Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HEART OF A BOY; IN MEMORIAM, by AUSTIN PHILIPS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HEART OF A BOY; IN MEMORIAM, by                    
First Line: Ice on sabrina's plain
Last Line: Or wandered, unawares, emmäus-ward with christ.
Subject(s): Boys; Children; Childhood


Harry Wakelyn Smith, for thirty years Form-Master of the Upper Fifth
at Malvern

ICE on Sabrina's Plain.
High on our Hills the snow
Lingers and lurks in patches which distain
Those bare, brown slopes where grow
But bracken, gorse, and grim, green stunted trees ...
Yet at whose base there stands,
Sublime, superb, austere,
Human, divine and infinitely dear,
She who surveys, commands
River and champaign, corn and pasture lands,
Goddess and gracious Guardian of all these,
Our Loveliest Lady of the Terraces.

I am come here, this Sabbath March-morn,
To search for the heart of a boy,
Left, long ago, as the train
Sauntered through Severn's sweet Plain,
Bearing him homeward, forlorn—
A boy whom fools sought to destroy,
Damn and diminish, though born
Servant of spiritual things. ...
Dooming him, cramped, with clipped wings,
For decades to wander in pain,
Till, at the end, he emerged,
Saved by his Daimon, and urged
Upward through Darkness and Night
Into full Freedom and Light ...
Now am I come here to find
Half of me, long left behind.

For every man—when he turns back,
In middle-age, o'er trodden track,
And visits, be he sage or fool,
His Alma Mater and his School—
In thrall to memories which enfold
His inmost self, insensibly
Seeks that especial spot most loved of old:
That Holy of Holies wherein he
Lived fullest, left his boyhood's heart,
Had peace, had war, where thus he spent,
According to his temperament,
His happiest hours: best strove apart,
Or battled bravest among peers ...
Ah, well I know the place which I
Hold sacred under Malvern's sky,
The haunt to which my instinct steers
Me, through the miasmata of years.

Nor racket-court nor football-field
To me remains my Malvern's core;
Baths and gymnasium cannot yield
Me back glad hours of here-to-fore;
Even that 'Turf', of such wide fame,
Whereon I played our greatest game—
All other games above, an Art,
Beautiful, bastard and apart,
The Thief of Time and worthier things!—
Played it with all the ardent zest
And passion of a soul possest,
Gives me no thrill to-day, nor brings
Me back to that lost boyhood's heart. ...
Still less that hideous, hateful place
Within whose walls I, doomed to dwell,
So long endured those Hounds of Hell:
That 'House' where, stark of soul and stained,
The savage, stupid sadist reigned,
Creator of a kindred race—
Pupils by whom such deeds were done
As, even to-day, have pow'r to stagger, shock and stun.

Ice on Sabrina's Plain.
High on our Hills the snow
Lingers and lurks in patches which distain
Those bare, brown slopes where grow
But bracken, gorse, and grim, green stunted trees ...
Yet at whose base there stands,
Sublime, superb, austere,
Human, divine and infinitely dear,
She who surveys, commands
River and champaign, corn and pasture lands,
Goddess and gracious Guardian of all these,
Our Loveliest Lady of the Terraces.

Thus, then, I leave the frozen sward,
And take firm-chosen way to-ward
You, Mighty Mother, where You stand,
Flanked by Your 'Houses' on each hand,
To mount the three-fold steps which lead
To Your main portal from the mead:
Hearing, the while, faint music ring
From that fair fane beneath Your wing.

Along those empty, stone-flagged halls,
That echo as each footstep falls,
Unhesitant, without delay,
I take my sure, instinctive way,
Climb the worn stairs, achieve the floor
Above, push open panelled door,
Pass through it, turn the key, remain
Motionless, scarcely breathing; fain
For fullest silence, lest one sound
Disturb my sense of hallowed ground:
Then, as the atmosphere assumes
Me wholly, in this room of rooms,
Draw myself up and, standing there,
Salute an un-filled dais-chair.

Thence, thirty faithful years, a man,
Built on a gracious, God-like plan,
Gallant and gentle, wise and kind,
Flung forth the first-fruits of his mind:
Servant of Truth, and Beauty's knight,
Sweetness he taught, and likewise Light:
Putting such personality,
Such richness and such mellowness,
Such passion and such tenderness
Into his teaching that, for me,
Greek verse and Roman poetry
Transmuted were to Living Things,
Whose force I felt unconsciously,
Which pointed fields I fain would furrow,
Which bade me break a road apart
And offer all my life to Art ...
Across the years his voice still rings
In praise of One who was to be
My latter days' Divinity:
He Whose high creed and cult I follow,
He at Whose altars I serve ceaselessly ...
Hark! Clearly comes a name invoked in ecstasy!
I hear again my inspirer calling passionately
Upon the Delian and the Patarean God, august Apollo.

Here lies my boyhood's heart. And not
My heart alone. I am but one
Of hundreds whose thrice happy lot
It was to draw their spiritual sun
From this man's teachings. What he gave
Scores upon scores still hoard and save,
While countless others, since gone forth
To East and West and South and North,
Passed, and pass, on his gift of Light ...
So that his influence still burns bright,
Become a part of that great Whole
Which is the Universal Soul:
And Papuan peasant, all unknown,
And Pagan Chief on petty throne,
Rajah and Ryot, African
Maker of Magic, Medicine Man
In far Fiji, are each, to-day,
Enlightened in increasing way,
And set on widening road through him
Whose works and days were one long hymn
To Culture ... and whose pupils prove
His insight, genius, love.

This was a man, indeed. And yet
Sometimes I think him something more!
Master and Friend, should we forget
Afternoon hours of here-to-fore?
How, quiet-voiced, you took your place
Beside each pupil for a space,
Came and commended, criticized,
Encouraged sagely and advised,
Correcting every Verse or Prose
In such creative way that those
With whom you struck that noble note
Felt a lump rising in their throat,
Knew eager, ardent urge to give
Their utmost, their superlative ...
How, too, you subtly sought to know
The road along which each would go,
Making us feel you deeply cared
What we became, and how we fared:
Whether, in later life, we scaled
The heights, and in self-set tasks prevailed,
Whether we found ourselves or failed ...
Always you strove to fill, inspire
Us with your own authentic fire.

For my part, I profess
Such single-mindedness
Seems supra-human, and to have been a sign
Of one who, if not divine
Himself, was, at the least,
Reincarnation of Apollo's priest ...
Nay, on this much-loved room
I feel a strange light loom,
And deem that in far-off days
I walked miraculous ways:
E'en with some Greek and gracious God kept tryst ...
Or wandered, unawares, Emmäus-ward with Christ.





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