The Pilgrims of Hope Read online

  Till I win the poor dulled heart which the workman's jacket hides.

  Were it not for the Hope of Hopes I know my journey's end,

  And would wish I had ne'er been born the weary way to wend.

  Now further, well you may think we have lived no gentleman's life,

  My wife is my servant, and I am the servant of my wife,

  And we make no work for each other; but country folk we were,

  And she sickened sore for the grass and the breath of the fragrant air

  That had made her lovely and strong; and so up here we came

  To the northern slopes of the town to live with a country dame,

  Who can talk of the field-folks' ways: not one of the newest the house,

  The woodwork worn to the bone, its panels the land of the mouse,

  Its windows rattling and loose, its floors all up and down;

  But this at least it was, just a cottage left in the town.

  There might you sit in our parlour in the Sunday afternoon

  And watch the sun through the vine-leaves and fall to dreaming that soon

  You would see the grey team passing, their fetlocks wet with the brook,

  Or the shining mountainous straw-load: there the summer moon would look

  Through the leaves on the lampless room, wherein we sat we twain,

  All London vanished away; and the morn of the summer rain

  Would waft us the scent of the hay; or the first faint yellow leaves

  Would flutter adown before us and tell of the acres of sheaves.

  All this hath our lawyer eaten, and to-morrow must we go

  To a room near my master's shop, in the purlieus of Soho.

  No words of its shabby meanness! But that is our prison-cell

  In the jail of weary London. Therein for us must dwell

  The hope of the world that shall be, that rose a glimmering spark

  As the last thin flame of our pleasure sank quavering in the dark.

  Again the rich man jeereth: "The man is a coward, or worse -

  He bewails his feeble pleasure; he quails before the curse

  Which many a man endureth with calm and smiling face."

  Nay, the man is a man, by your leave! Or put yourself in his place,

  And see if the tale reads better. The haven of rest destroyed,

  And nothing left of the life that was once so well enjoyed

  But leave to live and labour, and the glimmer of hope deferred.

  Now know I the cry of the poor no more as a story heard,

  But rather a wordless wail forced forth from the weary heart.

  Now, now when hope ariseth I shall surely know my part.

  There's a little more to tell. When those last words were said,

  At least I was yet a-working, and earning daily bread.

  But now all that is changed, and meseems adown the stair

  That leads to the nethermost pit, man, wife and child must fare.

  When I joined the Communist folk, I did what in me lay

  To learn the grounds of their faith. I read day after day

  Whatever books I could handle, and heard about and about

  What talk was going amongst them; and I burned up doubt after doubt,

  Until it befel at last that to others I needs must speak

  (Indeed, they pressed me to that while yet I was weaker than weak).

  So I began the business, and in street-corners I spake

  To knots of men. Indeed, that made my very heart ache,

  So hopeless it seemed; for some stood by like men of wood;

  And some, though fain to listen, but a few words understood;

  And some but hooted and jeered: but whiles across some I came

  Who were keen and eager to hear; as in dry flax the flame

  So the quick thought flickered amongst them: and that indeed was a feast.

  So about the streets I went, and the work on my hands increased;

  And to say the very truth betwixt the smooth and the rough

  It was work and hope went with it, and I liked it well enough:

  Nor made I any secret of all that I was at

  But daily talked in our shop and spoke of this and of that.

  Then vanished my money away, and like a fool I told

  Some one or two of the loss. Did that make the master bold?

  Before I was one of his lot, and as queer as my head might be

  I might do pretty much as I liked. Well now he sent for me

  And spoke out in very words my thought of the rich man's jeer:

  "Well, sir, you have got your wish, as far as I can hear,

  And are now no thief of labour, but an honest working man:

  Now I'll give you a word of warning: stay in it as long as you can,

  This working lot that you like so: you're pretty well off as you are.

  So take another warning: I have thought you went too far,

  And now I am quite sure of it; so make an end of your talk

  At once and for ever henceforth, or out of my shop you walk;

  There are plenty of men to be had who are quite as good as you.

  And mind you, anywhere else you'll scarce get work to do,

  Unless you rule your tongue;-good morning; stick to your work."

  The hot blood rose to my eyes, somewhere a thought did lurk

  To finish both him and the job: but I knew now what I was,

  And out of the little office in helpless rage did I pass

  And went to my work, a SLAVE, for the sake of my child and my sweet.

  Did men look for the brand on my forehead that eve as I went through the street?

  And what was the end after all? Why, one of my shopmates heard

  My next night's speech in the street, and passed on some bitter word,

  And that week came a word with my money: "You needn't come again."

  And the shame of my four days' silence had been but grief in vain.

  Well I see the days before me: this time we shall not die

  Nor go to the workhouse at once: I shall get work by-and-by,

  And shall work in fear at first, and at last forget my fear,

  And drudge on from day to day, since it seems that I hold life dear.

