POEMS FROM OTHER SOURCES - 9

GRANDDAD IN THE INGLE.

I

All on a windy night of yule,
     When snow was falling white
We sat all warm in the marish farm
     Around the yule-logs bright.

The clock ticked low, and the wind did blow,
     And the snow was heaped and blown;
And we laughed and talked, but granddad sat
     As still as any stone.

As still he sat as a cold, gray stone
     Upon the lone sea-sands,
His thin, gray hair as white as foam,
     Like drifting weeds his hands.

His eyes were dead, and dull, and cold,
     As the jelly-fish on the rock,
His ears were closed, and his heart kept time
     To the ticking of the clock.

His cheeks were pale, his lips were dumb,
     He sat in the ingle-glow,
Still as a stone on the lone sea-sand,
     Though the tide doth come and go;

Though the sun may come on its moist, cold side,
     And make a glistering gleam;
Though the storm may dash, and the lightning flash,
     And the startled sea-bird scream.

Too late! too late! he is old, so old,
     He hears no human call;
He cannot smile, he cannot weep,
His blood flows on as dark as sleep -
     He lives, and that is all.

II

“Granddad, granddad, look up and speak
     To thy grandchild Marjorie!”
He does not stir, but sits and smiles,
     Like one who doth not see.

He sits and faintly feels the fire,
     And fondles his thin knees;
Flash the light, and rattle the log -
     He neither hears nor sees.

“Granddad! here is thy daughter Joan,
     Come o’er with Cousin Jane!”
“Ay, ay,” he cries, with a feeble flush,
     Then his soul shuts again.

“Ay, ay” - the words have a strange sea-sound
     As they leave his feeble lips,
Of the blowing wind and the tossing sea,
     And the men who sail in ships.

All year long he sat by the fire,
     And we had heard strange tales
Of his life of old, when he tossed and rolled
     Amid the lonesome gales.

And often when his chair was wheeled
     Without into the sun,
And he sat in the porch, we whispered low
     Of the deeds that he had done.

For round his life a mystery hung,
     No soul could wholly clear,
And we children had heard that he had been
     A bloody buccaneer;

That the stain of blood was on his hands,
     That his soul was black and deep,
That he had seen such sights as made
     His spirit shriek in sleep;

That the red, round gold his hands had gained
     Was dyed with blood of  men;
And, as we spake, our voices sank,
     And we looked at him again.

Sometimes his face would flash to fire,
     And his hands would clutch his chair,
And some bloody scene within his soul
     Would shake him unaware.

Sometimes his cold lips would unclose,
     And talk in a strange tongue,
And his voice would quicken, his thin arms move,
     And all his ways grow young.

Sometimes his voice was fierce and loud,
     As if he trod the deck;
Sometimes he seemed to toil like men
     Who swim from ships a-wreck.

But ever the life he lived went on
     Within his soul alone;
To all the wash of the waves of life
     He kept as cold as stone.

Yet oft his face would lie in peace,
     As if he knew no sin,
With a light that came not from without,
     But issued from within;

A light like glistening light that sleeps
     On the wet rock by the sea,
As if his thoughts were all at rest,
And some blue heaven within his breast
     Was opening tranquilly.

 

III

Suddenly on that night of yule,
     While we sat whispering there,
The old worn shape waved up his arms,
     And sprang from out his chair.

“See, see!” he cried, and his hair was blown
     Around his brow and eyes;
He pointed with his skinny hand,
     And uttered eager cries.

“Now, granddad, granddad, sit thee down,
     There is no creature nigh!”
He answered not, but stood erect,
     With wildly-glistening eye.

“Hush! man the boats!” and in our sight
     Firm up and down he trod.
“Form line! who stirs a footstep dies!
     She’s sinking - pray to God!

“Nail down the hatches! If the slaves
     Climb up, we all must drown.
If one among them stirs a foot,
     Shoot, hew, and hack him down!

“Away - she sinks!” and both his ears
     He stopped as he did speak.
“Saved, saved!” he moaned, then trembling stood
     With tears upon his cheek.

