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    The English Review: July 1921
    The English Review: July 1921
    The English Review: July 1921
    Ebook112 pages1 hour

    The English Review: July 1921

    By Austin Harrison

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    About this ebook

    Marvel in the beauty of 20th century English literature.


    This book takes you back in time to journey among the best writers in England at the time of the first World War.


    It's the July 1921 edition of The English Review magazine, which was started "in a rage that there was no place in England to print a poem b

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLeft of Brain Books
    Release dateSep 24, 2021
    ISBN9781396321771
    The English Review: July 1921

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      Book preview

      The English Review - Austin Harrison

      ODE TO PEACE

      By Lord Gorell

      I.

      Fair daughter of unconquerable Hope,

      Who with the wistful blessing of a star

      Piercest the ribbed and melancholy clouds

      That thy perpetual warders are,

      Stretch forth the pleading of thy hand,

      From grief and loss the glutted weapons tear,

      And let the constant passion of thy prayer

      Breathe a new beauty through the wounded land,

      Swell to new music on the troubled air.

      II.

      Thou who wast nursed within the watery wastes

      And ruined hearts of conflict, once again

      The guns’ uneasy silence greets thy birth,

      And thine inheritance is pain:

      A thousand hapless furies wail

      About thy barque, and over the great sea

      Still dimly lies safe harbourage for thee;

      All mouthing to the gusts that yet prevail,

      Waves lash the rocky coast-line enviously.

      III.

      The world is like a soul that long has bowed

      Its broken empire to Hell’s gloomy might

      And with an inward sickness turns at last

      Its wearied being towards the light;

      Timid it is; its power stands

      In threadbare garments open to the scorn

      Of devastating blasts, and half-forlorn

      The high desires wring indecisive hands;

      Night lingers on, distrustful of the morn.

      IV.

      Awake, awake! With angered resonance

      The heavy tumult through the mind is rolled;

      The dark mists shake about the ascending path

      And fitfully the prospect fold:

      Sweet Peace, be thou before our eyes

      Guiding, earth’s caravanners to the crest;

      Storm-swept are the long ridges, and the quest

      Even beyond the verge of vision lies,

      Where tumult sinks and thy shy soul has rest.

      V.

      Night lingers on distrustful, but the day

      Shall break upon our journey as we climb;

      The peaks are flaming now, and presently,

      Led by the patient steps of Time,

      That shepherd of the human flocks,

      Light shall descend with comfort richly hued,

      Shall be a beacon for the multitude,

      And new shall be the vision round the rocks

      Of age-worn custom and internal feud.

      VI.

      Beyond, beyond, lie the deep realms of Hope

      Bathed in thy presence, Peace; and there thy state

      In starry benediction breathes out Love

      And dwells serene, dethroning Hate,

      The last and greatest victory:

      Therein the shepherd, Time, himself shall stay

      At rest beside his footsteps far away,

      And all the motion of the earth shall be

      The tranquil dawn of thine eternal day.

      NIGHT AND NOON: LYRICS

      By John Helston

      Night Throes.

      In peaceful oceans of the dew,

      The island juniper

      Stand up and watch the night renew

      Her starry hemisphere.

      "I’m in the berried hush, my love,

      Where night is on the down.

      I would the dews might rise above

      My heart—and passion drown!"

      She heard the night wind leave the hill

      A long dark league away...

      A withered fen became her will,

      Her womb a pit of clay.

      A Churchyard.

      Quaint pictures of the sun in power

      And insurrections of the stone

      The lichens dwelling on the tower

      Have wrought for thrice a hundred years,

      Where silently a sign appears—

      A creeping shadow of the hour,

      Appears, and then is gone.

      Quietly as from the dial up yon

      The clouds depose time’s darkened ray,

      Pale folk come in a cloud of thought—

      The folk for whom time’s ways are naught,

      And with great eyes that answer none,

      Pass me, and steal away.

      FLAMES

      By Dorothea Still

      When I am deep within your arms

      My little, struggling flames expire;

      The scorching of my restless life

      Beneath your lips is quenched of fire.

      Devouring points of trembling pride,

      Anger’s quick spark and smoking fear,

      The blinding flash of sudden pain,

      Die as they spring, and disappear

      From memory.

