Maid Mary sat at her cottage doorBy the Lake of Galilee;Tall and stately her lilies were,But never was lily one-half so fairOr half so pure as she.(O Mary, Maid and Mother of God,I pray you, pray for me.)
The shadows darkened along the shoreOf the Lake of Galilee;What steps were those, as the twilight fell?Lo, God's great angel, Gabriel:"Hail, blessed of God!" spake he.(O Gabriel, Prince of the hosts of God,I pray you, pray for me.)
Maid Mary knelt on her cottage floorBy the Lake of Galilee;And kneeling, dreamed strange dreams and sweetOf baby fingers and dimpled feet,And a Holy Thing to be:(O Christ, the Virgin-born Son of God,I pray You, pray for me.)
But she did not dream, as the night passed o'erBy the Lake of Galilee,Of the weary ways that the feet should tread,Of a thorny crown for a baby head,Or a cross on Calvary.(O Son of Mary, O thorn-crowned God,I pray You, pray for me.)
The young King rode through the City street,So gallant, gay and bold;There were roses strewn 'neath his horse's feet,His brows were bound with gold,And his heart was glad for his people's cheersAlong his pathway rolled.
Glad was his heart and bright his face,For life and youth were fair;And he rode through many a pleasant place—Broad street and sunny square—Till he came to the market-place and sawA crucifix stand there.
Hushed were the crowd's exultant cries,To awe-struck silence grown;For they saw the young King's laughing eyesGrow grave beneath his crown,As the crownéd King looked up, for lo!A crownéd King looked down.
Grave were the eyes above, and sad;The face with pain was lined,And the piercéd hands no sceptre had;Both brows a crown did bind.But the earthly King was crowned with gold—The Christ with thorns entwined.
Slowly the young King homeward rodeIn awe and wondering;He had looked that day on the face of God,And learned that for a kingThe lordliest crown his brows can bearIs the crown of suffering.
Thou, Who hast said no sparrow e'er shall fallWithout Thy knowledge, lend me now Thine aid.I cry to Thee, O mighty Lord of all,Thy little living creature, sore afraid.
All my short life these fluttering wings have knownOnly the freedom of Thy sun and rain,And now they beat against these walls of stone—Lord of the sparrows, shall they beat in vain?
The terrors of Thine House encompass me,Upon Thine altar I myself have laid;Hearken, O Lord, Thy sparrow calls to Thee,Thy little living creature, sore afraid.
Where the dark green hollows liftInto crests of snow,Wheeling, flashing, floating by,White against the stormy sky,With exultant call and crySwift the sea-gulls go.
Fearless, vagabond and free,Children of the spray,Spirits of old marinersDrifting down the restless years—Drake's and Hawkins' buccaneers,So do sea-men say.
Watching, guarding, sailing stillRound the shores they knew,Where the cliffs of Devon riseRed against the sullen skies,(Dearer far than Paradise)'Mid the tossing blue.
Not for them the heavenly song;Sweeter still they findThan those angels, row on row,Thunder of the bursting snowSeething on the rocks below,Singing of the wind.
Fairer than the streets of goldThose wild fields of foam,Where the horses of the seaStamp and whinny ceaselessly,Warding from all enemyShores they once called home.
So the sea-gulls call and cry'Neath the cliffs to-day,Spirits of old marinersDrifting down the restless years—Drake's and Hawkins' buccaneers—So do sea-men say.
My dog and I, the hills we knowWhere the first faint wild roses blow,We know the shadowy paths and coolThat wind across the woodland dim,And where the water beetles swimUpon the surface of the pool.
My dog and I, our feet brush throughFull oft, the fragrant morning dew,Or, when the summer sun is high,We linger where the river flowsChattering and chuckling as it goes—Two happy tramps, my dog and I.
Or, when the winter snows are deep,Into some fire-lit nook we creep,And, while the north wind howls outside,See castles in the dancing blaze,Or, dozing, dream of summer daysAnd woodland stretches, wild and wide.
