I wish that when you died last May,Charles, there had died along with youThree parts of spring's delightful things;Aye, and, for me, the fourth part, too.A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps!5There must be many a pair of friendsWho, arm in arm, deserve the warmMoon-births and the long evening-ends.So, for their sake, be May still May!Let their new time, as mine of old,10Do all it did for me: I bidSweet sights and sounds throng manifold.Only, one little sight, one plant,Woods have in May, that starts up greenSave a sole streak which, so to speak,15Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between—That, they might spare; a certain woodMight miss the plant; their loss were small:But I—whene'er the leaf grows there,Its drop comes from my heart, that's all.20
I wish that when you died last May,Charles, there had died along with youThree parts of spring's delightful things;Aye, and, for me, the fourth part, too.
A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps!5There must be many a pair of friendsWho, arm in arm, deserve the warmMoon-births and the long evening-ends.
So, for their sake, be May still May!Let their new time, as mine of old,10Do all it did for me: I bidSweet sights and sounds throng manifold.
Only, one little sight, one plant,Woods have in May, that starts up greenSave a sole streak which, so to speak,15Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between—
That, they might spare; a certain woodMight miss the plant; their loss were small:But I—whene'er the leaf grows there,Its drop comes from my heart, that's all.20
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,The mist in my face,When the snows begin, and the blasts denoteI am nearing the place,The power of the night, the press of the storm,5The post of the foe;Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,Yet the strong man must go;For the journey is done and the summit attained,And the barriers fall,10Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,The reward of it all.I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,The best and the last!I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,15And bade me creep past.No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peersThe heroes of old,Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrearsOf pain, darkness, and cold.20For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,The black minute's at end,And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,Shall dwindle, shall blend,Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,25Then a light, then thy breast,O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,And with God be the rest!
Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat,The mist in my face,When the snows begin, and the blasts denoteI am nearing the place,The power of the night, the press of the storm,5The post of the foe;Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,Yet the strong man must go;For the journey is done and the summit attained,And the barriers fall,10Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,The reward of it all.I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,The best and the last!I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,15And bade me creep past.No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peersThe heroes of old,Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrearsOf pain, darkness, and cold.20For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,The black minute's at end,And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,Shall dwindle, shall blend,Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,25Then a light, then thy breast,O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,And with God be the rest!
If one could have that little head of hersPainted upon a background of pale gold,Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!No shade encroaching on the matchless moldOf those two lips, which should be opening soft5In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,For that spoils all; but rather as if aloftYon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff'sBurthen of honey-colored buds to kissAnd capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.10Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround,How it should waver on the pale gold groundUp to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!I know, Correggio loves to mass, in riftsOf heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb15Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb;But these are only massed there, I should think,Waiting to see some wonder momentlyGrow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),20All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eyeWhich fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.
If one could have that little head of hersPainted upon a background of pale gold,Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!No shade encroaching on the matchless moldOf those two lips, which should be opening soft5In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,For that spoils all; but rather as if aloftYon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff'sBurthen of honey-colored buds to kissAnd capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.10Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround,How it should waver on the pale gold groundUp to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!I know, Correggio loves to mass, in riftsOf heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb15Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb;But these are only massed there, I should think,Waiting to see some wonder momentlyGrow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),20All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eyeWhich fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.
O lyric Love, half angel and half bird,And all a wonder and a wild desire—Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,Took sanctuary within the holier blue,And sang a kindred soul out to his face—5Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart—When the first summons from the darkling earthReached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue,And bared them of the glory—to drop down,To toil for man, to suffer or to die—10This is the same voice; can thy soul know change?Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!Never may I commence my song, my dueTo God who best taught song by gift of thee,Except with bent head and beseeching hand—15That still, despite the distance and the dark,What was, again may be; some interchangeOf grace, some splendor once thy very thought,Some benediction anciently thy smile:—Never conclude, but raising hand and head.20Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearnFor all hope, all sustainment, all reward,Their utmost up and on—so blessing backIn those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home,Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud,25Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!
