V.
THE HISTORY OF JOHN JONES
The sun never shone,The rain could not fallOn a steadier man than John.A holy man was John,And honest withal.His mates had never heardDrop from his guarded lipAn idle word,But twice—first, while on board his ship,When he had lost his pipe, he swore,Just a mild damn, and nothing more;And once he cursedThe government; but then he reckonedThe Lord forgave him for the first,And justified the second.
And he was temperate in all his ways,Was John;He never drank, but when Thanksgiving daysCame on;Never in summer on a fishing tripWould he allow the smell on board his ship;Only in winter or in autumn,When a cramp or something caught him,Would he take it, for he prized it,Not for its depraved abuses,But for its discreeter uses,As his Church had authorized it.
The sun had never shoneOn a kinder man than John,Nor uponA better Christian than was John.He was good to his dog, he was good to his cat,And his love went out to his horse;He loved the Lord and his Church, of course,For righteous was he in thought and act;And his neighbors knew, in addition to that,He loved his wife, as a matter of fact.
Now, one fine day it occurred to John,That his last great cramp was on;For nothing that the doctor wroteCould stop that rattle in his throat.He had broken his back upon the oar,He had dried his last boat-load of cod,And nothing was left for John any more,But to drift in his boat to the port of God.
I
THE BIRD OF PARADISE
Answer my riddle, will you? Nay,Do not toss your head that way,With such a ruffle of passion.I merely asked you who was fleecedTo pay the jeweller and modisteFor this last word in fashion.I have a right, if you only knew,To put this delicate point to you—Those sapphires dancing on your crest,That cluster of rubies on your breast,That necklace there, those pearls! The price?Who paid it? Bird of Paradise!
And the only kind of reply that cameOut of that vision of tropical flameWas that little ruffle of passion.A tango of color from scarlet to greenEvolved as I watched the beauty preenHer plumes in that maddening fashion.So I left the Bird of the Garden to call,This time, upon the Bird of the Hall;For my temples beat with the throb of fire,And I could not find in that land of DesireA cooling wind, or water, or iceTo quench a fever in Paradise.
And the only answer I got in the HallWas a glance of repulse from the belle of the Ball,With a little ruffle of passion;Though I had a right to ask, I am sure,Who sent that tiara for her coiffure,And that latest corsage of fashion.Not those the jewels I gave her to wear,Not those the drops that hung from her ear;And my fever burned like a thirst in Sahara,When that osprey swung above the tiara,And I knew no wind, nor water, nor iceMight cool this hell in Paradise.
II
THE EPIGRAPHER
His head was like his lore—antique,His face was thin and sallow-sick,With god-like accent he could speakOf Egypt's reeds or Babylon's brickOr sheep-skin codes in Arabic.
To justify the ways divine,He had travelled Southern Asia through—Gezir down in Palestine,Lagash, Ur and Eridu,The banks of Nile and Tigris too.
And every occult Hebrew taleHe could expound with learned ease,From Aaron's rod to Jonah's whale.He had held the skull of Rameses—The one who died from boils and fleas.
Could tell how—saving Israel's peace—The mighty Gabriel of the LordPut sand within the axle-greaseOf Pharaoh's chariots; and his hordeO'erwhelmed with water, fire and sword.
And he had tried Behistun Rock,That Persian peak, and nearly clomb it;His head had suffered from the shockOf somersaulting from its summit—Nor had he quite recovered from it.
From that time onward to the end,His mind had had a touch of gloom;His hours with jars and coins he'd spend,And ashes looted from a tomb,—Within his spare and narrow room.
His day's work done, with the last runeOf a Hammurabi fragment read,He took some water spiced with pruneAnd soda, which imbibed, he saidA Syrian prayer, and went to bed.
* * * * * * * *
And thus he trod life's narrow way,—His soul as peaceful as a river—His understanding heart all dayKept faithful to a stagnant liver.
L'ENVOI.
When at last his stomach went by default,His graduate students bore him afarTo the East where the Dead Sea waters are,And pickled his bones in Eternal Salt.
Was ever night so wild as this—this bleak December night!Veiled in the sombre shroud that sepulchred the day;Why thus bereft of heaven's beams, of moon and starry light,Are all its ancient charms in sorrow laid away?
The year dies out with drifted leaves, with windsand floods of rain,Companions of the tempest with its brood of fears;And voices far above us echo back the world's great pain,In tongueless language inarticulate through tears.
Why passed with such inevitable speedThe eager splendor of the awakening spring?So little did it seem to know or heedOur outward cries, our hidden murmuring;It shone upon us shyly for some reason,Then flew into the summer's briefer season,And found, amidst its roses fully blown,A transient radiance fleeter than its own.
How sweet the flowers grew in the woods last May!The trillium, splashed by sunlight, jauntilyAwoke to match the whiteness of its rayWith white of blood-root and anemone.Within the stray leaves on the humid ground,Beside the fallen trunks of trees, were foundNumerous hepaticas whose lilac hueSeemed woven of heaven's purple and its blue,And, near at hand, a running streamlet toldOf treasure hidden in the marigold.
A little while they stayed; how short the space!We watched them as the hours went by,We looked again, and saw them die—Thus did they pass away; but in their place,In meadow and in vale sprang upThe daisy and the buttercup;Then on the creeping slopes of sunny hills,By winding dales and tortuous rills,Blue vervain rose to greet the sun,Ere half the summer's race was run;And in the fields and on the plains.By forest paths, by country lanes,By wayside and in garden plot,The bluebell and forget-me-not;And fair the bottle-gentian grewBeside the wintergreen and rue.
And everywhere around us from the throatsOf joyous birds pealed forth ecstatic praise—Glad hymns in which were heard no notesOf dim unrest and troubled lays.The heart had never taught them sorrows,Regretful yesterdays nor morrows;Each morning brought them its full boon of light,And in return they gave their gift of song—Free utterance that had no tale of wrongWithin the horizon of their life to right;And when the evening drew to twilight close,Fell the light mantle of their calm repose.