My dog and I are friends till death,And when the chill, dark angel's breathShall call him from me, still I know,Somewhere within the shadowy landWaiting his master he will standUntil my summons comes to go.
And, in that life so strange and new,We'll tramp the fields of heaven through,Loiter the crystal river by;Together walk the hills of GodAs when the hills of earth we trod,Forever friends, my dog and I.
February fair maids,All along the lane,Dancing with the breezes,Nodding to the rain,Whispering tales of SpringtimeThrough the snow and sleet,February fair maids,Brave and bright and sweet.
February fair maids,Soon you'll disappear,Soon the swallow's twitterTells that Spring is here.Soon the rose and lilyLaugh 'neath skies of blue—February fair maids,None so brave as you.
February fair maids,Dancing down the lane,Bowing to the breezes,Smiling at the rain,Lifting laughing facesThrough the snow and sleet—February fair maids,Brave and bright and sweet.
Lo, the spring has come again!Down the laneSilent, first, the snowdrop came;Green each bursting leaf-bud swellsIn the dellsWhere the crocus breaks in flame.
Spring, with all the daffodilsOn her hills,Comes and wakes the world to mirth:List with what reverberant gleeStreams set freeTell their triumph to the earth.
Hark! Once more the cuckoo's call,Musical, magical,Over all the land doth ring;Little waves upon the beach,Each to eachLaughing, whisper, "'Tis the Spring."
The piper wind goes strayingInto the morning skies,With fern seed in his pocket,And laughter in his eyes,And the swift clouds break, and followHis magic melodies.
The piper wind goes playingHis music, sweet and shrill,And, brave in red and yellow,The leaves dance on the hill;And the purple plumes of asterNod gaily by the rill.
The piper wind goes roamingO'er upland, glade and plain,He whispers to the sunshine,He whistles through the rain,He dreams among the pine treesAnd wakes, and laughs again.
The piper wind goes homingAdown the sunset skies,With fern seed in his pocket,And laughter in his eyes;And our hearts are fain to followHis magic melodies.
Now, when the summer flowers are past and dead,And, from the earth's wild bosom, brown and bare,No trillium lifts its head;When, in the hollows where the violets werePurple and white and fair,Only a few brown leaves are falling now,The wind shakes from the bough:
Now, when the tiger-lily's flame no moreBurns in the long, lush grasses on the hill,And, by the river shore,The smoky trail of asters, lingering still,Thins, and the air grows chillWith the first feathery snowflakes, that anonFall softly and are gone:
O let us leave this dull and dusty street,The noise and heat and turmoil of the townFor country waysides sweet,Lanes where the nuts are clustering, plump and brown,Hedges blackberries crown;Come, ere the shivering blasts of winter blow,Let us make haste and go.
Heart of my heart, the long road liesA streak of white across the downTo where the hill-tops touch the skies;Then let us seek the mountain's crownAnd cross its summit, bare and brown,Heart of my heart, O come with meTo walk the ways of Arcadie.
Heart of my heart, right merrilyThe little winds of Springtime blow,The air is full of melody,The birds are singing, soft and low;Heart of my heart, then let us goAcross the hills, and wander freeThe pleasant paths of Arcadie.
There sunny land and sunny seaLie drowsing in the noontide heat,There song of bird and hum of beeMix in a music wild and sweet,And in the thyme beneath our feetCicalas chirp their melody,Across the hills in Arcadie.
Or, when the twilight shadows steepThe hill-tops with a misty light,And stars their quiet watches keepThrough the short hours of summer night,And glow-worms burn their lanterns bright,The streams still murmur sleepilyAcross the hills in Arcadie.
Heart of my heart, O let us leaveThe toil and turmoil of the town,And men that work and men that grieve,And take the road across the downAnd climb the hill-top, bare and brown;Heart of my heart, O come with meTo walk the ways of Arcadie.
