The maiden said,"So, cobweb, I will break thee." And she passedAmong some oak-trees on the farther side,And waded through the bracken round their bolls,Until she saw the open, and drew onToward the edge o' the wood, where it was mixedWith pines and heathery places wild and fresh.Here she put up a creature, that ran onBefore her, crying, "Tint, tint, tint," and turned,Sat up, and stared at her with elfish eyes,Jabbering of gramarye, one Michael Scott,The wizard that wonned somewhere underground,With other talk enough to make one fearTo walk in lonely places. After passedA man-at-arms, William of Deloraine;He shook his head, "An' if I list to tell,"Quoth he, "I know, but how it matters not";Then crossed himself, and muttered of a clapOf thunder, and a shape in amice gray,But still it mouthed at him, and whimpered, "Tint,Tint, tint." "There shall be wild work some day soon,"Quoth he, "thou limb of darkness: he will come,Thy master, push a hand up, catch thee, imp,And so good Christians shall have peace, perdie."
Then Gladys was so frightened, that she ran,And got away, towards a grassy down,Where sheep and lambs were feeding, with a boyTo tend them. 'Twas the boy who wears that herbCalled heart's-ease in his bosom, and he sangSo sweetly to his flock, that she stole onNearer to listen. "O Content, Content,Give me," sang he, "thy tender company.I feed my flock among the myrtles; allMy lambs are twins, and they have laid them downAlong the slopes of Beulah. Come, fair love,From the other side the river, where their harpsThou hast been helping them to tune. O come,And pitch thy tent by mine; let me beholdThy mouth,—that even in slumber talks of peace,—Thy well-set locks, and dove-like countenance."
And Gladys hearkened, couched upon the grass,Till she had rested; then did ask the boy,For it was afternoon, and she was fainTo reach the shore, "Which is the path, I pray,That leads one to the water?" But he said,"Dear lass, I only know the narrow way,The path that leads one to the golden gateAcross the river." So she wandered on;And presently her feet grew cool, the grassStanding so high, and thyme being thick and soft.The air was full of voices, and the scentOf mountain blossom loaded all its wafts;For she was on the slopes of a goodly mount,And reared in such a sort that it looked downInto the deepest valleys, darkest glades,And richest plains o' the island. It was setMidway between the snows majesticalAnd a wide level, such as men would chooseFor growing wheat; and some one said to her,"It is the hill Parnassus." So she walkedYet on its lower slope, and she could hearThe calling of an unseen multitudeTo some upon the mountain, "Give us more";And others said, "We are tired of this old world:Make it look new again." Then there were someWho answered lovingly—(the dead yet speakFrom that high mountain, as the living do);But others sang desponding, "We have keptThe vision for a chosen few: we loveFit audience better than a rough huzzaFrom the unreasoning crowd."
Then words came up:"There was a time, you poets, was a timeWhen all the poetry was ours, and madeBy some who climbed the mountain from our midst.We loved it then, we sang it in our streets.O, it grows obsolete! Be you as they:Our heroes die and drop away from us;Oblivion folds them 'neath her dusky wing,Fair copies wasted to the hungering world.Save them. We fall so low for lack of them,That many of us think scorn of honest trade,And take no pride in our own shops; who careOnly to quit a calling, will not makeThe calling what it might be; who despiseTheir work, Fate laughs at, and doth let the workDull, and degrade them."
Then did Gladys smile:"Heroes!" quoth she; "yet, now I think on it,There was the jolly goldsmith, brave Sir Hugh,Certes, a hero ready-made. MethinksI see him burnishing of golden gear,Tankard and charger, and a-muttering low,'London is thirsty'—(then he weighs a chain):''Tis an ill thing, my masters. I would giveThe worth of this, and many such as this,To bring it water.'