Fled are they all;The flowers and the birds,In vain we call,With cries too dumb for words.The fragrance and the music gone,The fire of sunset, flush of dawn,The waterlily in the lake,The robin's love-song in the brake;All these are fled and gone,And with us now the night,The wild December night.
Far, far away upon the seasThe billows tell their agonies;The ocean in its frenzied roarLashes the ramparts of the shore;The tempest with its shattering thunderDrives the iron bulwarks under;The furies, in their path advancing,Are seen around the breakers dancing;The sea-mews, blinded by the lightOf mast-head signals, flaring bright,Are rent by blow of spar and sailWithin the clutches of the gale,And sailors, drenched by salt and foam,Yearn for the fireside of their home.
And thus upon the landEarth's ravage is laid bare;Slapped by the storm's fierce hand,The wildcat and the bearLie huddled in the sandThat marks their common lair;The trees in angry lurchThat grew beside each other—The hemlock and the birch—Now strive with one another,In strangely human mood,Born of unnatural feud.
Around the hoary mountain sidesThe storm hurls its impetuous shock,Is answered by the torrent's tides,The iron echoes of the rock.Gone are the woodland notes of spring,The airs of summer's short-lived breath,The autumn, too, has taken wing,The year has rushed into its death.Gone, like the memory of a dream,A rainbow hovering o'er a stream;And we, of nature's joys bereft,Are with her deepening shadows left,With grey upon the sea,And driftwood on the reef,With winter in the tree,And death within the leaf.
Far, far away, across the distant deep,Heaven's lightnings flash from out a darker scroll;Midnight and darkness in wild chaos keepA dawnless vigil, as slow thunders rollOver a world upon whose face the stormBreaks, and within the terrors of eclipse,Fall the swift strokes of Death, clothed in the formOf some dread angel of Apocalypse.There rides a tempest heedless of the checkOf law, and with no mandate but its will,Whose function lies alone in power to wreck,That never hears the fiat, "Peace, be still!"There, through deep, winding valleys that had knownThe quiet haunts of peasants; through the green,Sweet-tufted verdure that the spring had sown;Through glens where only roe and fawn were seenIn peace; through plains where once the sunset's brushPlaced its soft crimson on the silent streams;There, through that land that often loved the hushOf evening and the tenderness of dreams,Rolls now the bugle with its alien blast,The cry of battle on the midnight air,The fiery summons to earth's legions massedMid bayonets gleaming in the rocket's glare;And streams that to the North Sea once had broughtThe dawn's white silver and the sunset's gold,Now pour such tides as Nature never wrought.The ruddier treasures of a wealth untold.
O Nature! Thou that lovest lifeIn herb and brute and feathered kind,Who leadest from the night's long strifeThe morn with rays of promise lined;Who bringest forth the vital glowTo bathe the trees in glorious light,And bid the woodland flowers grow,Clothed spotless in their raiment bright;Who givest food to hart and hareUpon the snowy mountain's crest,And to the ravens everywhere,The storm-proof covert of their nest;—Hast thou within thy bounteous plan,So rich and measureless and mild,No boon wherewith to succour man,Thy youngest, feeblest, blindest child?Prostrate upon a formless field,Bedewed with unavailing tears,While the slow hours, faltering, yieldThis nameless triad of the years;What balm shall touch his stricken eyes?What hand shall drive away his dead?What tones shall quieten his cries?What voice shall resurrect his dead?
O Winds; that sweep the surges from the bosom of the sea,Strong with a strength unmeasured, as the chainlesslightnings—free;Ye nether rivals of the thunders, as their voice your own,Yet theirs excelling in your major harmonies of tone;Ye mighty arbiters of light and shade, of hope and gloom,Who fashion for the morn its cradle, for the eve its tomb,Who garrison the towers of God with clouds in dark array,Marshalling their watch and slumber till their hidden fires play;All day ye played upon the forest pines a mournful strain,As if the slowly ebbing year were laboring in its pain;Upon the land ye tossed the agéd leaves in aimless quest,And on the deep ye filled the sailor's heart with wild unrest.
O Winds! that stir the ashes of our altars while our criesFrom hearthstone and from chancel in our agony arise,That drive us in our frantic hours to prayer upon our knees,While those we love drift shelterless upon the homeless seas;O lift us once again to God! this time on kindlier wings—So weary are we of the strife and fear the tempest brings;Give us the vision of His gardens under skies of blue,We have lived so long in shadow of the cypress and the yew;Sing through the swell that crowns the oceanwhen its rage has passed,Resign the terrors of the gale, the furies of the blast;Then through the vibrant music of the lyre of sea and landWhich our storm-sated world first heard whenfrom the Creator's handIt rose at the Great Dawn, breathe soon thatsweet, untroubled peace,That vista of life's cravings reared on hopes that never cease;Blow out upon the raven plumes of this December night,The world's unresting miseries, her shadow and her blight;The story of her passions, and her dark, unfathomed sin,The outward blow that slaughters, and the guiltthat slays within;And deep from out the storm's last throes, pealforth in life re-born,The blazon of the future with the heralds of the morn;The anthem of a world re-strung to human love and grace,The full-toned orchestration of the heart-throbs of the race.
Here the tides flow,And here they ebb;Not with that dull, unsinewed tread of watersHeld under bonds to moveAround unpeopled shores—Moon-driven through a timeless circuitOf invasion and retreat;But with a lusty stroke of lifePounding at stubborn gates,That they might runWithin the sluices of men's hearts,Leap under throb of pulse and nerve,And teach the sea's strong voiceTo learn the harmonies of new floods,The peal of cataract,And the soft wash of currentsAgainst resilient banks,Or the broken rhythms from old chordsAlong dark passagesThat once were pathways of authentic firesAnd swept by the wings of dream.
Red is the sea-kelp on the beach,Red as the heart's blood,Nor is there power in tide or sunTo bleach its stain.It lies there piled thickAbove the gulch-line.
