The Pilgrims of Hope Read online

  There will she be, as of old, when the great moon hung above,

  And lightless and dead was the village, and nought but the weir was awake;

  There will she rise to meet me, and my hands will she hasten to take,

  And thence shall we wander away, and over the ancient bridge

  By many a rose-hung hedgerow, till we reach the sun-burnt ridge

  And the great trench digged by the Romans: there then awhile shall we stand,

  To watch the dawn come creeping o'er the fragrant lovely land,

  Till all the world awaketh, and draws us down, we twain,

  To the deeds of the field and the fold and the merry summer's gain.

  Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams of the day or the night,

  When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past delight.

  She is gone. She was and she is not; there is no such thing on the earth

  But e'en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and dearth

  That I cannot name or measure.

  Yet for me and all these she died,

  E'en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might betide.

  Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day's work shall fail.

  Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale

  Of how and why she died, and why I am weak and worn,

  And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was born:

  But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray

  To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier day.

  Of the great world's hope and anguish to-day I scarce can think:

  Like a ghost from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds I

  shrink.

  I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge,

  And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt ridge,

  And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will I gaze,

  And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the haze;

  And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall see,

  What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be?

  O fool, what words are these? Thou hast a sorrow to nurse,

  And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a curse,

  No sting it has and no meaning-it is empty sound on the air.

  Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare

  That they have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been

  That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean.

  And thou, thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon;

  Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon.

  A NEW FRIEND

  I have promised to tell you the story of how I was left alone

  Sick and wounded and sore, and why the woman is gone

  That I deemed a part of my life. Tell me when all is told,

  If you deem it fit that the earth, that the world of men should hold

  My work and my weariness still; yet think of that other life,

  The child of me and of her, and the years and the coming strife.

  After I came out of prison our living was hard to earn

  By the work of my hands, and of hers; to shifts we had to turn,

  Such as the poor know well, and the rich cannot understand,

  And just out of the gutter we stood, still loving and hand in hand.

  Do you ask me if still amidst all I held the hunt in view,

  And the hope of the morning of life, all the things I should do and undo?

  Be easy, I am not a coward: nay little prudence I learned,

  I spoke and I suffered for speaking, and my meat by my manhood was burned.

  When the poor man thinks-and rebels, the whip lies ready anear;

  But he who is rebel and rich may live safe for many a year,

  While he warms his heart with pictures of all the glory to come.

  There's the storm of the press and the critics maybe, but sweet is his home,

  There is meat in the morn and the even, and rest when the day is done,

  All is fair and orderly there as the rising and setting sun -

  And I know both the rich and the poor.

  Well, I grew bitter they said;

  'Tis not unlike that I did, for bitter indeed was my bread,

  And surely the nursling plant shall smack of its nourishing soil.

  And here was our life in short, pinching and worry and toil,

  One petty fear thrust out by another come in its place,

  Each scrap of life but a fear, and the sum of it wretched and base.

  E'en so fare millions of men, where men for money are made,

  Where the poor are dumb and deedless, where the rich are not afraid.

  Ah, am I bitter again? Well, these are our breeding-stock,

  The very base of order, and the state's foundation rock;

  Is it so good and so safe that their manhood should be outworn

  By the struggle for anxious life, the dull pain dismally borne,

  Till all that was man within them is dead and vanished away?

  Were it not even better that all these should think on a day

  As they look on each other's sad faces, and see how many they are:

  "What are these tales of old time of men who were mighty in war?

  They fought for some city's dominion, for the name of a forest or field;

  They fell that no alien's token should be blazoned on their shield;

  And for this is their valour praised and dear is their renown,

  And their names are beloved for ever and they wear the patriot's crown;

  And shall we then wait in the streets and this heap of misery,

  Till their stones rise up to help us or the far heavens set us free?

  For we, we shall fight for no name, no blazon on banner or shield;

  But that man to man may hearken and the earth her increase yield;

  That never again in the world may be sights like we have seen;

  That never again in the world may be men like we have been,

  That never again like ours may be manhood spoilt and blurred."

  Yea even so was I bitter, and this was my evilest word:

  "Spend and be spent for our hope, and you at least shall be free,

  Though you be rugged and coarse, as wasted and worn as you be."

  Well, "bitter" I was, and denounced, and scarcely at last might we stand

  From out of the very gutter, as we wended hand in hand.

  I had written before for the papers, but so "bitter" was I grown,

  That none of them now would have me that could pay me half-a-crown,

  And the worst seemed closing around us; when as it needs must chance,

  I spoke at some Radical Club of the Great Revolution in France.