      The fiery tongues

      Are still. Then is it death you hold

      Upon your living breast—so numb,

      So cold?

      Held in your keeping lies a flame,

      Flowering gold that does not dart

      Nor spring

      Up from the shelter of your heart.

      The puny flickerings are dead:

      But when I lie

      Hid in this cavern of content,

      Love and I

      Rest quietly, for we are one

      Red-warm, unwavering gleam, at peace:

      And all tormented little fires

      Must cease

      Within the uncontending glow

      —When on your heart so still I lie

      You hold a flame—

      And all my tortured burnings die.

      DESCENT: A MOSAIC

      By Hermon Ould

      Come to me here on the summit of the hill, where God’s breath frees from death and drives out fear. I greedily take my fill of creant life newborn, and take the universe to wife. Forlorn friend, intrigued by a sham Elysium, come!

      Here on the slope, where the odour of the firs unlinks control and the coward soul—scared antelope—escapes the universe as ’twere a snare, I wait. Let me not seek you otherwhere, lest hate evict love by its shrill delirium. Come!

      Lo! I am here, imprisoned in the town, where fecund life, seed of strife and nursed by fear, moves obscenely down to graceless death. Here I, inhaling death with every breath, will die, numb with the mystery of love, and dumb. Come!

      THE SPRING OF YESTERYEAR

      By Chris Massie

      I

      pray

      thee seek to guide me, I am blind

      With frozen tears, and dark with every woe;

      I hear no voices calling down the wind—

      The breezes kiss me with a kiss unkind...

      My love is long-ago.

      I am forgotten in long yesterday:

      My dreams are dead, my songs are all forgot.

      The rustling grass I hear along thex way

      Is thousand-tongued with words that plead and pray...

      But what I was, is not.

      The vital sunbeams flash and throb again,

      And April dawns embrace the dying stars;

      There is a sweetest blessing in the rain,

      But what I was has melted into pain...

      And I have many scars.

      Alas! I feel the weight of human wrongs—

      The murdered presence of remembered dead.

      No sunny circumstance, no tender songs,

      Can woo my heart from where my heart belongs

      Or grant me what has fled.

      The stars I see are calm in cruel peace,

      And April buds are cold in high disdain.

      The nesting birds can feel their joys increase,

      And love is deep as darkness in the trees...

      But I have loved in vain.

      I am the hope that fled away in fear;

      I am the babe that never found a breast.

      I have no thought, no vital feeling near—

      I am the Spring—the Spring of Yesteryear—

      And now I look for rest.

      THISTLEDOWN

      By Horace Shipp

      The harsh wheels screech and turn, they wind

      Unending cycles, till the mind

      Is a hot road where lorries grind.

      The buildings throb; the sunrays like hot rain

      Beat down through senses to the shrivelled brain;

      The houses blur behind a yellow stain.

      Remote beyond sensation, passers-by

      Pattern the pavement; their small shadows lie

      More real than they beneath the hot, white sky.

      Then sudden as the thought of beauty, frost

      Amid Hell’s flame tongues, aerial, eddying, lost

      In light, gulfed in light, and airily tossed,

      The thistledown from some far field is blown:

      Live dust across the dead dust overgrown

      With this fantastic foliage of stone,

      This petrifaction where the passing feet

      Will trample beauty rivelled in the heat.

      Seed-time and harvest cease, but still the street

      Blooms barren and the stone weeds never fail—

      Stone barriers of the earth whereto the frail,

      Pale silken argosies of seedlings sail.

      And yet...and yet, the centuries creeping by,

      The petrous petals of the town will lie

      Scattered, its stone roots bare beneath the sky.

      And in the summer silence, quietly grown,

      Quietly like the thought of beauty, blown

      Seeds of the thistle in the crevassed stone.

      SONG

      By Ethel Archer

      Aphrodite to Sappho.

      Come, Love, awaken! O’er the wild salt sea,

      Shadows strange-shapen whirl themselves and flee

      As eddying mist, by storm winds overtaken,

      And sunbeams kissed—the shafts all curled and shaken

      In shuddering ecstasy!

      Come, Love, nor list to tired dreams that twist

      Thy lithe long limbs in fierce abandonment,

      Awake, and learn of me the secret of the sea,

      Whose meaning is the sum of all things blent

      In fiercest harmony.

      Soft winds are

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