Poetry Corner

A Mister Tommy Eliot, of Saint Louis, Missouri, writes: The Waste Land I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering 5 Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 10 And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, 15 Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 20 You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, 25 (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 30 Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu. Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? 'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; 35 'They called me the hyacinth girl.' —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, 40 Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Od' und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, 45 With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. 50 Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. 55 I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, 60 Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. 65 Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson! 'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 70 'That corpse you planted last year in your garden, 'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? 'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? 'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men, 'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again! 75 'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!' II. A GAME OF CHESS THE Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out 80 (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; 85 In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended 90 In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, 95 In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100 Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, 'Jug Jug' to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms 105 Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110 'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. 'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. 'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? 'I never know what you are thinking. Think.' I think we are in rats' alley 115 Where the dead men lost their bones. 'What is that noise?' The wind under the door. 'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?' Nothing again nothing. 120 'Do 'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember 'Nothing?' I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. 125 'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?' But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It's so elegant So intelligent 130 'What shall I do now? What shall I do?' 'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street 'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow? 'What shall we ever do?' The hot water at ten. 135 And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said— I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself, 140 HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, 145 He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you. And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said. 150 Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can't. But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling. 155 You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face, It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.) 160 The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don't want children? HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME 165 Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. 170 Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. III. THE FIRE SERMON THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. 175 Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; 180 Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept... Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear 185 The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse 190 Musing upon the king my brother's wreck And on the king my father's death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year. 195 But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter 200 They wash their feet in soda water Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc'd. 205 Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants 210 C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back 215 Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives 220 Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, 225 On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. 230 He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, 235 The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; 240 His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall 245 And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows on final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit... She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; 250 Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: 'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.' When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, 255 And puts a record on the gramophone. 'This music crept by me upon the waters' And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, 260 The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. 265 The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails 270 Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach 275 Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars 280 The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores 285 Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia 290 Wallala leialala 'Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.' 295 'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised "a new start". I made no comment. What should I resent?' 'On Margate Sands. 300 I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.' 305 la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest 310 burning IV. DEATH BY WATER PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea 315 Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, 320 Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying 325 Prison and place and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience 330 Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink 335 Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit 340 There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water 345 And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring 350 A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock 355 Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together 360 But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? 365 What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only 370 What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London 375 Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings 380 And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains 385 In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. 390 Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves 395 Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder D A 400 Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed 405 Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms D A 410 Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours 415 Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus D A Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded 420 Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? 425 London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins 430 Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih

You need to be a member of Captain Comics to add comments!

Join Captain Comics

Votes: 0
Email me when people reply –

Replies

  • This one's kind of depressing, but I remember it had quite an impact on me when I read it in high school:

    Richard Cory

    Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
    We people on the pavement looked at him:
    He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
    Clean favored, and imperially slim.

    And he was always quietly arrayed,
    And he was always human when he talked;
    But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
    "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

    And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
    And admirably schooled in every grace;
    In fine we thought that he was everything
    To make us wish that we were in his place.

    So on we worked, and waited for the light,
    And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
    And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
    Went home and put a bullet through his head.

    -- Edwin Arlington Robinson
  • Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay
    Horatius
    I
    LARS Porsena of Clusium
    By the Nine Gods he swore
    That the great house of Tarquin
    Should suffer wrong no more.
    By the Nine Gods he swore it,
    And named a trysting day,
    And bade his messengers ride forth,
    East and west and south and north,
    To summon his array.


    II

    East and west and south and north
    The messengers ride fast,
    And tower and town and cottage
    Have heard the trumpet’s blast.
    Shame on the false Etruscan
    Who lingers in his home,
    When Porsena of Clusium
    Is on the march for Rome.


    III

    The horsemen and the footmen
    Are pouring in amain
    From many a stately market-place;
    From many a fruitful plain;
    From many a lonely hamlet,
    Which, hid by beech and pine,
    Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crest
    Of purple Apennine;


    IV

    From lordly Volaterræ,
    Where scowls the far-famed hold
    Piled by the hands of giants
    For godlike kings of old;
    From seagirt Populonia,
    Whose sentinels descry
    Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops
    Fringing the southern sky;


    V

    From the proud mart of Pisæ,
    Queen of the western waves,
    Where ride Massilia’s triremes
    Heavy with fair-haired slaves;
    From where sweet Clanis wanders
    Through corn and vines and flowers;
    From where Cortona lifts to heaven
    Her diadem of towers.


