Part 12 (2/2)
PROPHETS AT HOME
Prophets have honour all over the Earth, Except in the village where they were born.
Where such as knew them boys from birth, Nature-ally hold 'em in scorn.
When Prophets are naughty and young and vain, They make a won'erful grievance of it; (You can see by their writings how they complain), But O, 'tis won'erful good for the Prophet!
There's nothing Nineveh Town can give (Nor being swallowed by whales between), Makes up for the place where a man's folk live, Which don't care nothing what he has been.
He might ha' been that, or he might ha' been this, But they love and they hate him for what he is.
JUBAL AND TUBAL CAIN
Jubal sang of the Wrath of G.o.d And the curse of thistle and thorn-- But Tubal got him a pointed rod, And scrabbled the earth for corn.
Old--old as that early mould, Young as the sprouting grain-- Yearly green is the strife between Jubal and Tubal Cain!
Jubal sang of the new-found sea, And the love that its waves divide-- But Tubal hollowed a fallen tree And pa.s.sed to the further side.
Black--black as the hurricane-wrack, Salt as the under-main-- Bitter and cold is the hate they hold-- Jubal and Tubal Cain!
Jubal sang of the golden years When wars and wounds shall cease-- But Tubal fas.h.i.+oned the hand-flung spears And showed his neighbours peace.
New--new as the Nine point Two, Older than Lamech's slain-- Roaring and loud is the feud avowed Twix' Jubal and Tubal Cain!
Jubal sang of the cliffs that bar And the peaks that none may crown-- But Tubal clambered by jut and scar And there he builded a town.
High--high as the snowsheds lie, Low as the culverts drain-- Wherever they be they can never agree-- Jubal and Tubal Cain!
THE VOORTREKKER
The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire.
He shall fulfil G.o.d's utmost will, unknowing his desire.
And he shall see old planets change and alien stars arise, And give the gale his seaworn sail in shadow of new skies.
Strong l.u.s.t of gear shall drive him forth and hunger arm his hand, To win his food from the desert rude, his pittance from the sand.
His neighbours' smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest, He shall go forth till south is north sullen and dispossessed.
He shall desire loneliness and his desire shall bring, Hard on his heels, a thousand wheels, a People and a King.
He shall come back on his own track, and by his scarce-cooled camp There shall he meet the roaring street, the derrick and the stamp: There he shall blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand, Till on his last-won wilderness an Empire's outposts stand.
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