In 1913 Heffer, the well-known bookseller and publisher of Cambridge, England, issued a little anthology called Cambridge Poems 1900-1913. This volume was my first introduction to Brooke. As an undergraduate at Oxford2 during the years 1910-13 I had heard of his work from time to time; but I think we youngsters at Oxford were too absorbed in our own small versemakings to watch very carefully what the "Tabs" were doing. His poem The Old Vicarage, Grantchester, reprinted in Heffer's Cambridge Poems, first fell under my eye during the winter of 1913-14.
Grantchester is a tiny hamlet just outside Cambridge; set in the meadows along the Cam or Granta (the earlier name), and next door to the Trumpington of Chaucer's "The Reeve's Tale." All that Cambridge country is flat and comparatively uninteresting; patchworked3 with chalky fields bright with poppies; slow, shallow streams drifting between pollard willows4; it is the beginning of the fen5 district, and from the brow of the Royston downs (thirteen miles away) it lies as level as a table-top with the great chapel6 of King's clear against the sky. It is the favourite lament7 of Cambridge men that their "Umgebung" is so dull and monotonous8 compared with the rolling witchery of Oxfordshire.
But to the young Cantab sitting over his beer at the Café des Westens in Berlin, the Cambridge villages seemed precious and fair indeed. Balancing between genuine homesickness for the green pools of the Cam, and a humorous whim9 in his rhymed comment on the outlying villages, Brooke wrote the Grantchester poem; and probably when the fleeting10 pang11 of nostalgia12 was over enjoyed the evening in Berlin hugely. But the verses are more than of merely passing interest. To one who knows that neighbourhood the picture is cannily14 vivid. To me it brings back with painful intensity15 the white winding16 road from Cambridge to Royston which I have bicycled hundreds of tunes17. One sees the little inns along the way—the Waggon18 and Horses, the Plough, the King's Arms—and the recurring19 blue signboard Fine Royston Ales (the Royston brewery20 being famous in those parts). Behind the fun there shines Brooke's passionate21 devotion to the soil and soul of England which was to reach its final expression so tragically23 soon. And even behind this the immortal24 questions of youth which have no country and no clime—
Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
No lover of England, certainly no lover of Cambridge, is likely to forget the Grantchester poem. But knowing Brooke only by that, one may perhaps be excused for having merely ticketed him as one of the score of young varsity poets whom Oxford and Cambridge had graduated in the past decade and who are all doing fine and promising25 work. Even though he tarried here in the United States ("El Cuspidorado," as he wittily26 observed) and many hold precious the memory of his vivid mind and flashing face, to most of us he was totally unknown. Then came the War; he took part in the unsuccessful Antwerp Expedition; and while in training for the ?gean campaign he wrote the five sonnets27 entitled "1914". I do not know exactly when they were written or where first published. Their great popularity began when the Dean of St. Paul's quoted from them in a sermon on Easter Day, 1915, alluding29 to them as the finest expression of the English spirit that the War had called forth30. They came to New York in the shape of clippings from the London Times. No one could read the matchless sonnet28:
"If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England."
and not be thrilled to the quick. A country doctor in Ohio to whom I sent a copy of the sonnet wrote "I cannot read it without tears." This was poetry indeed; like the Scotchman and his house, we kent it by the biggin o't. I suppose many another stranger must have done as I did: wrote to Brooke to express gratitude31 for the perfect words. But he had sailed for the Mediterranean32 long before. Presently came a letter from London saying that he had died on the very day of my letter—April 23, 1915. He died on board the French hospital ship Duguay-Trouin, on Shakespeare's birthday, in his 28th year. One gathers from the log of the hospital-ship that the cause of his death was a malignant33 ulcer34, due to the sting of some venomous fly. He had been weakened by a previous touch of sunstroke.
A description of the burial is given in "Memorials of Old Rugbeians Who Fell in the Great War." It vividly35 recalls Stevenson's last journey to the Samoan mountain top which Brooke himself had so recently visited. The account was written by one of Brooke's comrades, who has since been killed in action:
We found a most lovely place for his grave, about a mile up the valley from the sea, an olive grove36 above a watercourse, dry now, but torrential in winter. Two mountains flank it on either side, and Mount Khokilas is at its head. We chose a place in the most lovely grove I have ever seen, or imagined, a little glade37 of about a dozen trees, carpeted with mauve-flowering sage38. Over its head droops39 an olive tree, and round it is a little space clear of all undergrowth.