    VI

    Tall are the oaks whose acorns
    Drop in dark Auser’s rill;
    Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
    Of the Ciminian hill;
    Beyond all streams Clitumnus
    Is to the herdsman dear;
    Best of all pools the fowler loves
    The great Volsinian mere.


    VII

    But now no stroke of woodman
    Is heard by Auser’s rill;
    No hunter tracks the stag’s green path
    Up the Ciminian hill;
    Unwatched along Clitumnus
    Grazes the milk-white steer;
    Unharmed the water fowl may dip
    In the Volsinian mere.


    VIII

    The harvests of Arretium,
    This year, old men shall reap;
    This year, young boys in Umbro
    Shall plunge the struggling sheep;
    And in the vats of Luna,
    This year, the must shall foam
    Round the white feet of laughing girls
    Whose sires have marched to Rome.


    IX

    There be thirty chosen prophets,
    The wisest of the land,
    Who always by Lars Porsena
    Both morn and evening stand:
    Evening and morn the Thirty
    Have turned the verse o’er,
    Traced from the right on linen white
    By mighty seers of yore.


    X

    And with one voice the Thirty
    Have their glad answer given:
    ‘Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;
    Go forth, beloved of Heaven;
    Go, and return in glory
    To Clusium’s royal dome;
    And hang round Nurscia’s altars
    The golden shields of Rome.’


    XI

    And now hath every city
    Sent up her tale of men;
    The foot are fourscore thousand,
    The horse are thousands ten.
    Before the gates of Sutrium
    Is met the great array.
    A proud man was Lars Porsena
    Upon the trysting day.


    XII

    For all the Etruscan armies
    Were ranged beneath his eye,
    And many a banished Roman,
    And many a stout ally;
    And with a mighty following
    To join the muster came
    The Tusculan Mamilius,
    Prince of the Latian name.


    XIII

    But by the yellow Tiber
    Was tumult and affright:
    From all the spacious champaign
    To Rome men took their flight.
    A mile around the city,
    The throng stopped up the ways;
    A fearful sight it was to see
    Through two long nights and days.


    XIV

    For aged folks on crutches,
    And women great with child,
    And mothers sobbing over babes
    That clung to them and smiled,
    And sick men borne in litters
    High on the necks of slaves,
    And troops of sun-burned husbandmen
    With reaping-hooks and staves,


    XV

    And droves of mules and asses
    Laden with skins of wine,
    And endless flocks of goats and sheep,
    And endless herds of kine,
    And endless trains of waggons
    That creaked beneath the weight
    Of corn-sacks and of household goods,
    Choked every roaring gate.


    XVI

    Now, from the rock Tarpeian,
    Could the wan burghers spy
    The line of blazing villages
    Red in the midnight sky.
    The Fathers of the City,
    They sat all night and day,
    For every hour some horseman came
    With tidings of dismay.


    XVII

    To eastward and to westward
    Have spread the Tuscan bands;
    Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote
    In Crustumerium stands.
    Verbenna down to Ostia
    Hath wasted all the plain;
    Astur hath stormed Janiculum,
    And the stout guards are slain.


    XVIII

    I wis, in all the Senate,
    There was no heart so bold,
    But sore it ached, and fast it beat,
    When that ill news was told.
    Forthwith up rose the Consul,
    Up rose the Fathers all;
    In haste they girded up their gowns,
    And hied them to the wall.


    XIX

    They held a council standing,
    Before the River-Gate;
    Short time was there, ye well may guess,
    For musing or debate.
    Out spake the Consul roundly:
    ‘The bridge must straight go down;
    For, since Janiculum is lost,
    Nought else can save the town.’


    XX

    Just then a scout came flying,
    All wild with haste and fear:
    ‘To arms! to arms! Sir Consul:
    Lars Porsena is here.’
    On the lows hills to westward
    The Consul fixed his eye,
    And saw the swarthy storm of dust
    Rise fast along the sky.


    XXI

    And nearer fast and nearer
    Doth the red whirlwind come;
    And louder still and still more loud,
    From underneath that rolling cloud,
    Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud,
    The trampling, and the hum.
    And plainly and more plainly
    Now through the gloom appears,
    Far to left and far to right,
    In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
    The long array of helmets bright,
    The long array of spears.


    XXII

    And plainly and more plainly,
    Above that glimmering line,
    Now might ye see the banners
    Of twelve fair cities shine;
    But the banner of proud Clusium
    Was highest of them all,
    The terror of the Umbrian,
    The terror of the Gaul.


