Arthur Graeme West

The Traveller

Oh, I came singing down the road
            Whereon was nought perplext me,
And Pan with Art before me strode,
            And Walter Pater next me.

I garnered my “impressions” up,
            Lived in each lovely feature,
“I burned with a hard gemlike flame”
            And sensitized my nature.

We wandered up and down La Beauce
            Along the castled river,
Where rarely came the deathly frost
            To frighten us to a shiver.

Till at a corner of the way
            We met with maid Bellona,
Who joined us so imperiously
            That we durst not disown her.

My three companions coughed and blushed,
            And as the time waxed later,
One murmured, pulling out his watch,
            That he must go — ’twas Pater.

And very soon Art turned away
            Huffed at Bellona’s strictures,
Who hurried us past dome and spire
            And wouldn’t stay for pictures.

But old Pan with his satyr legs
            Trotted beside us gamely,
Till quickening pace and rougher road
            Made him go somewhat lamely.

The rents in the La Bassée road,
            The cracks between the cobbling,
The wet communications trench,
            They set poor Pan a-hobbling.

He couldn’t stand the shells and mud,
            The sap-head or the crater,
He used to say the very rats
            “Went some’ow agin Natur.”

When we were back behind Bethune
            In comfortable billets,
We two would greet the advancing Spring
            As she sailed up the rillets.

And lie ’neath the fantastic trees
            To hear the thrushes quiring,
Till young Bellona smelt us out
            And startled Pan with firing.

My heart bled for the kindly god
            Who’d sought so long to serve me,
And so I sent him back again:
            He prayed “Might heaven preserve me.”

I went unto the martial maid,
            Who laughed to see me lonely,
“We’re rid of them at last,” she said,
            “Now I’ll be honoured only.”


And still we fare her road alone
            In foul or sunny weather:
Bare is that road of man or god
            Which we run on to-gether.