About a quarter past nine the funeral party arrived and made their way up the steep, narrow, and rocky path that leads to the grave. The way was so rough and uncertain that we had to have men with lamps every twenty yards to guide the bearers. He was borne by petty officers of his own company, and so slowly did they go that it was not till nearly eleven that they reached the grave.
We buried him by cloudy moonlight. He wore his uniform, and on the coffin40 were his helmet, belt, and pistol (he had no sword). We lined the grave with flowers and olive, and Colonel Quilter laid an olive wreath on the coffin. The chaplain who saw him in the afternoon read the service very simply. The firing party fired three volleys and the bugles41 sounded the "Last Post."
And so we laid him to rest in that lovely valley, his head towards those mountains that he would have loved to know, and his feet towards the sea. He once said in chance talk that he would like to be buried in a Greek island. He could have no lovelier one than Skyros, and no quieter resting place.
On his grave we heaped great blocks of white marble; the men of his company made a great wooden cross for his head, with his name upon it, and his platoon put a smaller one at his feet. On the back of the large cross our interpreter wrote in Greek.... "Here lies the servant of God, sub-lieutenant in the English navy, who died for the deliverance of Constantinople from the Turks."
The next morning we sailed, and had no chance of revisiting his grave.
It is no mere13 flippancy42 to say that the War did much for Rupert Brooke. The boy who had written many hot, morbid43, immature44 verses and a handful of perfect poetry, stands now by one swift translation in the golden cloudland of English letters. There will never, can never, be any laggard45 note in the praise of his work. And of a young poet dead one may say things that would be too fulsome46 for life. Professor Gilbert Murray is quoted:
"Among all who have been poets and died young, it is hard to think of one who, both in life and death, has so typified the ideal radiance of youth and poetry."
In the grave among the olive trees on the island of Skyros, Brooke found at least one Certainty—that of being "among the English poets." He would probably be the last to ask a more high-sounding epitaph.
His "Collected Poems" as published consist of eighty-two pieces, fifty of which were published in his first book, issued (in England only) in 1911. That is to say fifty of the poems were written before the age of 24, and seventeen of the fifty before 21. These last are thoroughly47 youthful in formula. We all go through the old familiar cycle, and Brooke did not take his youth at second hand. Socialism, vegetarianism48, bathing by moonlight in the Cam, sleeping out of doors, walking barefoot on the crisp English turf, channel crossings and what not—it is all a part of the grand game. We can only ask that the man really see what he says he sees, and report it with what grace he can muster49.
And so of the seventeen earliest poems there need not be fulsome praise. Few of us are immortal poets by twenty-one. But even Brooke's undergraduate verses refused to fall entirely50 into the usual grooves51 of sophomore52 song. So unerring a critic as Professor Woodberry (his introduction to the "Collected Poems" is so good that lesser53 hands may well pause) finds in them "more of the intoxication54 of the god" than in the later rounder work. They include the dreaming tenderness of Day That I Have Loved; they include such neat little pictures of the gross and sordid55 as the two poems Wagner and Dawn, written on a trip in Germany. (It is curious that the only note of exasperation56 in Brooke's poems occurs when he writes from Germany. One finds it again, wittily put, in Grantchester.)
This vein of brutality57 and resolute58 ugliness that one finds here and there in Brooke's work is not wholly amiss nor unintelligible59. Like all young men of quick blood he seized gaily60 upon the earthy basis of our humanity and found in it food for purging61 laughter. There was never a young poet worth bread and salt who did not scrawl62 ribald verses in his day; we may surmise63 that Brooke's peers at King's would recall many vigorous stanzas64 that are not included in the volume at hand. The few touches that we have in this vein show a masculine fear on Brooke's part of being merely pretty in his verse. In his young thirst for reality he did not boggle at coarse figures or loathsome65 metaphors67. Just as his poems of 1905-08 are of the cliché period where all lips are "scarlet," and lamps are "relumed," so the section dated 1908-11 shows Brooke in the Shropshire Lad stage, at the mercy of extravagant68 sex images, and yet developing into the dramatic felicity of his sonnet The Hill:
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass,
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old...." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
—"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"
"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said:
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" ... Proud we were
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
—And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
The true lover of poetry, it seems to me, cannot but wish that the "1914" sonnets and the most perfect of the later poems had been separately issued. The best of Brooke forms a thin sheaf of consummate70 beauty, and I imagine that the little edition of "1914 and Other Poems," containing the thirty-two later poems, which was published in England and issued in Garden City by Doubleday, Page & Company in July, 1915, to save the American copy right, will always be more precious than the complete edition. As there were only twenty-five copies of this first American edition, it is extremely rare and will undoubtedly71 be sought after by collectors. But for one who is interested to trace the growth of Brooke's power, the steadying of his poetic72 orbit and the mounting flame of his joy in life, the poems of 1908-11 are an instructive study. From the perfected brutality of Jealousy73 or Menelaus and Helen or A Channel Passage (these bite like Meredith) we see him passing to sonnets that taste of Shakespeare and foretell74 his utter mastery of the form. What could better the wit and beauty of this song:
"Oh! Love," they said, "is King of Kings,
And Triumph is his crown.