“God pardon me, and cleanse my soul!”
     He murmured with thin moan,
Then raised his hands into the air,
     And dropped as dead as stone!

_____

‘Granddad In The Ingle’ was published in Appleton’s journal: a monthly miscellany of popular literature on March 14th, 1874 (Volume 11, Issue 260). It had been previously published in Cassell’s Magazine and was reprinted in two anthologies published by Cassell, Gleanings From Popular Authors, Grave and Gay (Cassell & Co., 1882) and Gems from the Best Authors, Grave and Gay (Cassell & Co., 1887), accompanied by the following illustration:

Buchanan recycled the idea of the mute old man, haunted by something in his past, for the opening of his novel ‘God and the Man’ which was published in 1881.

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THE BATTLE OF ISANDÚLA.

(Zululand, January 2, 1879.)

IN the wilds of Isandúla, far away,
The little band of British soldiers lay,
     When a warning voice cried, “Fly!
     For the savage swarms are nigh!
     See, they loom in war-array
          Against the sky!
     Ere they come in all the might
     Of their legions black as night,
Form in order and take flight from Isandúla.”

Then our soldiers look in one another’s eyes, . . .
Less in terror than in wondering surmise,
     And a cold breath of despair
     Seems to chill the golden air,
     When a voice of thunder cries:
          “Men, prepare!
     Though no human help be by,
     We are here our strength to try,
Yea, to keep the camp, or die in Isandúla!”

So an English cheer arises wild and shrill,
As they form and face the onset with a will,
     For clearly now each one
     Can see the black hordes run
     Swift as wolves across the hill
          In the sun—
     They can see the host at last
     Coming terrible and vast,
Like a torrent, rolling fast on Isandúla! . . .

Soon upon them in their living thousands fell
The blacks like screaming devils out of Hell,
     Swarming down in mad desire
     As our gunners open’d fire—
     At that thunder, with shrill yell,
          They swept nigher!
     “Fire!” again the order ran,
     As the bloody strife began
With the lion-hearted van, at Isandúla.

’Tis to struggle with the avalanche’s force!
It enwraps them, it consumes them, in its course;
     Round the guns its dark floods flow,
     See, the gunners gasping low!
     It o’erwhelms them, foot and horse,
          At a blow!
     “Retreat!” the voice hath cried,
     And in order, steadfast-eyed,
They stem that sable tide at Isandúla.

Back to back, all sides surrounded, slowly led,
Their fire upon the foe, they downward tread;
     While at last the sable stream,
     Sweeping on them, teeth agleam,
     Before their crimson lead
          Pause and scream!
     And at that another cheer
     Arises wild and clear,
And the foe fall back to hear, in Isandúla!

But ’tis only for an instant they refrain,
At the challenge of that cheer they shriek again,
     They swarm on every hand
     O’er the little steadfast band,
     Till again, the crimson rain
          Makes them stand!
     Like a torrent—nay, a sea!—
     They roll onward bloodily,
But no white man turns to flee from Isandúla!

Still as stone, our soldiers face the savage crew—
“Fix your bayonets! die as English soldiers do!”
     It is done—all stand at bay—
     But their strength is cast away;
     And the black swarms shriek anew
          As they slay!
     Ah, God! the battle-throes!
     With their dead for shields, they close,—
Where the slaughter ebbs and flows, in Isandúla!

And as fast as one form falls, another springs—
They are tigers, not like human-hearted things—
     Surging onward they abound,
     With a clangour of shrill sound,
     With a clash of shields, like wings
          Waving round!
     As our brave men one by one
     Fall death-smitten in the sun,
O’er their corpses legions run, in Isandúla!

“Save the colours!” shrieks a dying voice, and lo!
Two horsemen breast the raging ranks, and go—
     (In thy sacred list, O Fame!
     Keep each dear and noble name!*)
     See, they flash upon the foe,
          Fierce as flame—
     And one undaunted form
     Lifts a British banner, warm
With the blood-rain and the storm of Isandúla!