O lyric Love, half angel and half bird,And all a wonder and a wild desire—Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun,Took sanctuary within the holier blue,And sang a kindred soul out to his face—5Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart—When the first summons from the darkling earthReached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue,And bared them of the glory—to drop down,To toil for man, to suffer or to die—10This is the same voice; can thy soul know change?Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help!Never may I commence my song, my dueTo God who best taught song by gift of thee,Except with bent head and beseeching hand—15That still, despite the distance and the dark,What was, again may be; some interchangeOf grace, some splendor once thy very thought,Some benediction anciently thy smile:—Never conclude, but raising hand and head.20Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearnFor all hope, all sustainment, all reward,Their utmost up and on—so blessing backIn those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home,Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud,25Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!
Oh, the old wall here! How I could passLife in a long midsummer day,My feet confined to a plot of grass,My eyes from a wall not once away!And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe5Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green:Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth,In lappets of tangle they laugh between.Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe?Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims10The body—the house, no eye can probe—Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs?And there again! But my heart may guessWho tripped behind; and she sang perhaps;So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess15Died out and away in the leafy wraps!Wall upon wall are between us; lifeAnd song should away from heart to heart!I—prison-bird, with a ruddy strifeAt breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start—20
Oh, the old wall here! How I could passLife in a long midsummer day,My feet confined to a plot of grass,My eyes from a wall not once away!
And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe5Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green:Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth,In lappets of tangle they laugh between.
Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe?Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims10The body—the house, no eye can probe—Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs?
And there again! But my heart may guessWho tripped behind; and she sang perhaps;So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess15Died out and away in the leafy wraps!
Wall upon wall are between us; lifeAnd song should away from heart to heart!I—prison-bird, with a ruddy strifeAt breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start—20
Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thingThat's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free;Account as wood, brick, stone, this ringOf the rueful neighbors, and—forth to thee!
Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thingThat's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free;Account as wood, brick, stone, this ringOf the rueful neighbors, and—forth to thee!
Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself?25Do I live in a house you would like to see?Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf?"Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key"?Invite the world, as my betters have done?"Take notice: this building remains on view,30Its suites of reception every one,Its private apartment and bedroom too;"For a ticket, apply to the Publisher."No: thanking the public, I must decline.A peep through my window, if folk prefer;35But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine!I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talkIn a foreign land where an earthquake chancedAnd a house stood gaping, naught to balkMan's eye wherever he gazed or glanced.40The whole of the frontage shaven sheer,The inside gaped; exposed to day,Right and wrong and common and queer,Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay.The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt!45"Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth!What a parcel of musty old books about!He smoked—no wonder he lost his health!"I doubt if he bathed before he dressed.A brasier?—the pagan, he burned perfumes!50You see it is proved, what the neighbors guessed:His wife and himself had separate rooms."Friends, the goodman of the house at leastKept house to himself till an earthquake came;'Tis the fall of its frontage permits you feast55On the inside arrangement you praise or blame.Outside should suffice for evidence;And whoso desires to penetrateDeeper, must dive by the spirit-sense—No optics like yours, at any rate!60"Hoity-toity! A street to explore,Your house the exception! 'With this same keyShakespeare unlocked his heart,' once more!"Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!
Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself?25Do I live in a house you would like to see?Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf?"Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key"?
Invite the world, as my betters have done?"Take notice: this building remains on view,30Its suites of reception every one,Its private apartment and bedroom too;
"For a ticket, apply to the Publisher."No: thanking the public, I must decline.A peep through my window, if folk prefer;35But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine!
I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talkIn a foreign land where an earthquake chancedAnd a house stood gaping, naught to balkMan's eye wherever he gazed or glanced.40
The whole of the frontage shaven sheer,The inside gaped; exposed to day,Right and wrong and common and queer,Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay.
The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt!45"Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth!What a parcel of musty old books about!He smoked—no wonder he lost his health!
"I doubt if he bathed before he dressed.A brasier?—the pagan, he burned perfumes!50You see it is proved, what the neighbors guessed:His wife and himself had separate rooms."
Friends, the goodman of the house at leastKept house to himself till an earthquake came;'Tis the fall of its frontage permits you feast55On the inside arrangement you praise or blame.
Outside should suffice for evidence;And whoso desires to penetrateDeeper, must dive by the spirit-sense—No optics like yours, at any rate!60
"Hoity-toity! A street to explore,Your house the exception! 'With this same keyShakespeare unlocked his heart,' once more!"Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!
