Form: a quarterly of the arts (1.1916/1917)

The earth for damming Severn, and thus made
The Wrekin Hill; and little Ercall Hill
Rose where the giant scraped his boots. While still
So young, our Jack was chief of Gotham’s sages.

But long before he could have been wise, ages
Earlier than this, whilehe grew thick and strong
And ate his bacon, or, at times, sang a song
And merely smelt it,as Jack the giant-killer
He made a name. He, too, ground up the miller,

The Yorkshireman who ground men’s bones for flour.

O you believe Jack dead before his hour ?

Or that his name is Walker, or Bottlesford,
Or Button, a mere clown, or squire, or lord ?
The man you saw,—Lob-lie-by-the-fire, Jack Cade,
Jack Smith, Jack Moon, poor Jack of every trade,

Young Jack, or old Jack, or Jack What-d’ye-call,
Jack-in-the-hedge, or Robin-run-by-the-wall,
Robin Hood, Ragged Robin, lazy Bob(

One of the lords of No Man’s Land, good Lob,—
Although he was seen dying at Waterloo,
Hastings, Agincourt, and Sedgmoor too,—

Lives yet. He never will admit he is dead
Till millers cease to grind men’s bones for bread,
Not till our weathercock crows once again
And I remove my house out of the lane
On to the road.’ With this he disappeared
In hazel and thorn tangled in old-man’s-beard.
But one glimpse of his back, as there he stood
Choosing his way, proved him of old Jack’s blood,
Young Jack perhaps, and now a Wiltshireman
As he has oft been since his days began.

OUT of us all

That make rhymes,
Will you choose
Sometimes—

As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,

Theirjoy or their pain
To whistle through—
Choose me,

You English words ?

Tknow you:

You arelight as dreams,
Tough as oak,

Precious as gold,

As poppies and corn,

Or an old cloak:

Sweet as our birds
To the ear,

As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:

Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:

Strange and sweet
Equally,

And familiar,

Tothe eye,

As the dearest faces
That a man knows,

And as lost homes are:

But though older far
Than oldest yew,—

As our hills are, old,—

Worn new
Again and again:

Young as our streams
After rain:

And as dear

As the earth which you prove
That we love.

Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings,—

From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire,

And the villages there,—

From the names, and the things
No less.

ET me sometimes dance
With you,

Or climb

Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,

Fixed and free
In a rhyme,

As poets do.

€DttIARD GASTAGUAY

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