“Save the colours!” and amidst a flood of foes,
At gallop, sword in hand, each horseman goes—
     Around the steeds they stride
     Cling devils crimson-dyed,
     But God! through butchering blows,
          How they ride!
     Their horses’ hooves are red
     With blood of dying and dead,
Trampled down beneath their tread at Isandúla! 

“Save the colours!”—They are saved—and side by side
The horsemen swim a raging river’s tide—
     They are safe—they are alone—
     But one, without a groan,
     After tottering filmy-eyed,
          Drops like stone;
     And before his comrade true
     Can reach his side, he too
Falls, smitten through and through at Isandúla! . . .

Bless the Lord, who in the hollow of His hand,
Kept the remnant of that little British band!
     But give honour everywhere
     To the brave who perish’d there,
     Speak their praise throughout the land
          With a prayer—
     More than sorrow they can claim:
     They have won the crown of Fame! 
They have glorified the name of Isandúla!

 

                                                          ROBERT BUCHANAN.

* Lieut. Nevill Josiah Aylmer Coghill (24th Regt.), Lieut. Teignmouth Melvill (24th Regt.), both killed while escaping with the colours, Jan. 22, 1879.

_____

‘The Battle of Isandúla’ was published in the Contemporary Review (April, 1879 - p.153-156). I came across it by chance when I found the following item in the Guardian archives.

From The Guardian (4 April, 1879 - p.6)

THE APRIL MAGAZINES.

     The Contemporary Review contains a poem on “Isandula” by Mr. Robert Buchanan. Its versification is spirited, but it cannot be said to be on the whole successful. In particular, there is an obvious jar in speaking of the Zulus as “devils,” “tigers,” &c. This is not the way in which brave men or the bards who worthily sing brave men’s deeds speak of opponents in fair fight.

___

The poem is particularly interesting given Buchanan’s regular anti-war and anti-Empire stance - one presumes that was the reason it was not included in ‘The Poetical Works’ of 1884. The battle of Isandula (or Isandlwana - best pronounced with a Welsh accent and the mellifluous tones of Richard Burton as in the prologue to the 1964 film, “Zulu”) took place on 22nd. January 1879 (the date is misprinted in the subtitle but corrected in the footnote) and, according to Wikipedia, it remains “the greatest British military defeat at the hands of native forces in history.”

I’d like to thank Phil Johnson of Keele University Library for taking the time to find, scan and send me a copy of the poem.

__________

ALONE IN LONDON.

Alone! alone in London!
     She stretches helpless hands—
In storm and strife, the Sea of Life
     Rolls round her as she stands!
She sees no friendly face go past,
     She hears no friendly tone;
A flower upon a torrent cast
     Is not more lost and lone!

Then nightly, over London,
     The starry orbs unclose,
Heaven opens clear, from sphere to sphere
     The electric splendor glows!
She stands alone amid the crowd,
     And, looking to the skies,
Beholds, beyond the breaking cloud,
     The light of loving eyes!

At last, alone in London,
     She sinks in that dark Sea!
Deep down below its ebb and flow
     Creep creatures sad as she;
Ragged and wretched, thro’ the gloom,
     The human outcasts move;
Yet even here, in darkness, bloom
     Lilies of light and love!

Alone! alone in London!
     And yet not all alone!
Weeping she stands, but gentle hands
     Are thrust into her own!
The shadows fade, the splendours grow,
     Sweet voices answer hers;
While beggar’s rags fall off, to show
     God’s radiant Messengers.

_____

“Alone in London” appears on the first page of “The Olympic Programme and Looker-On” (7 November, 1885) - Saturday’s programme of the first week of the London production of “Alone in London”, the play by Robert Buchanan and Harriett Jay. The poem is unsigned but one presumes it is by Buchanan. Another poem on the same page is by Anna Conover, the manager of the Olympic Theatre and it is safe to assume that if the poem was by Harriett Jay, Buchanan would have made sure she got the credit.