"Ay, and after himThere came up Guy of London, lettered sonO' the honest lighterman. I'll think on him,Leaning upon the bridge on summer eves,After his shop was closed: a still, grave man,With melancholy eyes. 'While these are hale,'He saith, when he looks down and marks the crowdCheerily working; where the river margeIs blocked with ships and boats; and all the wharvesSwarm, and the cranes swing in with merchandise,—'While these are hale, 'tis well, 'tis very well.But, O good Lord,' saith he, 'when these are sick,—I fear me, Lord, this excellent workmanshipOf Thine is counted for a cumbrance then.Ay, ay, my hearties! many a man of you,Struck down, or maimed, or fevered, shrinks away,And, mastered in that fight for lack of aid,Creeps shivering to a corner, and there dies.'Well, we have heard the rest.
"Ah, next I thinkUpon the merchant captain, stout of heartTo dare and to endure. 'Robert,' saith he,(The navigator Knox to his manful son,)'I sit a captive from the ship detained;This heathenry doth let thee visit her.Remember, son, if thou, alas! shouldst failTo ransom thy poor father, they are freeAs yet, the mariners; have wives at home,As I have; ay, and liberty is sweetTo all men. For the ship, she is not ours,Therefore, 'beseech thee, son, lay on the mateThis my command, to leave me, and set sail.As for thyself—' 'Good father,' saith the son;'I will not, father, ask your blessing now,Because, for fair, or else for evil, fateWe two shall meet again.' And so they did.The dusky men, peeling off cinnamon,And beating nutmeg clusters from the tree,Ransom and bribe contemned. The good ship sailed,—The son returned to share his father's cell.
"O, there are many such. Would I had witTheir worth to sing!" With that, she turned her feet,"I am tired now," said Gladys, "of their talkAround this hill Parnassus." And, behold,A piteous sight—an old, blind, graybeard kingLed by a fool with bells. Now this was lovedOf the crowd below the hill; and when he calledFor his lost kingdom, and bewailed his age,And plained on his unkind daughters, they were knownTo say, that if the best of gold and gearCould have bought him back his kingdom, and made kindThe hard hearts which had broken his erewhile,They would have gladly paid it from their storeMany times over. What is done is done,No help. The ruined majesty passed on.And look you! one who met her as she walkedShowed her a mountain nymph lovely as lightHer name Oenone; and she mourned and mourned,"O Mother Ida," and she could not cease,No, nor be comforted.
And after this,Soon there came by, arrayed in Norman capAnd kirtle, an Arcadian villager,Who said, "I pray you, have you chanced to meetOne Gabriel?" and she sighed; but Gladys tookAnd kissed her hand: she could not answer her,Because she guessed the end.
With that it drewTo evening; and as Gladys wandered onIn the calm weather, she beheld the wave,And she ran down to set her feet againOn the sea margin, which was covered thickWith white shell-skeletons. The sky was redAs wine. The water played among bare ribsOf many wrecks, that lay half buried thereIn the sand. She saw a cave, and moved theretoTo ask her way, and one so innocentCame out to meet her, that, with marvelling mute,She gazed and gazed into her sea-blue eyes,For in them beamed the untaught ecstasyOf childhood, that lives on though youth be come,And love just born.
She could not choose but name her shipwrecked prince,All blushing. She told Gladys many thingsThat are not in the story,—things, in sooth,That Prospero her father knew. But now'Twas evening, and the sun drooped; purple stripesIn the sea were copied from some clouds that layOut in the west. And lo! the boat, and more,The freakish thing to take fair Gladys homeShe mowed at her, but Gladys took the helm:"Peace, peace!" she said; "be good: you shall not steer,For I am your liege lady." Then she sangThe sweetest songs she knew all the way home.
So Gladys set her feet upon the sand;While in the sunset glory died awayThe peaks of that blest island.
"Fare you well.My country, my own kingdom," then she said,"Till I go visit you again, farewell."