    XXIII

    And plainly and more plainly
    Now might the burghers know,
    By port and vest, by horse and crest,
    Each warlike Lucumo.
    There Cilnius of Arretium
    On his fleet roan was seen;
    And Astur of the four-fold shield,
    Girt with the brand none else may wield,
    Tolumnius with the belt of gold,
    And dark Verbenna from the hold
    By reedy Thrasymene.


    XXIV

    Fast by the royal standard,
    O’erlooking all the war,
    Lars Porsena of Clusium
    Sat in his ivory car.
    By the right wheel rode Mamilius,
    Prince of the Latian name;
    And by the left false Sextus,
    That wrought the deed of shame.


    XXV

    But when the face of Sextus
    Was seen among the foes,
    A yell that rent the firmament
    From all the town arose.
    On the house-tops was no woman
    But spat towards him and hissed,
    No child but screamed out curses,
    And shook its little fist.


    XXVI

    But the Consul’s brow was sad,
    And the Consul’s speech was low,
    And darkly looked he at the wall,
    And darkly at the foe.
    ‘Their van will be upon us
    Before the bridge goes down;
    And if they once may win the bridge,
    What hope to save the town?’


    XXVII

    Then out spake brave Horatius,
    The Captain of the gate:
    ‘To every man upon this earth
    Death cometh soon or late.
    And how can man die better
    Than facing fearful odds,
    For the ashes of his fathers,
    And the temples of his Gods,


    XXVIII

    ‘And for the tender mother
    Who dandled him to rest,
    And for the wife who nurses
    His baby at her breast,
    And for the holy maidens
    Who feed the eternal flame,
    To save them from false Sextus
    That wrought the deed of shame?


    XXIX

    ‘Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
    With all the speed ye may;
    I, with two more to help me,
    Will hold the foe in play.
    In yon strait path a thousand
    May well be stopped by three.
    Now who will stand on either hand,
    And keep the bridge with me?’


    XXX

    Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
    A Ramnian proud was he:
    ‘Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
    And keep the bridge with thee.’
    And out spake strong Herminius;
    Of Titian blood was he:
    ‘I will abide on thy left side,
    And keep the bridge with thee.’


    XXXI

    ‘Horatius,’ quoth the Consul,
    ‘As thou sayest, so let it be.’
    And straight against that great array
    Forth went the dauntless Three.
    For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
    Spared neither land nor gold,
    Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
    In the brave days of old.


    XXXII

    Then none was for a party;
    Then all were for the state;
    Then the great man helped the poor,
    And the poor man loved the great:
    Then lands were fairly portioned;
    Then spoils were fairly sold:
    The Romans were like brothers
    In the brave days of old.


    XXXIII

    Now Roman is to Roman
    More hateful than a foe,
    And the Tribunes beard the high,
    And the Fathers grind the low.
    As we wax hot in faction,
    In battle we wax cold:
    Wherefore men fight not as they fought
    In the brave days of old.


    XXXIV

    Now while the Three were tightening
    Their harnesses on their backs,
    The Consul was the foremost man
    To take in hand an axe:
    And Fathers mixed with Commons
    Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
    And smote upon the planks above,
    And loosed the props below.


    XXXV

    Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
    Right glorious to behold,
    Come flashing back the noonday light,
    Rank behind rank, like surges bright
    Of a broad sea of gold.
    Four hundred trumpets sounded
    A peal of warlike glee,
    As that great host, with measured tread,
    And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
    Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head,
    Where stood the dauntless Three.


    XXXVI

    The Three stood calm and silent,
    And looked upon the foes,
    And a great shout of laughter
    From all the vanguard rose:
    And forth three chiefs came spurring
    Before that deep array;
    To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
    And lifted high their shields, and flew
    To win the narrow way;


    XXXVII

    Aunus from green Tifernum,
    Lord of the Hill of Vines;
    And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
    Sicken in Ilva’s mines;
    And Picus, long to Clusium
    Vassal in peace and war,
    Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
    From that grey crag where, girt with towers,
    The fortress of Nequinum lowers
    O’er the pale waves of Nar.


    XXXVIII

    Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
    Into the stream beneath;
    Herminius struck at Seius,
    And clove him to the teeth;
    At Picus brave Horatius
    Darted one fiery thrust;
    And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms
    Clashed in the bloody dust.


