BY feathers green, across CasbeenThe pilgrims track the Phœnix flown,By gems he strew’d in waste and wood,And jewell’d plumes at random thrown.Till wandering far, by moon and star,They stand beside the fruitful pyre,Where breaking bright with sanguine lightThe impulsive bird forgets his sire.Those ashes shine like ruby wine,Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt,The claw, the jowl of the flying fowlAre with the glorious anguish gilt.So rare the light, so rich the sight,Those pilgrim men, on profit bent,Drop hands and eyes and merchandise,And are with gazing most content.
BY feathers green, across CasbeenThe pilgrims track the Phœnix flown,By gems he strew’d in waste and wood,And jewell’d plumes at random thrown.Till wandering far, by moon and star,They stand beside the fruitful pyre,Where breaking bright with sanguine lightThe impulsive bird forgets his sire.Those ashes shine like ruby wine,Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt,The claw, the jowl of the flying fowlAre with the glorious anguish gilt.So rare the light, so rich the sight,Those pilgrim men, on profit bent,Drop hands and eyes and merchandise,And are with gazing most content.
BY feathers green, across CasbeenThe pilgrims track the Phœnix flown,By gems he strew’d in waste and wood,And jewell’d plumes at random thrown.
Till wandering far, by moon and star,They stand beside the fruitful pyre,Where breaking bright with sanguine lightThe impulsive bird forgets his sire.
Those ashes shine like ruby wine,Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt,The claw, the jowl of the flying fowlAre with the glorious anguish gilt.
So rare the light, so rich the sight,Those pilgrim men, on profit bent,Drop hands and eyes and merchandise,And are with gazing most content.
b. 1862
860.
‘YE have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughtered and made an end,Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?’‘Blood for our blood,’ they said.He laugh’d: ‘If one may settle the score for five,I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day:I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.’‘You shall die at dawn,’ said they.He flung his empty revolver down the slope,He climb’d alone to the Eastward edge of the trees:All night long in a dream untroubled of hopeHe brooded, clasping his knees.He did not hear the monotonous roar that fillsThe ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows;He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,Or the far Afghan snows.He saw the April noon on his books aglow,The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;He heard his father’s voice from the terrace belowCalling him down to ride.He saw the gray little church across the park,The mounds that hid the loved and honour’d dead;The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,The brasses black and red.He saw the School Close, sunny and green,The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,His own name over all.He saw the dark wainscot and timber’d roof,The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,The Dons on the daïs serene.He watch’d the liner’s stem ploughing the foam,He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;He heard the passengers’ voices talking of home,He saw the flag she flew.And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,And strode to his ruin’d camp below the wood;He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:His murderers round him stood.Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,The blood-red snow-peaks chill’d to a dazzling white;He turn’d, and saw the golden circle at last,Cut by the Eastern height.‘O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.’ A sword swept.Over the pass the voices one by oneFaded, and the hill slept.
‘YE have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughtered and made an end,Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?’‘Blood for our blood,’ they said.He laugh’d: ‘If one may settle the score for five,I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day:I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.’‘You shall die at dawn,’ said they.He flung his empty revolver down the slope,He climb’d alone to the Eastward edge of the trees:All night long in a dream untroubled of hopeHe brooded, clasping his knees.He did not hear the monotonous roar that fillsThe ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows;He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,Or the far Afghan snows.He saw the April noon on his books aglow,The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;He heard his father’s voice from the terrace belowCalling him down to ride.He saw the gray little church across the park,The mounds that hid the loved and honour’d dead;The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,The brasses black and red.He saw the School Close, sunny and green,The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,His own name over all.He saw the dark wainscot and timber’d roof,The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,The Dons on the daïs serene.He watch’d the liner’s stem ploughing the foam,He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;He heard the passengers’ voices talking of home,He saw the flag she flew.And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,And strode to his ruin’d camp below the wood;He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:His murderers round him stood.Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,The blood-red snow-peaks chill’d to a dazzling white;He turn’d, and saw the golden circle at last,Cut by the Eastern height.‘O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.’ A sword swept.Over the pass the voices one by oneFaded, and the hill slept.
‘YE have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughtered and made an end,Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?’‘Blood for our blood,’ they said.
He laugh’d: ‘If one may settle the score for five,I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day:I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.’‘You shall die at dawn,’ said they.
He flung his empty revolver down the slope,He climb’d alone to the Eastward edge of the trees:All night long in a dream untroubled of hopeHe brooded, clasping his knees.
He did not hear the monotonous roar that fillsThe ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows;He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,Or the far Afghan snows.
