As Adam was a-working outside of Eden-Wall,

He used the Earth, he used the Seas, he used the Air and all;

Till out of black disaster

He arose to be the master

Of Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
But never reached his heart's desire!
(The Apple Tree's cut down!)

IT

THE BEGINNINGS

1914-18

T WAS not part of their blood,
It came to them very late

With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.

They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.

Their voices were even and low,

Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.

It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,

When the English began to hate.

It was not suddenly bred,

It will not swiftly abate,

Through the chill years ahead,

When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.

THE PRAYER

MY BROTHER kneels, so saith Kabir,
To stone and brass in heathen-wise,

But in my brother's voice I hear
My own unanswered agonies.
His God is as his fates assign,

His prayer is all the world's-and mine.

SONGS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY

THE RIVER'S TALE

(PREHISTORIC)

TWENTY bridges from Tower to Kew
Wanted to know what the River knew,
For they were young and the Thames was old,
And this is the tale that the River told:-

"I walk my beat before London Town,
Five hours up and seven down.
Up I go till I end my run

At Tide-end-town, which is Teddington.
Down I come with the mud in my hands
And plaster it over the Maplin Sands.

But I'd have you know that these waters of mine
Were once a branch of the River Rhine,

When hundreds of miles to the East I went
And England was joined to the Continent.

I remember the bat-winged lizard-birds,
The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds,
And the giant tigers that stalked them down
Through Regent's Park into Camden Town.
And I remember like yesterday

The earliest Cockney who came my way,

When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand, With paint on his face and a club in his hand.

He was death to feather and fin and fur,

He trapped my beavers at Westminster.
He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer,
He killed my herons off Lambeth Pier.
He fought his neighbour with axes and swords,
Flint or bronze, at my upper fords,

While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin,
The tall Phoenician ships stole in,