    XXXIX

    Then Ocnus of Falerii
    Rushed on the Roman Three;
    And Lausulus of Urgo,
    The rover of the sea;
    And Aruns of Volsinium,
    Who slew the great wild boar,
    The great wild boar that had his den
    Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen,
    And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
    Along Albinia’s shore.


    XL

    Herminius smote down Aruns:
    Lartius laid Ocnus low:
    Right to the heart of Lausulus
    Horatius sent a blow.
    ‘Lie there,’ he cried, ‘fell pirate!
    No more, aghast and pale,
    From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark
    The track of thy destroying bark.
    No more Campania’s hinds shall fly
    To woods and caverns when they spy
    Thy thrice accursed sail.’


    XLI

    But now no sound of laughter
    Was heard among the foes.
    A wild and wrathful clamour
    From all the vanguard rose.
    Six spears’ lengths from the entrance
    Halted that deep array,
    And for a space no man came forth
    To win the narrow way.


    XLII

    But hark! the cry is Astur:
    And lo! the ranks divide;
    And the great Lord of Luna
    Comes with his stately stride.
    Upon his ample shoulders
    Clangs loud the four-fold shield,
    And in his hand he shakes the brand
    Which none but he can wield.


    XLIII

    He smiled on those bold Romans
    A smile serene and high;
    He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
    And scorn was in his eye.
    Quoth he, ‘The she-wolf’s litter
    Stand savagely at bay:
    But will ye dare to follow,
    If Astur clears the way?’


    XLIV

    Then, whirling up his broadsword
    With both hands to the heights
    He rushed against Horatius,
    And smote with all his might,
    With shield and blade Horatius
    Right deftly turned the blow.
    The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
    It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:
    The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
    To see the red blood flow.


    XLV

    He reeled, and on Herminius
    He leaned one breathing-space;
    Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds
    Sprang right at Astur’s face.
    Through teeth, and skull, and helmet
    So fierce a thrust he sped,
    The good sword stood a hand-breadth out
    Behind the Tuscan’s head.


    XLVI

    And the great Lord of Luna
    Fell at that deadly stroke,
    As falls on Mount Alvernus
    A thunder smitten oak.
    Far o’er the crashing forest
    The giant’s arms lie spread;
    And the pale augurs, muttering low,
    Gaze on the blasted head.


    XLVII

    On Astur’s throat Horatius
    Right firmly pressed his heel,
    And thrice and four times tugged amain,
    Ere he wrenched out the steel.
    ‘And see,’ he cried, ‘the welcome,
    Fair guests, that waits you here!
    What noble Lucumo comes next
    To taste our Roman cheer?’


    XLVIII

    But at his haughty challenge
    A sullen murmur ran,
    Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread,
    Along that glittering van.
    There lacked not men of prowess,
    Nor men of lordly race;
    For all Etruria’s noblest
    Were round the fatal place.


    XLIX

    But all Etruria’s noblest
    Felt their hearts sink to see
    On the earth the bloody corpses,
    In the path the dauntless Three:
    And, from the ghastly entrance
    Where those bold Romans stood,
    All shrank, like boys who unaware,
    Ranging the woods to start a hare,
    Come to the mouth of the dark lair
    Where, growling low, a fierce old bear
    Lies amidst bones and blood.


    L

    Was none who would be foremost
    To lead such dire attack:
    But those behind cried ‘Forward!’
    And those before cried ‘Back!’
    And backward now and forward
    Wavers the deep array;
    And on the tossing sea of steel,
    To and fro the standards reel;
    And the victorious trumpet-peal
    Dies fitfully away.


    LI

    Yet one man for one moment
    Strode out before the croud;
    Well known was he to all the Three,
    And they gave gim greeting loud.
    ‘Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!
    Now welcome to thy home!
    Why dost thou stay, and turn away?
    Here lies the road to Rome.’


    LII

    Thrice looked he at the city;
    Thrice looked he at the dead;
    And thrice came on in fury,
    And thrice turned back in dread:
    And, white with fear and hatred,
    Scowled at the narrow way
    Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
    The bravest Tuscans lay.


    LIII

    But meanwhile axe and lever
    Have manfully been plied;
    And now the bridge hangs tottering
    Above the boiling tide.
    ‘Come back, come back, Horatius!’
    Loud cried the Fathers all.
    ‘Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
    Back, ere the ruin fall!’