She looked toward their house with whom she dwelt,—The carriages were coming. Hastening up,She was in time to meet them at the door,And lead the sleepy little ones within;And some were cross and shivered, and her damesWere weary and right hard to please; but sheFelt like a beggar suddenly endowedWith a warm cloak to 'fend her from the cold."For, come what will," she said, "I hadto-day.There is an island."
The Moral.
What is the moral? Let us think awhile,Taking the editorial WE to help,It sounds respectable.
The moral; yes.We always read, when any fable ends,"Hence we may learn." A moral must be found.What do you think of this? "Hence we may learnThat dolphins swim about the coast of Wales,And Admiralty maps should now be drawnBy teacher-girls, because their sight is keen,And they can spy out islands." Will that do?No, that is far too plain,—too evident.
Perhaps a general moralizing vein—(We know we have a happy knack that way.We have observed, moreover, that young menAre fond of good advice, and so are girls;Especially of that meandering kind,Which winding on so sweetly, treats of allThey ought to be and do and think and wear,As one may say, from creeds to comforters.Indeed, we much prefer that sort ourselves,So soothing). Good, a moralizing vein;That is the thing; but how to manage it?"Hence we may learn," if we be so inclined,That life goes best with those who take it best;That wit can spin from work a golden robeTo queen it in; that who can paint at willA private picture gallery, should not cryFor shillings that will let him in to lookAt some by others painted. Furthermore,Hence we may learn, you poets,—(and we countFor poets all who ever felt that suchThey were, and all who secretly have knownThat such they could be; ay, moreover, allWho wind the robes of idealityAbout the bareness of their lives, and hangComforting curtains, knit of fancy's yarn,Nightly betwixt them and the frosty world),—Hence we may learn, you poets, that of allWe should be most content. The earth is givenTo us: we reign by virtue of a senseWhich lets us hear the rhythm of that old verse,The ring of that old tune whereto she spins.Humanity is given to us: we reignBy virtue of a sense, which lets us inTo know its troubles ere they have been told,And take them home and lull them into restWith mournfullest music. Time is given to us,—Time past, time future. Who, good sooth, besideHave seen it well, have walked this empty worldWhen she went steaming, and from pulpy hillsHave marked the spurting of their flamy crowns?
Have we not seen the tabernacle pitched,And peered between the linen curtains, blue,Purple, and scarlet, at the dimness there,And, frighted, have not dared to look again?But, quaint antiquity! beheld, we thought,A chest that might have held the manna potAnd Aaron's rod that budded. Ay, we leanedOver the edge of Britain, while the fleetOf Caesar loomed and neared; then, afterwards,We saw fair Venice looking at herselfIn the glass below her, while her Doge went forthIn all his bravery to the wedding.
This,However, counts for nothing to the graceWe wot of in time future:—therefore add,And afterwards have done: "Hence we may learn,"That though it be a grand and comely thingTo be unhappy,—(and we think it is,Because so many grand and clever folkHave found out reasons for unhappiness,And talked about uncomfortable things,—Low motives, bores, and shams, and hollowness,The hollowness o' the world, till we at lastHave scarcely dared to jump or stamp, for fear,Being so hollow, it should break some day,And let us in),—yet, since we are not grand,O, not at all, and as for cleverness,That may be or may not be,—it is wellFor us to be as happy as we can!
Agreed: and with a word to the noble sex,As thus: we pray you carry not your gunsOn the full-cock; we pray you set your prideIn its proper place, and never be ashamedOf any honest calling,—let us add,And end; for all the rest, hold up your headsAnd mind your English.
Note to "GLADYS AND HER ISLAND."
The woman is Imagination; she is brooding over what she brought forth.
The two purple peaks represent the domains of Poetry and of History.
The girl is Fancy.
[Illustration]
The sun was streaming in: I woke, and said,"Where is my wife,—that has been made my wifeOnly this year?" The casement stood ajar:I did but lift my head: The pear-tree dropped,The great white pear-tree dropped with dew from leavesAnd blossom, under heavens of happy blue.