Wave your hand to him! Let him goBack from the dusty paths we stray,To the land where his boyhood's rivers flow;He is not dead—he is just away,Gone to laugh at 'Lizabuth Ann,And swap old yarns with the Raggedy Man.
Hush! Do you hear, in the distance dim,Faint and sweet as an elfin tune,Orphant Annie is calling him,Counting him in with the old-time rune—Intry, mintry, eatery, corn,Apple blossom and apple thorn.
Wave your hand to him—call good-bye!Faintly his answer echoes back;Voices of children eagerlyLure him on by the fairy trackTo the wonder-world, where all hearts are gay;He is not dead, he is just—away.
When the long, hot day is over,And the sun drops down the west,And the childish hands are weary,And the childish feet must rest,The Sandman steals through the portalsWhere the dying sunlight gleams,And touches the tired eyelidsAnd lulls them into dreams.
Even so, when life is over,And the long day's march is past,We wait in gathering shadowsTill the Sandman comes at last.Sad are our hearts and weary,And long the waiting seems;Lord, we are tired children;Touch Thou our eyes with dreams.
Take from the slackened fingersThe toys so heavy grown,Give to Thy tired childrenVisions of Thee alone;Then, when at length the shadowsDarken adown the west,Send to us Death, Thy Sandman,To call Thine own to rest.
She stands in peace by her waters,Our Mother, fair and wise,And ever amid our dreamingWe see her hills arise;We, who have sold our birthright,Sons, who have failed at need,Outcast, lost and dishonoured,We know her fair indeed.
Yes, we have sold our birthright—Well have we learned the cost—Drink-sodden, hateful bodies,And souls forever lost;We see the heights above us,The depths into which we fall,And we turn from that sight in horror,Drinking to drown it all.
Lo, we have lost her forever!Exiled, unclean, alone;Yet she was once our Mother,Once we were sons of her own;We—who have failed her and shamed her,Cast from her shores so long,Still in our dreams we see her,Noble and wise and strong.
Once in a far-off countryWe named her great and fair,They mocked us with scornful laughter,"Lo, these are the sons she bare!"Do we not feel our bondage,We, who have owned her name,When we dare not whisper her praisesLest we whelm her in our shame?
Yet do the outcasts love her,Who once were bone of her bone,Pray for her life and honourWho dare not pray for their own;Out of the hell we have chosenWatch her, with longing eyes—She, who was once our Mother,Excellent, just and wise.
When I loose my vessel's moorings, and put out to sea once moreOn the last and longest voyage that shall never reach the shore,O Thou Master of the Ocean, send no tranquil tides to me,But 'mid all Thy floods and thunders let my vessel put to sea.
Let her lie within no tropic sea, dead rotten to the bone,Till the lisping, sluggish waters claim my vessel for their own;Till the sun shall scar her timbers, and the slimy weed shall crawlO'er her planks that gape and widen, and the slow sea swallow all.
Let her not go down in darkness, where the smoking mist-wreaths hideThe white signal of the breakers, dimly guessed at, overside;While her decks are in confusion, and the wreck drops momently,And she drifts in dark and panic to the death she cannot see.
But out in the open ocean, where the great waves call and cry,Leap and thunder at her taffrail, while the scud blows stinging by,With the life still strong within her, struggling onward throughthe blast,Till one last long wave shall whelm her, and our voyaging is past.
We dreamed our dreams in full many lands,By mount and forest, by stream and lea,Dreams of the touch of old-time hands,Dreams of a future destiny,Dreams of battle and victory,Laughter and love and wealth and fame;Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we—Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?
Our rivers of dream had golden sands,Our forests of Dream waved fair to see,Our Dreamland Isles were enchanted strandsWith shores of magic and mystery;How should we dream of miseryWith the blood of youth at our hearts aflame?Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we—Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?
