Appendix Two

A selection of poems from A Northern Venture: Verses by

Members of the Leeds University English School Association

(Leeds: Swan Press, 1923)

THE FOUR POETS here selected from the volume were former pupils and colleagues with whom Tolkien stayed in contact after his time at Leeds. For discussion, see chapter 12 above.

pp. 4–5, W.R. Childe

FAIRY TALES

WHEN amid narrow streets of ancient towns,

The Child was wiser than his heart was ware:

A certain Presence brooded everywhere,

And images with alabaster crowns

Spoke to him of a world more permanent

Than he was used to; he looked up to find

Calm statues withering gently in the wind

Upon the crest of some carved monument,

An aery steeple lone amid the blue,

Round which doves circled, and their gracious speech

Of solitary dumbness made to him

More sweet appeal than most things wont to do:

His blue eyes burned with love and he would reach

Visions most welcome to the Seraphim …

THE SUMMER CREEK

THE white convolvulus invites us down

To the little narrow and strange sea-shipman’s-town,

Where scarlet roofs against the sea’s soft blue

Recall the fierce geranium’s fiery hue,

And the bay opens on an infinite hour

Its simple sweet cerulean like a flower…

Blessed too are they who never knew the sting

Of shame’s corrosion, nor the sunsetting

Of shadowy hope amid the brazen steeples

Of monstrous Babel with her swarming peoples,

Revering amid loneliness alone

The sanctity of water, seeds and stone…

For here, amid red gables and the wild

Increase of coloured herbs, man like a child,

Catches again the golden string’s lost end,

Knowing that all things mortal need a friend,

Proclaimed in silence and the far off line

Of innocent serenities divine…

pp. 6–7, E.V. Gordon

A SKALD’S IMPROMPTU

A Norse verse composed by Skuli, Earl of the Orkneys (in the twelth century), while launching his ship at Grimsby.

Edited and translated into skaldic metre by E.V. Gordon.

VER hofum vadnar leirur

vikum fimm megingrimmar –

saur’s eigi vant thar’s vórum

vidr í Grimsbœ midjum.

Nú’s that’s más of myri

meginkátliga látum

branda elg á bylgjur

Bjorgynjar til dynja.

GRUMBLINGLY at Grimsby

Grievous weeks we eked out,

Five weeks full ere leaving,

Flound’ring in mud boundless.

Launch, then, launch our beaked bird,

Light for flight o’er billows –

Like the mew from mudbank –

Merrily to Bergen.

E.V. Gordon

‘THEY SAT THERE’

‘They sat there, they two …’

A rendering of Ibsen’s De sad der, de to – A theme afterwards expanded into the drama, Bygmester Solness (The Master Builder).

THEY sat there, they two, in so cosy a house,

The autumn and winter weather.

Then the house burned down. All is fallen in ruin.

The two search the ashes together.

For under them lies a precious jewel,

A jewel can never be burned;

Let them rake and grope, still may a jewel

From ashes be lightly upturned.

But they find never, the homeless two,

The unburnt jewel, for all distress;

She finds never her faith that is burned,

He never his burnt happiness.

pp. 12–14, A.H. Smith

[In the two dialect poems below, Smith’s glosses are placed in italics in the margin next to the line to which they refer.]

SPRING

FIVE hundred gnats wi’ t’ gowden sun

Their short spring life ha’ now begun:

Five hundred gnats ‘ll dee toneet,

When t’ mooin o’ May shines siller-breet.

[silver-bright]

Young crows are beating t’ clouds around,

Frae t’ sky them skylarks fall to t’ ground,

To t’ ground new donned i’ green gers shawls

[grass]

Wi’ daisies white ‘at t’ saisin calls.

Gert planes are brustin’ into leaf

An’ t’ sycamores an’ t’ poplars chief.

Then far in t’ woods aneath t’ new shade

Blue bells are painting t’ spring-time glade.

Through t’ midst o’ t’ dale, o’ peaty brown

A saumy stream winnds lazy down:

[dreamy]

It’s ruffled here an’ there wi’ rings

O’ t’ scunning trout, or t’ curlews’ wings.

[darting]

It shooits ower t’ foss wi’ clattering sang:

Wi’ t’ grey rock bed it sooin gets thrang.

[busy]

Its spray lecks t’ blooming beds o’ moss

[sprinkles]

What lap up t’ blocks o’ limestooan dross.

[enfold]

An’ to this freshening pebbly sike

[brook]

Frisky gimmers coom down frae t’ pike.

[ewe-lambs][hill-top]

Like t’ lute in t’ band all birds do sing:

No Winter bass! for now it’s Spring!

A.H. Smith

A VISION

T’NEET war dark an’ stormy.

A yowe-lamb up on t’ fell.

Wheear t’ winds blow hask and canty

[keen and strong]

Sooin after th’ harvest mell.

[feast]

Eight miles o’ silent trapsin’

[tramping]

O’er clarty, sumpy fields!

[muddy][wet]

While Bastile* Chaps seik shelter,

[Workhouse]

Us farmers leave wer bields.

[dwellings]

On t’ brest o’ t’ fell I’m wankle,

[dizzy]

An’ unkerd seets I see,

[strange]

I cannot fuggle t’ noises

[avoid]

What mak me shak weantly.

[strangely]

My een bulge out like bulls do

To see sich men in t’ roke,

[mist]

Wi’ armour, spikes, an’ eagles,

Huggered up like pigs in t’ poke.

[crowded together][sack]

Mebbe Roman sowdgers,

Marchin’ on t’ Roman roads,

Have coom to t’ fields o’ battle

An’ the hostile Celts’ abodes

What sossed ya gill o’ sorrow

[drank the tankard]

When t’ cobby Romans coom

[active]

An’ fell stark deead on t’ fell tops –

But t’ mist aggean grows toom.

[empty]

Then out ‘ t’ roke reit awfish

[fairy-like]

Wi’ slivers dance yon elves,

[twigs]

An’ fill my heart wi’ sweet sangs,

Then dwine away in t’ delves.

An’ kye an’ wye an’ gimmers,

[cows][heifers][ewe-lambs]

As at a cattle show,

Stond more like groups o’ statties

Nor t’ livin’ beasts we grow.

All t’ yowe-lambs lowp about me,

An’ leik like bits o’ fluff

Scattered by t’ saft spring breezes,

An’ lick my hands reit chuff;

[proud ]

I speik to ’em but rowpy:

[hoarsely]

I’m swaimish in this place.

[my head swims]

I waken up i’ t’ delf-hoil;

T’ lost gimmer licks my face.