  Indeed I said nothing new to those who had learned it all,

  And yet as something strange on some of the folk did it fall.

  It was late in the terrible war, and France to the end drew nigh,

  And some of us stood agape to see how the war would die,

  And what would spring from its ashes. So when the talk was o'er

  And after the stir and excitement I felt the burden I bore

  Heavier yet for it all, there came to speak to me

  A serious well-dressed man, a "gentleman," young I could see;

  And we fell to talk together, and he shyly gave me praise,

  And asked, though scarcely in words, of my past and my "better days."

  Well, there,-I let it all out, and I flushed as I strode along,

  (For we were walking by now) and bitterly spoke of the wrong.

  Maybe I taught him something, but ready he was to learn,

  And had come to our workmen meetings some knowledge of men to learn. />
  He kindled afresh at my words, although to try him I spake

  More roughly than I was wont; but every word did he take

  For what it was really worth, nor even laughter he spared,

  As though he would look on life of its rags of habit bared.

  Well, why should I be ashamed that he helped me at my need?

  My wife and my child, must I kill them? And the man was a friend indeed,

  And the work that he got me I did (it was writing, you understand)

  As well as another might do it. To be short, he joined our band

  Before many days were over, and we saw him everywhere

  That we workmen met together, though I brought him not to my lair.

  Eager he grew for the Cause, and we twain grew friend and friend:

  He was dainty of mind and of body; most brave, as he showed in the end;

  Merry despite of his sadness, quick-witted and speedy to see:

  Like a perfect knight of old time as the poets would have them to be.

  That was the friend that I won by my bitter speech at last.

  He loved me; he grieved my soul: now the love and the grief are past;

  He is gone with his eager learning, his sadness and his mirth,

  His hope and his fond desire. There is no such thing on the earth.

  He died not unbefriended-nor unbeloved maybe.

  Betwixt my life and his longing there rolls a boundless sea.

  And what are those memories now to all that I have to do,

  The deeds to be done so many, the days of my life so few?

  READY TO DEPART

  I said of my friend new-found that at first he saw not my lair;

  Yet he and I and my wife were together here and there;

  And at last as my work increased and my den to a dwelling grew,

  He came there often enough, and yet more together we drew.

  Then came a change in the man; for a month he kept away,

  Then came again and was with us for a fortnight every day,

  But often he sat there silent, which was little his wont with us.

  And at first I had no inkling of what constrained him thus;

  I might have thought that he faltered, but now and again there came,

  When we spoke of the Cause and its doings, a flash of his eager flame,

  And he seemed himself for a while; then the brightness would fade away,

  And he gloomed and shrank from my eyes.

  Thus passed day after day,

  And grieved I grew, and I pondered: till at last one eve we sat

  In the fire-lit room together, and talked of this and that,

  But chiefly indeed of the war and what would come of it;

  For Paris drew near to its fall, and wild hopes 'gan to flit

  Amidst us Communist folk; and we talked of what might be done

  When the Germans had gone their ways and the two were left alone,

  Betrayers and betrayed in war-worn wasted France.

  As I spoke the word "betrayed," my eyes met his in a glance,

  And swiftly he turned away; then back with a steady gaze

  He turned on me; and it seemed as when a sword-point plays

  Round the sword in a battle's beginning and the coming on of strife.

  For I knew though he looked on me, he saw not me, but my wife:

  And he reddened up to the brow, and the tumult of the blood

  Nigh blinded my eyes for a while, that I scarce saw bad or good,

  Till I knew that he was arisen and had gone without a word.

  Then I turned about unto her, and a quivering voice I heard

  Like music without a meaning, and twice I heard my name.

  "O Richard, Richard!" she said, and her arms about me came,

  And her tears and the lips that I loved were on my face once more.

  A while I clung to her body, and longing sweet and sore

  Beguiled my heart of its sorrow; then we sundered and sore she wept,

  While fair pictures of days departed about my sad heart crept,

  And mazed I felt and weary. But we sat apart again,

  Not speaking, while between us was the sharp and bitter pain

  As the sword 'twixt the lovers bewildered in the fruitless marriage bed.

  Yet a while, and we spoke together, and I scarce knew what I said,

  But it was not wrath or reproaching, or the chill of love-born hate;

  For belike around and about us, we felt the brooding fate.

  We were gentle and kind together, and if any had seen us so,

  They had said, "These two are one in the face of all trouble and woe."

  But indeed as a wedded couple we shrank from the eyes of men,

  As we dwelt together and pondered on the days that come not again.