Earth fades in flame before his wings,
And Sun and Moon bow down."
But that, I knew, would never do;
And Heaven is all too high.
So whenever I meet a Queen, I said,
I will not catch her eye.
"Oh! Love," they said, and "Love," they said,
"The Gift of Love is this;
A crown of thorns about thy head,
And vinegar to thy kiss!"—
But Tragedy is not for me;
And I'm content to be gay.
I went another way.
And so I never feared to see
You wander down the street,
Or come across the fields to me
On ordinary feet.
For what they'd never told me of,
And what I never knew;
It was that all the time, my love,
Love would be merely you.
We come then to the five sonnets inspired by the War. Let us be sparing of clumsy comment. They are the living heart of young England; the throbbing75 soul of all that gracious manhood torn from its happy quest of Beauty and Certainty, flung unheated into the absurdities76 of War, and yet finding in this supreme77 sacrifice an answer to all its pangs78 of doubt. All the hot yearnings of "1905-08" and "1908-11" are gone; here is no Shropshire Lad enlisting79 for spite, but a joyous80 surrender to England of all that she had given. See his favourite metaphor66 (that of the swimmer) recur—what pictures it brings of "Parson's Pleasure" on the Cher and the willowy bathing pool on the Cam. How one recalls those white Greek bodies against the green!
Now, God be thanked who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping.
To those who tell us England is grown old and fat and soft, there is the answer. It is no hymn81 of hate that England's youth has sung, but the farewell of those who, loving life with infinite zest82, have yet found in surrendering it to her the Beauty, the Certainty, yes and the Quiet, which they had sought. On those five pages are packed in simple words all the love of life, the love of woman, the love of England that make Brooke's memory sweet. Never did the sonnet speak to finer purpose. "In his hands the thing became a trumpet"—
THE DEAD
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality84.
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a King, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.
It would be misleading, perhaps, to leave Brooke's poetry with the echo of this solemn note. No understanding of the man would be complete without mentioning the vehement86 gladness and merriment he found in all the commonplaces of life. Poignant87 to all cherishers of the precious details of existence must be his poem The Great Lover where he catalogues a sort of trade order list of his stock in life. The lines speak with the very accent of Keats. These are some of the things he holds dear—
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Then, the cool kindliness89 of sheets, that soon
Smoothe away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such—
...All these have been my loves.
Of his humour only those who knew him personally have a right to speak; but where does one find a more perfect bit of gentle satire91 than Heaven where he gives us a Tennysonian fish pondering the problem of a future life.
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
We darkly know, by Faith we cry
The future is not Wholly Dry....
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time,
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
Of such a sort, to use Mr. Mosher's phrase, was Rupert Chawner Brooke, "the latest and greatest of young Englishmen."
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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patchworked
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| Patchworked | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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fen
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| n.沼泽，沼池 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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nostalgia
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| n.怀乡病，留恋过去，怀旧 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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cannily
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| 精明地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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brewery
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| n.啤酒厂 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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ulcer
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| n.溃疡，腐坏物 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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droops
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的名词复数 ) | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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immature
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| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
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laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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fulsome
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| adj.可恶的，虚伪的，过分恭维的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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vegetarianism
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| n.素食，素食主义 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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sophomore
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| n.大学二年级生；adj.第二年的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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purging
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| 清洗； 清除； 净化； 洗炉 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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absurdities
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| n.极端无理性( absurdity的名词复数 )；荒谬；谬论；荒谬的行为 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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80
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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85
dearth
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| n.缺乏，粮食不足，饥谨 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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88
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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89
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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90
benison
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| n.祝福 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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liquidity
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| n.流动性，偿债能力，流动资产 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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