Gentleman John:

St Kilda's children had a chance, at least, With none begotten idly of weakling fathers.

A Spartan test for fatherhood! Should they miss Their hoop, 'twas death, and childless. You have still Six lives to take unending hoops for you, And you yourself are not done yet ...

Merry Andrew (more drowsily):

Not yet.

And there's much comfort in the thought of children.

They're bonnie boys enough; and should do well, If I can but keep going a little while, A little longer till ...

Gentleman John:

Six strapping sons!

And I have naught but camels.

(Pause.) Yet, I've seen A vision in this stable that puts to shame Each ecstasy of mortal flesh and blood That's been my eyes' delight. I never breathed A word of it to man or woman yet: I couldn't whisper it now to you, if you looked Like any human thing this side of death.

'Twas on the night I stumbled on the circus.

I'd wandered all day, lost among the fells, Over snow-smothered hills, through blinding blizzard, Whipped by a wind that seemed to strip and skin me, Till I was one numb ache of sodden ice.

Quite done, and drunk with cold, I'ld soon have dropped Dead in a ditch; when suddenly a lantern Dazzled my eyes. I smelt a queer warm smell; And felt a hot puff in my face; and blundered Out of the flurry of snow and raking wind Dizzily into a glowing Arabian night Of elephants and camels having supper.

I thought that I'd gone mad, stark, staring mad; But I was much too sleepy to mind just then-- Dropped dead asleep upon a truss of hay; And lay, a log, till--well, I cannot tell How long I lay unconscious. I but know I slept, and wakened, and that 'twas no dream.

I heard a rustle in the hay beside me, And opening sleepy eyes, scarce marvelling, I saw her, standing naked in the lamplight, Beneath the huge tent's cavernous canopy, Against the throng of elephants and camels That champed unwondering in the golden dusk, Moon-white Diana, mettled Artemis-- Her body, quick and tense as her own bowstring, Her spirit, an arrow barbed and strung for flight-- White snowflakes melting on her night-black hair, And on her glistening b.r.e.a.s.t.s and supple thighs: Her red lips parted, her keen eyes alive With fierce, far-ranging hungers of the chase Over the hills of morn--The lantern guttered And I was left alone in the outer darkness Among the champing elephants and camels.

And I'll be a camel-keeper to the end: Though never again my eyes...

(Pause.) So you can sleep, You Merry Andrew, for all you missed your hoop.

It's just as well, perhaps. Now I can hold My secret to the end. Ah, here they come!

[Six lads, between the ages of three and twelve, clad in pink tights covered with silver spangles, tumble into the tent.]

The Eldest Boy:

Daddy, the bell's rung, and--

Gentleman John:

He's snoozing sound.

(to the youngest boy) You just creep quietly, and take tight hold Of the crimson curls, and tug, and you will hear The purple p.u.s.s.ies all caterwaul at once.

THE GOING

(R.B.)

He's gone.

I do not understand.

I only know That as he turned to go And waved his hand, In his young eyes a sudden glory shone, And I was dazzled with a sunset glow, And he was gone.

RALPH HODGSON

THE BULL

See an old unhappy bull, Sick in soul and body both, Slouching in the undergrowth Of the forest beautiful, Banished from the herd he led, Bulls and cows a thousand head.

Cranes and gaudy parrots go Up and down the burning sky; Tree-top cats purr drowsily In the dim-day green below; And troops of monkeys, nutting, some, All disputing, go and come;

And things abominable sit Picking offal buck or swine, On the mess and over it Burnished flies and beetles shine, And spiders big as bladders lie Under hemlocks ten foot high;

And a dotted serpent curled Round and round and round a tree, Yellowing its greenery, Keeps a watch on all the world, All the world and this old bull In the forest beautiful.

Bravely by his fall he came: One he led, a bull of blood Newly come to l.u.s.tihood, Fought and put his prince to shame, Snuffed and pawed the prostrate head Tameless even while it bled.

There they left him, every one, Left him there without a lick, Left him for the birds to pick, Left him there for carrion, Vilely from their bosom cast Wisdom, worth and love at last.

When the lion left his lair And roared his beauty through the hills, And the vultures pecked their quills And flew into the middle air, Then this prince no more to reign Came to life and lived again.

He snuffed the herd in far retreat, He saw the blood upon the ground, And snuffed the burning airs around Still with beevish odours sweet, While the blood ran down his head And his mouth ran slaver red.

Pity him, this fallen chief, All his splendour, all his strength, All his body's breadth and length Dwindled down with shame and grief, Half the bull he was before, Bones and leather, nothing more.

See him standing dewlap-deep In the rushes at the lake, Surly, stupid, half asleep, Waiting for his heart to break And the birds to join the flies Feasting at his bloodshot eyes,--

Standing with his head hung down In a stupor, dreaming things: Green savannas, jungles brown, Battlefields and bellowings, Bulls undone and lions dead And vultures flapping overhead.

Dreaming things: of days he spent With his mother gaunt and lean In the valley warm and green, Full of baby wonderment, Blinking out of silly eyes At a hundred mysteries;

Dreaming over once again How he wandered with a throng Of bulls and cows a thousand strong, Wandered on from plain to plain, Up the hill and down the dale, Always at his mother's tail;

How he lagged behind the herd, Lagged and tottered, weak of limb, And she turned and ran to him Blaring at the loathly bird Stationed always in the skies, Waiting for the flesh that dies.

Dreaming maybe of a day When her drained and drying paps Turned him to the sweets and saps, Richer fountains by the way, And she left the bull she bore And he looked to her no more;