It is rooted in the joints of rocks,It is tangled around a spar,It covers a broken rudder,It is red as the heart's blood,And salt as tears.
Here the winds blow,And here they die,Not with that wild, exotic rageThat vainly sweeps untrodden shores,But with familiar breathHolding a partnership with life,Resonant with the hopes of spring,Pungent with the airs of harvest.They call with the silver fifes of the sea,They breathe with the lungs of men,They are one with the tides of the sea,They are one with the tides of the heart,They blow with the rising octaves of dawn.They die with the largo of dusk,Their hands are full to the overflow,In their right is the bread of life,In their left are the waters of death.
Scattered on boomAnd rudder and weedAre tangles of shells;Some with backs of crusted bronze,And faces of porcelain blue,Some crushed by the beach stonesTo chips of jade;And some are spiral-cleftSpreading their tracery on the sandIn the rich veining of an agate's heart;And others remain unscarred,To babble of the passing of the winds.
Here the cragsMeet with winds and tides—Not with that blind interchangeOf blow for blowThat spills the thunder of insentient seas;But with the mind that reads assaultIn crouch and leap and the quick stealth,Stiffening the muscles of the waves.Here they flank the harbors,Keeping watchOn thresholds, altars and the fires of home,Or, like mastiffs,Over-zealous,Guard too well.
Tide and wind and crag,Sea-weed and sea-shellAnd broken rudder—And the story is toldOf human veins and pulses,Of eternal pathways of fire,Of dreams that survive the night,Of doors held ajar in storms.
From the Years of 1914 and 1915
I
A COAST
Scaling where a hundred cragsDisclose their high, precipitous walls,Up hidden clefts and burnished jags,The shore-line like a python crawls.Along a league of ridges overspreadWith the dead trunks of pine and oak, it dragsA roughening path; around the headOf the last bluff it climbs, then falls,Spilling its folds on spur and boulder,Down a deep gulch where it rears and sprawlsUpon the Cape's lean shoulder.
Rolling dusks and vapors pourA turgid silence on the shore,Broken by a curlew screaming,And a low, regurgitant noteBorne in from the laboring throatOf a wave along a line of basalt streaming;And, further off, where denser gloomThe headland and a reef-curve hides,Falls the ground-swell's muttered boomFrom the belfries of the tides.
Under a tattered curtain of fogA flaw of wind makes the waters start;They drift and scud and whirl;And, held a moment near the heartOf the eddy, a waterspout,—Or some wild thing with twisted shape,Compact of mist and wind and surge—Hangs like a felon off the Cape.
II
LATER
(A man speaks)
Was that a cry you say you heard?Where? No. The winds would drown it quite.No sound would reach the shore to-night,Except the scream of some wild bird.
A flash, you say, that cut the rainLike a red knife? It could not be;There's nothing living in this sea.Don't look so frightened. What—again?
The lifeboat! They are hailing me.They need a man for the stern oar;The wind drives dead upon this shore,A rudder's helpless in this sea.
III
(A woman speaks).
No. That was not a scream I heard;One could not hear so far away.That flash was but the breakers' spray,That cry, the note of some wild bird.
IV
MORNING
I would not know him had I notOnce marked for him that tattoo spot—A ship with flying-jib and spanker,And underneath a chain and anchor.
Nor I, but for that reefer flapOf moleskin, and this oilskin capI found a gunshot from the shore,I'd know it from a hundred more.
We cannot take him home this way.'Twould kill the woman straight to layThe lad like this upon the bed,And fetch her in to see him dead.
There is a chance she might not knowIt was her son—he's battered so.She'd know him by some canny trace,Such as that birth-mark on his face,And, what would smite her like a brand,This stumped, third finger of his hand.
This coat and cap will tell her all;We'll get him buried by night-fall;There is no need to tell her more—That we found the body on the shore.
V
GREAT TIDES
Great Tides! You filled the reachesUnder the North's wild blow;Yet could not spare this smaller cupIts salter overflow.
Huge hands! You rear our bulwarks upWith power to none akin;Yet cannot lift a door-latch upThat a lad may enter in.
VI
THE AFTER-CALM
What is that color on the sea,Dotted by the white sails of ships?It is blue, you say. We know it not, and yetWe know the blue of violet,
The hue of mid-day skies,And the sapphire of young children's eyes;Butthatwe do not know—unless it beThe pallor of dead lips.
That band upon the sea?A sash of green that in a moment's timeBecomes a girdle of wrought gold,Held by a silver clasp of surge.It cannot be.That green is now a belt of slime,And now—an iron-knotted scourge,And now—the form of some anguineal fold.
That crimson core with sepia fringe,And orange tints between,Shows how the sun's white alchemyIn vain attempt is seenTo paint a pansy on the sea.
That red is not the pansy's red,Nor what the garden poppy shows,Nor the vermilion that is spreadUpon the pastel of the rose,But some deep smear that has its nameIn the sprawled characters of the flood,A splash of fire, a troubled flame,That takes its color from the bloodOf one who through the night had died,Breaking his body on the tide.
VII
SCENES FROM AFAR
(A Battlefield)
Above the tottering ramparts of the dayMassed clouds dissolve their lines; reform, and breakInto a thousand fragments from the grey.Scattered, they drift awhile, then come to restOn some far shore like mariners marooned,While down the burning avenue of the westThe sun drops, flaming, like an angry wound.
A raven rises from the eastern skies,Mounts up the lifted causeways of the north,Winging an arc of shadow as she flies;And soon the broken fragments close again,The straylings of her brood flock to her wings—Whirlwind and cloud, the thunder and the rain,And what is left of night's unuttered things.
