Alnaschar and the Oxen
THERE’S a pasture in a valley where the hanging woods divide.
And a Herd lies down and ruminates in peace;
Where the pheasant rules the nooning, and the owl the twilight tide.
And the war-cries of our world die out and cease.
Here I cast aside the burden that each weary week-day brings
And, delivered from the shadows I pursue.
On peaceful, postless Sabbaths I consider Weighty Things —
Such as Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
At the gate beside the river where the trouty shallows brawl.
I know the pride that Lobengula felt.
When he bade the bars be lowered of the Royal Cattle Kraal.
And fifteen mile of oxen took the veldt.
From the walls of Bulawayo in unbroken file they came
To where the Mount of Council cuts the blue...
I have only six and twenty, but the principle’s the same
With my Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
To a luscious sound of tearing, where the clovered herbage rips.
Level-backed and level-bellied watch ‘em move —
See those shoulders, guess that heart-girth, praise those loins, admire those hips.
And the tail set low for flesh to make above!
Count the broad unblemished muzzles, test the kindly mellow skin
And, where yon heifer lifts her head at call.
Mark the bosom’s just abundance ‘neath the gay and clean-cut chin.
And those eyes of Juno, overlooking all
Here is colour, form and substance! I will put it to the proof
And, next season, in my lodges shall be born
Some very Bull of Mithras, flawless from his agate hoof
To his even-branching, ivory, dusk-tipped horn.
He shall mate with block-square virgins-kings shall seek his like in vain.
While I multiply his stock a thousandfold.
Till an hungry world extol me, builder of a lofty strain
That turns one standard ton at two years old
There’s a valley, under oakwood, where a man may dream his dream.
In the milky breath of cattle laid at ease.
Till the moon o’ertops the alders, and her image chills the stream.
And the river-mist runs silver round their knees!
Now the footpaths fade and vanish; now the ferny clumps deceive;
Now the hedgerow folk possess their fields anew;
Now the Herd is lost in darkness, and I bless them as I leave.
My Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
Gipsy Vans
UNLESS you come of the gipsy stock
That steals by night and day.
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father’s hearth.
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy-vans come through...
For it isn’t right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy blood
That takes and never spares.
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land.
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand.
Nor flitter it down the road
Then you can thrive on your boughten food
As the gipsy-vans come through...
For it isn’t nature the Gorgio blood
Should love as the Romany do.
Unless you carry the gipsy eyes
That see but seldom weep.
Keep your head from the naked skies
Or the stars’ll trouble your sleep.
Watch your moon through your window-pane
And take what weather she brews;
But don’t run out in the midnight rain
Nor home in the morning dews.
Then you can huddle and shut your eves
As the gipsy-vans come through...
For it isn’t fitting the Gorgio ryes
Should walk as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy race
That counts all time the same.
Be you careful of Time and Place
And Judgment and Good Name
Lose your life for to live your life
The way that you ought to do;
And when you are finished, your God and your wife
And the Gipsies ‘ll laugh at you!
Then you can rot in your burying place
As the gipsy-vans come through...
For it isn’t reason the Gorgio race
Should die as the Romany do,
A Madonna of the Trenches
‘Whatever a man of the sons of men
Shall say to his heart of the lords above.
They have shown man, verily, once and again.
Marvellous mercies and infinite love.
. . . . .
‘O sweet one love, O my life’s delight.
Dear, though the days have divided us.
Lost beyond hope, taken far out of sight.
Not twice in the world shall the Gods do thus.’
SWINBURNE, ‘Les Noyades.’
SEEING how many unstable ex-soldiers came to the Lodge of Instruction (attached to Faith and Works E.C. 5837*) in the years after the war, the wonder is there was not more trouble from Brethren whom sudden meetings with old comrades jerked back into their still raw past. But our round, torpedo-bearded local Doctor-Brother Keede, Senior Warden- always stood ready to deal with hysteria before it got out of hand; and when I examined Brethren unknown or imperfectly vouched for on the Masonic side, I passed on to him anything that seemed doubtful. He had had his experience as medical officer of a South London Battalion, during the last two years of the war; and, naturally, often found friends and acquaintances among the visitors.
Brother C. Strangwick, a young, tallish, new-made Brother, hailed from some South London Lodge. His papers and his answers were above suspicion, but his red-rimmed eyes had a puzzled glare that might mean nerves. So I introduced him particularly to Keede, who discovered in him a Headquarters Orderly of his old Battalion, congratulated him on his return to fitness-he had been discharged for some infirmity or other-and plunged at once into Somme memories.
‘I hope I did right, Keede,’ I said when we were robing before Lodge.
‘Oh, quite. He reminded me that I had him under my hands at Sampoux in ‘Eighteen, when he went to bits. He was a Runner.’
‘Was it shock?’ I asked.
‘Of sorts-but not what he wanted me to think it was. No, he wasn’t shamming. He had jumps to the limit-but he played up to mislead me about the reason of ‘em...Well, if we could stop patients from lying, medicine would be too easy, I suppose.’
I noticed that, after Lodge-working, Keede gave him a seat a couple of rows in front of us, that he might enjoy a lecture on the Orientation of King Solomon’s Temple, which an earnest Brother thought would be a nice interlude between Labour and the high tea that we called our ‘Banquet.’ Even helped by tobacco it was a dreary performance. About half-way through, Strangwick, who had been fidgeting and twitching for some minutes, rose, drove back his chair grinding across the tesselated floor, and yelped ‘Oh, My Aunt! I can’t stand this any longer.’ Under cover of a general laugh of assent he brushed past us and stumbled towards the door.
‘I thought so!’ Keede whispered to me. ‘Come along!’ We overtook him in the passage, crowing hysterically and wringing his hands. Keede led him into the Tyler’s Room, a small office where we stored odds and ends of regalia and furniture, and locked the door.
‘I’m-I’m all r
ight,’ the boy began, piteously.
‘‘Course you are.’ Keede opened a small cupboard which I had seen called upon before, mixed sal volatile and water in a graduated glass, and, as Strangwick drank, pushed him gently on to an old sofa. ‘There,’ he went on. ‘It’s nothing to write home about. I’ve seen you ten times worse. I expect our talk has brought things back.’
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 537