Text 15

THE RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old,

Lord of our far-flung battle-line,

Beneath whose awful hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine –

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget – lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;

The Captains and the Kings depart:

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget – lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;

On dune and headland sinks the fire:

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Neneveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

Lest we forget – lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not thee in awe,

Such boastings as the gentiles use,

Or lesser breeds without the Law –

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard,

All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding, calls not thee to guard.

For frantic boast and foolish word –

Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

The ballad form appeared to be appropriate for one of the bitterest and tragic poems written in Victorian England. It was created by Oscar Wilde under the shadow and shame of his prison-sentence. It is entitled simply, The Ballad of Reading Goal.

Though a Victorian ballad chronologically, the poem is different in quality; in fact, it seems to be an anti-Victorian ballad in every sense of the word. It is the bitterness and doom translated into poetic speech. In his confession, De Profundis, Wilde writes:

"Reason does not help me. It tells me that the laws under which I am convicted are wrong and unjust laws, and the system under which I have got to make both of these things just and right to me. (…) The plank bed, the loathsome food, the hard ropes shredded into oakum till one’s finger-tips grow dull with pain, the menial offices with which each day begins and finishes, the harsh orders that routine seems to necessitate, the dreadful dress that makes sorrow grotesque to look at, the silence, the solitude, the shame – each and all of these things I had to transform into spiritual experience".

The ballad was first published in 1898 and signed ‘C. 3.3.’ Such was Wilde’s prison number on Reading Gaol: prison cell number 3, third floor, gallery C. The plot is based on a real event of the prisoners was executed for murdering his wife out of jealousy. The ballad, just like other works of Oscar Wilde, grew immensely popular in Russia in the early 20^th century.

Within a span of 20 years four translations appeared: in 1903 (not very successful), in 1904 (made by Bryusov). The Balmont-Bryusov rivalry continued, yet it is hard to say who won: both translations have some flies on them. Balmont’s picture of the original is somewhat blurred, whereas Bryusov made the ballad more high-sounding and lofty. Both translations cannot be considered to be perfect. Perhaps the bitter lines if this ballad will inspire some other translator in the 21^st century (Text 16).