(St Barbara is the patron saint of gunners, and those in danger of sudden
death.)
When the long grey lines came flooding upon Paris in the plain,
We stood
and drank of the last free air we never could taste again:
They had led us back from the lost
battle, to halt we knew not where
And stilled us: and our gaping guns were dumb with our
despair.
The grey tribes flowed for ever from the infinite lifeless lands
And a Norman to
a Breton spoke, his chin upon his hands.
"There was an end to Ilium; and an end came
to Rome;
And a man plays on a painted stage in the land that he calls home;
Arch after
arch of triumph, but floor beyond falling floor,
That lead to a low door at last; and beyond
that is no door."
And the Breton to the Norman spoke, like a small child spoke
he,
And his sea-blue eyes were empty as his home beside the sea:
"There are more
windows in one house than there are eyes to see,
There are more doors in a man's house, but
God has hid the key:
Ruin is a builder of windows; her legend witnesseth
Barbara, the
saint of gunners, and a stay in sudden death."
It seemed the wheel of the world stood still
an instant in its turning,
More than the kings of the earth that turned with the turning of
Valmy mill:
While trickled the idle tale and the sea-blue eyes were burning,
Still as the
heart of a whirlwind the heart of the world stood still.
"Barbara the beautiful
Had
praise of tongue and pen:
Her hair was like a summer night
Dark and desired of
men.
Her feet like birds from far away
That linger and light in doubt;
And her
face was like a window
Where a man's first love looked out.
Her sire was master of
many slaves,
A hard man of his hands;
They built a tower about her
In the desolate
golden lands,
Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs,
Planned with an ancient
plan,
And set two windows in the tower
Like the two eyes of a man."
Our guns
were set towards the foe; we had no word for firing.
Grey in the gateway of St Gond the
Guard of the tyrant shone;
Dark with the fate of a falling star, retiring and retiring,
The
Breton line went backward and the Breton tale went on.
"Her father had sailed across
the sea
For the harbour of Africa
When all the slaves took up their tools
For the
bidding of Barbara.
She smote the bare wall with her hand
And bade them smite
again;
She poured them wealth of wine and meat
To stay them in their pain.
And
cried through the lifted thunder
Of thronging hammer and hod
"Throw open the third
window
In the third name of God."
Then the hearts failed and the tools fell,
And
far towards the foam,
Men saw a shadow on the sands
And her father coming
home."
Speak low and low, along the line the whispered word is flying,
Before the
touch, before the time, we may not loose a breath:
Their guns must mash us to the mire and
there be no replying,
Till the hand is raised to fling us for the final dice to
death.
""There were two windows in your tower,
Barbara, Barbara,
For all
between the sun and moon
In the lands of Africa.
Hath a man three eyes, Barbara,
A bird three wings,
That you have riven roof and wall
To look upon vain
things?"
Her voice was like a wandering thing
That falters yet is free,
Whose
soul has drunk in a distant land
Of the rivers of liberty.
"There are more wings than
the wind knows
Or eyes that see the sun
In the light of the lost window
And the wind
of the doors undone.
For out of the first lattice
Are the red lands that break
And
out of the second lattice
Sea like a green snake,
But out of the third
lattice
Under low eaves like wings
Is a new corner of the sky
And the other side of
things."
It opened in the inmost place an instant beyond uttering,
A casement and
a chasm and a thunder of doors undone,
A seraph's strong wing shaken out the shock of its
unshuttering,
That split the shattered sunlight from a light beyond the sun.
"Then he
drew sword and drave her
Where the judges sat and said,
"Caesar sits above the
gods,
Barbara the maid.
Caesar hath made a treaty
With the moon and with the
sun,
All the gods that men can praise
Praise him every one.
There is peace with
the anointed
Of the scarlet oils of Bel,
With the Fish God, where the whirlpool
Is a
winding stair to hell,
With the pathless pyramids of slime,
Where the mitred negro
lifts
To his black cherub in the cloud
Abominable gifts,
With the leprous silver
cities
Where the dumb priests dance and nod,
But not with the three windows
And
the last name of God.""
They are firing, we are falling, and the red skies rend and shiver
us,
Barbara, Barbara, we may not loose a breath -
Be at the bursting doors of doom, and
in the dark deliver us,
Who loosen the last window on the sun of sudden
death.
"Barbara the beautiful
Stood up as queen set free,
Whose mouth is set
to a terrible cup
And the trumpet of liberty.
"I have looked forth from a
window
That no man now shall bar,
Caesar's toppling battle-towers
Shall never
stretch so far.
The slaves are dancing in their chains,
The child laughs at the
rod,
Because of the bird of the three wings,
And the third face of God."
The
sword upon his shoulder
Shifted and shone and fell,
And Barbara lay very small
And
crumpled like a shell."
What wall upon what hinges turned stands open like a
door?
Too simple for the sight of faith, too huge for human eyes,
What light upon what
ancient way shines to a far-off floor.
The line of the lost land of France or the plains of
Paradise?
"Caesar smiled above the gods
His lip of stone was curled,
His iron
armies wound like chains
Round and round the world,
And the strong slayer of his
own
That cut down flesh for grass,
Smiled too, and went to his own tower
Like a
walking tower of brass,
And the songs ceased and the slaves were dumb;
And far
towards the foam
Men saw a shadow on the sands;
And her father coming
home...
Blood of his blood upon the sword
Stood red but never dry.
He wiped
it slowly, till the blade
Was blue as the blue sky.
But the blue sky split with a
thunder-crack,
Spat down a blinding brand,
And all of him lay black and flat
As his
shadow on the sand."
The touch and the tornado; all our guns give tongue
together,
St Barbara for the gunnery and God defend the right,
They are stopped and
gapped and battered as we blast away the weather,
Building window upon window to our
lady of the light.
For the light is come on Liberty, her foes are falling, falling,
They
are reeling, they are running, as the shameful years have run,
She is risen for all the humble,
she has heard the conquered calling,
St Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand upon the
gun.
They are burst asunder in the midst that eat of their own flatteries,
Whose lip
is curled to order as its barbered hair is curled...
Blast of the beauty of sudden death, St
Barbara of the batteries!
That blow the new white window in the wall of all the
world.
For the hand is raised behind us, and the bolt smites hard
Through the
rending of the doorways, through the death-gap of the Guard,
For the cry of the Three
Colours is in Conde and beyond
And the Guard is flung for carrion in the graveyard of St
Gond,
Through Mondemont and out of it, through Morin marsh and on
With earthquake
of salutation the impossible thing is gone,
Gaul, charioted and charging, great Gaul upon a
gun,
Tip-toe on all her thousand years and trumpeting to the sun:
As day returns, as death
returns, swung backwards and swung home,
Back on the barbarous reign returns the
battering-ram of Rome.
While that the east held hard and hot like pincers in a forge,
Came like the west wind roaring up the cannon of St George,
When the hunt is up and
racing over stream and swamp and tarn
And their batteries, black with battle, hold the
bridgeheads of the Marne,
And across the carnage of the Guard, by Paris in the plain,
The
Normans to the Bretons cried and the Bretons cheered again...
But he that told the tale went
home to his house beside the sea
And burned before St Barbara, the light of the windows
three,
Three candles for an unknown thing, never to come again,
That opened like the
eye of God on Paris in the plain.
---GK Chesterton