Читать книгу Selected Poems - John 1878-1967 Masefield - Страница 24

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The moonlight shone on Cabbage Walk,

It made the limestone look like chalk.

It was too late for any people,

Twelve struck as we went by the steeple.

A dog barked, and an owl was calling,

The squire’s brook was still a-falling,

The carved heads on the church looked down

On “Russell, Blacksmith of this Town,”

And all the graves of all the ghosts

Who rise on Christmas Eve in hosts

To dance and carol in festivity

For joy of Jesus Christ’s Nativity

(Bell-ringer Dawe and his two sons

Beheld ’em from the bell-tower once),

Two and two about about

Singing the end of Advent out.

All the old monks’ singing places

Glimmered quick with flitting faces,

Singing anthems, singing hymns

Under carven cherubims.

Ringer Dawe aloft could mark

Faces at the window dark

Crowding, crowding, row on row,

Till all the Church began to glow.

The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir,

All the faces became fire

Below the eastern window high

To see Christ’s star come up the sky.

Then they lifted hands and turned,

And all their lifted fingers burned,

Burned like the golden altar tallows,

Burned like a troop of God’s own Hallows,

Bringing to mind the burning time

When all the bells will rock and chime

And burning saints on burning horses

Will sweep the planets from their courses

And loose the stars to burn up night.

Lord, give us eyes to bear the light.

We all went quiet down the Scallenge

Lest Police Inspector Drew should challenge.

But ’Spector Drew was sleeping sweet,

His head upon a charges sheet,

Under the gas jet flaring full,

Snorting and snoring like a bull,

His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing,

His ugly yellow front teeth showing.

Just as we peeped we saw him fumble

And scratch his head, and shift, and mumble.

Down in the lane so thin and dark

The tan-yards stank of bitter bark,

The curate’s pigeons gave a flutter,

A cat went courting down the gutter,

And none else stirred a foot or feather.

The houses put their heads together,

Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly,

Of all the folk they’d seen go by,

Children, and men and women, merry all,

Who’d some day pass that way to burial.