My wife had wakened first, and had gone downInto the orchard. All the air was calm;Audible humming filled it. At the rootsOf peony bushes lay in rose-red heaps,Or snowy, fallen bloom. The crag-like hillsWere tossing down their silver messengers,And two brown foreigners, called cuckoo-birds,Gave them good answer; all things else were mute;An idle world lay listening to their talk,They had it to themselves.What ails my wife?I know not if aught ails her; though her stepTell of a conscious quiet, lest I wake.She moves atween the almond boughs, and bendsOne thick with bloom to look on it. "O love!A little while thou hast withdrawn thyself,At unaware to think thy thoughts alone:How sweet, and yet pathetic to my heartThe reason. Ah! thou art no more thine own.Mine, mine, O love! Tears gather 'neath my lids,—Sorrowful tears for thy lost liberty,Because it was so sweet. Thy liberty,That yet, O love, thou wouldst not have again.No; all is right. But who can give, or bless,Or take a blessing, but there comes withalSome pain?"She walks beside the lily bed,And holds apart her gown; she would not hurtThe leaf-enfolded buds, that have not lookedYet on the daylight. O, thy locks are brown,—Fairest of colors!—and a darker brownThe beautiful, dear, veiled, modest eyes.A bloom as of blush roses covers herForehead, and throat, and cheek. Health breathes with her,And graceful vigor. Fair and wondrous soul!To think that thou art mine!My wife came in,And moved into the chamber. As for me,I heard, but lay as one that nothing hears,And feigned to be asleep.
The racing river leaped, and sangFull blithely in the perfect weather,All round the mountain echoes rang,For blue and green were glad together.
This rained out light from every part,And that with songs of joy was thrilling;But, in the hollow of my heart,There ached a place that wanted filling.
Before the road and river meet,And stepping-stones are wet and glisten,I heard a sound of laughter sweet,And paused to like it, and to listen.
I heard the chanting waters flow,The cushat's note, the bee's low humming,—Then turned the hedge, and did not know,—How could I?—that my time was coming.
A girl upon the nighest stone,Half doubtful of the deed, was standing,So far the shallow flood had flownBeyond the 'customed leap of landing.
She knew not any need of me,Yet me she waited all unweeting;We thought not I had crossed the sea,And half the sphere to give her meeting.
I waded out, her eyes I met,I wished the moment had been hours;I took her in my arms, and setHer dainty feet among the flowers.
Her fellow maids in copse and lane,Ah! still, methinks, I hear them calling;The wind's soft whisper in the plain,The cushat's coo, the water's falling.
But now it is a year ago,But now possession crowns endeavor;I took her in my heart, to growAnd fill the hollow place forever.
O that word REGRET!There have been nights and morns when we have sighed,"Let us alone, Regret! We are contentTo throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleepFor aye." But it is patient, and it wakes;It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep,But plaineth on the bed that it is hard.
We did amiss when we did wish it goneAnd over: sorrows humanize our race;Tears are the showers that fertilize this world;And memory of things precious keepeth warmThe heart that once did hold them.They are poorThat have lost nothing; they are poorer farWho, losing, have forgotten; they most poorOf all, who lose and wish they MIGHT forget.
For life is one, and in its warp and woofThere runs a thread of gold that glitters fair,And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweetWhere there are sombre colors. It is trueThat we have wept. But O! this thread of gold,We would not have it tarnish; let us turnOft and look back upon the wondrous web,And when it shineth sometimes we shall knowThat memory is possession.
When I remember something which I had,But which is gone, and I must do without,I sometimes wonder how I can be glad,Even in cowslip time when hedges sprout;It makes me sigh to think on it,—but yetMy days will not be better days, should I forget.
When I remember something promised me,But which I never had, nor can have now,Because the promiser we no more seeIn countries that accord with mortal vow;When I remember this, I mourn,—but yetMy happier days are not the days when I forget.
