(Sorrow)

Not with the villagers at night and morn,
But very sorrowful the lonely mile,
Hadêyeh goes for water to the Nile.

For wedded long, no man-child has been born
Her lord and master’s village home to bless,
And all her life is heavy bitterness.

The dreary way she, silent and downcast,
Will plod in grief, but must perforce return
Head up, to bring the heavy household urn.

And every morn she wishes were the last,
But still toward the Nile perforce she goes,
And weeps, and none have pity on her woes.

For all the talk at morn and eventide,
When from the river Nile they water bear,
Is of the plants Egyptian mothers rear.

Of how the camel went for Hasan’s bride,—
How the Shêkh’s dame was lately brought to bed,
And of her firstborn now is lying dead.

To listen to the birds was her delight,
Her eyes were like the hawk’s that hangeth over,
She filled her hands with blossom of red clover.

Her ears are duller and her eyes less bright,
With her no more the flowers of spring prevail,
She hardly hears the piping of the quail.

And I have watched the melancholy wife
Stand sobbing, as she heaved the jar ashore,
And prayed she might not see the sunset more.

Have heard her groan, and seen the bitter strife
Wherewith unhelped she lifted up the jar,
And went by starlight home without a star.

(Idylls and Lyrics of the Nile, p. 80)

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(Joy)

Like huge dark herons thro’ the morning mist,
    Bare-legged the women in the shallows stand;
    Deep in the muddy river, with one hand
They sink the water-jars that swirl and twist,
Then with a clever jerking of the wrist
    They scoop in water and keep out the sand,
    And bear the gleaming ‘bellas’ safe to land.

But sweet Habeebeh back again will come
    To wash her arms and face and her full lips;
    She laughs, she is a bride, those finger-tips
So red with henna tell she has a home,
And lord; she cleanses next her jar from loam,
    Leaps up the bank, and shakes about her hips
    The flowing robe of blue, and off she trips.

(Idylls and Lyrics of the Nile, p. 79)

 

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We brought you food, we dragged your
            guns,
    We bore the brunt of shot and shell,
We helped with will against the Huns,
Till worn and over-taxed we fell.
Give us the rest and cure we crave,
Nor let less kindly hands enslave.

If ever Europe breathes again,
If ever victory crown the right,
Can you forget the cruel strain,
Of roads that led toward the fight,
Deep mud above the axle tree,
We struggled through to make you free?

Wherefore, oh, kindly British heart,
Have pity on our brotherhood,
In thanks that we have done our part,
Who gave our strength for Empire’s
            good.
Thy servants at the King’s command,
Give us back health to help the land.

(Bournemouth Graphic, 1917, 13 April, p. 5)

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(Hope)

Shway-Shwáyah, with her lips all blue,
And chin dark-beaded with tattoo,
Takes the large water-jug in hand
And joins the river-going band.
She dreams the one thing good in life
Is to be chosen for a wife:
To-day she wins her fourteenth year,
And if full charged her head can bear
From the far Nile the large ‘bellas,’1
Straight unto marriage she may pass.
So jauntily she sets aslope
The jar upon her crown of rope:
A man goes by; with native grace
She draws her veil across her face,
But I could see her dark eyes gleam
With laughter;—so toward the stream,
With ankle-bracelets jangling loud,
They hurry on, a barefoot crowd.
Then to the water-flood they haste,
The skirts bunched up about their waist,
Fill the large water-jars, and hand
Their shining amphoræ to land;
Raise to the knee, then with a cry
And helpful hoist from standers by,
Set the huge weight upon their head,
Find balance with a forward tread,
And stately, with one hand behind
To hold the burden to the wind,
High-crowned but solemnly and slow
The water-bearers homewards go,
With young Shway-shwáyah pleased to carry
Her full-sized jar—and fit to marry.

[1 The large water-jars used  by the women to carry water from the Nile.]   

(Idylls and Lyrics of the Nile, p. 77)

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Sir,—Those of us who know the need of encouragement for higher education, if we are to repair the waste of brain power through this cruel war, and those who have had experience of the joy given to thousands by the preserving, open to the public for ever, places of historic interest or natural beauty, cannot help hoping that you will lend us your powerful aid in urging that two forms of possible memorial to our heroic dead shall not be forgotten.

  1. The endowing of our unendowed secondary schools with scholarships that will admit the brighter scholars who are otherwise quite unable to do so to pass to our universities.
  2. The obtaining of some beautiful view-point or open space or place of historic interest to be dedicated to the public in memory of the brave men of the locality who have given up their lives for King and Empire.

An offer has just reached me, which will be laid before the National Trust at their next meeting, of 20 acres of glorious moorland within reach of one of our large Lancashire cities, and this in memory of one known to be a lover of nature who has fallen in the war.

I feel so sure that this good example would be followed, to the great advantage of future generations and to the imperishable honour of the dead if only the idea can become current, that I dare to ask of your kind insertion of this letter.  

(Times, 4 February 1916, p. 7)

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  1. War Memorials
  2. The War and Some of Its Lessons
  3. The War and Education
  4. Walks at Engelberg