__________

THE MAYBRICK MURDER CASE POEMS

I first came across the following two poems in an article about the Maybrick Murder Case in The San Francisco Call of November 21st, 1897. James Maybrick died at his home in Liverpool on May 11th, 1889 and his wife, Florence (an American) was subsequently arrested for his murder, tried and sentenced to death by Justice James Fitzjames Stephen. The death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment and the case continued to attract publicity on both sides of the Atlantic until Mrs. Maybrick’s eventual release in 1904. The public defence of Mrs. Maybrick, according to the article in The San Francisco Call, was championed by the London edition of the New York Herald:

“Editorial invective was not deemed sufficiently forceful for the occasion, so Robert Buchanan was called upon to contribute an appropriate auxiliary, to be limited only by the bounds of poetic license, with the following result. ... Buchanan’s wrathful satire, copied in extracts throughout Great Britain, touched the Christian sentiments of the people, while the exposures resolutely made by the Herald from day to day, in defiance of all threats of prosecution for libel and contempt, made a profound impression on the Liberal Ministry, and particularly on Home Secretary Matthews.”

Unfortunately the archives of the New York Herald are not available online. However, the first poem appeared in The Echo on the same day as its publication in the New York Herald, 16th August, 1889. This differs slightly from the version reprinted in The San Francisco Call in 1897 (Justice Stephen is not mentioned by name), so I have included both versions below. This first poem was never published in book form, but the second poem from The San Francisco Call, ‘The Ballad of Resurrection’ (which presumably was also first published in 1889) was reworked by Buchanan and included in The New Rome in 1898 under the title ‘The Jew Passes’. This later version includes references to Buchanan’s The Wandering Jew, with Christ still forced to wander the earth, this time until the abolition of capital punishment.

Further information about the case is available on wikipedia, which also has an entry on Justice Stephen, and the article from The San Francisco Call is available on this site.

The Echo (16 August, 1889 - p.2)

LIFE OR DEATH.
_____

THE GOOD JUDGE’S SOLILOQUY.

     The following appears in the New York Herald to-day:—

Grave in his place, black cap upon his head,
     A good Judge fix’d his gaze upon the sinner—
“May God have mercy on your Soul!” he said,
     Then took the ermine off, and went to dinner.

That evening o’er the walnuts and the wine,
     While the lone culprit wept in desolation,
He, with a smile serene and superfine,
     Finger’d his chin, and weighed the situation.

“How sweet it is,” he mused, “to sit on high,
     “Spectator of Life’s foolishness and vanity,
And in the name of God whom I deny,
     To join the Masquerade of Christianity!

“‘May God have mercy on your Soul,’ Yes!
          These
     Are words of mockery and contradiction,
Since well I know, as every wise man knows,
     God is a figment, and the Soul—a fiction!

“I, who am God’s Judge in a Christian land,
     Whose Queen’s Defender of the Superstition,
Have ta’en the Christian’s Bible in my hand,
     And sworn to countenance the imposition!

“Judge? And a good Judge, too, my critics swear!
     I take my stand on Science and Reality;
A Puritan, as those I sprang from were,
     I hold one creed essential, that’s Morality!

“And yet, Morality (which in its youth
     Men misnamed Faith), by its most solemn pleading—
Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth—
     Seems to rebuke the Lie which I am leading?

“I think (and here he smiled and filled his glass)
     This world is ample, both for Judged and Judges!
Life on the whole most pleasantly may pass,
     If we dispense with God and other Fudges!

“Books (moral books), newspapers (moral, too),
     Science and Art, Friendship and good Society,
Make Life worth living to the fit though few,
     And hanging culprits lends that Life variety!

“To thrive, and to be moral! To succeed,
     And get the loaves and fish, is surely pleasant?
Atheist in thought and orthodox in deed,
     I smile at Future States, embrace the Present!

“That creature whom I judged?—Humph!—How I prest
     The issue home, unmoved by weak compassion?
The Law’s hot iron burning in her breast,
     She shriek’d to God—in most immodest fashion!