Now closed is every seam of sky and land.The air, the water and the sod are one,And every gulf of light and darkness spanned.O spirits that love the daylight and the sun,That with unerring fingers trace,When night's dark moments are outrun,The swarthy features of the morning's face;In whose involvéd weavings hour by hourAre fashioned forth the hues of nature's dress,In dew and rainbow, grass and tree and flower,And all the patterns of earth's loveliness;Whose iridescent splendors burnIn vein of leaf, in curl of fern.And in the flame the summer throwsUpon the poppy and the rose!Draw near with every voice that's heardIn sound of cataract and bird,With every color that the springSheds on a blossom, blade or wing:Come with your potencies that stirThe sap of life in pine and firThat high along the mountains climb;Bring rosemary and thorn and thymeAnd heather—all that dawn distilsOf fragrance from your clouded hills:From heath and glade and marge of lake,Draw near and watch the morning break!
Wherefore should a daisy bloom,Or scent come from the thorn?What sun could penetrate this gloom,Make redolent this morn?The lark is banished from the sky,The thrush has fled the ground,Not heaven's chorus could outvieThis bacchanal of soundThat from the throat of fire and floodWould drown the voice of God,Answering the challenge of the bloodThat cries out from the clod.
Where are the lilies that your valleys yield,Or those that in foul waters blow?May not the primrose of the fieldBloom near the snow?Should not the clover in the meadows bare,The sweet-briar in the hedges there,Burst red and grow?
They cannot bloom. Spring's gales have lostTheir power the earth to leaven,For those dark vapors would exhaustThe lavender of heaven.
VIII
A DIRGE
Now let the earth takeInto its care,All that it travailed for,All that it bare.
Leaves of the forest,Yellow and red,The drifting and scattered,The dying and dead;
Grass of the hill-slopes,Sickled and dried,Vines that over-nightBlasted and died;
Blossoms and flowersNipped with the cold,Trees that have fallenA century old;
Moths of the candle-flame,Gnats from the stream,Wraiths from the moonlight,Spectres of dream;
All that the earth gave,All that it bare—With all its far kindredOf water and air.
And in those rutted acresWhich the heart's red blood has sown,Soon shall the bramble flourishWhere the gentian had grown;And wherever ran the myrtle,Let the dust of thistles be shed,For these, with nightshade and burdock,Shall fast cover the dead.
IX
THE SEED MUST DIE
Ye meadows, groves, your birth renew; ye orchards, vineyards, grow!Where fast the wastrel waters of the Marne and Yser flow;On the plains bestow your verdure, to the hills your odors fling.Before the smile of Ceres, let your golden censer swing.
For never since great Nature ran her sluices to the sea,And opened up her flood-gates at the Rain-God's first decree,Have richer tides flowed round your rooted hidings in the clay,Than these which seek quite other veins from those of yesterday.
Bring forth the fruitage of your loins in deep, impurpurate stain,Ye vines, that sprang to life from out the throes of British pain;Gird on your strength, ye pines that shade the dead on yonder height;Re-knot your tissues with the stubborn fibre of their might.
And let the rose its crimson darken towards the purple shade,Full-flushed with blood imperial—the price that Britain paid,The lily and the jonquil greet once more their native hills,Companioned by anemones and sun-crowned daffodils.
Command the earth its seed receive, in rare profusion sent,Pledged to high increase in the wine of life's last sacrament,For when sowed Nature seed like this since Time in cycles ran,Or bade the soil accept so strange, so stern a harvest plan?
X
COME NOT THE SEASONS HERE
Comes not the springtime here,Though the snowdrop came,And the time of the cowslip is near,For a yellow flameWas found in a tuft of green;And the joyous shoutOf a child rang outThat a cuckoo's eggs were seen.
Comes not the summer here,Though the cowslip be gone,Though the wild rose blow as the yearDraws faithfully on;Though the face of the poppy be redIn the morning light,And the ground be whiteWith the bloom of the locust shed.
Comes not the autumn here,Though someone saidHe found a leaf in the sereBy an aster dead;And knew that the summer was done,For a herdsman criedThat his pastures were brown in the sun,And his wells were dried.
Nor shall the winter come,Though the elm be bare,And every voice be dumbOn the frozen air;But the flap of a waterfowlIn the marsh alone,Or the hoot of a hornéd owlOn a glacial stone.
XI
ON THE SHORE
Come home! the year has left you old;Leave those grey stones; wrap close this shawl,Around you for the night is cold;Come home! he will not hear your call.
No sign awaits you here but the beatOf tides upon the strand,The crag's gaunt shadow with gull's feetImprinted on the sand,And spars and sea-weed strewnUnder a pale moon.
Come home! he will not hear your call;Only the night winds answer as they fallAlong the shore,And evermoreOnly the sea-shellsOn the grey stones singing,And the white foam-bellsOf the North Sea ringing.
XII
BEFORE A BULLETIN BOARD
(After Beaumont-Hamél)
God! How should letters change their color so:A littlekormstab like a sword;How dry, black ink should turn to red and flow,And figures leap like hydras on the board?
A woman raised her voice, and she was toldThat strange things happen at the will of God;Thus, dawn from midnight; thus, from fire the gold;Thus did a rose once blossom from a rod.
But stranger things to-day, than that the rodShould flower, or the cross become a crown—Stranger than gold from fire; else how should GodBring on the night before the sun go down.
XIII
BEFORE AN ALTAR
(After Gneudecourt)
Break we the bread once more,The cup we pass around—No, rather let us pourThis wine upon the ground;
And on the salver layThe bread—there to remain.Perhaps, some other day,Shrovetide will come again.
Blurred is the rubric now,And shadowy the token,When blood is on the brow,And the frail body broken.
XIV
SNOWFALL ON A BATTLE-FIELD
Compassion of heaven,From night's crystal bars,Falling so gentlyIn wreaths of white stars;
Petals of mysteryCulled in far lands;Crosses of Calvary,Wrought by strange hands;
Gems from His mountains,Facets so rare,Foam from His fountainEternally fair.
Why do they lovinglyLeave their fair home,These leaves of God's gardens,To stray on earth's loam?
See how they hoverOver faces so cold,How reverently coverThe young and the old!
Compassion of heaven,Tears from God's eyes,Falling so gentlyOut of the skies.
