Part 14 (1/2)

THE MOON

Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, Oh, thou fair Moon, so close and bright; Thy beauty makes me like the child That cries aloud to own thy light: The little child that lifts each arm To press thee to her bosom warm.

Though there are birds that sing this night With thy white beams across their throats, Let my deep silence speak for me More than for them their sweetest notes: Who wors.h.i.+ps thee till music fails, Is greater than thy nightingales.

THE VILLAIN

While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed where'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees, Excited, while they sucked; While every bird enjoyed his song, Without one thought of harm or wrong-- I turned my head and saw the wind, Not far from where I stood, Dragging the corn by her golden hair, Into a dark and lonely wood.

THE EXAMPLE

Here's an example from A b.u.t.terfly; That on a rough, hard rock Happy can lie; Friendless and all alone On this unsweetened stone.

Now let my bed be hard, No care take I; I'll make my joy like this Small b.u.t.terfly; Whose happy heart has power To make a stone a flower.

_Hilaire Belloc_

Hilaire Belloc, who has been described as ”a Frenchman, an Englishman, an Oxford man, a country gentleman, a soldier, a satirist, a democrat, a novelist, and a practical journalist,” was born July 27, 1870. After leaving school he served as a driver in the 8th Regiment of French Artillery at Toul Meurthe-et-Moselle, being at that time a French citizen. He was naturalized as a British subject somewhat later, and in 1906 he entered the House of Commons as Liberal Member for South Salford.

As an author, he has engaged in multiple activities. He has written three satirical novels, one of which, _Mr. Clutterbuck's Election_, sharply exposes British newspapers and underground politics. His _Path to Rome_ (1902) is a high-spirited and ever-delightful travel book which has pa.s.sed through many editions. His historical studies and biographies of _Robespierre_ and _Marie Antoinette_ (1909) are cla.s.sics of their kind. As a poet he is only somewhat less engaging.

His _Verses_ (1910) is a rather brief collection of poems on a wide variety of themes. Although his humorous and burlesque stanzas are refres.h.i.+ng, Belloc is most himself when he writes either of malt liquor or his beloved Suss.e.x. Though his religious poems are full of a fine romanticism, ”The South Country” is the most pictorial and persuasive of his serious poems. His poetic as well as his spiritual kins.h.i.+p with G. K. Chesterton is obvious.

THE SOUTH COUNTRY

When I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea; And it's there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle-walls a man may see The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown Light aspen leaves along.

They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pines But I smell the Suss.e.x air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there.

And along the sky the line of the Downs So n.o.ble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end.

Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Suss.e.x Weald; They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field.