So, friend, your shop was all your house!65Its front, astonishing the street,Invited view from man and mouseTo what diversity of treatBehind its glass—the single sheet!What gimcracks, genuine Japanese:70Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog;Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese;Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog:Queer names, too, such a catalogue!I thought, "And he who owns the wealth75Which blocks the window's vastitude,—Ah, could I peep at him by stealthBehind his ware, pass shop, intrudeOn house itself, what scenes were viewed!"If wide and showy thus the shop,80What must the habitation prove?The true house with no name a-top—The mansion, distant one remove,Once get him off his traffic-groove!"Pictures he likes, or books perhaps;85And as for buying most and best,Commend me to these City chaps!Or else he's social, takes his restOn Sundays, with a lord for guest."Some suburb-palace, parked about90And gated grandly, built last year;The four-mile walk to keep off gout;Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer—But then he takes the rail, that's clear."Or, stop! I wager, taste selects95Some out o' the way, some all-unknownRetreat; the neighborhood suspectsLittle that he who rambles loneMakes Rothschild tremble on his throne!"Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence100Fit to receive and entertain—Nor Hampstead villa's kind defenseFrom noise and crowd, from dust and drain—Nor country-box was soul's domain!Nowise! At back of all that spread105Of merchandise, woe's me, I findA hole i' the wall where, heels by head,The owner couched, his ware behind—In cupboard suited to his mind.For why? He saw no use of life110But, while he drove a roaring trade,To chuckle, "Customers are rife!"To chafe, "So much hard cash outlaidYet zero in my profits made!
So, friend, your shop was all your house!65Its front, astonishing the street,Invited view from man and mouseTo what diversity of treatBehind its glass—the single sheet!
What gimcracks, genuine Japanese:70Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog;Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese;Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog:Queer names, too, such a catalogue!
I thought, "And he who owns the wealth75Which blocks the window's vastitude,—Ah, could I peep at him by stealthBehind his ware, pass shop, intrudeOn house itself, what scenes were viewed!
"If wide and showy thus the shop,80What must the habitation prove?The true house with no name a-top—The mansion, distant one remove,Once get him off his traffic-groove!
"Pictures he likes, or books perhaps;85And as for buying most and best,Commend me to these City chaps!Or else he's social, takes his restOn Sundays, with a lord for guest.
"Some suburb-palace, parked about90And gated grandly, built last year;The four-mile walk to keep off gout;Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer—But then he takes the rail, that's clear.
"Or, stop! I wager, taste selects95Some out o' the way, some all-unknownRetreat; the neighborhood suspectsLittle that he who rambles loneMakes Rothschild tremble on his throne!"
Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence100Fit to receive and entertain—Nor Hampstead villa's kind defenseFrom noise and crowd, from dust and drain—Nor country-box was soul's domain!
Nowise! At back of all that spread105Of merchandise, woe's me, I findA hole i' the wall where, heels by head,The owner couched, his ware behind—In cupboard suited to his mind.
For why? He saw no use of life110But, while he drove a roaring trade,To chuckle, "Customers are rife!"To chafe, "So much hard cash outlaidYet zero in my profits made!
"This novelty costs pains, but—takes?115Cumbers my counter! Stock no more!This article, no such great shakes,Fizzes like wildfire? UnderscoreThe cheap thing—thousands to the fore!"'Twas lodging best to live most nigh120(Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be)Receipt of Custom; ear and eyeWanted no outworld: "Hear and seeThe bustle in the shop!" quoth heMy fancy of a merchant-prince125Was different. Through his wares we gropedOur darkling way to—not to minceThe matter—no black den where mopedThe master if we interloped!Shop was shop only: household-stuff?130What did he want with comforts there?"Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough,So goods on sale show rich and rare!'Sell and scud home' be shop's affair!"What might he deal in? Gems, suppose!135Since somehow business must be doneAt cost of trouble—see, he throwsYou choice of jewels, everyone,Good, better, best, star, moon, and sun!
"This novelty costs pains, but—takes?115Cumbers my counter! Stock no more!This article, no such great shakes,Fizzes like wildfire? UnderscoreThe cheap thing—thousands to the fore!"