Where meet the streams from the earth's many fountains,That part from each other with myriad aims—The Danube that springs from its far-distant mountains,The Tiber, the Seine, the Rhine and the Thames;Far from each other, independent and free,Yet do not all of them flow to the sea?
Loud do their cataracts fling out their thunderThrough the deep gorges that lead them along.Hundreds of leagues divide them asunder;Yet, see how resistless their dark waters throng.In whirlpool and rapid, with agonized motion,Until they find rest in the world's level ocean.
And from the world's frontiers came the world's races,Diverse as their colors and languages run;Life bade them stand with alien faces,With wrongs to requite, till Death made them oneWith the silence that broods on his passionless land,By the call of his voice and the seal of his hand.
Repose now their ashes in earth's tender keeping—Dust unto dust, as the autumn leaves fall;Peace, peace at last to tired eyes sleeping,To Saxon, and Teuton, to Latin and Gaul;Back to the great Mother—thus it must be,As their home-rivers flow to the sea.
I
The Dead! Upon a purple-bordered scrollWe wrote their names; then gazed awhile, and said:"These are the fallen; these, our honored dead,The silent ones in Death's vast muster roll.This one was strong and ruddy; that one frail,Though fleet of foot and keen. The first one metHis fate in that fierce fight at Courcelette;The other died of wounds at Passchendaele."
And thus we mused, pointing from name to nameWith sad, slow count. We spoke of things like grass,And withered leaves, and faded flowers, birth,Old age, decay and dust, glory and fame,And other strange mortalities that passAt length into the all-insatiate earth.
II
Then, suddenly, through the mist that wrapped our sight,An utterance fell, as of great waters flowing—Slow, but with mightier accent ever growingAround a blazing shaft of central light:"Fallen! There is no downward plunge. The estateIs high. Go!—roll thy plumb-line up, and askThy Master for His measures, as the taskIs one that would the heavens triangulate,"
And so were compassed life's fine agonies;By ranging hopes, and longings cut adriftFrom earth's unstable shores; by faiths that spannedIllimitable wastes and wrecking seas;By noble strands of nature, scattered swiftFrom the white fingers of God's spacious hand.
No blow, no threat, no movement of the hand.No word burst from the leash of calm control,Betraying passions slumbering in the soul;But friendship's added years could not withstandA curve that rose unbidden and unplannedFrom the flexed silence of the lips—a dartThat struck, rending the texture of the heart,And, entering deeper, seared like a brand.
Some years have passed. To-day, no lure of mineRestores the confidence he gave of old;The outer court of strangers with its formsOf soulless exchange—there we meet. The shrineWithin where sacred fires once burned is cold,And love no more the ashen altar warms.
So calm the air; the sunset's dying beatWafts slowly to me from the distant brimOf silent waters; evening shadows dimPress close the day's spent hours, loath to greetThe veiled advance of night; slumbering sweetThe stillness as the purple threads the rimOf yonder crimson, preluding a hymnOf choral wavelets silvering at my feet.
O restful solitude! Here life's frail trustGrows, nurtured near the heart of mystery,Expands into fruition, from the clodOf cynic trappings, orbs to symmetry—The place where light strikes through Time's circling dust,And reverent hush attends the tread of God.
(To W. H. G.)
Without, the heavy vapors in an endless trainAlong the river's gorge drag wearily.Autumn has fled, and winter's masteryTakes votive tribute from his white domain;The Northern winds unleashed bring in the rainWhich, blending at the night's austerity,Turns into hail and white-flaked fantasyThat weirdly haunt the streaming window-pane.
Within, a peace that only heaven sendsTo men who, pilgrims though they be, yet knowLife's simple gifts—a home, the heart of friends,The company of the past; a fragrant briar;All these were ours, for in the hearth's rich glowEven Hamlet came and brooded on the fire.
(A story of the sea)
IN MEMORY OF R. S. LE D.
* * * * *
The breeze, that with the morn had freshened up,Now with the mid-day died. Far to the east,The horizon, clear at dawn, slowly withdrew,Its lines dissolving moodily in mist.The after hours grew still in sullen peace,Save where the ground-swell, uttering a weird note,Broke the dead silence. Soon (a globe of fireBehind a bank of smoke that thickened fastAgainst a dull circumference of grey)The moon arose, and tongueless vapors stoleHeavily athwart the sea. Within her homeThe widow sat alone, peering afarThrough the raised window at the distant pointRound which the vessel in the morning sailed.She sat, her long, thin fingers intertwinedAnd resting in her lap, and now and thenWith drooping head she prayed, or seemed to pray,Though neither words nor sound escaped her lips.There she remained until the smaller hoursHad passed; then took her lamp and went to bed—And yet more from the habit of the nightThan from the weary willingness of sleep.Later than usual did the morning break;The drops were splashing on the window-pane;A heavy fog came drifting down the shore,Shrouding both sea and land. The dread North-EastWas hoisting forth the signals of her powerIn scurrying fog, and intermittent gustsOf rain. The shoremen, hurrying to the beach,Pulled high and dry their boats, and ran their skiffsTo safer moorings, well inside the bar.Another night, and still the blast increasedIts power, tearing, lifting cottage roofs,But nowhere did it make completer ruinThan in the heart of Rachel. By the lightOf a small lamp she watched the weather glass,And saw how, as she tapped it every hour,The dark line sank. It was now, she thought, the shipHad reached the weltering tide-rips off Cape Race.Would the frail timbers stand the shock of waves?And how avoid the reefs when neither moonNor stars gave to the compass friendly aid?There seemed no limit to the rising scaleThrough which the tempest climbed. At times it pausedTo speak with tragic whisperings that clutchedThe widow's pulse, and then with fearful shriekIt filed her nerve, while from the distant seasThere came long, whistling interludes of death.Another morning came. The fog had blownAway, and through the rift of clouds that massedThe eastern vault, the fitful sunlight gleamedUpon white billows that a thousand leaguesHad come, and now with jealous leap sought heightsUnscalable, save to the petrel's wings.A week passed by with heavy-shodden feet;The hours seemed weighted with unnatural calm,So different from the lightsome, freshening stirThat follows in the usual wake of gales.Summer had taken leave, and yet the airSeemed bashful of the fall, for