Читать книгу Gloucestershire Friends: Poems From a German Prison Camp - F. W. Harvey - Страница 3

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by Bishop Frodsham

“Good wine needs no bush.” Those who know and love “A Gloucestershire Lad” would resent any lengthy attempt to praise the quality of Lieutenant Harvey’s verses. Some of the poems from a German prison camp may reach a far higher standard of lyric excellence than any in the earlier volume. The two ballades on war and “The Bugler” grip one by the throat. But all the verses have a sweetness and beauty entirely their own.

The poems are all short—too short. Lieutenant Harvey sings like the wild birds of his own dear Gloucestershire because he cannot help doing so. He stops short—as they do—and like them begins again. What can we do but take what he gives us, wondering that he can write so well, mewed as he is in a cage—and such a cage! An agony of inarticulate longing shrills in a feathered cageling’s song: the man simply and unaffectedly lays bare his heart, his love, his faith, his hope, his sense of loneliness, of ineffectiveness, of baffled purposes and incompleted manhood.

Memory is at once the joy and torment of all who are forced to think. Memory tears the heart-strings of those who are in captivity. It makes some hopeless and weak, others bitter and savage, according to their natures. Beneath all the music of this man’s words there is an undertone of fierce anger that sweeps him away at times, but is this not characteristic of many other young Englishmen who laugh so well, and “woo bright danger for a thrilling kiss”? His memories sweep along the great gamut of his own tremendous experiences, and yet they never lose the melodies of home. Perhaps because of the objects of his heart’s desire he is so kindly withal, so modest, so humorous, and, to use his own words of another, “so worldly foolish, so divinely wise.” Herein is the fascination of these verses.

The manuscript was sent on by the prison authorities of Crefeld without any obliteration or excision. This must be counted unto them for literary righteousness. Yet it would be difficult to imagine what the most stony-hearted German censor could resent in any one of Lieutenant Harvey’s poems, unless it might be a deep love for England and an overwhelming desire to be with his love again.

Many unfortunates who have had dear ones imprisoned at Gütersloh, where most of these poems were written, and at other centres, are looking forward eagerly to the publication of this little book. If they expect to read descriptions of the life of the camp, or reflections upon the conduct of German gaolers, they will be disappointed. The circumstances of the case have made such revelations impossible. If they had been possible, it is still doubtful if they would have been made here. But it will be strange if such readers do not find better things than they expected. Transpose any other county of this land for Gloucestershire, or any other home for the tree-encircled house at Minsterworth, then they will learn what the best of England’s captive sons are thinking, and so take heart of grace from the true love-songs of a Gloucestershire soldier, written first and foremost for his mother.