I read upon that book,Which down the golden gulf doth let us lookOn the sweet days of pastoral majesty;I read upon that bookHow, when the Shepherd Prince did flee(Red Esau's twin), he desolate tookThe stone for a pillow: then he fell on sleep.And lo! there was a ladder. Lo! there hungA ladder from the star-place, and it clungTo the earth: it tied her so to heaven; and O!There fluttered wings;Then were ascending and descending thingsThat stepped to him where he lay low;Then up the ladder would a-drifting go(This feathered brood of heaven), and showSmall as white flakes in winter that are blownTogether, underneath the great white throne.
When I had shut the book, I said,"Now, as for me, my dreams upon my bedAre not like Jacob's dream;Yet I have got it in my life; yes, I,And many more: it doth not us beseem,Therefore, to sigh.Is there not hung a ladder in our sky?Yea; and, moreover, all the way up on highIs thickly peopled with the prayers of men.We have no dream! What then?Like wingéd wayfarers the height they scale(By Him that offers them they shall prevail),—The prayers of men.But where is found a prayer for me;How should I pray?My heart is sick, and full of strife.I heard one whisper with departing breath,'Suffer us not, for any pains of death,To fall from Thee.'But O, the pains of life! the pains of life!There is no comfort now, and naught to win,But yet,—I will begin."
"Preserve to me my wealth," I do not say,For that is wasted away;And much of it was cankered ere it went."Preserve to me my health." I cannot say,For that, upon a day,Went after other delights to banishment.
What can I pray? "Give me forgetfulness"?No, I would still possessPast away smiles, though present fronts be stern."Give me again my kindred?" Nay; not so,Not idle prayers. We knowThey that have crossed the river cannot return.
I do not pray, "Comfort me! comfort me!"For how should comfort be?O,—O that cooing mouth,—that little white head!No; but I pray, "If it be not too late,Open to me the gate,That I may find my babe when I am dead.
"Show me the path. I had forgotten TheeWhen I was happy and free,Walking down here in the gladsome light o' the sun;But now I come and mourn; O set my feetIn the road to Thy blest seat,And for the rest, O God, Thy will be done."
When found the rose delight in her fair hue?Color is nothing to this world; 'tis IThat see it. Farther, I have found, my soul,That trees are nothing to their fellow trees;It is but I that love their stateliness,And I that, comforting my heart, do sitAt noon beneath their shadow. I will stepOn the ledges of this world, for it is mine;But the other world ye wot of, shall go too;I will carry it in my bosom. O my world,That was not built with clay!Consider it(This outer world we tread on) as a harp,—A gracious instrument on whose fair stringsWe learn those airs we shall be set to playWhen mortal hours are ended. Let the wings,Man, of thy spirit move on it as wind,And draw forth melody. Why shouldst thou yetLie grovelling? More is won than e'er was lost:Inherit. Let thy day be to thy nightA teller of good tidings. Let thy praiseGo up as birds go up that, when they wake,Shake off the dew and soar.So take Joy home,And make a place in thy great heart for her,And give her time to grow, and cherish her;Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee,When thou art working in the furrows; ay,Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn.It is a comely fashion to be glad,—Joy is the grace we say to God.Art tired?There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned?There is a Sacrifice. Lift up thy head,The lovely world, and the over-world alike,Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede,"THY FATHER LOVES THEE."
Yon mooréd mackerel fleetHangs thick as a swarm of bees,Or a clustering village streetFoundationless built on the seas.
The mariners ply their craft,Each set in his castle frail;His care is all for the draught,And he dries the rain-beaten sail.
For rain came down in the night,And thunder muttered full oft,But now the azure is bright.And hawks are wheeling aloft.
I take the land to my breast,In her coat with daisies fine;For me are the hills in their best,And all that's made is mine.
Sing high! "Though the red sun dip,There yet is a day for me;Nor youth I count for a shipThat long ago foundered at sea.
