The gate was backed against the ryme To pa.s.s the cows at milking time.

And by the gate as I went out A moldwarp rooted earth wi 's snout.

A few steps up the Callows' Lane Brought me above the mist again; The two great fields arose like death Above the mists of human breath.

All earthly things that blessed morning Were everlasting joy and warning.

The gate was Jesus' way made plain, The mole was Satan foiled again, Black blinded Satan snouting way Along the red of Adam's clay; The mist was error and d.a.m.nation, The lane the road unto salvation, Out of the mist into the light; O blessed gift of inner sight.

The past was faded like a dream; There come the jingling of a team, A ploughman's voice, a clink of chain, Slow hoofs, and harness under strain.

Up the slow slope a team came bowing, Old Callow at his autumn ploughing, Old Callow, stooped above the hales.

Ploughing the stubble into wales; His grave eyes looking straight ahead, Shearing a long straight furrow red; His plough-foot high to give it earth To bring new food for men to birth.

O wet red swathe of earth laid bare, O truth, O strength, O gleaming share, O patient eyes that watch the goal, O ploughman of the sinner's soul.

O Jesus, drive the coulter deep To plough my living man from sleep.

Slow up the hill the plough team plod, Old Callow at the task of G.o.d, Helped by man's wit, helped by the brute Turning a stubborn clay to fruit, His eyes for ever on some sign To help him plough a perfect line.

At top of rise the plough team stopped, The fore-horse bent his head and cropped Then the chains chack, the bra.s.ses jingle, The lean reins gather through the cringle, The figures move against the sky, The clay wave breaks as they go by.

I kneeled there in the muddy fallow, I knew that Christ was there with Callow, That Christ was standing there with me, That Christ had taught me what to be, That I should plough, and as I ploughed My Saviour Christ would sing aloud, And as I drove the clods apart Christ would be ploughing in my heart, Through rest-harrow and bitter roots, Through all my bad life's rotten fruits.

O Christ who holds the open gate, O Christ who drives the furrow straight, O Christ, the plough, O Christ, the laughter Of holy white birds flying after, Lo, all my heart's field red and torn, And Thou wilt bring the young green corn, The young green corn divinely springing, The young green corn for ever singing; And when the field is fresh and fair Thy blessed feet shall glitter there.

And we will walk the weeded field, And tell the golden harvest's yield, The corn that makes the holy bread By which the soul of man is fed, The holy bread, the food unpriced, Thy everlasting mercy, Christ.

The share will jar on many a stone, Thou wilt not let me stand alone; And I shall feel (Thou wilt not fail), Thy hand on mine upon the hale.

Near Bullen Bank, on Gloucester Road, Thy everlasting mercy showed The ploughman patient on the hill For ever there, for ever still, Ploughing the hill with steady yoke Of pine-trees lightning-struck and broke.

I've marked the May Hill ploughman stay There on his hill, day after day Driving his team against the sky, While men and women live and die.

And now and then he seems to stoop To clear the coulter with the scoop, Or touch an ox to haw or gee While Severn stream goes out to sea.

The sea with all her ships and sails, And that great smoky port in Wales, And Gloucester tower bright i' the sun, All know that patient wandering one.

And sometimes when they burn the leaves The bonfires' smoking trails and heaves, And girt red flames twink and twire As though he ploughed the hill afire.

And in men's hearts in many lands A spiritual ploughman stands For ever waiting, waiting now, The heart's 'Put in, man, zook the plough.'

By this the sun was all one glitter, The little birds were all in twitter; Out of a tuft a little lark Went higher up than I could mark, His little throat was all one thirst To sing until his heart should burst, To sing aloft in golden light His song from blue air out of sight.

The mist drove by, and now the cows Came plodding up to milking house, Followed by Frank, the Callows' cowman, Who whistled 'Adam was a ploughman.'

There come such cawing from the rooks, Such running chuck from little brooks, One thought it March, just budding green With hedgerows full of celandine.

An otter out of stream and played, Two hares come loping up and stayed; Wide-eyed and tender-eared but bold.

Sheep bleated up by Penny's fold.

I heard a partridge covey call; The morning sun was bright on all.

Down the long slope the plough team drove The tossing rooks arose and hove.

A stone struck on the share. A word Came to the team. The red earth stirred.

I crossed the hedge by shooter's gap, I hitched my boxer's belt a strap, I jumped the ditch and crossed the fallow I took the hales from farmer Callow.

How swift the summer goes, Forget-me-not, pink, rose.

The young gra.s.s when I started And now the hay is carted, And now my song is ended, And all the summer spended; The blackbird's second brood Routs beech-leaves in the wood The pink and rose have speeded, Forget-me-not has seeded.

Only the winds that blew, The rain that makes things new, The earth that hides things old, And blessings manifold.

O lovely lily clean, O lily springing green, O lily bursting white, Dear lily of delight, Spring in my heart agen That I may flower to men.

GREAT HAMPDEN. June 1911.

NOTE

'The Everlasting Mercy' first appeared in _The English Review_ for October 1911. I thank the Editor and Proprietors of that paper for permitting me to reprint it here. The persons and events described in the poem are entirely imaginary, and no reference is made or intended to any living person.

JOHN MASEFIELD.

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