He saw the April noon on his books aglow,The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;He heard his father’s voice from the terrace belowCalling him down to ride.
He saw the gray little church across the park,The mounds that hid the loved and honour’d dead;The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,The brasses black and red.
He saw the School Close, sunny and green,The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,His own name over all.
He saw the dark wainscot and timber’d roof,The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,The Dons on the daïs serene.
He watch’d the liner’s stem ploughing the foam,He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;He heard the passengers’ voices talking of home,He saw the flag she flew.
And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,And strode to his ruin’d camp below the wood;He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:His murderers round him stood.
Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,The blood-red snow-peaks chill’d to a dazzling white;He turn’d, and saw the golden circle at last,Cut by the Eastern height.
‘O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.’ A sword swept.Over the pass the voices one by oneFaded, and the hill slept.
b. 1862
861.
WHEN you and I have play’d the little hour,Have seen the tall subaltern Life to DeathYield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath,The first long breath of freedom; when the flowerOf Recompense hath flutter’d to our feet,As to an actor’s; and, the curtain down,We turn to face each other all alone—Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,Alone, and absolute, and free: O then,O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale?Clasp’d hands, press’d lips, and so clasp’d hands again;No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail,My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moanOf joy, and then our infinite Alone.
WHEN you and I have play’d the little hour,Have seen the tall subaltern Life to DeathYield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath,The first long breath of freedom; when the flowerOf Recompense hath flutter’d to our feet,As to an actor’s; and, the curtain down,We turn to face each other all alone—Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,Alone, and absolute, and free: O then,O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale?Clasp’d hands, press’d lips, and so clasp’d hands again;No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail,My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moanOf joy, and then our infinite Alone.
WHEN you and I have play’d the little hour,Have seen the tall subaltern Life to DeathYield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath,The first long breath of freedom; when the flowerOf Recompense hath flutter’d to our feet,As to an actor’s; and, the curtain down,We turn to face each other all alone—Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,Alone, and absolute, and free: O then,O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale?Clasp’d hands, press’d lips, and so clasp’d hands again;No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail,My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moanOf joy, and then our infinite Alone.
b. 1865
862.
ALL the words that I utter,And all the words that I write,Must spread out their wings untiring,And never rest in their flight,Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,And sing to you in the night,Beyond where the waters are moving,Storm-darken’d or starry bright.
ALL the words that I utter,And all the words that I write,Must spread out their wings untiring,And never rest in their flight,Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,And sing to you in the night,Beyond where the waters are moving,Storm-darken’d or starry bright.
ALL the words that I utter,And all the words that I write,Must spread out their wings untiring,And never rest in their flight,Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,And sing to you in the night,Beyond where the waters are moving,Storm-darken’d or starry bright.
863.
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleepAnd nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true;But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face.And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overhead,And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleepAnd nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true;But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face.And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overhead,And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleepAnd nodding by the fire, take down this book,And slowly read, and dream of the soft lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty with love false or true;But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars,Murmur, a little sadly, how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overhead,And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
864.
IWILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,And live alone in the bee-loud glade.And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;There midnight’s all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,And evening full of the linnet’s wings.I will arise and go now, for always night and dayI hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
IWILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,And live alone in the bee-loud glade.And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;There midnight’s all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,And evening full of the linnet’s wings.I will arise and go now, for always night and dayI hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
IWILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;There midnight’s all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and dayI hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
b. 1865
865.
MY new-cut ashlar takes the lightWhere crimson-blank the windows flare;By my own work, before the night,Great Overseer, I make my prayer.If there be good in that I wrought,Thy hand compell’d it, Master, Thine;Where I have fail’d to meet Thy thoughtI know, through Thee, the blame is mine.One instant’s toil to Thee deniedStands all Eternity’s offence;Of that I did with Thee to guideTo Thee, through Thee, be excellence.Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,Godlike to muse o’er his own tradeAnd manlike stand with God again.The depth and dream of my desire,The bitter paths wherein I stray,Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.One stone the more swings to her placeIn that dread Temple of Thy worth—It is enough that through Thy graceI saw naught common on Thy earth.Take not that vision from my ken;O, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed,Help me to need no aid from men,That I may help such men as need!