"Did the lost love die and depart?Many times since we have met;For I hold the years in my heart,And all that was—is yet.
"I grant to the king his reign;Let us yield him homage due;But over the lands there are twain,O king, I must rule as you.
"I grant to the wise his meed,But his yoke I will not brook,For God taught ME to read,—He lent me the world for a book."
Beautiful eyes,—and shall I see no moreThe living thought when it would leap from them,And play in all its sweetness 'neath their lids?
Here was a man familiar with fair heightsThat poets climb. Upon his peace the tearsAnd troubles of our race deep inroads made,Yet life was sweet to him; he kept his heartAt home. Who saw his wife might well have thought,—"God loves this man. He chose a wife for him,—The true one!" O sweet eyes, that seem to live,I know so much of you, tell me the rest!Eyes full of fatherhood and tender careFor small, young children. Is a message hereThat you would fain have sent, but had not time?If such there be, I promise, by long loveAnd perfect friendship, by all trust that comesOf understanding, that I will not fail,No, nor delay to find it.O, my heartWill often pain me as for some strange fault,—Some grave defect in nature,—when I thinkHow I, delighted, 'neath those olive-trees,Moved to the music of the tideless main,While, with sore weeping, in an island homeThey laid that much-loved head beneath the sod,And I did not know.
I stand on the bridge where last we stoodWhen young leaves played at their best.The children called us from yonder wood,And rock-doves crooned on the nest.
Ah, yet you call,—in your gladness call,—And I hear your pattering feet;It does not matter, matter at all,You fatherless children sweet,—
It does not matter at all to you,Young hearts that pleasure besets;The father sleeps, but the world is new,The child of his love forgets.
I too, it may be, before they drop,The leaves that flicker to-day,Ere bountiful gleams make ripe the crop,Shall pass from my place away:
Ere yon gray cygnet puts on her white,Or snow lies soft on the wold,Shall shut these eyes on the lovely light,And leave the story untold.
Shall I tell it there? Ah, let that be,For the warm pulse beats so high;To love to-day, and to breathe and see,—To-morrow perhaps to die,—
Leave it with God. But this I have known,That sorrow is over soon;Some in dark nights, sore weeping alone,Forget by full of the moon.
But if all loved, as the few can love,This world would seldom be well;And who need wish, if he dwells above,For a deep, a long death knell.
There are four or five, who, passing this place,While they live will name me yet;And when I am gone will think on my face,And feel a kind of regret.
_Quoth the cedar to the reeds and rushes,"Water-grass, you know not what I do;Know not of my storms, nor of my hushes.And—I know not you."
Quoth the reeds and rushes, "Wind! O waken!Breathe, O wind, and set our answer free,For we have no voice, of you forsaken,For the cedar-tree."
Quoth the earth at midnight to the ocean,"Wilderness of water, lost to view,Naught you are to me but sounds of motion;I am naught to you."
Quoth the ocean, "Dawn! O fairest, clearest,Touch me with thy golden fingers bland;For I have no smile till thou appearestFor the lovely land."_
_Quoth the hero dying, whelmed in glory"Many blame me, few have understood;Ah, my folk, to you I leave a story,—Make its meaning good."
Quoth the folk, "Sing, poet! teach us, prove usSurely we shall learn the meaning then;Wound us with a pain divine, O move us,For this man of men."_
* * * * *
Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk,With it I fill my lay,And a nobler man ne'er walked the world,Let his name be what it may.
The good ship "Snowdrop" tarried long,Up at the vane looked he;"Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped,"She lieth becalmed at sea."
The lovely ladies flocked within,And still would each one say,"Good mercer, be the ships come up?"But still he answered "Nay."
Then stepped two mariners down the street,With looks of grief and fear:"Now, if Winstanley be your name,We bring you evil cheer!
"For the good ship 'Snowdrop' struck,—she struckOn the rock,—the Eddystone,And down she went with threescore men,We two being left alone.
