TWO FISHERS

When the War is over, Charley,

We'll go fishing once again.

You'll be a new man, Charley,

When you walk with fishermen.

For we'll seek a leaping river

I know far among the fells;

You'll forget the War there, Charley,

Where the springing water wells.

It's God's own land for the nimble trout,

And ferns and waving flowers,

The bracken and the bilberry,

And the ash the coral dowers.

There are rolling leagues of heather,

Lone hills where the plovers call.

Oh, we'll climb those hills together

Ere the last dews fall!

And we'll talk to the wild creatures

In the crannies of the moors;

Oh, our hearts will mount to Heaven

When the merry lark soars!

All our days will shine with gladness,

All our nights with calm repose.

And we'll throw a fly together

Where the rushing stream flows.

Nature has been to me lately

As a fair and radiant bride,

She has drawn me with strange gentleness

To the hollow of her side.

She has gone forth like a warrior

With pricking glaive and spear,

And Grief has quailed in his ambush

When her flashing arms drew near.

I never loved sweet England

Till she kissed me in the West,

The sun upon her shining brows

And the purple on her breast,

Breathing songs of low compassion

To my spirit as it cried,

When I mourned that sinning country

Which had thrust me from her side.

All the wooded hills of the Eifel,

All the vine-bergs of the Rhine,

All the glimmering strands of the Baltic,

All the Brocken black with pine,

Hold no tenderness of Beauty,

( Beauty in the spirit dwells,)

Such as smiles from one sweet valley

Darkling‘ mid the Western fells.

Do you remember, old fellow,

When we fished near Altenahr,

Where the red wine was flowing

And the bowl flashed a star?

Do you remember the big schutzmann,

With his sword by his side,

Who guessed that you were poaching,

And scared you off to hide?

Oh, if he'd only known, Charley,

When you sought the bridge's cover

That you'd join the British Army

And go killing of his brother,

He'd have searched bank and vineyard

For a poacher of such worth,

And put you in a prison cell

To cool your summer's mirth.

And do you remember the old inn

With the blue saint above the door,—

Simon Peter, who looked longingly

Upon our speckled store?—

He who loves all careless fishers

Of the river and the sea,

And prays that God shall save them

With his mates of Galilee.

And what a wild night we had

When we rode home again!

For the students were all dancing

And singing in the train;

And a tall man twanged a banjo

Till he fairly gave us fits;

And a porter ran up swearing,

And the banjo flew to bits.

We were all drunk as blazes,

Full of wine to burst.

But, by the sober lads of England,

Those Germans were the worst.

They were singing and dancing,

And shouting with delight;

And the carriage rocked with laughter

As we rushed into the night.

They are all dead now, Charley;

They were merry fellows then.

They are dust and scattered ashes

Washed by the rain.

They are crying in the darkness

Where a grayer planet spins.

But the Lord is kind to fishers

And has spared us in our sins.

Oh, the Lord is kind to fishers

Of the river and the sea

For the sake of Simon Peter

And the lads of Galilee!

For the sake of Simon Peter,

Who so gladly would us shrive,

We are walking in the sunlight,

We are breathing and alive.

And when the War is over

We'll fish awhile together,

We'll climb the Western mountains,

And walk the Western heather,

And the curlew and the wild grouse

Will wake the vales with crying,

And their soft rushing pinions

Will tremble by us, sighing.

All the dead shepherds

Will hear them in their rest.

But you must n't heed dead shepherds

When you're fishing in the West;

You must n't heed the lonely men

Who neither sing nor dance,

There'll be always ghosts there, Charley,

When the wind beats up from France.

It's the holy peace and quiet

Breathing from the Western skies

Which bring the stricken soul its rest

And still the heart's wild cries.

If I had n't turned for healing

Where the moor to Heaven swells,

I'd have been a dead man, listening

To the mourning of the bells.

If God had n't sent me healing

Where the mountain bares her breast,

I'd have gone wild and crazy

With the things that I'm oppressed.

All my mad, merry comrades

Of drink, and fight, and lust,

Are trodden into bloody clay

And blowing with the dust.

Some marched away with Hindenburg,

And some with General Kluck,

One under Austria's banners

With the devil's cards for luck.

All my dreams went with them,

All the dreams my land denied;

But they're smoke and drifting wreckage now

On the War's wild tide.

It was years since I left England,—

Almost singing to depart,—

She had cast a net about me,

And thrust a dagger in my heart.

But another country smiled to me

And made me quiet nooks,

Where men crushed for me the grapes of joy,

And talked to me of books.

She was a kind land to me once, Charley,

I had real joy in her once;

Her folk loved Shakespeare and Byron,

Shunned no dreamer for a dunce.

They sang old folk songs, noble opera;

Read Anglo-Saxon, old quaint sweets;

And there were no starved souls in her temples,

And no begging men in her streets.

But a hand ever cut my Heaven

With the sharpness of a sword,

There was the very riot of gladness,

Reckless squander of Joy's hoard;

Lechery and sad Corruption

Danced in clinging robes of Light;

Beauty smiled in the arms of Terror

And diced with the minions of Night.

And you sprang to England's banner, comrade,

With glad praises on your lips,

To the song of her sabres ringing

And the thunder of her ships.

But a sword broods in the darkness

Whose sweep is the wind's sway,

And the dumb white ships of Heaven

Bear dimly Earth's glory away.

The still white ships of Heaven

Steal out beneath the stars;

And the grieving, sorrowing sailors

Are the dead men of the wars.

They reck not of the chilly seas

That wildly round them churn.

And the dusk scatters before the prows,

And the leaping waters burn.

The pirate fleets of Heaven

Sweep forth into the night,

Laden with spoils of the living,

Their jewels of delight,

Their topazes and rubies,

The bawds that gave them pleasure;

And the sad thieves reef the swelling sails,

And steal from Earth her treasure.

And the night hangs heavy on you, comrade,

And the bitter War goes on.

You are parched for Heaven's starlight

And her soft, refreshing sun.

Joy runs with a passion of swiftness

On the gray feet of the wind.

The doors of darkness tremble;

Then swing back blind.

But you'll be a new man, one day,

Where the west wind thrills.

You'll walk with your olden vigour

Where Heaven clasps the great lone hills.

And the evening sun will squander

Soft lustre of red wine,

And we'll drink the ripest vintage

Where the sun and stars shine.

For the Lord is kind to fishers

Of the river and the sea,

For the sake of Simon Peter

And the lads of Galilee;

For the sake of Simon Peter,

Who so lightly would us shrive,

We will drink the wine of Heaven

And give praise we are alive.

All our days will shine with gladness,

All our nights with rich repose;

Laughter will breathe from our spirits

Like the sweet scent from the rose.

And Joy in glittering armour

Will go forth as with a sword,

When we climb the fells together

To the glory of the Lord.

Sweet sounds will rise from the moorland,

And bird and bee awake.

Beauty will break and blossom

For each stricken soldier's sake.

Oh, your heart will leap with joy, Charley,

And your spirit know rest,

When we fish a little river

I've heard singing in the West!