Lord, what ship goes forth to-day?I see her setting West.Shall she have thy winds aright,Stars to guide her with their light,Shall she sweep the seas to sightOf land and harbour-rest?Awful is thy ocean-wrath,And none can chart thy shoalsWhen storm unassuaging hathBlotted sun and planet-path.Shall she, Lord, escape the scathAnd live, with all her souls?For it is a beauteous thingThat ships should sail the sea.Splendid is their plunge and swingInto waves that foam and flingMaelstroms at their bows to bringThem down to destiny.And she, too, courageous ridesAway into the gloom.Now her lights are lost in tidesOf the windy spray that glidesThro the darkness, Lord, abidesThy Dove with her—or Doom?I shall know perhaps some day,Or, knowing not, recallHow my heart was fain to prayFor a ship that bravely layTo her task: O Lord, so mayEach vessel of us all!
Lord, what ship goes forth to-day?I see her setting West.Shall she have thy winds aright,Stars to guide her with their light,Shall she sweep the seas to sightOf land and harbour-rest?
Awful is thy ocean-wrath,And none can chart thy shoalsWhen storm unassuaging hathBlotted sun and planet-path.Shall she, Lord, escape the scathAnd live, with all her souls?
For it is a beauteous thingThat ships should sail the sea.Splendid is their plunge and swingInto waves that foam and flingMaelstroms at their bows to bringThem down to destiny.
And she, too, courageous ridesAway into the gloom.Now her lights are lost in tidesOf the windy spray that glidesThro the darkness, Lord, abidesThy Dove with her—or Doom?
I shall know perhaps some day,Or, knowing not, recallHow my heart was fain to prayFor a ship that bravely layTo her task: O Lord, so mayEach vessel of us all!
Within the Holy Sepulchre, breast-high,There is a cross uncounted lips have kissed,Millions the world to dust has long dismissed,Millions that now hope of it but to die.Pilgrims, I saw, from out far fervid landsOf superstition, North and West and South,Bend to it each a trembling, reverent mouth,Then kneel where Christ was said to loose Death's bands.And then I wondered if He who believedIn the One God were wounded sore by this,Whether He shrinks at each ecstatic kiss,Or knowing how humanity is grieved,Knows too that it is better to give HopeThan Truth, if only one is in man's scope.
Within the Holy Sepulchre, breast-high,There is a cross uncounted lips have kissed,Millions the world to dust has long dismissed,Millions that now hope of it but to die.Pilgrims, I saw, from out far fervid landsOf superstition, North and West and South,Bend to it each a trembling, reverent mouth,Then kneel where Christ was said to loose Death's bands.And then I wondered if He who believedIn the One God were wounded sore by this,Whether He shrinks at each ecstatic kiss,Or knowing how humanity is grieved,Knows too that it is better to give HopeThan Truth, if only one is in man's scope.
A lone palm leans in the moonlightOver a convent wall.The sea below is waking and breakingWith quiet heave and fall.A young nun sits at the window;For Heaven she is too fair;Yet even the Dove of God might nestIn her bosom beating there.A lone ship sails from the harbour:Whom does it bear away?Her lover who sin-hearted has partedAnd left her but to pray?She has no lover, nor everHas heard afar love's sigh.Only the convent's vesper vowHas ever dimmed her eye.For naught knows she of her beauty,More than the palm of its peace;And who beyond Christ's portal to mortalDesires would bend her knees?The ways of the World have flowers,And any who will pluck those;But let there ever be a placeWhere none may pluck God's rose.
A lone palm leans in the moonlightOver a convent wall.The sea below is waking and breakingWith quiet heave and fall.A young nun sits at the window;For Heaven she is too fair;Yet even the Dove of God might nestIn her bosom beating there.
A lone ship sails from the harbour:Whom does it bear away?Her lover who sin-hearted has partedAnd left her but to pray?She has no lover, nor everHas heard afar love's sigh.Only the convent's vesper vowHas ever dimmed her eye.
For naught knows she of her beauty,More than the palm of its peace;And who beyond Christ's portal to mortalDesires would bend her knees?The ways of the World have flowers,And any who will pluck those;But let there ever be a placeWhere none may pluck God's rose.
I'm tramping thro the mountains,They are rising white around me,Snow peaks like patriarchsThat Winter has enthroned.I'm tramping up the valleysWhere the cataracts sound meThunders they have shrillyFrom eternity intoned.I'm tramping thro the mountains,With the clouds for my companions,Soft clouds that float and clingFrom crag to cloven crag.I'm passing by the chaletsThat o'erhang the high cañons,Passing where the shepherdsAnd the flocks they pipe to lag.I'm tramping thro the mountainsWhere the pines in proud processionClimb like a hardy hostTo halo-heights of sun.I'm listening for the salliesOf the avalanche's HessianHurl of ice and graniteInto gulfs Avernian.I'm tramping thro the mountainsAnd the wind is yodling to meYearnings of the glaciersTo flow to summer lands.I'm treading up the valleysWith no wanting to undo me—For to-day I'm goallessAnd the great God understands!