  'Tis the lot of many millions! Yet if half of those millions knew

  The hope that my heart hath learned, we should find a deed to do,

  And who or what should withstand us? And I, e'en I might live

  To know the love of my fellows and the gifts that earth can give.

  IN PRISON-AND AT HOME

  The first of the nights is this, and I cannot go to bed;

  I long for the dawning sorely, although when the night shall be dead,

  Scarce to me shall the day be alive. Twice twenty-eight nights more,

  Twice twenty-eight long days till the evil dream be o'er!

  And he, does he count the hours as he lies in his prison-cell?

  Does he nurse and cherish his pain? Nay, I know his strong heart well,

  Swift shall his soul fare forth; he is here, and bears me away,

  Till hand in hand we depart toward the hope of the earlier day.

  Yea, here or there he sees it: in the street, in the cell, he sees

  The vision he made me behold mid the stems of the blossoming trees,

  When spring lay light on the earth, and first and at last I knew

  How sweet was his clinging hand, how fair were the deeds he would do.

  Nay, how wilt thou weep and be soft and cherish a pleasure in pain,

  When the days and their task are before thee and awhile thou must work for twain?

  O face, thou shalt lose yet more of thy fairness, be thinner no doubt,

  And be waxen white and worn by the day that he cometh out!

  Hand, how pale thou shalt be! how changed from the sunburnt hand

  That he kissed as it handled the rake in the noon of the summer land!

  Let me t
hink then it is but a trifle: the neighbours have told me so;

  "Two months! why that is nothing and the time will speedily go."

  'Tis nothing-O empty bed, let me work then for his sake!

  I will copy out the paper which he thought the News might take,

  If my eyes may see the letters; 'tis a picture of our life

  And the little deeds of our days ere we thought of prison and strife.

  Yes, neighbour, yes I am early-and I was late last night;

  Bedless I wore through the hours and made a shift to write.

  It was kind of you to come, nor will it grieve me at all

  To tell you why he's in prison and how the thing did befal;

  For I know you are with us at heart, and belike will join us soon.

  It was thus: we went to a meeting on Saturday afternoon,

  At a new place down in the West, a wretched quarter enough,

  Where the rich men's houses are elbowed by ragged streets and rough,

  Which are worse than they seem to be. (Poor thing! you know too well

  How pass the days and the nights within that bricken hell!)

  There, then, on a bit of waste we stood 'twixt the rich and the poor;

  And Jack was the first to speak; that was he that you met at the door

  Last week. It was quiet at first; and dull they most of them stood

  As though they heeded nothing, nor thought of bad or of good,

  Not even that they were poor, and haggard and dirty and dull:

  Nay, some were so rich indeed that they with liquor were full,

  And dull wrath rose in their souls as the hot words went by their ears,

  For they deemed they were mocked and rated by men that were more than their peers.

  But for some, they seemed to think that a prelude was all this

  To the preachment of saving of souls, and hell, and endless bliss;

  While some (O the hearts of slaves!) although they might understand,

  When they heard their masters and feeders called thieves of wealth and of land,

  Were as angry as though THEY were cursed. Withal there were some that heard,

  And stood and pondered it all, and garnered a hope and a word.

  Ah! heavy my heart was grown as I gazed on the terrible throng.

  Lo! these that should have been the glad and the deft and the strong,

  How were they dull and abased as the very filth of the road!

  And who should waken their souls or clear their hearts of the load?

  The crowd was growing and growing, and therewith the jeering grew;

  And now that the time was come for an ugly brawl I knew,

  When I saw how midst of the workmen some well-dressed men there came,

  Of the scum of the well-to-do, brutes void of pity or shame;

  The thief is a saint beside them. These raised a jeering noise,

  And our speaker quailed before it, and the hubbub drowned his voice.

  Then Richard put him aside and rose at once in his place,

  And over the rags and the squalor beamed out his beautiful face,

  And his sweet voice rang through the tumult, and I think the crowd would have hushed

  And hearkened his manly words; but a well-dressed reptile pushed

  Right into the ring about us and screeched out infamies

  That sickened the soul to hearken; till he caught my angry eyes

  And my voice that cried out at him, and straight on me he turned,

  A foul word smote my heart and his cane on my shoulders burned.

  But e'en as a kestrel stoops down Richard leapt from his stool

  And drave his strong right hand amidst the mouth of the fool.

  Then all was mingled together, and away from him was I torn,

  And, hustled hither and thither, on the surging crowd was borne;

  But at last I felt my feet, for the crowd began to thin,

  And I looked about for Richard that away from thence we might win;

  When lo, the police amidst us, and Richard hustled along

  Betwixt a pair of blue-coats as the doer of all the wrong!

  Little longer, friend, is the story; I scarce have seen him again;

  I could not get him bail despite my trouble and pain;

  And this morning he stood in the dock: for all that that might avail,

  They might just as well have dragged him at once to the destined jail.