"Down in the deep, with freight and crew,Past any help she lies,And never a bale has come to shoreOf all thy merchandise."
"For cloth o' gold and comely frieze,"Winstanley said, and sighed,"For velvet coif, or costly coat,They fathoms deep may bide.
"O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind,O mariners, bold and true,Sorry at heart, right sorry am I,A-thinking of yours and you.
"Many long days Winstanley's breastShall feel a weight within,For a waft of wind he shall be 'fearedAnd trading count but sin.
"To him no more it shall be joyTo pace the cheerful town,And see the lovely ladies gayStep on in velvet gown."
The "Snowdrop" sank at Lammas tide,All under the yeasty spray;On Christmas Eve the brig "Content"Was also cast away.
He little thought o' New Year's night,So jolly as he sat then,While drank the toast and praised the roastThe round-faced Aldermen,—
While serving lads ran to and fro,Pouring the ruby wine,And jellies trembled on the board,And towering pasties fine,—
While loud huzzas ran up the roofTill the lamps did rock o'erhead,And holly-boughs from rafters hungDropped down their berries red,—
He little thought on Plymouth Hoe,With every rising tide,How the wave washed in his sailor lads,And laid them side by side.
There stepped a stranger to the board:"Now, stranger, who be ye?"He looked to right, he looked to left,And "Rest you merry," quoth he;
"For you did not see the brig go down,Or ever a storm had blown;For you did not see the white wave rearAt the rock,—the Eddystone.
"She drave at the rock with sternsails set;Crash went the masts in twain;She staggered back with her mortal blow,Then leaped at it again.
"There rose a great cry, bitter and strong,The misty moon looked out!And the water swarmed with seamen's heads,And the wreck was strewed about.
"I saw her mainsail lash the seaAs I clung to the rock alone;Then she heeled over, and down she went,And sank like any stone.
"She was a fair ship, but all's one!For naught could bide the shock.""I will take horse," Winstanley said,"And see this deadly rock."
"For never again shall bark o' mineSail over the windy sea,Unless, by the blessing of God, for thisBe found a remedy."
Winstanley rode to Plymouth townAll in the sleet and the snow,And he looked around on shore and soundAs he stood on Plymouth Hoe.
Till a pillar of spray rose far away,And shot up its stately head,Reared and fell over, and reared again:"'Tis the rock! the rock!" he said.
Straight to the Mayor he took his way,"Good Master Mayor," quoth he,"I am a mercer of London town,And owner of vessels three,—
"But for your rock of dark renown,I had five to track the main.""You are one of many," the old Mayor said,"That on the rock complain.
"An ill rock, mercer! your words ring right,Well with my thoughts they chime,For my two sons to the world to comeIt sent before their time."
"Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor,And a score of shipwrights free,For I think to raise a lantern towerOn this rock o' destiny."
The old Mayor laughed, but sighed alsó;"Ah, youth," quoth he, "is rash;Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it outFrom the sea that doth it lash.
"Who sails too near its jagged teeth,He shall have evil lot;For the calmest seas that tumble thereFroth like a boiling pot.
"And the heavier seas few look on nigh,But straight they lay him in dead;A seventy-gun-ship, sir!—they'll shootHigher than her mast-head.
"O, beacons sighted in the dark,They are right welcome things,And pitchpots flaming on the shoreShow fair as angel wings.
"Hast gold in hand? then light the land,It 'longs to thee and me;But let alone the deadly rockIn God Almighty's sea."
Yet said he, "Nay,—I must away,On the rock to set my feet;My debts are paid, my will I made,Or ever I did thee greet.
"If I must die, then let me dieBy the rock and not elsewhere;If I may live, O let me liveTo mount my lighthouse stair."
The old Mayor looked him in the face,And answered, "Have thy way;Thy heart is stout, as if round aboutIt was braced with an iron stay:
"Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men,Put off from the storm-rid shore;God with thee be, or I shall seeThy face and theirs no more."