every dayMirrored the one before, as if the stormHad over-wrought its ends, and paralyzedThe will of nature for the season's change.The village-folk again commenced their work,Rebuilding stages which the wind had wreckedAnd littered round the beach; but work was doneBy hands scarce conscious of the task, for thoughtWas dazed, and eyes saw nothing but the sea.So Rachel moved within her home. Some friendsHad come to see her, and had gone away,Saying among themselves how old she looked.How wan her face, and how her hair had turnedWithin so short a time to ashen grey.A picture of her son hung on the wall,A boy of three within his father's arms.How often had she, in the earlier yearsFollowing her husband's death, gazed on the face,And mused upon the likeness of the two.And now each night she got up from her bed,Lighted the lamp and held it near the frame,While questionings beat sorely at her heart,Notes of despair unuttered by the lips:Was this, then, after all, the goal of years—The end for which the lad was born, had lived,Had grown, for which by night and day she strove,The guerdon of life's vigils, and the crownOf Love's recordless givings? Nor was leftThe mother's ancient right, inalienable,To challenge death within the last great hour,And from his hands to wrest the life she loved.There flashed now through her mind, as every timeShe looked upon his face, a night long past,When croup had racked his frame—when she had foughtDeath with a woman's courage as she watchedThe cradle's tiny heavings, till the dawnRevealed the cooling moisture on the brow,And told her she had won. In that high testShe well remembered how her rising strengthCould pit itself against the Adversary,Emerge, though weakened with the night's long fight,Triumphant, glad, rejoicing with the morn.Absorbed now with the picture and the past,She gazed so long that now and then the boySeemed to her wondering eye to stir, and smile,And move his lips as if he wished to speak,And for a passing moment did a hopeFlicker a feeble path across her breast,That the black menace of the past few daysMight prove the hideous phantom of a dream,When, sudden, through the night's dull gloom, a moan,Escaping from the swell, smote on her ear,And brought her thoughts back to the eastern storm.At length, one morning, into port there sailedA vessel from the harbor of St. John's;Rounding the cape, she picked up here and there,Tidings of wreckage all along the shore—Remnants of spars and cordage, casks and planks,And canvas rent in shreds. She brought a taleThat bore direct upon the village homes.A naiad's head, carven in wood, was found,Thrown high upon the reef, the self-same headThat marked theSwallow'sprow, and, lying near,A plank that had the vessel's name inscribed.Throughout the days and weeks following the stormShe often left her home to wander off,Searching as if some object of her loveHad strayed upon the moor or on the beach.At times she stood awhile and looked, with eyesThat somehow had forgotten how to weep,Far out to sea. At times she made her wayAlong the shore to where two beetling cragsRose from their slippery base, as if they'd breakThe waves with a last crash. There in the cleft,With arms outstretched, she would implore the seaGive up its dead, while the resurgent tides,Upbraided, would creep guiltily away.One evening, when the east winds blew, and rainFell chill upon her, there had come a friendWho led her gently to her cottage home,And through a long and restless night had stayedIn watchful ministry close by her bed,Soothing the urge of hectic on her brow,And answering with a voice instinct with peace,The breaking, wayward fragments of her lips.Another morn and sleep. With a white handThe day was ushered in. The seams of painAnd arid loss which each awakening lightHad freely veined, now reappeared no more.The fall's loud blast that whirled the senile leavesAbove the trees, she did not hear; nor soundOf breaking seas, nor swirl of surge or foam.
I
(THADDEUS,a traveller, speaking to Julian,an old man)
. . . . . . . . .. . . Fields far and near,Hills, ridges, valleys, lowlands, marsh and plain,Far to the horizon's utmost rim were filledWith clashing millions. All earth's tribesHad by some common instinct gathered there,Peopling the shadows of the awful zone—The forest shades, the fissures of great rocks,And caverns cut within the rotted mould;Each nation's youth, its lithest, strongest, best,Closed up the crimson rendezvous. The streamsThat ran their livid washings through the cleftsOf spade or nature's highways, fouled and chokedWith drifted foliage of a year grown old,Too soon, with autumn's hectic leaves and limbs,And sheddings rare of dearer castaways.As leaves fall, so upon the plains fell men;Some tossed awhile within the gust of combat,High on the sweltered air, returned to earthAs flesh and blood and bone unrecognized,And indistinguishable dust. Some swayed,Not knowing why they did, as if a breathOf unnamed pestilence had touched their senses,Robbed them of aim and guidance. Thus they droopedAnd fell; and others could not die till hoursWore into days and nights. Restless they moved.And shuddered; clutched convulsively at stonesOr roots, and clenched their teeth upon their hands,Stifling their moans. And lads of growing years,Who pain or weariness had never known,Lay in strange sleep upon the fields, alone,Or huddled up in ghastly heaps where deathHad flung them. Night winds gambolled with their hair,Golden and brown and dark—they heeded not.And far along the distant battle lines—Movements as various as the tides, the riseThe flow, the swift recessions of despair;Huge gaps that rendered void the toil of years.The lines re-formed and the price paid; strong menWho lunged and parried thrusts and lunged again,Struck and were struck, unknown to each the foes,Save in the general quarrel and its cause.And through the lulls of intermittent fightWas blown death's bitterest music—the low sobOf brothers mourning brothers dead, the curseOf fallen men that had not seen their foes,The unavailing moan that answers moanAt night in the far comradeship of wounds.Then, strangest of all sights, the harvest moonA moment broke through misty cloud, and shedUpon the fields a sickly, yellow light,Disclosing pallid faces, blue, strained lips,And eyes that stared, amazed, through open lidsThat had no time to shut—that looked and askedBut one eternal question. Then the moonGrew dimmer as the mist increased, and showed,In hazy outlines, hurrying forms that movedIn twos and threes, from place to place, and laidUpon the stretchers, one by one, the dead,Torn, jagged, mud-smeared and crumpled, carrying themTo rows of damp, deep trenches, newly dug,Where they were placed in groups of eight or ten,In order, side by side, and face to face—And the moon shone full again—the harvest moon.
