Classic Poem

(Adapted from Tennyson)

The windows of the gallery
Are tall, with rounded tops, so high
They cramp the ceiling. Through their panes,
Fogged and streaked with dust and rains,
An August sunshine slants and veers
Over the walls and the chandeliers
Of faceted crystal, but scarce a gleam
Can these give back, the ancient dream
Of dust is on them. The sunlight floats
On a stream of dust, the dropping motes
Sift like mist through the empty room
Filling it with a golden bloom.
The moth-eaten velvet of the chairs
Placed along the walls in pairs
Is pitilessly obvious,
The gilded arms and legs are worse,
Scaled to the wood. All is hushed and bright,
An ancient splendour crushed with light,
An aristocratic refinement, lying
Bare to the eyes in the act of dying.
Not a sound from the courtyard, not a bang
From a distant door. The pictures hang
Undisturbed, the scenes they show
All occurred so long ago
They are nothing to nothing.
But how fresh the paint
Upon armoured hero and martyred saint.
How steadily the pennants curl
From the masts of battleships! How they whirl,
The javelins on that brazen gate!
Here is passion coagulate,
Stiffened at its highest flux,
An agony not worth the chucks
Of a copper-coin, or the bandolier
Of a sixteenth century cavalier.
What knots of roses these battles were
To the painter commissioned to disinter
A thousand graves and decorate
One general at his moment of spate.
How gaily and safely they plied their trade,
Turning a fight to a harlequinade,
A holocaust to a pirouet.
What of the blood, the groans, the sweat,
The squeal of wounded horses, the cries
Of disembowelled companies —
What, think you, becomes of these
On his commissioned canvases?
Blow the trumpet! Bang the drum!
Tootle the fife! The armies come
Home from the wars, and what did they
Do there, painter, can you say?
Of course he can, he's the man to tell
What he's never seen, he imagines so well.
In his pictures, cavalry advance
To the jaws of cannon, so sprightly a prance
Shows the rose-wreath courage of horses and men.
One cannon ball has just slain ten,
Another is bursting like a rocket
An inch beyond the embroidered pocket
Of a gold-laced gentleman, unconcerned
By the fact that his uniform may be burned.
His noble horse, on hind legs only,
Dashes ahead of the troop in lonely
Magnificence. Earthworks bar the way,
But what of that? This is Malplaquet
With Marlborough rampant. Hooray! Hooray!
I am almost inclined to toss my hat
Up on a chandelier for that.
Such a roseate riot of marshal exploit!
A leader so bold, well-dressed, and adroit
At high-school horsemanship, one of the true bits
Of earth's tempered metal; why even his cubits
Outspan those of any behind him that drew bits
And gave him his distance to open the breach
In fiery solitude. What do they teach?
" Marlbrouck s'ndash va-t-ndash guerre! " Such is speech;
Even I am ignited.
A curious sound,
Something between a step and a pound,
Startles my trance. A man comes in,
A pallid person, and so thin
His bones crook the angles of his dress.
He limps, poor soul, and his breathlessness
Is pitiable, after his climb
Up the slippery stairs. It is closing time
He tells me dully. But I beg
Him to sit and rest. His wooden leg
Is a heavy burden, I suppose.
He shakes his head and slowly goes
On his round of closing the high windows.
" It's nothing, Sir, I've got the use
Of this timber now. They cooked my goose
When they conscripted me. If I'd known
In time I'd have broke my leg with a stone
Rather than this. I've a churlish bed
To lie on, but what's done is done, " he said.
A miserable philosophy
To catch a man so young as he.
I risked a question gingerly.
" Yes, Sir, a wife and youngster, so
I got this job. It's all I can do.
Damn beastly business, war! " He spat
A curse or two, and after that
He moved to show me out, but when
I asked his age, he spat again
Another curse: " That's it, Sir, see,
I'm only just gone twenty-three. "
I gave him silver. His stump came fainter
Round the corner of the kitchen wing.
Coincidence is an eery thing —
As I walked away, I damned that painter.