ANTHOLOGY OF MASSACHUSETTS POETS (12)

    I

    MASEFIELD （HIMSELF）

    GOD said, and frowned, as He looked on Shropshire clay： "Alone, 'twont do； composite, would I make This man-child rare； 'twere well, methinks, to take A handful from the Stratford tomb, and weigh A few of Shelley's ashes； Bunyan may Contribute, too, and, for my sweet Son's sake, I'll visit Avalon； then, let me slake¹ The whole with Wyclif-water from the Bay.

    A sailor, he！ Too godly, though, I fear； Offset² it with tobacco！ Next, I'll find Hedge-roses, star-dust, and a vagrant's mind； His mother's heart now let me breathe upon； When west winds blow, I'll whisper in her ear： "Apocalypse awaits him； call him John！"

    II

    HIS PORTRAIT

    A Man of Sorrows！ with such haunted eyes, I trow, the Master looked across the lake,—— Looked from the Judas-heart, so soon to make Of Him the world's historic sacrifice； Moreover, as I gaze, do more arise； Great souls, great pallid³ ghosts of pain, who wake And wander yet； all, weary men who brake Their hearts； all hemlock-drunk, with growing wise： Hudson adrift； Defoe； the Wandering Jew； Tannhauser； Faust； Andrea； phantoms⁴, all, In Masefield's eyes you lodge⁵； and to the wall I turn you,-hand a-tremble,——lest you make Of mine own stricken eyes a mirror, too. Wherein the sad world's sadder for your sake.

    III

    HIS "DAUBER"

    O Masefield's "Dauber！" You, who being dead, Yet speak： heroic, dauntless, flaming soul, Too suddenly snuffed out！ Here take fresh toll⁶ Of cognizance, and, in your ocean bed, Serenely⁷ rest, assured that who has read What you would fain have pictured of the Pole Would gladly match your part against the whole Of many a modern artist, Paris-bred.

    And more than this： if you, indeed, are his, Then, by a dual⁸ truth, he, too, is yours； For, marked and credited by what endures, Were it the only thing, which bears his name, （O deathless Soul, I speak you true in this！） "The Dauber" has brought Masefield to his fame.

    IV

    HIS "GALLIPOLI"

    "Small wonder," speaks my pensive¹⁰ self, "that he Whose passion 'tis to sing of men who fail,—— （Belabored¹¹, broken by The Unseen Flail¹²） Small wonder that be makes Gallipoli

    His fervent¹³ text, for could there be A costlier¹⁴ failure in Earth's shuddering¹⁵ tale？ Think of heroic Sulva's bloody¹⁶ swale； Of Anzac's tortured thirst and agony！" But as I read, protesting voices cry： "Not we, Not we, who fell among the daffodils, Who conquered Death among those blistered¹⁷ hills, And found our glory after mortal pain； Not we, who failed and lost Gallipoli； The sad, strange failure theirs who mourn in vain！"

    V

    HIS MEAD¹⁸

    So, Masefield, have your royal words once more Called forth¹⁹ the praise of men, where praise is due； Your great elegiac, tragically²⁰ true, Must leave all Britain prouder than before； And, in spite of all that breaking hearts deplore²¹, And all that anguished²² consciences must rue⁹, One arrowed gladness surely pierces through >From London's centre to Canadian shore：

    When England, sobbing²³, mourns Gallipoli, When warm tears flow for Rupert Brooke And all the splendid Youth her error took As hostage from the fields of daffodils, Let this a present, living solace²⁴ be： You are not sleeping in those cruel hills！