'Twas lodging best to live most nigh120(Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be)Receipt of Custom; ear and eyeWanted no outworld: "Hear and seeThe bustle in the shop!" quoth he
My fancy of a merchant-prince125Was different. Through his wares we gropedOur darkling way to—not to minceThe matter—no black den where mopedThe master if we interloped!
Shop was shop only: household-stuff?130What did he want with comforts there?"Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough,So goods on sale show rich and rare!'Sell and scud home' be shop's affair!"
What might he deal in? Gems, suppose!135Since somehow business must be doneAt cost of trouble—see, he throwsYou choice of jewels, everyone,Good, better, best, star, moon, and sun!
Which lies within your power of purse?140This ruby that would tip arightSolomon's scepter? Oh, your nurseWants simply coral, the delightOf teething baby—stuff to bite!Howe'er your choice fell, straight you took145Your purchase, prompt your money rangOn counter—scarce the man forsookHis study of the "Times," just swangTill-ward his hand that stopped the clang—Then off made buyer with a prize,150Then seller to his "Times" returned;And so did day wear, wear, till eyesBrightened apace, for rest was earned;He locked door long ere candle burned.And whither went he? Ask himself,155Not me! To change of scene, I think.Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf,Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink,Nor all his music—money-chink.Because a man has shop to mind160In time and place, since flesh must live,Needs spirit lack all life behind,All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive,All loves except what trade can give?
Which lies within your power of purse?140This ruby that would tip arightSolomon's scepter? Oh, your nurseWants simply coral, the delightOf teething baby—stuff to bite!
Howe'er your choice fell, straight you took145Your purchase, prompt your money rangOn counter—scarce the man forsookHis study of the "Times," just swangTill-ward his hand that stopped the clang—
Then off made buyer with a prize,150Then seller to his "Times" returned;And so did day wear, wear, till eyesBrightened apace, for rest was earned;He locked door long ere candle burned.
And whither went he? Ask himself,155Not me! To change of scene, I think.Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf,Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink,Nor all his music—money-chink.
Because a man has shop to mind160In time and place, since flesh must live,Needs spirit lack all life behind,All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive,All loves except what trade can give?
I want to know a butcher paints,165A baker rhymes for his pursuit,Candlestick-maker much acquaintsHis soul with song, or, haply mute,Blows out his brains upon the flute!But—shop each day and all day long!170Friend, your good angel slept, your starSuffered eclipse, fate did you wrong!From where these sorts of treasures are,There should our hearts be—Christ, how far!
I want to know a butcher paints,165A baker rhymes for his pursuit,Candlestick-maker much acquaintsHis soul with song, or, haply mute,Blows out his brains upon the flute!
But—shop each day and all day long!170Friend, your good angel slept, your starSuffered eclipse, fate did you wrong!From where these sorts of treasures are,There should our hearts be—Christ, how far!
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,Did the English fight the French—woe to France!And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,5With the English fleet in view.
On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,Did the English fight the French—woe to France!And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,5With the English fleet in view.
'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;Close on him fled, great and small,Twenty-two good ships in all;10And they signaled to the place,"Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still,Here's the English can and will!"
'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;Close on him fled, great and small,Twenty-two good ships in all;10And they signaled to the place,"Help the winners of a race!Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still,Here's the English can and will!"
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;15"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they;"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,Shall theFormidablehere, with her twelve and eighty guns,Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,Trust to enter—where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,20And with flow at full beside?Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.Reach the mooring? Rather say,While rock stands or water runs,Not a ship will leave the bay!"25
Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;15"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they;"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,Shall theFormidablehere, with her twelve and eighty guns,Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,Trust to enter—where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,20And with flow at full beside?Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.Reach the mooring? Rather say,While rock stands or water runs,Not a ship will leave the bay!"25
Then was called a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in towAll that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,For a prize to Plymouth Sound?30Better run the ships aground!"(Ended Damfreville his speech)."Not a minute more to wait!Let the Captains all and eachShove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!35France must undergo her fate.
Then was called a council straight.Brief and bitter the debate:"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in towAll that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,For a prize to Plymouth Sound?30Better run the ships aground!"(Ended Damfreville his speech)."Not a minute more to wait!Let the Captains all and eachShove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!35France must undergo her fate.
