Read Ebook: Recollections of a Long Life by Stoughton John

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Prelude vii On the Trail of the Lion 3 The Gibbet-Song 28 The Scar 48 To England: A Forecast 56 War 60 Clio 66 Ave Pax 68 Alpha 70 Omega 71 Greatness 72 Peter Cronje 82 Christian De Wet 84 Oom Paul 85 Cecil Rhodes 87 Chamberlain 89 Salisbury 90 Peace Pending 92 Peace 96 After 99 Christian De Wet 101 Sine Die 103 A Concordance 104

PREFACE.

Most of the verses in this little volume were conceived and written, if not quite finished, at the time of Cronje's surrender at Paardeberg.

A certain doubt, however, as to any message of theirs, though modestly set off by a belief in their polemic and literary value, has, I think now, unduly delayed their advent into the crowded world of print; and, though the present juncture of a heralded, but, by no means, perfected peace, be perhaps not a very opportune moment for their publication, I have yet thought well to give them forth; the more, since what so be the outcome of the negotiations pending, and whichsoever be the motive of the stronger party thereto--whether a bitter, though slowly realized necessity, or, a trick of pure heart, or, say, tardy insight and charity, both--be this as it may--the long, though fruitless attempt on England's part to compel a surrender by the South African republics of their political existence, illustrating and upholding, as no modern exhibition of this kind has done, how rampant is still in Man, and collective Man especially, a tacit faith in the bigger fist, or, euphemistically speaking, the predatory law of nature--this, I repeat it, can never, it seems to me, be sufficiently reprehended; and a hearty condemnation of it may, therefore, fitly form the theme of conscientious, if necessarily, censorious verse: with which contention the following pieces are frankly submitted, even at this late day of a stupendous struggle of moral Right--whatsoever its intellectual grounds and equipment--against an aggressive and overweening Might, whose partial defence allowed, rests, after all, and as already maintained, its wider base on purely material force, on that callous and objective expediency, which History, in her account of human odds, evermore reveals, and, far too often, glaringly condones.

NEW YORK, May, 1902.

Since the above was set down, Peace has at last gone forth, and of a pace with the better drift and traditions of England; but even so, there seems no valid ground why these Lyrics should not be heard, as an exponent in brief--inadequate, if you like, yet human no less--of a, for a long time, not to be forgotten broil, if, indeed, the sad imp of Contention has had his last say about it.

November, 1902.

PRELUDE.

Out of rare heart-deeps flowing, Primer than thought-spring founts, Upward, 'gainst vaster knowing, Lightsome the Song-word mounts.

And athrob with some faith etern, From Being's deep-violed strings, Draweth, to heaves that burn, The advent and sooth of things.

Invokes unto Song, where the still Hopes go, The Spirit's immutable law.

BOER WAR LYRICS.

ON THE TRAIL OF THE LION.

INTRODUCTION.

Somewhere to the Moonward, or Sunward, so to speak; A span or two to Eastward, then Southward by a streak, Was heard to blare of tomtom a shameless epic wail, At fancy of some Lion who had whisked his blooming tail Plumb thro' a nest of hornets, nor never dreamt the hive Had such a trick to mind him how were that tail alive. And it seems the skies were blathering while every wind-god swore The Pities would have curdled to hear the Beastie roar. All offered salve and comfort, said never done was Wrong, But some requiting Themis should venge it to her song; Should smite the pesting dwarfies and heal the giant's bruise, See paw and toothie peak not for lack of worthy use. And, O, the strain fell whopping to thunder--drip of sooth, A lamb-like lyric slopping its pace with bleary ruth; Nay, in sober last, an epic, outworking thro' the fact, Through blaze of hostile numbers, its own and bitter act. And it shook us to the Westward--a touch of kin and near-- We banged our shoppy hatches: we had a right to hear.

ARGUMENT.

And this--yes, this, was the song of the Sorrowful True, Which Father Wicked, the Old, for his child, the New, He, and that cherub of rowdy fist, Who'll blithely shake it where erst he kissed-- That covered Holy, the unctuous Wrong-- With his blushing bouncer, St. Meek, the Strong; Set jointly down Set down, I say, to mock-halcyon cheers, As, with knife at throat of the suckling years, They bled the weans, lest with peaceful bear, Or, for other virtues in hiding there, The gods, who winnow all mortal stock, Should nurse the goats while they weed the flock-- Let for lack of pasture the true herd pine: And all for what? For a humping quibble on Mine and Thine! Nay, lest Rue, the babbler, with saucy dare, Should sit in judgment twixt Foul and Fair; Should slaver worse, if she came of age, With inglorious snivel wise Clio's page: Lest all of this, with what sousing tact They niced her the diverse of whim and fact; How glowed their zeal as they raked the Rue, Broke font and tablet and put her through Such drench of penance and convert-course, Such Christian baptism from Truth, the Source: Sure text nor ritual made never doubt, Nor seasoned clerks, as with wary snout, Each subtle wealsman stood sly at bay: For leet or laurel--let wise Time say.

