More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Rudolph Louis Nègros

RUDOLPHE LOUIS NÈGROZ

Lance-Corporal, West Yorks

 

Con Amore

IF but my love were as my love should be,
And pen a fitting scribe unto my heart,
Even then your praise I could not worthily
In ringing rime chime forth: no earthly art
Could frame the incommunicable worth
That is all yours, purchased with many tears,
And patient bravery, and happiness of earth
Renounced to buy your children's future years.
Then on the little mound your toil made good
Against a merciless tide of circumstance
I'll stand, taking the breath of gratitude
To mind and heart their power to enhance,
That I may reach the ear of future times
And hint my Mother's worth in these poor rimes.

The world must know your greatness, little Mother!
I will not have it so to be confined
That it should dwell but in the heart of my brother,
My sister's and mine own, and in our mind
Invoke respect, tongue-tied however just.
O Heart! turn lyre within me! You are stirred
At her great contemplation, then you must
Shake into song, though be it as a bird
Whose artless iteration of his theme
Makes music without skill, by virtue of
The cherished sweetness of the Spring, his dream
Through bitter Winter. Sing but of her love,
Of her exceeding love, O Heart, then you
May render somewhat of the debt her due.

So great your love is, Mother, it may be
Nor held by words nor compassed by my rime;
It has o'erwhelmed the wide, disparting sea,
It has assaulted battlemented Time
To keep your guardian spirit round me when
Danger affronted or but lay in lurk—
Danger of death in this mad war of men,
Danger of sin in Life's worse war of work
And play, shadow and light, quick tears, brief joys:
You knew Life's sweetness when you gave me birth
And shared my infant bliss in stingless toys,
Alas! that since then joy has been in dearth
And grief has loosed so many of those tears
Which grew your Faith and Love beyond the years.

I have been exiled now for two long years,
Known many dangers, many pleasant places;
I have been near to Death just when he rears
With terrible intent, and gazed upon the faces
Of stricken comrades after his dread leap;
In eastern deserts I have worshipped beauty
Austerely still, where Death and Life to sleep,
And Home is a strange dream, and stranger "Duty";
Yet have your mother-hands reached out always
With some sweet draught for Mem'ry; your pitying
Softened the couch of hardships; darkest days
Your brightest words did light who knew the sting
Of this cruel war most cruelly deep at heart—
Your love to sing then, what an Angel's art!

Stern War has caused my life's frail barque to ride
Some perilous seas of Death, made me warm friends
With cold Privation, and like Dante's guide,
Down doleful, dayless ways where this life ends
And deeds, desires, are woven in hidden looms
That pattern human fate, me has he led
With hand relentless on my hand. 'Mid tombs
My dragging and his careless feet did tread,
Echoing fear about my heart, and then,
With his contempt content, my hand he freed
And left me breathing still the air of men
On this sweet earth. Yet in my daily creed
Shall be deep thanks to War that touched my eyes
With sight to see in you my priceless prize.

Return is sweet to one who hath been far
On pilgrimage or war's stern business, and
Hath oft at evening watched the evening star
Beckon to him beyond the desert sand,
Whispering of those green lands of memory's home,
Fertile with bliss that was and is to be,
Until, no more inconstantly to roam
With a sweet pain at heart then voweth he.
But doubly happy in my happiness
Am I who to anticipate made glad
Drear days of trial, and find each cheerful guess
So true, I gained such glad days from such sad:
You are my home, and I find home confirm
The hopes most glad of my sad exile-term.

And yet if I unto my verse would wed
Fair Truth, who stands with grave unfaltering gaze,
Reading where late my labouring pen hath sped
In halting periods o'er my checkered days,
Let me not write so of the present joy
Of my home-coming that one could infer
A happiness complete, without alloy
Of my sad Knowledge, Wisdom's minister.
Do I not know the bitter tinge to Life
Which Fate hath in your chaliced mother-heart
Mixed with maternal sweetness—the sharp knife
That stabs your peace—the cloud that doth impart
A darkness to each day—a child's affliction,
Bounding your every joy with stern restriction?

True, true it is I know your suffering, dear,
And that my knowledge never can attain
To utter understanding nor come near
With Sympathy your heights of holy pain.
Yet to be comforted you'll not refuse,
Knowing your Mother's heart can mine relieve;
So take this comfort: that your son will use
The gifts you gave him homage due to give
Unto your humble greatness—never pray
For richer boon than grace to sow these seeds
Of future fame, to tell a later day
All the eternal splendour of your deeds.
Thus may I crown a life of little worth
With the rich praise of her who gave me birth.

These gifts you gave on God's behalf, I wonder
How they are mine above all my deserving—
My life's path cluttered is with many a blunder
Nor Duty-guided in a course unswerving,
As lies your own in beauteous symmetry
Behind, beyond the rise of the distant hill
Where finds the daylight first all that of me
Does make the man, your son, heart, mind and will.
Then how must I, with firm-held reins, with bit
Drawn hard, hold in my spirited arrogance,
The lust of youth, the usufruct of it,
The power impetuous, seeking ever a chance
To break away into loose licence, when
'Tis needed so, to praise you, by my pen!

There is not beauty enough in the whole world—
Could it be brought obedient to my will—
No hues of budding dawn, no colours furled
After rich sunset, in the west, dim, still;
No melodies of brooks or birds, no tunes
Which breezes wake among green leaves that lay
Upon some summer's breathing breast—nor runes
Around a lonely lake which ripples play,
Falling on quiet shores—nor voice of shimmering ocean
Whose anger sleepeth. Nay on all the earth
There is no beauty stirring sweet emotion
To paint, to sing, to monument thy worth:—
Nothing that can outbid in all of this
My pain-fraught joy feeling thy prideful kiss.

Mother! toward you my gratitude now goes
As to a goddess of some ancient fane,
Worshipped for fruitful blessings, incense rose,
While the stone altar held the dove just slain
In simple, penitential sacrifice,
And the great congregation, humbled, bowed,
Acknowledged thus the wondrous gifts whose price
They could not pay but in surrender proud
To gratitude's humility.—But you
Claim nothing slain in your cult, except
What I would less than value—all the true,
Enduring things in me have upward leapt,
Striving to do your honour. So do I
In humble pride my voice lift heaven-high.

France, Sept., 1917.