"Dulce Domum"

The wind it sang in the pine-tops, it sang like a humming harp; The smell of the sun on the bracken was wonderful sweet and sharp, As sharp as the piney needles, as sweet as the gods were good, For the wind it sung of the old gods, as I came through the wood! It sung how long ago the Romans made a road, And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode.

It sang of the wayside altars (the pine-tops sighed like the surf), Of little shrines uplifted, of stone and scented turf, Of youths divine and immortal, of maids as white as the snow That glimmered among the thickets a mort of years ago! All in the cool of dawn, all in the twilight grey, The gods came up from Italy along the Roman way!

The altar smoke it has drifted and faded afar on the hill; No wood-nymphs haunt the hollows; the reedy pipes are still; No more the youth Apollo shall walk in his sunshine clear; No more the maid Diana shall follow the fallow-deer (The woodmen grew so wise, the woodmen grew so old, The gods went back to Italy—or so the story's told!)

But the woods are full of voices and of shy and secret things— The badger down by the brook-side, the flick of a woodcock's wings, The plump of a falling fir-cone, the pop of the sun-ripe pods, And the wind that sings in the pine-tops the song of the ancient gods— The song of the wind that says the Romans made a road, And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode!

P. R. CHALMERS. July 31, 1912.

Stephen Culpepper Of Little Cow Hay Farmed four hundred acres— As Audit-book say; An' he rode on a flea-bitten Fiddle-faced grey;

There's the house—in the hollow, With gable an' eave, But they've altered it so That you wouldn't believe;— Wouldn't know the old place If he saw it—old Steve;

His dads an' his gran'dads Had lived there before;— Born, married an' died there— At least half a score; Big men the Culpeppers— As high as the door!

His wife was a Makepeace— An' none likelier, For she'd five hundred pounds When he married o' her; An' a grey eye as kindly As grey lavender;

He'd sweetest o' roses, He'd soundest o' wheat; Six sons—an' a daughter To make 'em complete, An' he always said Grace When they sat down to meat!

He'd the Blessin' o' Heaven On barnyard an' byre, For he made the best prices Of all in the shire; An' he always shook hands With the Parson an' Squire!

An' whether his markets Had downs or had ups, He walked 'em three couple O' blue-mottle pups— As clumsy as ducklings— As crazy as tups!

But that must be nigh Sixty seasons away, When things was all diff'rent D'ye see—an' to-day There ain't no Culpeppers At Little Cow Hay!

P. R. CHALMERS. Oct. 8, 1913.

Hill shepherds, hard north-country men, Bring down the baa'ing blackface droves To market or to shearing-pen From the high places and the groves— High places of the fox and gled, Groves of the stone-pine on the scree, Lone sanctuaries where we have said, "The gods have been; the gods may be!"

'Mid conifer and fern and whin I sat; the turf was warm and dry; A sailing speck, the peregrine Wheeled in the waste of azure sky; The blue-grey clouds of pinewoods clung, Their vanguard climbed the heathery steep; A terrier with lolling tongue Blinked in my shadow, half asleep.

The Legion's Way shone far beneath; A javelin white as Adria's foam, It gleamed across dark leagues of heath To Rome, to everlasting Rome; Likewise from Rome to Simon's Stack (That's logical, at least), and so It may have brought a Huntress back On trails She followed long ago!

I watched my drifting smoke-wreaths rise, And pictured Pagans plumed and tense Who climbed the hill to sacrifice To great Diana's excellence; And—"Just the sort of church for me," I said, and heard a fir-cone fall; The puppy bristled at my knee— And that was absolutely all.

A queer thing is a clump of fir; But, if it's old and on a hill, Free to that ancient trafficker, The wind, it's ten times queerer still; Sometimes it's filled with bag-pipe skirls, Anon with heathen whispering; Just then it seemed alive with girls Who laughed, and let a bowstring sing!

Yes, funny things your firwoods do: They fill with elemental sounds; Hence, one has fancied feet that flew And the high whimpering of hounds; A wind from down the corrie's cup— "Only the wind," said I to Tramp; He heard—stern down and hackles up, I—with a forehead strangely damp.

* * * *

Wind? or the Woodland Chastity Passing, as once, upon Her way, That left a little dog and me Confounded in the light of day? A rabbit hopped across the track; The pup pursued with shrill ki-yi; I asked him which, when he came back; He couldn't tell—no more can I.

