BUTTADEUS
by: William Samuel Johnson
(A Battle Episode of July,
1915)
- UNDERSTAND:
that smoke-cloud is Souchez
- (Your gunners know their craft!); that is Ablain,
- Or was Ablain; this dust and shattered stone,
- The chapel of Our Lady of Lorette;
- And there you fought, that frenzied middle May,
- From spur to spur along this torn Plateau,
- From trench to trench; and there your burrowing bombs
- Tossed from their graves the rotting Teuton dead
- To mix with these new slaughtered . . .
-
- You are blest
- Who, for the winged and visioning spirit of France,
- Tread God's permitted way to splendid death!
- If I could also die . . .
-
- Yes, I am old,
- Old by uncounted battles. Friends, I saw
- Jerusalem fall! I saw the sacred hill
- Boil horribly skyward from a plain of dead,
- A mount of blood and flame. I saw the walls,
- The strength of Zion, razed to earth. I lived
- Whilst they, a million, five score thousand, died
- Of pestilence and hunger, fire and sword.
-
- You smile.--This is not dotage: I am he,
- The cobbler--surely you have heard the tale--
- Who, buffeting the Master (whence my name
- Buttadeus, God-smiter), bade him go,
- He fainting on my threshold 'neath the cross.
- "I go," he said; "wait thou until I come,
- Ahasuerus!" . . . I am waiting still . . .
-
- Smile on, French comrades! If I too could smile,
- Perchance I too could die! . . . In your dear tongue,
- Tongue of the Midi, I am Boutedieu;
- I am the watcher of the wars of earth;
- I am the witness of the man he was;
- I am the prophet of his peace. Smile on!
-
- Great war? World war? I hear you call it so--
- Well, you have seen but this, while I have seen
- Blood reddening nineteen hundred rings of growth
- Of the fair tree of Christ, that tree whose roots
- Suck from the muck of earth the living sap
- That flowers in man's consciousness of God.
-
- Great war? This is a skirmish! Good and ill
- Fight out their age-long battle and shall fight
- Till heaven's kingdom, even as he said,
- Is all in all within us . . .
- Peace? Peace? Peace?
- While wrong is wrong let no man prate of peace!
- He did not prate, the Master. Nay, he smote!
- I am his witness and this thing I saw:
-
- It was the Passover. The Gentile's Court
- Was thronged with hucksters; and I too was there
- Yelping my string of sandals; and the beasts
- Bellowed and bleated, while the cries of greed,
- The filthy word, the reek of sweat, steamed up
- The sacred steps, across the Women's Court,
- Even to the Holy Place. And as I yelped
- He came swift striding, silent, sack-cloth-girt,
- Wielding a mighty scourge. No flagellant's toy
- It was that purged the Temple! Shittim-wood,
- Hard, heavy, fashioned by his craftsman hands,
- With ropes, hard, heavy, knotted at the ends,
- Bone-biting. See! these old, old scars will show
- Whether his arm could strike, trained to the axe,
- To hew the plow-beam, shape the oxen's yoke
- (His yokes were easy, said the Nazarenes)
- And fell the oak and gopher. Through the Court
- He strode, with stroke on axeman's stroke, his hair
- Sweat-matted, in every sinew righteousness
- That wrought the will of God by wrath of man!
- And there were shrieks of fear and snarls of pain
- And blood and bruises, as those hewing stripes
- Fell on our thieving backs--and mine was one.
- And when the Court was purged and all was calm,
- He turned him to the common folk he loved
- And spake the words you know. But words and blows
- And these dear witness scars mean only this:
- "While wrong is wrong let no man prate of peace!"
-
- You nod, French comrades, looking grimly down
- On lost Souchez, on shattered Givenchy,
- And the white road to Lens. You understand
- The godlike flame and frenzy of the man;
- You think of Belgium, all her ruins and wrongs,
- A den of theives, a temple still unpurged;
- You think of France, her sacred woman-soul
- Maddened with memories of nameless things--
- You understand! How well you understand . . .
-
- Hate wrong! Slay wrong! Your master-gunners there
- Thunder that gospel; and evolving life,
- Life mounting Godward, knows that teachings true
- While flesh is flesh, while sin is sin-- And yet
- There is another gospel! For your hearts,
- Passioned with wonder and worship and great dreams,
- There is another gospel! Feel this air,
- Warm with the sun of France, invisible,
- Fluent, enfolding, palpitating, vast,
- Breathing and breathed. Dear friends, around our souls
- Floweth another air invisible,
- Vast, palpitating, breathed and breathing--God!
-
- This was the Master's message; nothing more:
- This was the Master's message! But he dies,
- Nailed to his misunderstanding as a cross,
- Through age on age of error. He was man
- As we are men, and God as we are God,
- Not otherwise, else is that message in vain--
- O Lover I smote! Ineffable Loneliness
- That faced Golgotha! Thou hast come indeed;
- I share thy vigil on the mountain height;
- I know the passion of Gethsemane;
- I feel the Presence flow across thy soul,
- Vast, palpitating, breathed and breathing--Love!
-
- Brothers, believe this truth: that whoso prays
- As prayed the Master; whoso fashions his heart
- By wonder and worship and immortal dreams
- To a gift meet for Godhead; whoso yearns
- To lose his self in Self's infinitude--
- The pure Shechinah in his soul shall dwell
- As in the Master's. And every man on earth
- May live as he, wrapt in the Spirit Divine,
- The Fatherhood whose sons are all that love;
- And, living so, shall year by happy year,
- And life by life, and light by mystic light,
- Up to the mount of self's last Cavalry,
- Know that which passeth understanding--Peace;
- Vast, palpitating, breathed and breathing--Peace!
-
- Hate wrong! Slay wrong! else mercy, justice, truth,
- Freedom and faith, shall die for humankind--
- Slay! that His Law may live! But, having slain,
- O seek the quiet places in your souls,
- The lonely shore of your Gennesaret,
- Your Mount of Olives, your Gethsemane,
- Where waits the Peace of God.
"Buttadeus" is reprinted
from Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1916. Ed. William
Stanley Braithwaite. New York: Laurence J. Gomme, 1916. |
MORE POEMS BY WILLIAM SAMUEL JOHNSON |
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