I'm tramping thro the mountains,They are rising white around me,Snow peaks like patriarchsThat Winter has enthroned.I'm tramping up the valleysWhere the cataracts sound meThunders they have shrillyFrom eternity intoned.
I'm tramping thro the mountains,With the clouds for my companions,Soft clouds that float and clingFrom crag to cloven crag.I'm passing by the chaletsThat o'erhang the high cañons,Passing where the shepherdsAnd the flocks they pipe to lag.
I'm tramping thro the mountainsWhere the pines in proud processionClimb like a hardy hostTo halo-heights of sun.I'm listening for the salliesOf the avalanche's HessianHurl of ice and graniteInto gulfs Avernian.
I'm tramping thro the mountainsAnd the wind is yodling to meYearnings of the glaciersTo flow to summer lands.I'm treading up the valleysWith no wanting to undo me—For to-day I'm goallessAnd the great God understands!
No moment drooped between his thought and action,No morrow died between his dream and deed.Within his soul there was no fatal factionThat could betray him in his hour of need.
No moment drooped between his thought and action,No morrow died between his dream and deed.Within his soul there was no fatal factionThat could betray him in his hour of need.
The fierce sea-sunset over the worldSprings like a wounded spirit,The waves all day have hissed and hurledTheir fangs and the spray has swept and swirled,And ships in the gray gale's lair have furledTheir sails—well may they fear it!The night will be but a monstrous seetheOf terrors elemental.The clouds will wrap in a ghastly wreathOf gloom the winds that in them breathe,And all that lives in the sea beneathBy fear shall be made gentle;And sink down, down to the nether deeps,Below the foam and fretting.Down where the sullen water sleepsAlway and the slow sand coldly creepsOver the lone wreck, which Death keepsTo guard him 'gainst forgetting.And there in the ominous vast calmThey'll harbour, like enchantedChill shapes he has strangely conjured fromThe silence of his masterdom;There float till again they feel the qualmOf hunger thro them panted.And then once more far up will they spring,To drift and sport and plunder,Shark, eel and whale and devil-thing,With tooth to rend and tail to sting.To the sea, O God, does horror clingAnd haunting past all wonder.
The fierce sea-sunset over the worldSprings like a wounded spirit,The waves all day have hissed and hurledTheir fangs and the spray has swept and swirled,And ships in the gray gale's lair have furledTheir sails—well may they fear it!
The night will be but a monstrous seetheOf terrors elemental.The clouds will wrap in a ghastly wreathOf gloom the winds that in them breathe,And all that lives in the sea beneathBy fear shall be made gentle;
And sink down, down to the nether deeps,Below the foam and fretting.Down where the sullen water sleepsAlway and the slow sand coldly creepsOver the lone wreck, which Death keepsTo guard him 'gainst forgetting.
And there in the ominous vast calmThey'll harbour, like enchantedChill shapes he has strangely conjured fromThe silence of his masterdom;There float till again they feel the qualmOf hunger thro them panted.
And then once more far up will they spring,To drift and sport and plunder,Shark, eel and whale and devil-thing,With tooth to rend and tail to sting.To the sea, O God, does horror clingAnd haunting past all wonder.
The dun sand-cliffs that break the desert's seaRose suddenly upon my sight at dawn,And terrible in an eternityOf death took silently the sunrise on.Purple funereal from rifted skiesSwept down across their proud sterility,Only to die as here all glory dies,On barrenness I did not dream could be.O God, for a bird-song! or opening lipsOf but one flower upon the fatal air,For but the voice of water as it drips,Or stir of leaves the day-wind makes aware!O God, for these, for life! or from the faceOf the world wipe so irreparable a place!
The dun sand-cliffs that break the desert's seaRose suddenly upon my sight at dawn,And terrible in an eternityOf death took silently the sunrise on.Purple funereal from rifted skiesSwept down across their proud sterility,Only to die as here all glory dies,On barrenness I did not dream could be.O God, for a bird-song! or opening lipsOf but one flower upon the fatal air,For but the voice of water as it drips,Or stir of leaves the day-wind makes aware!O God, for these, for life! or from the faceOf the world wipe so irreparable a place!