P. R. CHALMERS. Sept. 24, 1913.

Now I be man ov Dartymoor, Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor; I come vrom wur there hain't no war, An' Tavy be a-voaming; I'd pigs an' sheep an' lass—Aw my! The beyootifullest maid 'er be! An' one vine day 'er comes to I, An' zays—"My Jan," 'er zays,—"lukee! To France yu must be roaming! Vur Devon needs her sons again; Her du be rousing moor an' fen; An' yu must fight wi' Devon men Vur Dartymoor, your Dartymoor!"

I zays, zays I, "Leave Dartymoor? Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor? Dear life," I zays, "whatever vor, While Tavy be a-voaming? While pigs be pigs, an' 'earts be true; An' market prices purty vair; Why should 'un go an' parley-voo?" 'Er zays, "'Cuz yu be waanted there! Thet's why yu must be roaming! Vur Devon needs her sons again; Her du be rousing moor an' fen; An' yu must fight wi' Devon men Vur Dartymoor; my Dartymoor!

"Ef yu woan't fight vur Dartymoor, Grim Dartymoor, grey Dartymoor, Things shall be as they wur avore Us courted in the gloaming!" 'Er zays an' left me arl alone, A-thinking over what 'er zaid, Till arl was plain as Dewar Stone— I zays to Dad, "Mind pigs is fed, While I be gone a-roaming! Vur Devon needs her sons again; Her du be rousing moor an' fen; An' I must fight wi' Devon men Vur Dartymoor, our Dartymoor!"

DUDLEY CLARK. May 5, 1915.

Abbeydore, Abbeydore, Land of apples and of gold, Where the lavish field-gods pour Song and cider manifold; Gilded land of wheat and rye, Land where laden branches cry, "Apples for the young and old Ripe at Abbeydore!"

Abbeydore, Abbeydore, Where the shallow river spins Elfin spells for evermore, Where the mellow kilderkins Hoard the winking apple-juice For the laughing reapers' use; All the joy of life begins There at Abbeydore.

Abbeydore, Abbeydore, In whose lap of wonder teems Largess from a wizard store, World of idle, crooning streams— From a stricken land of pain May I win to you again, Garden of the God of Dreams, Golden Abbeydore.

PERCY HAZELDEN. Feb. 9, 1916.

From Bideford to Appledore the meadows lie aglow With kingcup and buttercup that flout the summer snow; And crooked-back and silver-head shall mow the grass to-day, And lasses turn and toss it till it ripen into hay; For gone are all the careless youth did reap the land of yore, The lithe men and long men, The brown men and strong men, The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore they swept the sea of old With cross-bow and falconet to tap the Spaniard's gold; They sped away with dauntless DRAKE to traffic on the Main, To trick the drowsy galleon and loot the treasure train; For fearless were the gallant hands that pulled the sweeping oar, The strong men, the free men, The bold men, the seamen, The men that sailed from Bideford and ruddy Appledore.

From Bideford and Appledore in craft of subtle grey Are strong hearts and steady hearts to keep the sea to-day; So well may fare the garden where the cider-apples bloom And Summer weaves her colour-threads upon a golden loom; For ready are the tawny hands that guard the Devon shore, The cool men, the bluff men, The keen men, the tough men, The men that hie from Bideford and ruddy Appledore!

PERCY HAZELDEN. July 7, 1915.

The sky is grey and the clouds are weeping; Winter wails in the wind again; Night with her eyes bedimmed comes creeping; The sea is hidden in dusk and rain.

This is the gate of the path that leads us Whither our duty the goal has set; This is the way Old England speeds us— Darkness, dreariness, wind and wet!

This is the gate where battle sends us, Gaunt and broken, in pain and pride; This is the welcome Home extends us— Weeping rain on the cold grey tide.

Would we have balmy sunshine glowing Over the blue from the blue above? Rather the rain and the night wind blowing, Rather the way of the land we love!

W. K. HOLMES. Dec. 22, 1915.

Little garden gods, You of good bestowing, You of kindly showing Mid the potting and the pods, Watchers of geranium beds, Pinks and stocks and suchlike orders, Rose, and sleepy poppy-heads,— Bless us in our borders, Little garden gods!

Little garden gods, Bless the time of sowing, Watering and growing; Lastly, when our sunflower nods, And our rambler's red array Waits the honey-bee her labours, Bless our garden that it may Beat our next-door neighbour's, Little garden gods!

P. R. CHALMERS. May 8, 1912.

The Devil walked about the land And softly laughed behind his hand To see how well men worked his will And helped his darling projects still, The while contentedly they said: "There is no Devil; he is dead."