  Days passed and we dwelt together; nor Arthur came for awhile;

  Gravely it was and sadly, and with no greeting smile,

  That we twain met at our meetings: but no growth of hate was yet,

  Though my heart at first would be sinking as our thoughts and our eyes they met:

  And when he spake amidst us and as one we two agreed,

  And I knew of his faith and his wisdom, then sore was my heart indeed.

  We shrank from meeting alone: for the words we had to say

  Our thoughts would nowise fashion-not yet for many a day.

  Unhappy days of all days! Yet O might they come again!

  So sore as my longing returneth to their trouble and sorrow and pain!

  But time passed, and once we were sitting, my wife and I in our room,

  And it was in the London twilight and the February gloom,

  When there came a knock, and he entered all pale, though bright were his eyes,

  And I knew that something had happened, and my heart to my mouth did arise.

  "It is over," he said "-and beginning; for Paris has fallen at last,

  And who knows what next shall happen after all that has happened and passed?

  There now may we all be wanted."

  I took up the word: "Well then

  Let us go, we three together, and there to die like men."

  "Nay," he said, "to live and be happy like men." Then he flushed up red,

  And she no less as she hearkened, as one thought through their bodies had sped.

  Then I reached out my hand unto him, and I kissed her once on the brow,

  But no word craving forgiveness, and no word of pardon e'en now,

  Our minds for our mouths might fashion.

  In the February gloom

  And into the dark we sat planning, and there was I in the room,

  And in speech I gave and I took; but yet alone and apart

  In the fields where I once was a youngling whiles wandered the thoughts of my heart,

  And whiles in the unseen Paris, and the streets made ready for war.

  Night grew and we lit the candles, and we drew together more,

  And whiles we differed a little as we settled what to do,

  And my soul was cleared of confusion as nigher the deed-time drew.

  Well, I took my child into the country, as we had settled there,

  And gave him o'er to be cherished by a kindly woman's care,

  A friend of my mother's, but younger: and for Arthur, I let him give

  His money, as mine was but little, that the boy might flourish and live,

  Lest we three, or I and Arthur, should perish in tumult and war,

  And at least the face of his father he should look on never more.

  You cry out shame on my honour? But yet remember again

  That a man in my boy was growing; must my passing pride and pain

  Undo the manhood within him and his days and their doings blight?

  So I thrust my pride away, and I did what I deemed was right,

  And left him down in our country.

  And well may you think indeed

  How my sad
heart swelled at departing from the peace of river and mead,

  But I held all sternly aback and again to the town did I pass.

  And as alone I journeyed, this was ever in my heart:

  "They may die; they may live and be happy; but for me I know my part,

  In Paris to do my utmost, and there in Paris to die!"

  And I said, "The day of the deeds and the day of deliverance is nigh."

  A GLIMPSE OF THE COMING DAY

  It was strange indeed, that journey! Never yet had I crossed the sea

  Or looked on another people than the folk that had fostered me,

  And my heart rose up and fluttered as in the misty night

  We came on the fleet of the fishers slow rolling in the light

  Of the hidden moon, as the sea dim under the false dawn lay;

  And so like shadows of ships through the night they faded away,

  And Calais pier was upon us. Dreamlike it was indeed

  As we sat in the train together, and toward the end made speed.

  But a dull sleep came upon me, and through the sleep a dream

  Of the Frenchman who once was my master by the side of the willowy stream;

  And he talked and told me tales of the war unwaged as yet,

  And the victory never won, and bade me never forget,

  While I walked on, still unhappy, by the home of the dark-striped perch.

  Till at last, with a flash of light and a rattle and side-long lurch,

  I woke up dazed and witless, till my sorrow awoke again,

  And the grey of the morn was upon us as we sped through the poplar plain,

  By the brimming streams and the houses with their grey roofs warped and bent,

  And the horseless plough in the furrow, and things fair and innocent.

  And there sat my wife before me, and she, too, dreamed as she slept;

  For the slow tears fell from her eyelids as in her sleep she wept.

  But Arthur sat by my side and waked; and flushed was his face,

  And his eyes were quick to behold the picture of each fair place

  That we flashed by as on we hurried; and I knew that the joy of life

  Was strongly stirred within him by the thought of the coming strife.

  Then I too thought for a little, It is good in grief's despite,

  It is good to see earth's pictures, and so live in the day and the light.

  Yea, we deemed that to death we were hastening, and it made our vision clear,

  And we knew the delight of our life-days, and held their sorrow dear.