    LIV

    Back darted Spurius Lartius;
    Herminius darted back:
    And, as they passed, beneath their feet
    They felt the timbers crack.
    But when they turned their faces,
    And on the farther shore
    Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
    They would have crossed once more.


    LV

    But with a crash like thunder
    Fell every loosened beam,
    And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
    Lay right athwart the stream:
    And a long shout of triumph
    Rose from the walls of Rome,
    As to the highest turret-tops
    Was splashed the yellow foam.


    LVI

    And, like a horse unbroken
    When first he feels the rein,
    The furious river struggled hard,
    And tossed his tawny mane,
    And burst the curb and bounded,
    Rejoicing to be free,
    And whirling down, in fierce career,
    Battlement, and plank, and pier,
    Rushed headlong to the sea.


    LVII

    Alone stood brave Horatius,
    But constant still in mind;
    Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
    And the broad flood behind.
    ‘Down with him!’ cried false Sextus,
    With a smile on his pale face.
    ‘Now yield thee,’ cried Lars Porsena,
    ‘Now yield thee to our grace!’


    LVIII

    Round turned he, as not deigning
    Those craven ranks to see;
    Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
    To Sextus nought spake he;
    But he saw on Palatins
    The white porch of his home;
    And he spake to the noble river
    That rolls by the towers of Rome.


    LIX

    ‘Oh, Tiber! father Tiber!
    To whom the Romans pray,
    A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,
    Take thou in charge this day!’
    So he spake, and speaking sheathed
    The good sword by his side,
    And with his harness on his back,
    Plunged headlong in the tide.


    LX

    No sound of joy or sorrow
    Was heard from either bank;
    But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
    With parted lips and straining eyes,
    Stood gazing where he sank;
    And when above the surges
    They saw his crest appear,
    All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
    And even the ranks of Tuscany
    Could scarce forbear to cheer.


    LXI

    But fiercely ran the current,
    Swollen high by months of rain:
    And fast his blood was flowing;
    And he was sore in pain,
    And heavy with his armour,
    And spent with changing blows:
    And oft they thought him sinking,
    But still again he rose.


    LXII

    Never, I ween, did swimmer,
    In such an evil case,
    Struggle through such a raging flood
    Safe to the landing place.
    But his limbs were borne up bravely
    By the brave heart within,
    And our good father Tiber
    Bare bravely up his chin.


    LXIII

    ‘Curse on him!’ quoth false Sextus;
    ‘Will not the villain drown?
    But for this stay, ere close of day
    We should have sacked the town!’
    ‘Heaven help him!’ quoth Lars Porsena,
    ‘And bring him safe to shore;
    For such a gallant feat of arms
    Was never seen before.’


    LXIV

    And now he feels the bottom;
    Now on dry earth he stands;
    Now round him throng the Fathers;
    To press his gory hands;
    And now, with shouts and clapping,
    And noise of weeping loud,
    He enters through the River-Gate,
    Borne by the joyous crowd.


    LXV

    They gave him of the corn-land,
    That was of public right,
    As much as two strong oxen
    Could plough from morn till night;
    And they made a molten image,
    And set it up on high,
    And there it stands unto this day
    To witness if I lie.


    LXVI

    It stands in the Comitium,
    Plain for all folk to see;
    Horatius in his harness,
    halting upon one knee:
    And underneath is written,
    In letters all of gold,
    How valiantly he kept the bridge
    In the brave days of old.


    LXVII

    And still his name sounds stirring
    Unto the men of Rome,
    As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
    To charge the Volscian home;
    And wives still pray to Juno
    For boys with hearts as bold
    As his who kept the bridge so well
    In the brave days of old.


    LXVIII

    And in the nights of winter,
    When the cold north winds blow,
    And the long howling of the wolves
    Is heard amidst the snow;
    When round the lonely cottage
    Roars loud the tempest’s din,
    And the good logs of Algidus
    Roar louder yet within;


    LXIX

    When the oldest cask is opened,
    And the largest lamp is lit;
    When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
    And the kid turns on the spit;
    When young and old in circle
    Around the firebrands close;
    When the girls are weaving baskets,
    And the lads are shaping bows;


    LXX

    When the goodman mends his armour,
    And trims his helmet’s plume;
    When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily
    Goes flashing through the loom;
    With weeping and with laughter
    Still is the story told,
    How well Horatius kept the bridge
    In the brave days of old.
  • Years ago, I came across a side-by-side comparison of Eliot's "Wasteland" and Lou Reed's "Walk On the Wild Side" that was hilarious (to a lit. major at least). I wish I could find it again.
  • Here's one that gets the kids talking when we discuss it:

