The Ballad of St. Barbara

THE BALLAD OF ST. BARBARA

(St. Barbara is the patron saint of artillery and ofthose in danger of sudden death.)

When the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain,We stood and drank of the last free air we never could taste again:They had led us back from the lost battle, to halt we knew not whereAnd stilled us; and our gaping guns were dumb with our despair.The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless landsAnd a Norman to a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands.

"There was an end to Ilium; and an end came to Rome;And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home;Arch after arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor,That lead to a low door at last; and beyond there is no door."And the Breton to the Norman spoke, like a small child spoke he,And his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the sea:"There are more windows in one house than there are eyes to see,There are more doors in a man's house, but God has hid the key:Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnessethBarbara, the saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden death."

It seemed the wheel of the world stood still an instant in its turning,More than the kings of the earth that turned with the turning of Valmy mill:While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were burning,Still as the heart of a whirlwind the heart of the world stood still.

"Barbara the beautifulHad praise of lute and pen:Her hair was like a summer nightDark and desired of men.

Her feet like birds from far awayThat linger and light in doubt;And her face was like a windowWhere a man's first love looked out.

Her sire was master of many slavesA hard man of his hands;They built a tower about herIn the desolate golden lands,

Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs,Planned with an ancient plan,And set two windows in the towerLike the two eyes of a man."

Our guns were set toward the foe; we had no word, for firing.Grey in the gateway of St. Gond the Guard of the tyrant shone;Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and retiring.The Breton line went backward and the Breton tale went on.

"Her father had sailed across the seaFrom the harbour of AfricaWhen all the slaves took up their toolsFor the bidding of Barbara.

She smote the bare wall with her handAnd bad them smite again;She poured them wealth of wine and meatTo stay them in their pain.

And cried through the lifted thunderOf thronging hammer and hod'Throw open the third windowIn the third name of God.'

Then the hearts failed and the tools fell,And far towards the foam,Men saw a shadow on the sandsAnd her father coming home."

Speak low and low, along the line the whispered word is flyingBefore the touch, before the time, we may not loose a breath:Their guns must mash us to the mire and there be no replying,Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final dice to death.

"There were two windows in your tower,Barbara, Barbara,For all between the sun and moonIn the lands of Africa.

Hath a man three eyes, Barbara,A bird three wings,That you have riven roof and wallTo look upon vain things?"

Her voice was like a wandering thingThat falters yet is free,Whose soul has drunk in a distant landOf the rivers of liberty.

"There are more wings than the wind knowsOr eyes than see the sunIn the light of the lost windowAnd the wind of the doors undone.

For out of the first latticeAre the red lands that breakAnd out of the second latticeSea like a green snake,

But out of the third latticeUnder low eaves like wingsIs a new corner of the skyAnd the other side of things."

It opened in the inmost place an instant beyond uttering,A casement and a chasm and a thunder of doors undone,A seraph's strong wing shaken out the shock of its unshuttering,That split the shattered sunlight from a light behind the sun.

"Then he drew sword and drave herWhere the judges sat and said'Caesar sits above the gods,Barbara the maid.

Caesar hath made a treatyWith the moon and with the sun,All the gods that men can praisePraise him every one.

There is peace with the anointedOf the scarlet oils of Bel,With the Fish God, where the whirlpoolIs a winding stair to hell,

With the pathless pyramids of slime,Where the mitred negro liftsTo his black cherub in the cloudAbominable gifts,

With the leprous silver citiesWhere the dumb priests dance and nod,But not with the three windowsAnd the last name of God.'"

They are firing, we are falling, and the red skies rend and shiver us,Barbara, Barbara, we may not loose a breath—Be at the bursting doors of doom, and in the dark deliver us,Who loosen the last window on the sun of sudden death.

"Barbara the beautifulStood up as queen set free,Whose mouth is set to a terrible cupAnd the trumpet of liberty.

'I have looked forth from a windowThat no man now shall bar,Caesar's toppling battle-towersShall never stretch so far.

The slaves are dancing in their chains,The child laughs at the rod,Because of the bird of the three wings,And the third face of God.'

The sword upon his shoulderShifted and shone and fell,And Barbara lay very smallAnd crumpled like a shell."

What wall upon what hinges turned stands open like a door?Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for human eyes,What light upon what ancient way shines to a far-off floor,The line of the lost land of France or the plains of Paradise?

"Caesar smiled above the gods,His lip of stone was curled,His iron armies wound like chainsRound and round the world,

And the strong slayer of his ownThat cut down flesh for grass,Smiled too, and went to his own towerLike a walking tower of brass,

And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb;And far towards the foamMen saw a shadow on the sands;And her father coming home. . .

Blood of his blood upon the swordStood red but never dry.He wiped it slowly, till the bladeWas blue as the blue sky.

But the blue sky split with a thunder-crack,Spat down a blinding brand,And all of him lay back and flatAs his shadow on the sand."

The touch and the tornado; all our guns give tongue togetherSt. Barbara for the gunnery and God defend the right,They are stopped and gapped and battered as we blast away the weather.Building window upon window to our lady of the light.For the light is come on Liberty, her foes are falling, falling,They are reeling, they are running, as the shameful years have run,She is risen for all the humble, she has heard the conquered calling,St. Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand upon the gun.They are burst asunder in the midst that eat of their own flatteries,Whose lip is curled to order as its barbered hair is curled. . . .Blast of the beauty of sudden death, St. Barbara of the batteries!That blow the new white window in the wall of all the world.

For the hand is raised behind us, and the bolt smites hardThrough the rending of the doorways, through the death-gap of the Guard,For the cry of the Three Colours is in Condé and beyondAnd the Guard is flung for carrion in the graveyard of St. Gond,Through Mondemont and out of it, through Morin marsh and onWith earthquake of salutation the impossible thing is gone,Gaul, charioted and charging, great Gaul upon a gun,Tip-toe on all her thousand years and trumpeting to the sun:As day returns, as death returns, swung backwards and swung home,Back on the barbarous reign returns the battering-ram of Rome.While that that the east held hard and hot like pincers in a forge,Came like the west wind roaring up the cannon of St. George,Where the hunt is up and racing over stream and swamp and tarnAnd their batteries, black with battle, hold the bridgeheads of the MarneAnd across the carnage of the Guard, by Paris in the plain,The Normans to the Bretons cried and the Bretons cheered again. . .But he that told the tale went home to his house beside the seaAnd burned before St. Barbara, the light of the windows three,Three candles for an unknown thing, never to come again,That opened like the eye of God on Paris in the plain.