Heavily plunged the breaking wave,And foam flew up the lea,Morning and even the drifted snowFell into the dark gray sea.
Winstanley chose him men and gear;He said, "My time I waste,"For the seas ran seething up the shore,And the wrack drave on in haste.
But twenty days he waited and more,Pacing the strand alone,Or ever he sat his manly footOn the rock,—the Eddystone.
Then he and the sea began their strife,And worked with power and might:Whatever the man reared up by dayThe sea broke down by night.
He wrought at ebb with bar and beam,He sailed to shore at flow;And at his side, by that same tide,Came bar and beam alsó.
"Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried,"Or thou wilt rue the day.""Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed,"But the rock will have its way.
"For all his looks that are so stout,And his speeches brave and fair,He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave,But he'll build no lighthouse there."
In fine weather and foul weatherThe rock his arts did flout,Through the long days and the short days,Till all that year ran out.
With fine weather and foul weatherAnother year came in;"To take his wage," the workmen said,"We almost count a sin."
Now March was gone, came April in,And a sea-fog settled down,And forth sailed he on a glassy sea,He sailed from Plymouth town.
With men and stores he put to sea,As he was wont to do;They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint,—A ghostly craft and crew.
And the sea-fog lay and waxed alway,For a long eight days and more;"God help our men," quoth the women then;"For they bide long from shore."
They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread:"Where may our mariners be?"But the brooding fog lay soft as downOver the quiet sea.
A Scottish schooner made the port,The thirteenth day at e'en;"As I am a man," the captain cried,"A strange sight I have seen:
"And a strange sound heard, my masters all,At sea, in the fog and the rain,Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low,Then loud, then low again.
"And a stately house one instant showed,Through a rift, on the vessel's lee;What manner of creatures may be thoseThat build upon the sea?"
Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be praised!"And they flocked to the shore amain;All over the Hoe that livelong night,Many stood out in the rain.
It ceased, and the red sun reared his head,And the rolling fog did flee;And, lo! in the offing faint and farWinstanley's house at sea!
In fair weather with mirth and cheerThe stately tower uprose;In foul weather, with hunger and cold,They were content to close;
Till up the stair Winstanley went,To fire the wick afar;And Plymouth in the silent nightLooked out, and saw her star.
Winstanley set his foot ashore;Said he, "My work is done;I hold it strong to last as longAs aught beneath the sun.
"But if it fail, as fail it may,Borne down with ruin and rout,Another than I shall rear it high,And brace the girders stout.
"A better than I shall rear it high,For now the way is plain,And tho' I were dead," Winstanley said,"The light would shine again.
"Yet, were I fain still to remain,Watch in my tower to keep,And tend my light in the stormiest nightThat ever did move the deep;
"And if it stood, why then 'twere good,Amid their tremulous stirs,To count each stroke when the mad waves broke,For cheers of mariners.
"But if it fell, then this were well,That I should with it fall;Since, for my part, I have built my heartIn the courses of its wall.
"Ay! I were fain, long to remain,Watch in my tower to keep,And tend my light in the stormiest nightThat ever did move the deep."
With that Winstanley went his way,And left the rock renowned,And summer and winter his pilot starHung bright o'er Plymouth Sound.
But it fell out, fell out at last,That he would put to sea,To scan once more his lighthouse towerOn the rock o' destiny.
And the winds woke, and the storm broke,And wrecks came plunging in;None in the town that night lay downOr sleep or rest to win.
The great mad waves were rolling graves,And each flung up its dead;The seething flow was white below,And black the sky o'erhead.
And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn,—Broke on the trembling town,And men looked south to the harbor mouth,The lighthouse tower was down.
Down in the deep where he doth sleep,Who made it shine afar,And then in the night that drowned its light,Set, with his pilot star.
Many fair tombs in the glorious gloomsAt Westminster they show;The brave and the great lie there in state:Winstanley lieth low.
[Illustration]