"Give the word!" But no such wordWas ever spoke or heard;For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these—A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third?40No such man of mark, and meetWith his betters to compete!But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.
"Give the word!" But no such wordWas ever spoke or heard;For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these—A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third?40No such man of mark, and meetWith his betters to compete!But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.
And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel;45"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tellOn my fingers every bank, every shallow, every smell'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?50Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!55Only let me lead the line,Have the biggest ship to steer,Get thisFormidableclear,Make the others follow mine,And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,60Right to Solidor past Grève,And there lay them safe and sound;And if one ship misbehave—Keel so much as grate the ground,Why, I've nothing but my life;—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.60
And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel;45"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tellOn my fingers every bank, every shallow, every smell'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?50Morn and eve, night and day,Have I piloted your bay,Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!55Only let me lead the line,Have the biggest ship to steer,Get thisFormidableclear,Make the others follow mine,And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,60Right to Solidor past Grève,And there lay them safe and sound;And if one ship misbehave—Keel so much as grate the ground,Why, I've nothing but my life;—here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.60
Not a minute more to wait."Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.Captains, give the sailor place!He is Admiral, in brief.70Still the north-wind, by God's grace!See the noble fellow's faceAs the big ship, with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!75See, safe through shoal and rock,How they follow in a flock;Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,Not a spar that comes to grief!The peril, see, is past.80All are harbored to the last,And just as Hervé Riel hollas, "Anchor!"—sure as fateUp the English come—too late!
Not a minute more to wait."Steer us in, then, small and great!Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.Captains, give the sailor place!He is Admiral, in brief.70Still the north-wind, by God's grace!See the noble fellow's faceAs the big ship, with a bound,Clears the entry like a hound,Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!75See, safe through shoal and rock,How they follow in a flock;Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,Not a spar that comes to grief!The peril, see, is past.80All are harbored to the last,And just as Hervé Riel hollas, "Anchor!"—sure as fateUp the English come—too late!
So, the storm subsides to calm:They see the green trees wave85On the heights o'erlooking Grève.Hearts that bled are stanched with balm."Just our rapture to enhance;Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth, and glare askance90As they cannonade away!'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!Out burst all with one accord,"This is Paradise for Hell!95Let France, let France's KingThank the man that did the thing!"What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!"As he stepped in front once more,Not a symptom of surprise100In the frank blue Breton eyes,Just the same man as before.
So, the storm subsides to calm:They see the green trees wave85On the heights o'erlooking Grève.Hearts that bled are stanched with balm."Just our rapture to enhance;Let the English rake the bay,Gnash their teeth, and glare askance90As they cannonade away!'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!Out burst all with one accord,"This is Paradise for Hell!95Let France, let France's KingThank the man that did the thing!"What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!"As he stepped in front once more,Not a symptom of surprise100In the frank blue Breton eyes,Just the same man as before.
Then said Damfreville, "My friend,I must speak out at the end,Though I find the speaking hard.105Praise is deeper than the lips;You have saved the King his ships,You must name your own reward.'Faith, our sun was near eclipse!Demand whate'er you will,110France remains your debtor still.Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."
Then said Damfreville, "My friend,I must speak out at the end,Though I find the speaking hard.105Praise is deeper than the lips;You have saved the King his ships,You must name your own reward.'Faith, our sun was near eclipse!Demand whate'er you will,110France remains your debtor still.Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."
Then a beam of fun outbrokeOn the bearded mouth that spoke,As the honest heart laughed through115Those frank eyes of Breton blue:"Since I needs must say my say,Since on board the duty's done,And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—Since 'tis ask and have, I may—120Since the others go ashore—Come! A good whole holiday!Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"That he asked and that he got—nothing more.
Then a beam of fun outbrokeOn the bearded mouth that spoke,As the honest heart laughed through115Those frank eyes of Breton blue:"Since I needs must say my say,Since on board the duty's done,And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?—Since 'tis ask and have, I may—120Since the others go ashore—Come! A good whole holiday!Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"That he asked and that he got—nothing more.
Name and deed alike are lost.125Not a pillar nor a postIn his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;Not a head in white and blackOn a single fishing smack,In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack130All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.Go to Paris: rank on rankSearch the heroes flung pell-mellOn the Louvre, face and flank!You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.135So, for better and for worse,Hervé Riel, accept my verse!In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!