    BLEEDER
    by Stephen Dobyns


    By now I bet he's dead which suits me fine,
    but twenty-five years ago when we were both
    fifteen and he was camper and I counselor
    in a straightlaced Pennsylvania summer camp
    for crippled and retarded kids, I'd watch
    him sit all day by himself on a hill. No trees
    or sharp stones: he wasn't safe to be around.
    The slightest bruise and all his blood would simply
    drain away. It drove us crazy--first
    to protect him, then to see it happen. I
    would hang around him, picturing a knife
    or pointed stick, wondering how small a cut
    you'd have to make, then see the expectant face
    of another boy watching me, and we each knew
    how much the other would like to see him bleed.
    He made us want to hurt him so much we hurt
    ourselves instead: sliced fingers in craft class,
    busted noses in baseball, then joined at last
    into mass wrestling matches beneath his hill,
    a tangle of crutches and braces, hammering at
    each other to keep from harming him. I'd look up
    from slamming a kid in the gut and see him watching
    with the empty blue eyes of children in sentimental
    paintings, and hope to see him frown or grin,
    but there was nothing: as if he had already died.
    Then after a week, they sent him home. Too much
    responsibility, the director said.
  • Rich Lane said:
    Years ago, I came across a side-by-side comparison of Eliot's "Wasteland" and Lou Reed's "Walk On the Wild Side" that was hilarious (to a lit. major at least). I wish I could find it again.


    That does sound interesting.
  • Rich Lane said:
    Here's one that gets the kids talking when we discuss it:

    BLEEDER
    by Stephen Dobyns


    By now I bet he's dead which suits me fine,
    but twenty-five years ago when we were both
    fifteen and he was camper and I counselor
    in a straightlaced Pennsylvania summer camp
    for crippled and retarded kids, I'd watch
    him sit all day by himself on a hill. No trees
    or sharp stones: he wasn't safe to be around.
    The slightest bruise and all his blood would simply
    drain away. It drove us crazy--first
    to protect him, then to see it happen. I
    would hang around him, picturing a knife
    or pointed stick, wondering how small a cut
    you'd have to make, then see the expectant face
    of another boy watching me, and we each knew
    how much the other would like to see him bleed.
    He made us want to hurt him so much we hurt
    ourselves instead: sliced fingers in craft class,
    busted noses in baseball, then joined at last
    into mass wrestling matches beneath his hill,
    a tangle of crutches and braces, hammering at
    each other to keep from harming him. I'd look up
    from slamming a kid in the gut and see him watching
    with the empty blue eyes of children in sentimental
    paintings, and hope to see him frown or grin,
    but there was nothing: as if he had already died.
    Then after a week, they sent him home. Too much
    responsibility, the director said.


    Wow.
  • One More:

    Do not go gentle into that good night
    by Dylan Thomas



    Do not go gentle into that good night,
    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
    Because their words had forked no lightning they
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
    Do not go gentle into that good night.


    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on the sad height,
    Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
  • When we get to Thomas and "Do Not Go Gentle..." with my seniors, I usually get a few of them weeping before we're done (I hit them with a personal anecdote concerning that poem). Here's another Thomas favorite of mine:

    And Death Shall Have No Dominion

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Dead mean naked they shall be one
    With the man in the wind and the west moon;
    When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
    They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
    Though they go mad they shall be sane,
    Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
    Though lovers be lost love shall not;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    Under the windings of the sea
    They lying long shall not die windily;
    Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
    Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
    Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
    And the unicorn evils run them through;
    Split all ends up they shan't crack;
    And death shall have no dominion.

    And death shall have no dominion.
    No more may gulls cry at their ears
    Or waves break loud on the seashores;
    Where blew a flower may a flower no more
    Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
    Though they be mad and dead as nails,
    Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
    Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
    And death shall have no dominion.

  • The Old Man was a big Thomas fan - I remember him playing "A Child's Christmas in Wales" on vinyl when I was a kid.
  • Thomas's own voice? Those recordings are awesome. I have all three poems discussed here from his recordings.

    The Baron said:
    The Old Man was a big Thomas fan - I remember him playing "A Child's Christmas in Wales" on vinyl when I was a kid.
This reply was deleted.