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POEMS FROM OTHER SOURCES As far as I know, the following poems were never published in any of Robert Buchanan’s books of poetry. GRANDDAD IN THE INGLE. I
All on a windy night of yule,
When snow was falling white
We sat all warm in the marish farm
Around the yule-logs bright. The clock ticked low, and the wind did blow,
And the snow was heaped and blown;
And we laughed and talked, but granddad sat
As still as any stone. As still he sat as a cold, gray stone
Upon the lone sea-sands,
His thin, gray hair as white as foam,
Like drifting weeds his hands. His eyes were dead, and dull, and cold,
As the jelly-fish on the rock,
His ears were closed, and his heart kept time
To the ticking of the clock. His cheeks were pale, his lips were dumb,
He sat in the ingle-glow,
Still as a stone on the lone sea-sand,
Though the tide doth come and go; Though the sun may come on its moist, cold side,
And make a glistering gleam;
Though the storm may dash, and the lightning flash,
And the startled sea-bird scream. Too late! too late! he is old, so old,
He hears no human call;
He cannot smile, he cannot weep,
His blood flows on as dark as sleep -
He lives, and that is all.
II
“Granddad, granddad, look up and speak
To thy grandchild Marjorie!”
He does not stir, but sits and smiles,
Like one who doth not see. He sits and faintly feels the fire,
And fondles his thin knees;
Flash the light, and rattle the log -
He neither hears nor sees. “Granddad! here is thy daughter Joan,
Come o’er with Cousin Jane!”
“Ay, ay,” he cries, with a feeble flush,
Then his soul shuts again. “Ay, ay” - the words have a strange sea-sound
As they leave his feeble lips,
Of the blowing wind and the tossing sea,
And the men who sail in ships. All year long he sat by the fire,
And we had heard strange tales
Of his life of old, when he tossed and rolled
Amid the lonesome gales. And often when his chair was wheeled
Without into the sun,
And he sat in the porch, we whispered low
Of the deeds that he had done. For round his life a mystery hung,
No soul could wholly clear,
And we children had heard that he had been
A bloody buccaneer; That the stain of blood was on his hands,
That his soul was black and deep,
That he had seen such sights as made
His spirit shriek in sleep; That the red, round gold his hands had gained
Was dyed with blood of men;
And, as we spake, our voices sank,
And we looked at him again. Sometimes his face would flash to fire,
And his hands would clutch his chair,
And some bloody scene within his soul
Would shake him unaware. Sometimes his cold lips would unclose,
And talk in a strange tongue,
And his voice would quicken, his thin arms move,
And all his ways grow young. Sometimes his voice was fierce and loud,
As if he trod the deck;
Sometimes he seemed to toil like men
Who swim from ships a-wreck. But ever the life he lived went on
Within his soul alone;
To all the wash of the waves of life
He kept as cold as stone. Yet oft his face would lie in peace,
As if he knew no sin,
With a light that came not from without,
But issued from within; A light like glistening light that sleeps
On the wet rock by the sea,
As if his thoughts were all at rest,
And some blue heaven within his breast
Was opening tranquilly.
III
Suddenly on that night of yule,
While we sat whispering there,
The old worn shape waved up his arms,
And sprang from out his chair. “See, see!” he cried, and his hair was blown
Around his brow and eyes;
He pointed with his skinny hand,
And uttered eager cries. “Now, granddad, granddad, sit thee down,
There is no creature nigh!”
He answered not, but stood erect,
With wildly-glistening eye. “Hush! man the boats!” and in our sight
Firm up and down he trod.
“Form line! who stirs a footstep dies!
She’s sinking - pray to God! “Nail down the hatches! If the slaves
Climb up, we all must drown.
If one among them stirs a foot,
Shoot, hew, and hack him down! “Away - she sinks!” and both his ears
He stopped as he did speak.
“Saved, saved!” he moaned, then trembling stood
With tears upon his cheek. “God pardon me, and cleanse my soul!”
He murmured with thin moan,
Then raised his hands into the air,
And dropped as dead as stone!
_____ ‘Granddad In The Ingle’ was published in Appleton’s journal: a monthly miscellany of popular literature on March 14th, 1874 (Volume 11, Issue 260). It had been previously published in Cassell’s Magazine. I believe the reason for its omission from ‘The Poetical Works’ of 1884 is the fact that Buchanan recycled the idea of the mute old man, haunted by something in his past, for the opening of his novel ‘God and the Man’ which was published in 1881. __________ THE BATTLE OF ISANDÚLA. (Zululand, January 2, 1879.)
IN the wilds of Isandúla, far away,
The little band of British soldiers lay,
When a warning voice cried, “Fly!
For the savage swarms are nigh!
See, they loom in war-array
Against the sky!
Ere they come in all the might
Of their legions black as night,
Form in order and take flight from Isandúla.” Then our soldiers look in one another’s eyes, . . .
Less in terror than in wondering surmise,
And a cold breath of despair
Seems to chill the golden air,
When a voice of thunder cries:
“Men, prepare!
Though no human help be by,
We are here our strength to try,
Yea, to keep the camp, or die in Isandúla!” So an English cheer arises wild and shrill,
As they form and face the onset with a will,
For clearly now each one
Can see the black hordes run
Swift as wolves across the hill
In the sun—
They can see the host at last
Coming terrible and vast,
Like a torrent, rolling fast on Isandúla! . . . Soon upon them in their living thousands fell
The blacks like screaming devils out of Hell,
Swarming down in mad desire
As our gunners open’d fire—
At that thunder, with shrill yell,
They swept nigher!
“Fire!” again the order ran,
As the bloody strife began
With the lion-hearted van, at Isandúla. ’Tis to struggle with the avalanche’s force!
