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England and France
(11 Sonnets)
[Written the night of 5-6 September 1919]
I stand for England—and for France her friend! Four years of stubborn struggle in striking mad! Four years of better brotherhood of blood! Endurance inexpugnable—an end At last of that huge evil that has passed Freedom in trenches that were tombs—the flood Of hate damned black—earth fit once more to bud And Liberty her empire to extend!
We paid the price of that colossal strife Our comrade-love kept Liberty in life We stood, fought, died, and conquered side by side Let now sordid sense of selfhood fall That dear and dreadful memory, or annul The troth of Friendship, in the furnace tried.
I stand for England! What rank poppy-growth In Flanders's fields distils oblivion? Must we now sell the Fellowship we won At dice with Death, so soon be bankrupt both Holding our blood as offal? Shall our Oath Be vain at bidding of some [illegible] five-[illegible] By bloodless bankers? Did we hurl the Hun Back in mistaken fear—the kindly Goth!
I stand for England! "Let the German live"? O fools! The Huns forget not, nor forgive. Save the scotched snake to strike your friend anew Still bleeding from the fang—the next to lance Its murder at its saviour's throat—with France England should perish, as we once won through.
I stand for England!—so I stand for France: How otherwise who cherish art and learning, Good faith and courage, science and lofty learning; Freedom and order—reason and romance,— Twin heirs of earth's most rich inheritance Of spirit, intellect's most swift discerning, Manhood's most loyal proof, the brightest-burning Lamps to whose light all lands devoutly glance On heights whereto all nations seek to advance Know we no torsion nor the shadow of turning!
France! England! Sister ships that stem the flood Of Time, now sealed by History in our blood Spilt in stern strife against the ruthless rage Of fell Typhon: storm past, the sea heaves yet— Courage! Still sisters, be our sail full-set First of the fleet toward port—the Golden Age!
The hand of Pasteur sowed the golden grain That fell to Lister's sickle: Swinburne bore The mantle of the prophet Baudelaire Shakespeare and Sterne got bounty of the brain Of Rabelais; grim Balzac not in vain Shewed Hardy what with Truth a man may dare. Huxley was framed in sword-play by Voltaire And Dowson drank the vintage of Verlaine.
No art, no craft, no science, stands aloof. Inextricably tarries our woolen woof With France's silken weft—device divine! Shall calculation hatched by Greed in Hell, Weigh with the infinite imponderable Nerve-webs that wed our souls in one design?
Gross Jew and greedy German and obscene Mongrel, half crazed amuck with money-lust, Faith, love , integrity impatient thrust Out of their rabid rush! Are these unclean Orts, that manipulate by strings unseen Press, pulpit, Parliament, the powers we trust Before whose Godhead we bend brow in dust, Our Saviours! Hail! The Gods from the machine!
They bade us "hate the Hun"—who deemed the worth Of money less than native brains and birth. We do—we die—we win! So now they leer: Stay—are not art and science held in honour In France? Let England loose her legions on her! Enthrone the fatherlandless financier!
One blade of grass—one ear of corn—one lamb— Is not the least of these royal birth, Being the offspring of our Mother Earth Rooted in absolute right? God curse and damn The reptile renegades that crawl to cram Their guts with stolen gold, and glut their girth By wrecking all things of authentic worth, Knowing not "I have" but perfect in "I am" I would not give one grain of desert sand For all these felons without fatherland Who make our laws, mould our opinions, tax Our toil, cajole and cudgel us to sabre For their advantage, Huns or the other neighbour, Betraying our allies behind their backs.
One thing stands sure, amid this surge of doubt: That year by year the might of money smothers Its rivals; Wisdom; Holiness, were mothers At first of Kingship; next the shrewd and stout Soldier, and then the lawyer, curled about His prey; lust, honour, birth, and craft made others Masters of Earth, and men enslaved their brothers By lies that worked till time had found them out! Yet—vile or false or vain as were of old The Secrets of Success—dull senseless gold Served its possessor to perfect his plan. The days of wit and worth are overpast Gold's tide swamps our control of it—at last, Metal has come to mastery of Man.
Lion—loud to England—and to France, I roar Prophet and poet, that once more she stand Foot to firm foot, hand hard in hearty hand, Because the burden of my song is sore The seer beholding things yet worse than war Most imminent, a plot obscenely planned To force us to forgo the fatherland: Friendship and faith corrupted to the core.
Smooth hear the sophist slip his well-oiled lies!— Trust not the sugar-coated subtleties! Self-seeking policy may gain its ends:— There is no wealth in all the treasure of earth To pay thy soul and honour lost, of worth To weigh against forgetfulness of friends.
Your knife has pinned the gambler's hand. "A slip!" He pleads. "Release me! It will profit you. Will that sharp eye, and that quick wrist! We two Should be a perfect pair in partnership". Turning your back on your proved pal, you grip The trickster's proffered paw: "Your words ring true!" —The sequel or the incident? I drew My own conclusions—clapping hand to hip!
"Go tell the tale to the marines" "Knows Time So foul a folly, so corrupt a crime?" "There never was a pigeon yet so short Of all good sense and faith". Of course: the story Is simply offered as an allegory Of the existing British Government.
I stand for England! By mysterious grace Of the high Gods her poet and her seer, I warn her lest blind avarice or fear Seduce her to break faith with France, to embrace The foe that scarred and branded the fair face Of Europe with hell-fury year on year, Wrenching the whole world to a moon-dead sphere Soulless and desolate to swing through space.
I stand for England! By the fierce French blood That mixed with thine in that resistless flood Of Victory, I conjure thee and control: Keep thou the faith in peace, with loyal breath, That, kept in war, saved thee from bodily death, Lest now that death snatch down to hell thy soul!
One saith "Man shall not live by bread alone: Each word that issueth from the mouth of God Shall serve him". Then, shall rulers bear the rod In vain? The very Pharisee is prone Before the publican. The wormy throne Is weary of its puppet. Silent-shod The money-changers prowl where once there trod Men who dare death to call their souls their own.
I stand for England! Let the five small cords Of those woven words sweep clean these hideous hordes Of mongrel usurpers. We have had enough— This den of thieves—the house that was the Lord's! England, arouse thee! Live by virtue of Valour and truth and liberty and love!
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