But when by chance one day in Spring Through Devon he went wandering And for an idle moment stood Upon the edge of Daccombe wood, Where bluebells almost hid the green, With the last primroses between, He bit his lip and turned away And could do no more work that day.

MISS ROSE FYLEMAN. May 26, 1920.

The air is full of rain and sleet, A dingy fog obscures the street; I watch the pane and wonder will The sun be shining on Boar's Hill, Rekindling on his western course The dying splendour of the gorse And kissing hands in joyous mood To primroses in Bagley Wood. I wish that when old Phœbus drops Behind yon hedgehog-haunted copse And high and bright the Northern Crown Is standing over White Horse Down I could be sitting by the fire In that my Land of Heart's Desire— A fire of fir-cones and a log And at my feet a fubsy dog In Robinwood! In Robinwood! I think the angels, if they could, Would trade their harps for railway tickets Or hang their crowns upon the thickets And walk the highways of the world Through eves of gold and dawns empearled, Could they be sure the road led on Twixt Oxford spires and Abingdon To where above twin valleys stands Boar's Hill, the best of promised lands; That at the journey's end there stood A heaven on earth like Robinwood.

Heigho! The sleet still whips the pane And I must turn to work again Where the brown stout of Erin hums Through Dublin's aromatic slums And Sinn Fein youths with shifty faces Hold "Parliaments" in public places And, heaping curse on mountainous curse In unintelligible Erse, Harass with threats of war and arson Base Briton and still baser CARSON. But some day when the powers that be Demobilise the likes of me (Some seven years hence, as I infer, My actual exit will occur) Swift o'er the Irish Sea I'll fly, Yea, though each wave be mountains high, Nor pause till I descend to grab Oxford's surviving taxicab. Then "Home!" (Ah, HOME! my heart be still!) I'll say, and, when we reach Boar's Hill, I'll fill my lungs with heaven's own air And pay the cabman twice his fare, Then, looking far and looking nigh, Bare-headed and with hand on high, "Hear ye," I'll cry, "the vow I make, Familiar sprites of byre and brake, J'y suis, j'y reste. Let Bolshevicks Sweep from the Volga to the Styx; Let internecine carnage vex The gathering hosts of Poles and Czechs, And Jugo-Slavs and Tyrolese Impair the swart Italian's ease— Me for Boar's Hill! These war-worn ears Are deaf to cries for volunteers; No Samuel Browne or British warm Shall drape this svelte Apolline form Till over Cumnor's outraged top The actual shells begin to drop; Till below Youlberry's stately pines Echo the whiskered Bolshy's lines And General TROTSKY'S baggage blocks The snug bar-parlour of 'The Fox.'"

C. H. BRETHERTON. Feb. 5, 1919.

I think there can be nothing much more fair Than owning some large mansion in the shires, And living almost permanently there, In constant touch with animals and squires; Yet there is joy in peering through the gates Or squinting from the summit of a wall At other people's beautiful estates, Wondering what they have to pay in rates And coveting it all.

Yes, it is sweet to circle with one's spouse Some antique Court, constructed by QUEEN ANNE, Complete with oaks and tennis-courts and cows, And many a nice respectful serving-man, With dogs and donkeys and perhaps a swan, And lovely ladies having such a time, And garden-parties always going on, And ruins where the guide-book says KING JOHN Did nearly every crime.

Yes, it is sweet; but what I want to know Is why one has to prowl about outside; Surely the Earl of Bodleton and Bow, Surely Sir Egbert and his lovely bride Should wait all eager in the entrance-way To ask us in and take us through the grounds, And give one food and worry one to stay, Instead of simply keeping one at bay With six or seven hounds.

Surely they realise one wants to see The mullioned windows in the South-West wing, The private trout-stream and the banyan-tree, The lilac bedroom where they lodged the King; Surely they know how Bolshevist we feel Outside, where shrubberies obstruct the view, Particularly as they scarce conceal The Earl and household at a hearty meal Under the old, old yew.

I do not grudge the owner of The Chase; I do not loathe the tenant of The Lea; I only want to walk about his place And just imagine it belongs to me; That is the kind of democratic sport For keeping crime and Bolshevism low; I don't imagine that the fiercest sort Feel quite so anarchist at Hampton Court, Where anyone may go.

But I dare say that many a man must take Long looks of wonderment at Number Nine, Laburnum Avenue, and vainly ache To go inside a dwelling so divine; And if indeed some Marquis knocks one day And says, "I'm tired of standing in the street; I want to see your mansion, if I may," I shall receive him in the nicest way And show him round my "seat."

A. P. HERBERT. Oct. 15, 1919.