JULIAN.
Your words would tax the heart's belief. I thoughtThat here along these shores when, at the closeOf a week of storm, the gull alone remainedUpon the waters, and the blinds were drawnWithin a hundred homes, that there was leftOn earth nothing that might out-range the winds.
THADDEUS.
Death—Death stalked everywhere on land and sea,In clouds that banked the sun, in mists that hidThe stars, or half disclosed the swollen moon.No cavern sunk beneath the earth but boreHis foot-prints. Deep below the waters' rimGreat fish had trailed his scent. Earth's myriad formsHad felt the plague-spot of his rampant touch.From the small field-mouse, caught within the fumesOf sulphurous air that crept from knoll to knoll,Withering the grass blades, to the giant fighterOf storm and wave that, ribbed and sheathed with steel,Felt the swift scorpion in her sides, then rockedAnd plunged with bellowing nostrils till she sankIn a wild litany of guns, with wind,And night, and flame. But busier was his handWith subtler workmanship. On eye and browAnd cheek were delved the traces of his passing—Blindness, that like a thunder-clap at noon.Closed on the sight; furrows that struck the veins,Turning the red sap from its wonted course;Sharp lines of pain and fury and quick hateThat on the instant changed to graven stone,Callous and motionless. And deadlier still,With flying leap he strode a continent,Or the wide prairies of a sea, and snatchedThe cup from the wan fingers of a lifeThat slaked its thirst upon the wine of hope;So sure his hand—light, as with finger-tips,He touched the hair and wove the grey and whiteWithin the brown, or hard, with rough-spurred heel,He mauled the bosom till its heavings ceased.
JULIAN.
Where ever in its course was this wide worldSo plunged in an unmeasured desolation?What tenders offered, save in a fool's faith,Would gamble on the chance of raising itFrom the complete involvement of its ruin?
THADDEUS.
Many there were who, clutching at a strawOf some dark saying of the past, some tone,Or flash of eye carrying strange emphasis,Sought for the battered remnants of their faithAn anchorage; and around a clay-damp graveThat buried hope with dust would stoop to tieTheir heartstrings to a pansy, murmuring thus:"Who bade this flower renew its own fair leaseOf youth perennial? Springs it not this yearFrom the same soil and root, with that same prideWith which a year ago it lifted upIts face before the sun? Does not each yearDeclare its trumpet-pledges at the spring?"
JULIAN.
Think they so to convince the heart with wordsLike those, to mesh it with a logic meetFor bloodless ends? What though the winds of MayCall to the springing rootlets, lure the budFrom the rose-stem, and chase the resinous sapFrom the pine's trunk to branch and topmost twig—Who yields to such delusion? Does the springForget November's hecatombs, the lastConvulsion of the leaf, the gale-torn limbsOf trees scarred to the death, the flowers that dancedUpon the fields scythed by the autumn's hands.The writhen spectres of earth's quick decayFlashed out upon the winds? All these as dustAround the season's tombs—dust-heaps, no more;As sands that eddy in the desert, these:For these no resurrection. What amendsDoes summer make for winter's numbing stroke?It's death he gives, not slumber. His pale formsBreathe not again, and eyelids that have closedOn the congealing air reflect no moreThe warm glance of the sun. The swallows buildTheir nests once more within the eaves; the thrush,The red-breast and the lark cover againTheir young in bush and tree and meadow-grain—Theyhave not died. But weak ones that, impaledUpon the thorn, screamed out their notes of pain,Or dashed, wing-broken, by the wildering blast,Fell when their strength had failed them on far plains,On treeless hills, or dazed in homeward flight,Fluttered and sank in furrows of the sea—Theirsong has ended;theyreturn no more.
THADDEUS.
Yet, like a crocus in the swamps of spring,I saw life push its way through mire of death, Triumphant.
JULIAN.
How?
THADDEUS.
A ship lay motionless,Not anchored, nor becalmed, but held in spellOf some great shock. She listed heavilyAs though a hidden wound had gripped her loins,And in the rain and chill were lowered boats,So filled they lacked the margin of an inchTo meet the water's edge. A law well knownTo men who live upon the sea here ranIts old and honored course. The boats were fewAnd small, and there was left upon the deckA sturdier throng who stretched out willing handsTo save the weak. One boat hung yet suspended,Filled short of obvious risk, and a slim girlStepped out, and gave an aged woman, leftUnnoticed in the crowd, her place. Her lipsWere closed, and her face pale, but yet a smileMade soft and sweet the pallor of her cheeks.Then out into the night the boat was rowed,Steadily and silently. No clamour brokeThe stillness on the deck, nor was there soundOf any voiced farewell, but here and thereA hand was raised, and a white flutteringAnswered the distant rhythm of the oars.
JULIAN.
Chaos indeed may well disclose a starCaught unaware within the tangled driftOf cloud and chasing glooms. Look on the plainsAgain. Charred ruins, not of nature's hand,Lie deep within unfathomable slime.How foul the wreckage stands—a spectacleSo ill that it might seem to bar for everThe lily's right to grow therein again.
THADDEUS.
And yet a few short hours before, when deathWas taking in his most exacting tollOf this, his bloodiest year, were women seen,Fulfilling well their office. LovinglyTheir hands were placed on the hot flush of woundsMade by the steel of surgeon and of foe.They beat the angels, at the angels' game,Those women. God might well His embassageForego—His feudals of pure space—and takeIn chartered ministry those lovelier forms,They know the ravelled driftings of our life,And hence God's art of salvage all the more.
JULIAN.
These are fine colors woven in a greyAnd tattered fabric.
THADDEUS.