“I hold Adultery (which I’m afraid,
     The foolish Jew men worship treated lightly!)
To be the deadliest sin of sins. I made
     Those twelve good Jurors acquiesce—and rightly!

“And so they doom’d her, an Adulteress!
     And so I, Man’s Elect, pronounced her sentence!
O may that faith I loathe but must profess
     Chasten her thoughts, and lead her to repentance!

“‘May God have mercy?’ I, at least, I trust,
     Know better how to reckon with things human;
With or without a Soul, I hold Man must
     Be moral, more particularly Woman!

“Judge in a land whose need I hold in scorn,
     Voice of a God I pass as inexpedient;
Arm of a queen who in God’s Faith was born,
     I measure mortals with my moral gradient!

“I, who am Atheist in a Christian land,
     Judge of the Faith, forlorn and full of folly,
Taking the Code of God in this right hand,
     Pass judgment in the Name fools still deem holy.

“Let an Adultress die! They waste their breath
     Who ask my sympathy for such a sinner!”
And smiling at the merry Dance of Death,
     He shrugg’d his shoulders and enjoyed his dinner.

                                                             ROBERT BUCHANAN.

*

The San Francisco Call (21 November, 1897)

THE GOOD JUDGE’S SOLILOQUY.
_____

By ROBERT BUCHANAN.
(Subscribed to Justice Stephen.)

Grave in his place, black cap on his head,
     The wise Judge fixed his gaze upon the sinner.
“May God have mercy on your souls,” he said,
     Then took the ermine off and went to dinner.

That evening o’er the walnuts and the wine,
     While the lone woman wept in desolation,
He with a smile serene and superfine
     Fingered his chin and weighed the situation.

“How meet it is,” he mused, “to sit on high,
     “Spectator of life’s foolishness and vanity,
And in the name of God whom I deny,
     To join the masquerade of Christianity.

“‘May God have mercy on your soul,’ Yes:
     Are words of mockery and contradiction,
Since well I know, as every wise man knows,
     God is a figment, and the soul—a fiction:

“I, Stephen, God’s judge in a Christian land,
     Whose Queen’s defender of the superstition,
Have ta’en the Holy Bible in my hand,
     And sworn to countenance the imposition.

“Judge? And a good judge, too, my critics swear,
     I take my stand on science and reality;
A Puritan, as those I sprang from, where
     I hold one creed essential—that’s Morality.

“And yet Morality (which in its youth
     Men misnamed Faith) by its most solemn pleading—
Truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—
     Seems to rebuke the lie which I am leading!

“I think,” and here he smiled and filled his glass,
     “This world is ample, both for judged and judges;
Life on the whole most pleasantly must pass,
     If we dispense with God and other fudges.

“Books (moral books), newspapers (moral too),
     Science and art, friendship and good society,
Make life worth living to the fit, though few,
     And hanging culprits lends that life variety.

“To thrive, and to be moral. To succeed,
     And get the loaves and fish, is surely pleasant.
Atheist in thought and orthodox in deed,
     I smile at future states, embrace the present.

“That woman whom I judged? Humph! how I prest
     The issue home, unmoved by weale compassion;
The law’s hot iron burning in her breast,
     She shrieked to God in most immodest fashion.

“I hold adultery (which I’m afraid
     The foolish Jew men worship treated lightly)
To be the deadliest sin of sins. I made
     Those twelve good jurors acquiesce, and rightly.

“And so they doom’d her, the adulteress—
     And so I, man’s elect, pronounced her sentence.
O may that faith I loathe but must profess
     Chasten her thoughts and lead her to repentance.

“‘May God have mercy?’ I at least, I trust,
     Know better how to reckon with things human,
With or without a soul, I hold man must
     Be moral, but especially woman!

“Judge in a land whose need I hold in scorn,
     Voice of a God I pass as inexpedient;
Arm of a queen who in God’s faith was born,
     I measure mortals with my moral gradient,

I, Stephen, atheist in a Christian land,
     Judge of the faith, forlorn and full of folly,
Taking the code of God in my right hand,
     Pass judgment in the name fools still deem holy.