It enwraps them, it consumes them, in its course;
Round the guns its dark floods flow,
See, the gunners gasping low!
It o’erwhelms them, foot and horse,
At a blow!
“Retreat!” the voice hath cried,
And in order, steadfast-eyed,
They stem that sable tide at Isandúla. Back to back, all sides surrounded, slowly led,
Their fire upon the foe, they downward tread;
While at last the sable stream,
Sweeping on them, teeth agleam,
Before their crimson lead
Pause and scream!
And at that another cheer
Arises wild and clear,
And the foe fall back to hear, in Isandúla! But ’tis only for an instant they refrain,
At the challenge of that cheer they shriek again,
They swarm on every hand
O’er the little steadfast band,
Till again, the crimson rain
Makes them stand!
Like a torrent—nay, a sea!—
They roll onward bloodily,
But no white man turns to flee from Isandúla! Still as stone, our soldiers face the savage crew—
“Fix your bayonets! die as English soldiers do!”
It is done—all stand at bay—
But their strength is cast away;
And the black swarms shriek anew
As they slay!
Ah, God! the battle-throes!
With their dead for shields, they close,—
Where the slaughter ebbs and flows, in Isandúla! And as fast as one form falls, another springs—
They are tigers, not like human-hearted things—
Surging onward they abound,
With a clangour of shrill sound,
With a clash of shields, like wings
Waving round!
As our brave men one by one
Fall death-smitten in the sun,
O’er their corpses legions run, in Isandúla! “Save the colours!” shrieks a dying voice, and lo!
Two horsemen breast the raging ranks, and go—
(In thy sacred list, O Fame!
Keep each dear and noble name!*)
See, they flash upon the foe,
Fierce as flame—
And one undaunted form
Lifts a British banner, warm
With the blood-rain and the storm of Isandúla! “Save the colours!” and amidst a flood of foes,
At gallop, sword in hand, each horseman goes—
Around the steeds they stride
Cling devils crimson-dyed,
But God! through butchering blows,
How they ride!
Their horses’ hooves are red
With blood of dying and dead,
Trampled down beneath their tread at Isandúla! “Save the colours!”—They are saved—and side by side
The horsemen swim a raging river’s tide—
They are safe—they are alone—
But one, without a groan,
After tottering filmy-eyed,
Drops like stone;
And before his comrade true
Can reach his side, he too
Falls, smitten through and through at Isandúla! . . . Bless the Lord, who in the hollow of His hand,
Kept the remnant of that little British band!
But give honour everywhere
To the brave who perish’d there,
Speak their praise throughout the land
With a prayer—
More than sorrow they can claim:
They have won the crown of Fame!
They have glorified the name of Isandúla! ROBERT BUCHANAN.
* Lieut. Nevill Josiah Aylmer Coghill (24th Regt.), Lieut. Teignmouth Melvill (24th Regt.), both killed while escaping with the colours, Jan. 22, 1879.
_____ ‘The Battle of Isandúla’ was published in the Contemporary Review (April, 1879 - p.153-156). I came across it by chance when I found the following item in the Guardian archives. From The Guardian (4 April, 1879 - p.6) THE APRIL MAGAZINES. The Contemporary Review contains a poem on “Isandula” by Mr. Robert Buchanan. Its versification is spirited, but it cannot be said to be on the whole successful. In particular, there is an obvious jar in speaking of the Zulus as “devils,” “tigers,” &c. This is not the way in which brave men or the bards who worthily sing brave men’s deeds speak of opponents in fair fight. ___ The poem is particularly interesting given Buchanan’s regular anti-war and anti-Empire stance - one presumes that was the reason it was not included in ‘The Poetical Works’ of 1884. The battle of Isandula (or Isandlwana - best pronounced with a Welsh accent and the mellifluous tones of Richard Burton as in the prologue to the 1964 film, “Zulu”) took place on 22nd. January 1879 (the date is misprinted in the subtitle but corrected in the footnote) and, according to Wikipedia, it remains “the greatest British military defeat at the hands of native forces in history.” I’d like to thank Phil Johnson of Keele University Library for taking the time to find, scan and send me a copy of the poem. __________ ALONE IN LONDON.
Alone! alone in London!
She stretches helpless hands—
In storm and strife, the Sea of Life
Rolls round her as she stands!
She sees no friendly face go past,
She hears no friendly tone;
A flower upon a torrent cast
Is not more lost and lone! Then nightly, over London,
The starry orbs unclose,
Heaven opens clear, from sphere to sphere
The electric splendor glows!
She stands alone amid the crowd,
And, looking to the skies,
Beholds, beyond the breaking cloud,
The light of loving eyes! At last, alone in London,
She sinks in that dark Sea!
Deep down below its ebb and flow
Creep creatures sad as she;
Ragged and wretched, thro’ the gloom,
The human outcasts move;
Yet even here, in darkness, bloom
Lilies of light and love! Alone! alone in London!
And yet not all alone!
Weeping she stands, but gentle hands
Are thrust into her own!
The shadows fade, the splendours grow,
Sweet voices answer hers;
While beggar’s rags fall off, to show
God’s radiant Messengers.
_____ “Alone in London” appears on the first page of “The Olympic Programme and Looker-On” (7 November, 1885) - Saturday’s programme of the first week of the London production of “Alone in London”, the play by Robert Buchanan and Harriett Jay. The poem is unsigned but one presumes it is by Buchanan. Another poem on the same page is by Anna Conover, the manager of the Olympic Theatre and it is safe to assume that if the poem was by Harriett Jay, Buchanan would have made sure she got the credit. __________ Back to Poetry |
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