of tale,
About an Arab man wot ‘ad
A certain ‘orse for sale.
I ‘ave no grudge against the man —
I never ‘eard ‘is name,
But if he was my closest pal
I’d say the very same,
For wot you do in other things
Is neither ‘ere nor there,
But w’en it comes to ‘orses
You must keep upon the square.
Now I’m tellin’ you the story
Just as it was told last night,
And if I wrong this Arab man
Then ‘e can set me right;
But s’posin’ all these fac’s are fac’s,
Then I make bold to say
That I think it was not sportsmanlike
To act in sich a way.
For, as I understand the thing,
‘E went to sell this steed —
Which is a name they give a ‘orse
Of some outlandish breed — ,
And soon ‘e found a customer,
A proper sportin’ gent,
Who planked ‘is money down at once
Without no argument.
Now when the deal was finished
And the money paid, you’d think
This Arab would ‘ave asked the gent
At once to name ‘is drink,
Or at least ‘ave thanked ‘im kindly,
An’ wished ‘im a good day,
And own as ‘e’d been treated
In a very ‘andsome way.
But instead o’ this ‘e started
A-talkin’ to the steed,
And speakin’ of its “braided mane”
An’ of its “winged speed,”
And other sich expressions
With which I can’t agree,
For a ‘orse with wings an’ braids an’ things
Is not the ‘orse for me.
The moment that ‘e ‘ad the cash —
Or wot ‘e called the gold,
‘E turned as nasty as could be:
Says ‘e, “You’re sold! You’re sold!”
Them was ‘is words; it’s not for me
To settle wot he meant;
It may ‘ave been the ‘orse was sold,
It may ‘ave been the gent.
I’ve not a word to say agin
His fondness for ‘is ‘orse,
But why should ‘e insinivate
The gent would treat ‘im worse?
An’ why should ‘e go talkin’
In that aggravatin’ way,
As if the gent would gallop ‘im
And wallop ‘im all day?
It may ‘ave been an’ ‘arness ‘orse,
It may ‘ave been an ‘ack,
But a bargain is a bargain,
An’ there ain’t no goin’ back;
For when you’ve picked the money up,
That finishes the deal,
And after that your mouth is shut,
Wotever you may feel.
Supposin’ this ‘ere Arab man
‘Ad wanted to be free,
‘E could ‘ave done it businesslike,
The same as you or me;
A fiver might ‘ave squared the gent,
An’ then ‘e could ‘ave claimed
As ‘e’d cleared ‘imself quite ‘andsome,
And no call to be ashamed.
But instead ‘o that this Arab man
Went on from bad t
o worse,
An’ took an’ chucked the money
At the cove wot bought the ‘orse;
‘E’d ‘ave learned ‘im better manners,
If ‘e’d waited there a bit,
But ‘e scooted on ‘is bloomin’ steed
As ‘ard as ‘e could split.
Per’aps ‘e sold ‘im after,
Or per’aps ‘e ‘ires ‘im out,
But I’d like to warm that Arab man
Wen next ‘e comes about;
For wot ‘e does in other things
Is neither ‘ere nor there,
But w’en it comes to ‘orses
We must keep ‘im on the square.
A POST-IMPRESSIONIST
Peter Wilson, A.R.A.,
In his small atelier,
Studied Continental Schools,
Drew by Academic rules.
So he made his bid for fame,
But no golden answer came,
For the fashion of his day
Chanced to set the other way,
And decadent forms of Art
Drew the patrons of the mart.
Now this poor reward of merit
Rankled so in Peter’s spirit,
It was more than he could bear;
So one night in mad despair
He took his canvas for the year
(“Isle of Wight from Southsea Pier”),
And he hurled it from his sight,
Hurled it blindly to the night,
Saw it fall diminuendo
From the open lattice window,
Till it landed with a flop
On the dust-bin’s ashen top,
Where, ‘mid damp and rain and grime,
It remained till morning time.
Then when morning brought reflection,
He was shamed at his dejection,
And he thought with consternation
Of his poor, ill-used creation;
Down he rushed, and found it there
Lying all exposed and bare,
Mud-bespattered, spoiled, and botched,