THE DYKES

1902

WE

We have no heart for the fishing, we have no hand for the

E

oar

All that our fathers taught us of old pleases us now no more; All that our own hearts bid us believe we doubt where we do not deny

There is no proof in the bread we eat or rest in the toil we ply.

Look you, our foreshore stretches far through sea-gate, dyke, and groin

Made land all, that our fathers made, where the flats and the fairway join.

They forced the sea a sea-league back. They died, and their work stood fast.

We were born to peace in the lee of the dykes, but the time of our peace is past.

Far off, the full tide clambers and slips, mouthing and testing all,

Nipping the flanks of the water-gates, baying along the wall; Turning the shingle, returning the shingle, changing the set of the sand. . .

We are too far from the beach, men say, to know how the outworks stand.

So we come down, uneasy, to look, uneasily pacing the beach. These are the dykes our fathers made: we have never known a breach.

Time and again has the gale blown by and we were not afraid; Now we come only to look at the dykes at the dykes our

fathers made.

O'er the marsh where the homesteads cower apart the har

ried sunlight flies,

Shifts and considers, wanes and recovers, scatters and sickens

and dies

An evil ember bedded in ash—a spark blown west by the

wind . . .

We are surrendered to night and the sea

tide behind!

the gale and the

At the bridge of the lower saltings the cattle gather and blare, Roused by the feet of running men, dazed by the lantern

glare.

Unbar and let them away for their lives the levels drown as they stand,

Where the flood-wash forces the sluices aback and the ditches deliver inland.

Ninefold deep to the top of the dykes the galloping breakers

stride,

And their overcarried spray is a sea

side.

a sea on the landward

Coming, like stallions they paw with their hooves, going they

snatch with their teeth,

Till the bents and the furze and the sand are dragged out, and the old-time hurdles beneath!

Bid men gather fuel for fire, the tar, the oil and the tow Flame we shall need, not smoke, in the dark if the riddled sea-banks go.

Bid the ringers watch in the tower (who knows what the dawn shall prove?)

Each with his rope between his feet and the trembling bells above.

Now we can only wait till the day, wait and apportion our

shame.

These are the dykes our fathers left, but we would not look to the same.

Time and again were we warned of the dykes, time and again we delayed:

Now, it may fall, we have slain our sons as our fathers we have betrayed.

Walking along the wreck of the dykes, watching the work of the seas,

These were the dykes our fathers made to our great profit and ease;

But the peace is gone and the profit is gone, and the old sure day withdrawn

That our own houses show as strange when we come back in the dawn!

THE WAGE-SLAVES

1902

OH glorious are the guarded heights

Where guardian souls abide-
Self-exiled from our gross delights -

Above, beyond, outside:

An ampler arc their spirit swings-
Commands a juster view

We have their word for all these things,
Nor doubt their words are true.

Yet we the bondslaves of our day,
Whom dirt and danger press-
Co-heirs of insolence, delay,

And leagued unfaithfulness-
Such is our need must seek indeed
And, having found, engage
The men who merely do the work
For which they draw the wage.

From forge and farm and mine and bench, Deck, altar, outpost lone

Mill, school, battalion, counter, trench,

Rail, senate, sheepfold, throneCreation's cry goes up on high

From age to cheated age:

"Send us the men who do the work "For which they draw the wage."

Words cannot help nor wit achieve,
Nor e'en the all-gifted fool,
Too weak to enter, bide, or leave
The lists he cannot rule.

Beneath the sun we count on none
Our evil to assuage,

Except the men that do the work
For which they draw the wage.

When through the Gates of Stress and Strain Comes forth the vast Event

The simple, sheer, sufficing, sane

Result of labour spent

They that have wrought the end unthought

Be neither saint nor sage,

But only men who did the work

For which they drew the wage.

Wherefore to these the Fates shall bend (And all old idle things -)

Wherefore on these shall Power attend

Beyond the grip of kings:

Each in his place, by right, not grace,
Shall rule his heritage

The men who simply do the work
For which they draw the wage.

Not such as scorn the loitering street,
Or waste to earn its praise,
Their noontide's unreturning heat
About their morning ways:

But such as dower each mortgaged hour
Alike with clean courage-

Even the men who do the work

For which they draw the wage — Men like to Gods that do the work For which they draw the wage continue close that work For which they draw the wage!

Begin

RIMMON

1903

DULY with knees that feign to quake —

Bent head and shaded brow,

Yet once again, for my father's sake,
In Rimmon's House I bow.

The curtains part, the trumpet blares,
And the eunuchs howl aloud;
And the gilt, swag-bellied idol glares
Insolent over the crowd.

"This is Rimmon, Lord of the Earth
"Fear Him and bow the knee!"
And I watch my comrades hide, their mirth
That rode to the wars with me.

For we remember the sun and the sand
And the rocks whereon we trod,

Ere we came to a scorched and a scornful land
That did not know our God;