Part 9 (1/2)

THE GENERAL ELLIOTT

He fell in victory's fierce pursuit, Holed through and through with shot, A sabre sweep had hacked him deep Twixt neck and shoulderknot....

The potman cannot well recall, The ostler never knew, Whether his day was Malplaquet, The Boyne or Waterloo.

But there he hangs for tavern sign, With foolish bold regard For c.o.c.k and hen and loitering men And wagons down the yard.

Raised high above the hayseed world He smokes his painted pipe, And now surveys the orchard ways, The damsons cl.u.s.tering ripe.

He sees the churchyard slabs beyond, Where country neighbours lie, Their brief renown set lowly down; _His_ name a.s.saults the sky.

He grips the tankard of brown ale That spills a generous foam: Oft-times he drinks, they say, and winks At drunk men lurching home.

No upstart hero may usurp That honoured swinging seat; His seasons pa.s.s with pipe and gla.s.s Until the tale's complete.

And paint shall keep his b.u.t.tons bright Though all the world's forgot Whether he died for England's pride By battle, or by pot.

THE PATCHWORK BONNET

Across the room my silent love I throw, Where you sit sewing in bed by candlelight, Your young stern profile and industrious fingers Displayed against the blind in a shadow-show, To Dinda's grave delight.

The needle dips and pokes, the cheerful thread Runs after, follow-my-leader down the seam: The patchwork pieces cry for joy together, O soon to sit as a crown on Dinda's head, Fulfilment of their dream.

Snippets and odd ends folded by, forgotten, With camphor on a top shelf, hard to find, Now wake to this most happy resurrection, To Dinda playing toss with a reel of cotton And staring at the blind.

Dinda in sing-song stretching out one hand Calls for the playthings; mother does not hear: Her mind sails far away on a patchwork Ocean, And all the world must wait till she touches land; So Dinda cries in fear,

Then Mother turns, laughing like a young fairy, And Dinda smiles to see her look so kind, Calls out again for playthings, playthings, playthings; And now the shadows make an Umbrian _Mary Adoring_, on the blind.

RICHARD HUGHES

THE SINGING FURIES

The yellow sky grows vivid as the sun: The sea glittering, and the hills dun.

The stones quiver. Twenty pounds of lead Fold upon fold, the air laps my head.

Both eyes scorch: tongue stiff and bitter: Flies buzz, but no birds twitter: Slow bullocks stand with stinging feet, And naked fishes scarcely stir for heat.

White as smoke, As jetted steam, dead clouds awoke And quivered on the Western rim.

Then the singing started: dim And sibilant as rime-stiff reeds That whistle as the wind leads.

The South whispered hard and sere, The North answered, low and clear; And thunder m.u.f.fled up like drums Beat, whence the East wind comes.