SANCTUARY
Donald Davidson (1893-1968)

Not all of the poets whose works have been featured in these pages have been conservatives. In fact, in the 18 short weeks that I have pursued this project, I have presented the poetry of one British Fabian, one left-leaning African-American, one "new age" former Catholic priest, and one promiscuous female free spirit from the "jazz age."

Lest there be any doubt about Donald Davidson, let me say right away that he was a conservative. He was, in fact, a Southern conservative poet, literary critic, essayist, historian, editor, political thinker, and influential "man of letters."

He was born in Campbellsville, Tennessee. He was educated at Vanderbilt University. He eventually taught there. He first entered the public arena as a member of a group of poets who gathered at Vanderbilt shortly after World War I and published a monthly journal called The Fugitive, which, I think it is accurate to say, put Nashville on the literary map.

Among those individuals who wrote for this publication, and who considered themselves fugitives from the contemporary poetry of their time and from Victorian sentimentalism, were Robert Graves, Laura Riding, Hart Crane, John Crowe Ransom, Allen Tate, and Robert Penn Warren. Benet's Readers Encyclopedia of American Literature says that the principal figures in the fugitive group "exerted an enormous influence on American literature" throughout their long careers in poetry, fiction and literary criticism.

The central theme of Davidson's work, throughout his life, was his love for and defense of the agrarian South. The driving force behind this cause was not sentimental regionalism, but a genuine conservative loathing for Roosevelt's New Deal, which was marked by a fantastic growth in the power and size of the federal establishment, a bullying federal encroachment on regional autonomy, creeping socialism, rapid urbanization, and the rise of a left wing intellectual establishment.

The official manifesto of this movement appeared in a well-known collection of essays published in 1930 and entitled I'll Take My Stand, which is described on the back of my paperback edition (the only first edition I ever saw in a used book store was far too pricey for me) as "one of the outstanding cultural documents in the history of the South."

Davidson's poetry appeared in three volumes: The Piper (1924); The Tall Men (1927); and Lee in the Mountains (1938). "Sanctuary" was included in the final work. It is longer than most of the poems I have featured here. And it is different. But it is a wonderful poem.
So enjoy.

Sanctuary

You must remember this when I am gone,
And tell your sons - for you will have tall sons,
And times will come when answers will not wait.
Remember this: if ever defeat is black
Upon your eyelids, go to the wilderness
In the dread last of trouble, for your foe
Tangles there, more than you, and paths are strange
To him, that are your paths, in the wilderness,
And were your fathers' paths, and once were mine.

You must remember this, and mark it well
As I have told it - what my eyes have seen
And where my feet have walked beyond forgetting.
But tell it not often, tell it only at last
When your sons know what blood runs in their veins.
And when the danger comes, as come it will,
Go as your fathers went with woodsman's eyes
Uncursed, unflinching, studying only the path.
First, what you cannot carry, burn or hide.
Leave nothing here: for him to take or eat.
Bury, perhaps, what you can surely find
If good chance ever bring you back again.
Level the crops. Take only what you need:
A little corn for an ash-cake, a little
Side-meat for your three days' wilderness ride.
Horses for your women and your children,
And one to lead, if you should have that many.
Then go. At once. Do not wait until
You see his great dust rising in the valley.
Then it will be too late.
Go when you hear that he has crossed Will's Ford.
Others will know and pass the word to you
A tap on the blinds, a hoot-owl's cry at dusk.

Do not look back. You can see your roof afire
When you reach high ground.
Yet do not look. Do not turn. Do not look back.
Go further on. Go high. Go deep.

The line of this rail-fence east across the old-fields
Leads to the cane-bottoms. Back of that,
A white-oak tree beside a spring, the one
Chopped with three blazes on the hillward side.
There pick up the trail. I think it was
A buffalo path once or an Indian road.
You follow it three days along the ridge
Until you reach the spruce woods. Then a cliff
Breaks, where the trees are thickest, and you look
Into a cove, and right across, Chilhowee
Is suddenly there, and you are home at last.
Sweet springs of mountain water in that cove
Run always. Deer and wild turkey range.
Your kin, knowing the way, long there before you
Will have good fires and kettles on to boil,
Bough-shelters reared and thick beds of balsam.
There in tall timber you will be as free
As were your fathers once when Tryon raged
In Carolina hunting Regulators,
Or Tarleton rode to hang the old-time Whigs.
Some tell how in that valley young Sam Houston
Lived long ago with his brother, Oo-loo-te-ka,
Reading Homer among the Cherokee;
And others say a Spaniard may have found it
Far from De Soto's wandering turned aside,
And left his legend on a boulder there.
And some that this was a sacred place to all
Old Indian tribes before the Cherokee
Came to our eastern mountains. Men have found
Images carved in bird-shapes there and faces
Moulded, into the great kind look of gods.
These old tales are like prayers. I only know
This is the secret refuge of our race
Told only from a father to his son,
A trust laid on your lips, as though a vow
To generations past and yet to come.
There, from the bluffs above, you may at last
Look back to all you left, and trace
His dust and flame, and plan your harrying
If you would gnaw his ravaging flank, or smite
Him in his glut among the smouldering ricks.
Or else, forgetting ruin, you may lie
On sweet grass by a mountain stream, to watch
The last wild eagle soar or the last raven
Cherish his brood within their rocky nest,
Or see, when mountain shadows first grow long,
The last enchanted white deer come to drink.

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