If a mortal now our fate demands(We who so long forgotten be),He shall seek in vain, for our wandering bandsNow wait here, all so dreamlessly;O the restless hearts rest quietly,And the fire is quenched that no frost could tame;Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we—Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?
L'Envoi
Prince, this world is all vanity,And dream and deed, they are still the same;Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we—Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?
Triremes of the Roman, cruising down to Antioch,Longships of the Northmen, galleons of Spain,Tall, gleaming caravels, swinging in the tideway,Never shall the sunlight gild their sails again.
Never shall those white sails, lifting on the sea-line,Swoop like a swallow across the blinding blue,Caracque and caravel, lying 'neath the waters,Wait till the bugles shall call the last review.
There in the darkness lie friend and foe together,Drake's English pinnaces, the great Armada's host;Quiet they lie in the silence of the sea-depths,Waiting the call that shall sound from coast to coast.
War-ship and merchantmen, lying in the slime there,Galleys of the Algerine, and traders of Almayne,Hoys of the Dutchman, and haughty ships of Venice,Never shall the sunlight gild their sails again.
I will go down to my sea again—to the waste of waters, wild and wide;I am tired—so tired—of hill and plain and the dull tame faceof the country side.
I will go out across the bar, with a swoop like the flight of asea-bird's wings,To where the winds and the waters are, with their multitudinousthunderings.
My prows shall furrow the whitening sea, out into the teeth of thelashing wind,Where a thousand billows snarl and flee and break in a smother offoam behind.
O strong and terrible Mother Sea, let me lie once more on your coolwhite breast,Your winds have blown through the heart of me and called me back fromthe land's dull rest.
For night by night they blow through my sleep; the voice of wavesthrough my slumber rings;I feel the spell of the steadfast deep; I hear its tramplings andtriumphings.
And at last, when my hours of life are sped, let them make me nograve by hill or plain—Thy waves, O Mother, shall guard my head. I will go down to my seaagain.
I am weary of this country, with its hedges and its walls,And all night I do be dreaming how the water calls and calls;Of the booming of the breakers as they dash against the shore,And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind I'll hear no more.
I am weary of these meadows, where the sun comes scorching downTill the ways are dry and dusty, and the grass is burnt and brown;And forever through my dreaming come the great waves' lash and leap,And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind upon the deep.
Should I die here in this country, and its stifling turf be pressedHot and heavy o'er my bosom, O 'tis never I could rest;Let me lie beneath the washing of the green and silent wave,With the salt wind, the sea-wind, to sing above my grave.
Life is a game that all must play;Though you win or lose, though you gain or pay,Whatever the cards you hold, I say,Throw back your head and laugh.
Keep Youth's fire at your heart aglow,A clasp for a friend and a fist for a foe,And then let come or joy or woe,Throw back your head and laugh.
Laugh, though the world upon you frown,Laugh, though the deeps your soul shall drown,Many a better man goes down—Throw back your head and laugh.
And when Death's hand on your shoulder liesAnd the world grows dim to your failing eyes,Let him not say: "A coward dies."Throw back your head and laugh.
I. M. Thomas MacDonagh
He died for thee, O mournful Mother Erin!A year ago he turned his face awayFrom the glad Spring, in her young green appearing;He lingered not to listen to the layOf thrush or blackbird; turned him not asideTo watch the glory of the daffodilsThat shone and fluttered on a hundred hills,But where the mists had gathered, chill and grey,He chose his path—and died.
And now another Spring makes green the meadows,The daffodils are golden once again,The little winds are dancing with the shadowsThe young leaves make; once more the world is fainOf life and laughter—but he shall not seeThe leaf-strewn hollows where the violets grow,Or watch the hawthorn buds foam into snow,No more shall feel the warm, soft, springtime rain,For he has died for thee.
And yet this year, 'mid all the Spring's rejoicing,There sounds at times, I think, a sadder note;This Spring no longer is the blackbird voicingSuch jubilation from his golden throat;The winds, grown older, dance with feet of lead,The daffodils are nodding listlessly,The violet has no perfume for the bee,The grasshopper has donned his dullest coat,Remembering he is dead.