ICome to me, shadows, down the hill,Lie softly at my feet.The sun has worked his willAnd the day is done.Come to me softly and distilYour dews and dreams, that heatAnd hours of heartless glare have overrun.IICome to me, shadows, down the hillAnd bring with you the night,Fire-flies and the whippoorwillAnd ah, the moon—Whose soft interpretings can stillThe tangled tongues of rightAnd wrong, and hope and fear, that haunt the noon.IIICome to me, shadows, down the hill—And let there follow Sleep,Which is God's tidal WillThat overflowsThe world—obliterating ill,And in its soothing sweepMurmuring more of mercy than man knows.
I
Come to me, shadows, down the hill,Lie softly at my feet.The sun has worked his willAnd the day is done.Come to me softly and distilYour dews and dreams, that heatAnd hours of heartless glare have overrun.
II
Come to me, shadows, down the hillAnd bring with you the night,Fire-flies and the whippoorwillAnd ah, the moon—Whose soft interpretings can stillThe tangled tongues of rightAnd wrong, and hope and fear, that haunt the noon.
III
Come to me, shadows, down the hill—And let there follow Sleep,Which is God's tidal WillThat overflowsThe world—obliterating ill,And in its soothing sweepMurmuring more of mercy than man knows.
The evening sails come homeWith twilight in their wings.The harbour-light across the gloamSprings;The wind sings.The waves begin to tellThe sea's night-sorrow o'er,Weaving within their ancient spellMoreThan earth's lore.The rising moon wafts strangeLow lures across the tide,On which my dim thoughts seem to range,StrideUpon stride,Until, with flooding thrill,They seem at last to blendWith waves that from the Eternal WillWend,Without end.
The evening sails come homeWith twilight in their wings.The harbour-light across the gloamSprings;The wind sings.
The waves begin to tellThe sea's night-sorrow o'er,Weaving within their ancient spellMoreThan earth's lore.
The rising moon wafts strangeLow lures across the tide,On which my dim thoughts seem to range,StrideUpon stride,Until, with flooding thrill,They seem at last to blendWith waves that from the Eternal WillWend,Without end.
There is no day but leads me toA peak impossible to scale,A task at which my hands must fail,A sea I cannot swim or sail.There is no night I suffer throBut Destiny rules stern and pale:And yet what I am meant to doI will do, ere Death drop his veil.And it shall be no little thing,Tho to oblivion it fall,For I shall strive to it thro allThat can imperil or appal.So at each morning's trumpet-ringI mount again, less slave and thrall,And at the barriers gladly flingA fortitude that scorns to crawl.
There is no day but leads me toA peak impossible to scale,A task at which my hands must fail,A sea I cannot swim or sail.There is no night I suffer throBut Destiny rules stern and pale:And yet what I am meant to doI will do, ere Death drop his veil.
And it shall be no little thing,Tho to oblivion it fall,For I shall strive to it thro allThat can imperil or appal.So at each morning's trumpet-ringI mount again, less slave and thrall,And at the barriers gladly flingA fortitude that scorns to crawl.
What am I reading? He is dead?He the great interpreterAnd seer—England's noblest head?What am I reading? It is hushed?The deepest voice that life had foundTo read a century profoundWith all time's seethe and stir?Why, it is but a scanty scoreOf days, since, at his side,Clasping his hand with more than pride,I felt that the immortal tideOf his great mind would long break o'erThe cold command of Death.Still in my ear is echoingThe surf of his strong words, and stillAgainst the wild trees on the HillHis cottage sheltered under,I see the toss of his gray locks,Like Lear's—for he had felt the stingOf all too greatly givingThe kingdom of his mind to thoseWho for it held him mad.O England, guard thy livingLike him from a like fate!For not the mighty thunderOf thy proud name from all the rocksOf all the world can compensateA nation whom no Song makes glad,And whom no Seer makes great.
What am I reading? He is dead?He the great interpreterAnd seer—England's noblest head?What am I reading? It is hushed?The deepest voice that life had foundTo read a century profoundWith all time's seethe and stir?
Why, it is but a scanty scoreOf days, since, at his side,Clasping his hand with more than pride,I felt that the immortal tideOf his great mind would long break o'erThe cold command of Death.Still in my ear is echoingThe surf of his strong words, and stillAgainst the wild trees on the HillHis cottage sheltered under,I see the toss of his gray locks,Like Lear's—for he had felt the stingOf all too greatly givingThe kingdom of his mind to thoseWho for it held him mad.
O England, guard thy livingLike him from a like fate!For not the mighty thunderOf thy proud name from all the rocksOf all the world can compensateA nation whom no Song makes glad,And whom no Seer makes great.