Well--this was the Song of the Sorrowful True: A rip of a Muse--but it gives her view. Curt and clear tho', did the touches fall, Such pithy halves as outspeak the Whole: Are you with me still? Can you check a flout? Then stretch a will to hear it out?

VIDELICET:

O, what hangs so leaden on the brow of Night, As if grim Darkness 'pon herself had bred, To make a second and a direr gloom? What wrestles so the advent of the Light, Whence from yon paths the white stars tread Should visioned peer its orient bloom?

What thrills, withal, do baffled heave, Then urge anew against the serried Dark, At such beseech, their silent suit? What muttered rolls half-halting cleave These omened airs that still hang stark, As big with what they dare not bruit?

But yet it lifts, thro' huddling blurs, The eager Light. Lo, Day saddles the white Dawn, At heel his troop, close-wheeling, spurs, Unto his banner world-wide thrown, Each waft, his way. Close Night unhoods; No more beneath her grim gaze shrinks, But featured fair, in tribute ruds Each nether thing, and lifesome drinks.

But, O, scene-painting Light, what stage is yon? Dim-figured tho', what grim play breeds? Troy's second act? Where Hector stout, some Thetis' son, The deadly phalanx girds and leads?

What fatal Beauty bears in hand With strumpet's lure this sore divide? For lo, her brow, to venal brand, Reads fierce with lust of worldly pride!

Why wears true Grace so blanched a cheek? What things o' Night do rouse for prey, Confound with grim and loathsome reek The balmy breath of youngling Day?

What lists be those? What dirges wail? Why drags white Peace yon gory pall? I see great Mars in flame-knit mail, I hear the fierce god's buglers call.

And gleamy steel from scabbard flies, War's every hound is red at mouth, No belching throat but havoc cries, Would drench in blood the Summer's drought.

Out, Sense! some trick is here of phrenzied Night; These clamors wind no human breath, But ghostly haunt yon winsome light The phantom shades of legioned Death.

And yet yon orb is surely Day's: The Land re-speaks him, and his glass, the sea; All tongues at one, no witness stays, But owns his line observantly.

Nay, flung wide is now the portaled East; Behind, before, Light's lofty welcome burns, Whose cheer wide-spread for Most and Least, Repledged, alone, his host-call earns.

But O, what mates come here to feed! They spill the sweet and lifesome wine; They fool the sense with sightless greed, The knife their law twixt yours and mine.

And these, for sure, are Afric's strands, And those have rid the hurly sea, Whence towering fair great Albion stands, His brow writ broad with Liberty;

With her, whose cheer is general joy-- The gracious board whose never mess Lets these to pine, so those may cloy And glut his maw, the Hog, Excess--

But these no more are kindred shores: Here may her buckler rusting hang, Where, still at beat, thro' throbbing yores, Oppression's slave-blows dying rang.

Here, all thro' fear and nothing love, As if each patient light stood mute, May ripping talons deal the Dove This branding scan--a prostitute!

Thy pardon, god of lofty song, Whose fires feed the Piaerian Spring, If Truth for right to scoff at Wrong, In thy fair flame a gall-nut fling!

Yes, yon, for sure, are Afric's strands, But where is the banneret of the Free? What fouling touch of harpy hands Has smirched his shield and panoply?

What spouse is this, my valiant Son? What gross embrace for Freedom's kiss: These are the sheets of Abbadon, The bastard clasp high Furies hiss!

O, John, was not thy bed as goodly broad As Phoebus spans twixt East and West? His, not the haunts thy fortune trode, Right burly tho', an honored guest?

But thou must grudge the meaner cot-- The plainer house thy Brother built-- This text deem, foolish, out of shot: "That Have, for greed, shall sure be spilt?"

Would have 'gainst Worse this wisdom bear: "Who dons the Might, but leaves her crown, Shall stand her dupe; nay, all his wear Shall never hide the thievish clown."

O, John, I knew thy stomach hale and round, With mortal sense for needful prog; But this?--here any scab had led the hound, Had smelt foul fare the noseless hog!

Oh yes; thy friends did this--those nothing-loaths: Their bosom's rank with self-sick stuff-- The Devil's shufflers when he goads And packs with Nice the Ne'er Enough--

The Devil, Self, and all his Swill, Who knows how deep sits sordid lust; How near all power lies to will, Our wills to the damned Unjust.

Ah, yes--thy friends--each wily Dick, Or under-helmsman to that crew Who at no faith-breach blush to stick, So but their grist come safely through;

Who, with the rough youth, Glory, ape apace, Quite out of mind his Elder's lease, And for a brief from fame-fee'd days, Would wash his hands in bleeding peace.

And he--no neuter he--he whoops so hard, The brazen, roystering, gingo-sheet, Who serves his vomit tricked with nard, Thro' flattering brag, the blood

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