Grant you not as wellA value to a life that's lost! The ladThat struck out in the storm without a star,Or faintest glimmer of a port, that tookHis orders with blanched cheeks, yet with a heartThat pumped its resolution through young limbs,Untaxed till now by paths wherein the errandFailed by fore-doom of the sure goal—think you,That with his eyes made blind before he struckThe highway, when his senses clouded fastWith the delusions of ungoverned winds,That falling here, somewhere around the placeOf starting, he should then be counted out,His life not worth the value of a smile?
JULIAN.
This tangled, sacrificial thread has grownTill it has thickened to a scourge that bearsNo discipline in human fashionings.
THADDEUS.
Causes lost awhile on earth try outOn new arenas fiercer qualities.They are re-born upon the air; they stormThe souls of men; find homes in thunder peals;Are hitched to lightnings. Slain, they rise againWith such forged temper that they turn asideThe opposing edge of armouries of steel.Marks he the issue well, who sees here naughtSave huge world-fires upon whose smouldering ruinsMan's hand has lost its cunning to re-build,Or that the piles new-reared shall fall once moreIn the mad blasts that periodic runTheir cycles of decay? May not the eyeRange over those dun fields of death and see,From vile putrescence, beauty rise in lightUnquenchable? May not the scar remindThe sufferer of his healing as of wound?
JULIAN.
Look how in cluttered heaps the crosses rise,Stacked pile on pile, until they twist and sagThe rivets on the bolted doors of God.This is a storm beyond imaginings,Unknown to land or sea. Were waves and galesThe only agents of man's ruin, thenThe chance might fall upon his side—the fightWith nature growing simpler every hour,Her ways being known; but when the struggle takesIts eddying fortunes in these blinded routes,Not once, nor twice, as though an incidentOf casual kind had touched man's history,But as a baffling epidemic strikesA thousand times his life, failure of cure—How strike this foul, insistent integerClean from his life? ... The taint is in the blood.
II
A LATER SPRING
A flash of indigo in the air,A streak of orange edged with black!A bluebird skimmed the spruces there,A redstart followed in his track.
The light grows in the eastern skies,The deeper shadows are withdrawn;From marsh and swamp the vapors riseIn the cool cloisters of the dawn.
What loom, a-weaving on the land,Such color and fragrance fuses!Magenta and white on moss and sand,Azaleas, arethusas.
And higher up along the steeps,The pink of mountain-laurel;While lower down the yellow creepsFrom celandine and sorrel.
Sea-foam or snow-drift, flecked with spurtOf flame, upon the grasses spread.The snow is foam of mitre-wort;The flame, the ragged robin's red.
..............
Where sits the lily of the morning dewWhen light winds waken,And gems that the violets holdGently are shakenTo crystalline purple and blue,And emerald, crimson and goldFrom the heart of the rose unfold,And burst into view;
There, at the dawn's first blush,The notes of a brown thrasher fall,And the importunate voice of the thrushBlends with a tannager's call;There, under a dragon-fly's wings,A stream carols by with sweet noise,And slowly a daffodil swingsTo a humming-bird's marvellous poise.
(Thaddeus, walking through a field in the direction of Julian's home. The day is warm and sunny. A rapid stream, a short distance away, flows through a valley whose banks slope down from small hills covered with evergreen. Afar off, the land is high and forest-clad. At a bend of the stream he suddenly meets Julian.)
THADDEUS.
There is a quality in this air that stirsThe blood as readily as the balsam sap.What brew, what chemistry; what hand is thisThat grips the pestle? Never was the grassSo green upon the fields. A miracle!Throughout arterial nature, marble-coldAnd pale, are heard the joyous sounds of lifeRevived; earth's wells are opened in the vales;Through ice-clad mountains, chiselled by the handsOf northern blasts, the gurgling waters runIn stream and torrent, and in the mad plungeOf cataract. Beyond the snow-capped rangesLusty young rivers tear and strain at the dugsOf the foot-hills, and parting, force their paceThrough gorge and valley to the open sea.Life, boundless, keen, ecstatic, uncontrolled!Vast, heaving, surging life, strung to great thews,Rapt in wide wonderments. Flail, life of Spring!Born of prophetic gales and plangent shocks,That rouse the torpor of earth's granite veins,And sluggard eyes. Glorious in resurrection!Thou peerless colorist of nature's life!With what unrivaled hands the lines are drawn.The shadows set, and the rich hues enwroughtUpon how great a canvas! The far climbMajestic of fresh-foliaged ash and elmAlong the mountain crags; the river banksWhere the white spray falls softly on the iris,And violets creep along the sides; the giftOf minted treasure on the open fields,Where bloom those golden legions of the earth—The daffodils and lowland marigolds;Cerulean tints that light our common paths.That bless our road-sides, cheer our vacant wastes;Bluets and harebells and the lilac bloom;Orchards a-flame beneath a setting sun,And, trailing slow around moss-covered rocks.The flower of May superlatively veined.Come! Leave your tents, O mortals, gather hereIn Nature's high rotunda, crystal-domed,And offer praises .... Julian, give meYour hand. We meet under new skies to-day.The times are changed; the earth renews her face;There is a fine contagion in the springFor heavy hearts.
JULIAN.
You would infect the bloodOf an old man.
THADDEUS.
Come, Julian! In this lifeThere is an unslain good that has outlivedAll floods and fires. There are undaunted spiritsThe age has not destroyed. I have seen them breatheUpon dry bones until they leaped with sinew;Even flotsam by their touch was salvable.No life, however craven at the face,But found a courage stirring at the core.The groundwork's there to build a structure on;The hand that yesterday tore like an eagle's clawNow pours in balm to-day, blesses and cures.There is a restoration in a smileWe knew not of; we had forgotten it—But wings unseen were flying in the night.
JULIAN.
I would there was a rock from which man's hopesMight never more be swept, or that his bloodMight always bathe his heart with healthy stream.But those alternate currents, like the seasons,Have been our fateful legacy through all time.What power is this you speak of, that the darkMay sudden blaze with light before the mornIs ushered in at nature's call? Is thisThe ultimate conquest of her will, that dayShall not know supersession by the night,With earth's diurnal axis overruled?