“Let the adultress die: They waste their breath
     Who ask my sympathy for such a sinner”;
And smiling at the merry Dance of Death,
     He shrugged his shoulders and enjoyed his dinner.

__________

THE BALLAD OF RESURRECTION.
_____

(Inscribed to Mr. Justice Stephen.)

Christ awoke on his bed
     And opened his beautiful eyes,
“The time is come,” he said,
     “I will light my lamp and arise.”

Christ arose from his bed,
     Where weariful years he had lain,
The stars were shining overhead,
     Thick as the golden grain.

“Eighteen hundred years
     Have flown since I lay as dead;
I found the children of earth in tears
     But bade them be comforted.

“Surely now at last
     My cross is a blossoming tree,
Evil and sorrow are past,
     My throne is ready for me.”

He lit his lamp and arose
     ’Neath a sky without a cloud,
Bright and fair as a blowing rose
     His face shone out of its shroud.

Christ stood fair and bright
     At the porch of the tomb and smiled,
And the restless wind of the night
     Slept like a sleeping child.

Slowly along the dark
     Unseen by men crept he,
But the Earth lay silently down to mark
     In the soft, still arms of the sea.

He came to a City great,
     Silent under the sky,
And the watchman at the gate
     Beheld him not go by.

Passing the empty mart,
     Creeping from shade to shade,
He found at last in the city’s heart
     A temple that men had made.

Dark at the temple door
     The ragged and outcast lay,
And Lazarus wailed once more,
     Weary and gaunt and grey.

And an altar light burnt there,
     And a litany sounded hence—
“Rejoice! rejoice! for all Gods that were
     Are banished and vanished hence.

“And the only God we know
     Is the ghost of our despair;
Gaze in the glass, and lo!
     Our God is mirrored there.

“Strong as when time began,
     Creature of dust and breath,
God our Lord, the spirit of man,
     Crowned with the crown of death.”

And lo! from earth and sea,
     And the blue skies now o’ercast,
Voices wailed, “Woe is me;
     Death is the first and last.”

Christ went with shining feet,
     Through loathsome alley and den,
He heard around him from every street,
     The moan of the Magdalen.

“How long, O Lord, how long,”
     He heard the lone voice cry,
“Shall they who wrought the wrong,
     While we lie lost, go by?”

“Reach down thy hand,” it moaned,
     “To help the lost and me—
Rabbi, the woman still is stoned,
     The man still wanders free?”

Still and unseen crept he
     Into the prison square,
And he saw the Upas tree,
     Of man’s invention there.

High as the Cross it stood,
     Crosswise its shadow fell,
And the sap of the tree was tears and blood,
     And its roots sank deep as hell.

“Rabbi!”—again that cry
     Came from a lonely place—
And she who waited to die,
     Had a woman’s form and face.

“Reach down thy hand,” it moaned,
     “To help the lost, and me—
Rabbi, the woman still is stoned;
     The man still wanders free.

“The lie, the blight, and the ban
     That doom me, men have cast—
By man I fell, and my judge, a man,
     Threw the first stone and the last.

“Master, master,” she said,
     “Hither, come hither to me.”
He left his blessing upon her head,
     His curse on the Upas tree.

And all his soul was stirred,
     His tears like red blood ran,
While the light of the woful world
     Flamed on the city of man.

And the heavens grew black as night,
     And the voice cried, “Sleep again,”
And the cold sea’s arms clung wild and white
     Round a world that shrieked for pain.

He walked upon the sea,
     And the lamblike waves lay still,
And he came to Calvary
     And the crosses high on the hill.

Beneath his cross he stood,
     Between the thief and the thief;
And lo! the cross dript blood, dript blood,
     And never put forth a leaf.

Christ crept back to his bed,
     Where Death stood dark and dumb—
“I waked in vain,” he said,
     “My kingdom hath not come.”

                                                                                          [Justice James Fitzjames Stephen]

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