Name and deed alike are lost.125Not a pillar nor a postIn his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;Not a head in white and blackOn a single fishing smack,In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack130All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.Go to Paris: rank on rankSearch the heroes flung pell-mellOn the Louvre, face and flank!You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.135So, for better and for worse,Hervé Riel, accept my verse!In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once moreSave the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!
Good, to forgive;Best, to forget!Living, we fret;Dying, we live.Fretless and free,5Soul, clap thy pinion!Earth have dominion,Body, o'er thee!Wander at will,Day after day—10Wander away,Wandering still—Soul that canst soar!Body may slumber:Body shall cumber15Soul-flight no more.Waft of soul's wing!What lies above?Sunshine and Love,Skyblue and Spring!20Body hides—where?Ferns of all feather,Mosses and heather.Yours be the care!
Good, to forgive;Best, to forget!Living, we fret;Dying, we live.Fretless and free,5Soul, clap thy pinion!Earth have dominion,Body, o'er thee!
Wander at will,Day after day—10Wander away,Wandering still—Soul that canst soar!Body may slumber:Body shall cumber15Soul-flight no more.
Waft of soul's wing!What lies above?Sunshine and Love,Skyblue and Spring!20Body hides—where?Ferns of all feather,Mosses and heather.Yours be the care!
Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May-morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!Sky—what a scowl of cloud5Till, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!World—how it walled aboutLife with disgrace10Till God's own smile came out:That was thy face!
Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May-morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!
Sky—what a scowl of cloud5Till, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!
World—how it walled aboutLife with disgrace10Till God's own smile came out:That was thy face!
What a pretty tale you told meOnce upon a time—Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)Was it prose or was it rhyme,Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,5While your shoulder propped my head.
What a pretty tale you told meOnce upon a time—Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)Was it prose or was it rhyme,Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,5While your shoulder propped my head.
Anyhow there's no forgettingThis much if no more,That a poet (pray, no petting!)Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,10Went where suchlike used to go,Singing for a prize, you know.Well, he had to sing, nor merelySing but play the lyre;Playing was important clearly15Quite as singing—I desire,Sir, you keep the fact in mindFor a purpose that's behind.There stood he, while deep attentionHeld the judges round,20—Judges able, I should mention,To detect the slightest soundSung or played amiss—such earsHad old judges, it appears!None the less he sang out boldly,25Played in time and tune,Till the judges, weighing coldlyEach note's worth, seemed, late or soon,Sure to smile, "In vain one triesPicking faults out; take the prize!"30When, a mischief! Were they sevenStrings the lyre possessed?Oh, and afterwards eleven,Thank you! Well, sir—who had guessedSuch ill luck in store?—it happed35One of those same seven strings snapped.All was lost, then! No! a cricket(What "cicada"? Pooh!)—Some mad thing that left its thicketFor mere love of music—flew40With its little heart on fire,Lighted on the crippled lyre.So that when (ah, joy!) our singerFor his truant stringFeels with disconcerted finger,45What does cricket else but flingFiery heart forth, sound the noteWanted by the throbbing throat?Aye and, ever to the ending,Cricket chirps at need,50Executes the hand's intending,Promptly, perfectly—indeedSaves the singer from defeatWith her chirrup low and sweet.Till, at ending, all the judges55Cry with one assent,"Take the prize—a prize who grudgesSuch a voice and instrument?Why, we took your lyre for harp,So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"60
Anyhow there's no forgettingThis much if no more,That a poet (pray, no petting!)Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,10Went where suchlike used to go,Singing for a prize, you know.
Well, he had to sing, nor merelySing but play the lyre;Playing was important clearly15Quite as singing—I desire,Sir, you keep the fact in mindFor a purpose that's behind.
There stood he, while deep attentionHeld the judges round,20—Judges able, I should mention,To detect the slightest soundSung or played amiss—such earsHad old judges, it appears!
None the less he sang out boldly,25Played in time and tune,Till the judges, weighing coldlyEach note's worth, seemed, late or soon,Sure to smile, "In vain one triesPicking faults out; take the prize!"30
When, a mischief! Were they sevenStrings the lyre possessed?Oh, and afterwards eleven,Thank you! Well, sir—who had guessedSuch ill luck in store?—it happed35One of those same seven strings snapped.