  The police had got their man and they meant to keep him there,

  And whatever tale was needful they had no trouble to swear.

  Well, the white-haired fool on the bench was busy it seems that day,

  And so with the words "Two months," he swept the case away;

  Yet he lectured my man ere he went, but not for the riot indeed

  For which he was sent to prison, but for holding a dangerous creed.

  "What have you got to do to preach such perilous stuff?

  To take some care of yourself should find you work enough.

  If you needs must preach or lecture, then hire a chapel or hall;

  Though indeed if you take my advice you'll just preach nothing at all,

  But stick to your work: you seem clever; who knows but you might rise,

  And become a little builder should you condescend to be wise?

  For in spite of your silly sedition, the land that we live in is free,

  And opens a pathway to merit for you as well as for me."

  Ah, friend, am I grown light-headed with the lonely grief of the night,

  That I babble of this babble? Woe's me, how little and light

  Is this beginning of trouble to all that yet shall be borne -

  At worst but as the shower that lays but a yard of the corn

  Before the hailstorm cometh and flattens the field to the earth.

  O for a word from my love of the hope of the second birth!

  Could he clear my vision to see the sword creeping out of the sheath

  Inch by inch as we writhe in the toils of our living death!

  Could he but strengthen my heart to know that we cannot fail;

  For alas, I am lonely here-helpless and feeble and frail;

  I am e'en as the poor of the earth, e'en they that are now alive;

  And where is their might and their cunning with the mighty of men to strive?

  Though they that come after be strong to win the day and the crown,

  Ah, ever must we the deedless to the deedless dark go down,

  Still crying, "To-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow yet shall be

  The new-born sun's arising o'er happy earth and sea" -

  And we not there to greet it-for to-day and its life we yearn,

  And where is the end of toiling and whitherward now shall we turn

  But to patience, ever patience, and yet and yet to bear;

  And yet, forlorn, unanswered as oft before to hear,

  Through the tales of the ancient fathers and the dreams that mock our wrong,

  That cry to the naked heavens, "How long, O Lord! how long?"

  THE HALF OF LIFE GONE

  The days have slain the days, and the seasons have gone by

  And brought me the summer again; and here on the grass I lie

  As erst I lay and was glad ere I meddled with right and with wrong.

  Wide lies the mead as of old, and the river is creeping along

  By the side of the elm-clad bank that turns its weedy stream,

  And grey o'er its hither lip the quivering rushes gleam.

  There is work in the mead as of old; they are eager at winning the hay,

  While every sun sets bright and begets a fairer day.

  The forks shine white in the sun round the yellow red-wheeled wain,

  Where the mountain of hay grows fast; and now from out of the lane

  Comes the ox-team drawing another, comes the bailiff and the beer,

  And thump, thump, goes the farmer's nag o'er the narrow
bridge of the weir.

  High up and light are the clouds, and though the swallows flit

  So high o'er the sunlit earth, they are well a part of it,

  And so, though high over them, are the wings of the wandering herne;

  In measureless depths above him doth the fair sky quiver and burn;

  The dear sun floods the land as the morning falls toward noon,

  And a little wind is awake in the best of the latter June.

  They are busy winning the hay, and the life and the picture they make,

  If I were as once I was, I should deem it made for my sake;

  For here if one need not work is a place for happy rest,

  While one's thought wends over the world, north, south, and east and west.

  There are the men and the maids, and the wives and the gaffers grey

  Of the fields I know so well, and but little changed are they

  Since I was a lad amongst them; and yet how great is the change!

  Strange are they grown unto me; yea, I to myself am strange.

  Their talk and their laughter mingling with the music of the meads

  Has now no meaning to me to help or to hinder my needs,

  So far from them have I drifted. And yet amidst them goes

  A part of myself, my boy, and of pleasure and pain he knows,

  And deems it something strange when he is other than glad.

  Lo now! the woman that stoops and kisses the face of the lad,

  And puts a rake in his hand and laughs in his laughing face -

  Whose is the voice that laughs in the old familiar place?

  Whose should it be but my love's, if my love were yet on the earth?

  Could she refrain from the fields where my joy and her joy had birth,

  When I was there and her child, on the grass that knew her feet

  Mid the flowers that led her on when the summer eve was sweet?

  No, no, it is she no longer; never again can she come

  And behold the hay-wains creeping o'er the meadows of her home;

  No more can she kiss her son or put the rake in his hand

  That she handled a while agone in the midst of the haymaking band.

  Her laughter is gone and her life; there is no such thing on the earth,

  No share for me then in the stir, no share in the hurry and mirth.

  Nay, let me look and believe that all these will vanish away,

  At least when the night has fallen, and that she will be there mid the hay,

  Happy and weary with work, waiting and longing for love.