Yet once again, O thrush, break into singing;Laugh, daffodils, to feel the falling rain;Winter is past, and the young earth is springingJoyous to greet her risen Lord again:And he who loved you—deem not that he liesUnheeding of your grief beneath his mound,No more the sleep of Death enwraps him round;Rejoice, O Erin, Death to-day is slain,But Valour never dies.
April in England! Daffodils are growing'Neath every hedgerow, golden, tall and fair;April! and all the little winds are blowingThe scents of Springtime through the sunny air;April in England! God! that we were there!
April in England! And her sons are lyingOn these red fields, and dreaming of her shore;April! We hear the thrushes' songs replyingEach unto each, above the cannons' roar.April in England! Shall we see it more?
April in England! There's the cuckoo callingDown in her meadows, where the cowslip gleams;April! And little showers are softly falling,Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams.April in England! How the shrapnel screams!
April in England! Blood and dust and smother,Screaming of horses, moans of agony;April! Full many of thy sons, O Mother,Never again those dewy dawns shall see.April in England! God, keep England free.
"I am the Lord of War," he said, and baredHis blade. "Dominion shall be mine alone."East, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared,His battle lines were thrown.
Then lo! the leopards of England woke from sleep,Roaring their challenge forth across the sea,And France's voice was heard in thunders deep,Calling on Liberty.
And Belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe,And from her mountains Serbia sent her bands,And the great bear of Russia, growling low,Turned from his northern lands.
Far over land and sea the summons swept,And Canada, among her fields of grain,Threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt,Shouting, across the main.
Australia, hasting from the southward, came;Africa, India sprang into the fight."Lo, Kaiser! here our answer to thy claim;Now God shall show the right."
Then he who drew the blade looked forth, and sawThat ring of steel and fire about his throne,And knew himself at last, with trembling awe,The Lord of Death alone.
Captains adventurous, from your ports of quiet,From the ghostly harbours where your sea-beat galleons lie,Say, do your dreams go back across the sea-lineWhere cliffs of England rise grey against the sky?
Say, do you dream of the pleasant ports of old-time,Orchards of old Devon, all afoam with snowy bloom?Or have the mists that veil the Sea of ShadowsClosed from your eyes all the memories of home?
Feet of the Captains hurry through the stillness,Ghostly sails of galleons are drifting to and fro,Voices of mariners sound across the shadows,Waiting the word that shall bid them up and go.
"Lo now," they say, "for the grey old Mother calls us,"(Listening to the thunder of the guns about her shore)"Death shall not hold us, nor years that lie between us,Sail we to England, to strike for her once more."
Captains adventurous, rest ye in your havens,Pipe your ghostly mariners to keep their watch below;Sons of your sons are here to strike for England,Heirs of your glory—Beatty, Jellicoe.
Yet shall your names ring on in England's story,You, who were the prophets of the mighty years to be;Drake, Blake, and Nelson, thundering down the ages,Captains adventurous, the Masters of the Sea.
Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon:"Mariners, O Mariners, who warred so well with Spain,Lo, the foe is here once more! Leave the ports of Heaven,Haste across the jasper sea, and drive them home again."
All the streets of Paradise echo to its rattle—Golden roads a-tremble to the chime of tramping feet;Hawkins, Drake and Frobisher are marching forth to battle:"Peter, open wide the gates. We're out to join the fleet."
Pinnace, caravel, caracque—many a galleon drifting—Shadowy sails of old renown upon the shadowy sea;Ghostly voices through the mists; "Lo, the white cliffs lifting;Heaven's streets for those who will, but Devon's shores for me."
Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon,Calling, as in days of old it called to vanquish Spain;Drake and Blake and Raleigh, they have left the ports of Heaven,Homing back across the stars to England's cliffs again.