All was lost, then! No! a cricket(What "cicada"? Pooh!)—Some mad thing that left its thicketFor mere love of music—flew40With its little heart on fire,Lighted on the crippled lyre.
So that when (ah, joy!) our singerFor his truant stringFeels with disconcerted finger,45What does cricket else but flingFiery heart forth, sound the noteWanted by the throbbing throat?
Aye and, ever to the ending,Cricket chirps at need,50Executes the hand's intending,Promptly, perfectly—indeedSaves the singer from defeatWith her chirrup low and sweet.
Till, at ending, all the judges55Cry with one assent,"Take the prize—a prize who grudgesSuch a voice and instrument?Why, we took your lyre for harp,So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"60
Did the conqueror spurn the creature,Once its service done?That's no such uncommon featureIn the case when Music's sonFinds his Lotte's power too spent65For aiding soul-development.No! This other, on returningHomeward, prize in hand,Satisfied his bosom's yearning(Sir, I hope you understand!)70—Said, "Some record there must beOf this cricket's help to me!"So, he made himself a statue:Marble stood, life-size;On the lyre he pointed at you75Perched his partner in the prize;Never more apart you foundHer, he throned, from him, she crowned.That's the tale—its application?Somebody I know80Hopes one day for reputationThrough his poetry that's—oh,All so learned and so wiseAnd deserving of a prize!If he gains one, will some ticket,85When his statue's built,Tell the gazer, "'Twas a cricketHelped my crippled lyre, whose liltSweet and low, when strength usurpedSoftness' place i' the scale, she chirped?90"For as victory was nighest,While I sang and played—With my lyre at lowest, highest,Right alike—one string that made'Love' sound soft was snapped in twain,95Never to be heard again—"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,Perched upon the placeVacant left, and duly uttered,'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass100Asked the treble to atoneFor its somewhat somber drone."But you don't know music! WhereforeKeep on casting pearlsTo a—poet? All I care for105Is—to tell him that a girl's"Love" comes aptly in when gruffGrows his singing. (There, enough!)
Did the conqueror spurn the creature,Once its service done?That's no such uncommon featureIn the case when Music's sonFinds his Lotte's power too spent65For aiding soul-development.
No! This other, on returningHomeward, prize in hand,Satisfied his bosom's yearning(Sir, I hope you understand!)70—Said, "Some record there must beOf this cricket's help to me!"
So, he made himself a statue:Marble stood, life-size;On the lyre he pointed at you75Perched his partner in the prize;Never more apart you foundHer, he throned, from him, she crowned.
That's the tale—its application?Somebody I know80Hopes one day for reputationThrough his poetry that's—oh,All so learned and so wiseAnd deserving of a prize!
If he gains one, will some ticket,85When his statue's built,Tell the gazer, "'Twas a cricketHelped my crippled lyre, whose liltSweet and low, when strength usurpedSoftness' place i' the scale, she chirped?90
"For as victory was nighest,While I sang and played—With my lyre at lowest, highest,Right alike—one string that made'Love' sound soft was snapped in twain,95Never to be heard again—
"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,Perched upon the placeVacant left, and duly uttered,'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass100Asked the treble to atoneFor its somewhat somber drone."
But you don't know music! WhereforeKeep on casting pearlsTo a—poet? All I care for105Is—to tell him that a girl's"Love" comes aptly in when gruffGrows his singing. (There, enough!)
First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all!Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, coequal in praise—Aye, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the ægis and spear!Also ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer,5Now, henceforth and forever—O latest to whom I upraiseHand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock!Present to help, potent to save, Pan—patron I call!Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return!See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks!10Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you,"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed,Ran and raced; like stubble, some field which a fire runs through,Was the space between city and city. Two days, two nights did I burn15Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.
First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all!Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, coequal in praise—Aye, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the ægis and spear!Also ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer,5Now, henceforth and forever—O latest to whom I upraiseHand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock!Present to help, potent to save, Pan—patron I call!
Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return!See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks!10Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you,"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed,Ran and raced; like stubble, some field which a fire runs through,Was the space between city and city. Two days, two nights did I burn15Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.