MY new-cut ashlar takes the lightWhere crimson-blank the windows flare;By my own work, before the night,Great Overseer, I make my prayer.If there be good in that I wrought,Thy hand compell’d it, Master, Thine;Where I have fail’d to meet Thy thoughtI know, through Thee, the blame is mine.One instant’s toil to Thee deniedStands all Eternity’s offence;Of that I did with Thee to guideTo Thee, through Thee, be excellence.Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,Godlike to muse o’er his own tradeAnd manlike stand with God again.The depth and dream of my desire,The bitter paths wherein I stray,Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.One stone the more swings to her placeIn that dread Temple of Thy worth—It is enough that through Thy graceI saw naught common on Thy earth.Take not that vision from my ken;O, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed,Help me to need no aid from men,That I may help such men as need!
MY new-cut ashlar takes the lightWhere crimson-blank the windows flare;By my own work, before the night,Great Overseer, I make my prayer.
If there be good in that I wrought,Thy hand compell’d it, Master, Thine;Where I have fail’d to meet Thy thoughtI know, through Thee, the blame is mine.
One instant’s toil to Thee deniedStands all Eternity’s offence;Of that I did with Thee to guideTo Thee, through Thee, be excellence.
Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,Godlike to muse o’er his own tradeAnd manlike stand with God again.
The depth and dream of my desire,The bitter paths wherein I stray,Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.
One stone the more swings to her placeIn that dread Temple of Thy worth—It is enough that through Thy graceI saw naught common on Thy earth.
Take not that vision from my ken;O, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed,Help me to need no aid from men,That I may help such men as need!
866.
THERE’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yieldAnd the ricks stand gray to the sun,Singing:—‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the cloverAnd your English summer’s done.’You have heard the beat of the off-shore windAnd the thresh of the deep-sea rain;You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,We’ve seen the seasons through,And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.It’s North you may run to the rime-ring’d sun,Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,Or West to the Golden Gate;Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,And the wildest tales are true,And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea rollOf a black Bilbao tramp;With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,And a drunken Dago crew,And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,Or the way of a man with a maid;But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the seaIn the heel of the North-East Trade.Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,And the drum of the racing screw,As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new?See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,And the fenders grind and heave,And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;It’s ‘Gang-plank up and in,’ dear lass,It’s ‘Hawsers warp her through!’And it’s ‘All clear aft’ on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,And the sirens hoot their dread!When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deepTo the sob of the questing lead!It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,With the Gunfleet Sands in view,Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of lightThat holds the hot sky tame,And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floorsWhere the scared whale flukes in flame!Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,And her ropes are taut with the dew,For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,And the shouting seas drive by,And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,And the Southern Cross rides high!Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,That blaze in the velvet blue.They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—We’re steaming all too slow,And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isleWhere the trumpet-orchids blow!You have heard the call of the off-shore windAnd the voice of the deep-sea rain;You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,And the deuce knows what we may do—But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
THERE’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yieldAnd the ricks stand gray to the sun,Singing:—‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the cloverAnd your English summer’s done.’You have heard the beat of the off-shore windAnd the thresh of the deep-sea rain;You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,We’ve seen the seasons through,And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.It’s North you may run to the rime-ring’d sun,Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,Or West to the Golden Gate;Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,And the wildest tales are true,And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea rollOf a black Bilbao tramp;With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,And a drunken Dago crew,And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,Or the way of a man with a maid;But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the seaIn the heel of the North-East Trade.Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,And the drum of the racing screw,As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new?See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,And the fenders grind and heave,And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;It’s ‘Gang-plank up and in,’ dear lass,It’s ‘Hawsers warp her through!’And it’s ‘All clear aft’ on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,And the sirens hoot their dread!When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deepTo the sob of the questing lead!It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,With the Gunfleet Sands in view,Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of lightThat holds the hot sky tame,And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floorsWhere the scared whale flukes in flame!Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,And her ropes are taut with the dew,For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,And the shouting seas drive by,And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,And the Southern Cross rides high!Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,That blaze in the velvet blue.They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—We’re steaming all too slow,And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isleWhere the trumpet-orchids blow!You have heard the call of the off-shore windAnd the voice of the deep-sea rain;You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,And the deuce knows what we may do—But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
THERE’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yieldAnd the ricks stand gray to the sun,Singing:—‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the cloverAnd your English summer’s done.’You have heard the beat of the off-shore windAnd the thresh of the deep-sea rain;You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!
Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,We’ve seen the seasons through,And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
It’s North you may run to the rime-ring’d sun,Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,Or West to the Golden Gate;Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,And the wildest tales are true,And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea rollOf a black Bilbao tramp;With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,And a drunken Dago crew,And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,Or the way of a man with a maid;But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the seaIn the heel of the North-East Trade.Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,And the drum of the racing screw,As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,And the fenders grind and heave,And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;It’s ‘Gang-plank up and in,’ dear lass,It’s ‘Hawsers warp her through!’And it’s ‘All clear aft’ on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,And the sirens hoot their dread!When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deepTo the sob of the questing lead!It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,With the Gunfleet Sands in view,Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of lightThat holds the hot sky tame,And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floorsWhere the scared whale flukes in flame!Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,And her ropes are taut with the dew,For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,And the shouting seas drive by,And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,And the Southern Cross rides high!Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,That blaze in the velvet blue.They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—We’re steaming all too slow,And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isleWhere the trumpet-orchids blow!You have heard the call of the off-shore windAnd the voice of the deep-sea rain;You have heard the song—how long! how long!Pull out on the trail again!
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,And the deuce knows what we may do—But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
867.
June 22, 1897
GOD of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle-line—Beneath whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!Far-call’d our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
GOD of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle-line—Beneath whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!Far-call’d our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
GOD of our fathers, known of old—Lord of our far-flung battle-line—Beneath whose awful Hand we holdDominion over palm and pine—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies—The captains and the kings depart—Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,An humble and a contrite heart.Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!
Far-call’d our navies melt away—On dune and headland sinks the fire—Lo, all our pomp of yesterdayIs one with Nineveh and Tyre!Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we looseWild tongues that have not Thee in awe—Such boasting as the Gentiles useOr lesser breeds without the Law—Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,Lest we forget, lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trustIn reeking tube and iron shard—All valiant dust that builds on dust,And guarding calls not Thee to guard—For frantic boast and foolish word,Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!
b. 1866
868.
SHE’s somewhere in the sunlight strong,Her tears are in the falling rain,She calls me in the wind’s soft song,And with the flowers she comes again.Yon bird is but her messenger,The moon is but her silver car;Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,And every wistful waiting star.
SHE’s somewhere in the sunlight strong,Her tears are in the falling rain,She calls me in the wind’s soft song,And with the flowers she comes again.Yon bird is but her messenger,The moon is but her silver car;Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,And every wistful waiting star.
SHE’s somewhere in the sunlight strong,Her tears are in the falling rain,She calls me in the wind’s soft song,And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger,The moon is but her silver car;Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,And every wistful waiting star.
869.
LOUD mockers in the roaring streetSay Christ is crucified again:Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet,Twice broken His great heart in vain.I hear, and to myself I smile,For Christ talks with me all the while.No angel now to roll the stoneFrom off His unawaking sleep,In vain shall Mary watch alone,In vain the soldiers vigil keep.Yet while they deem my Lord is deadMy eyes are on His shining head.Ah! never more shall Mary hearThat voice exceeding sweet and lowWithin the garden calling clear:Her Lord is gone, and she must go.Yet all the while my Lord I meetIn every London lane and street.Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain,And Bartimæus still go blind;The healing hem shall ne’er againBe touch’d by suffering humankind.Yet all the while I see them rest,The poor and outcast, on His breast.No more unto the stubborn heartWith gentle knocking shall He plead,No more the mystic pity start,For Christ twice dead is dead indeed.So in the street I hear men say,Yet Christ is with me all the day.
LOUD mockers in the roaring streetSay Christ is crucified again:Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet,Twice broken His great heart in vain.I hear, and to myself I smile,For Christ talks with me all the while.No angel now to roll the stoneFrom off His unawaking sleep,In vain shall Mary watch alone,In vain the soldiers vigil keep.Yet while they deem my Lord is deadMy eyes are on His shining head.Ah! never more shall Mary hearThat voice exceeding sweet and lowWithin the garden calling clear:Her Lord is gone, and she must go.Yet all the while my Lord I meetIn every London lane and street.Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain,And Bartimæus still go blind;The healing hem shall ne’er againBe touch’d by suffering humankind.Yet all the while I see them rest,The poor and outcast, on His breast.No more unto the stubborn heartWith gentle knocking shall He plead,No more the mystic pity start,For Christ twice dead is dead indeed.So in the street I hear men say,Yet Christ is with me all the day.
LOUD mockers in the roaring streetSay Christ is crucified again:Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet,Twice broken His great heart in vain.
I hear, and to myself I smile,For Christ talks with me all the while.
No angel now to roll the stoneFrom off His unawaking sleep,In vain shall Mary watch alone,In vain the soldiers vigil keep.
Yet while they deem my Lord is deadMy eyes are on His shining head.
Ah! never more shall Mary hearThat voice exceeding sweet and lowWithin the garden calling clear:Her Lord is gone, and she must go.
Yet all the while my Lord I meetIn every London lane and street.
Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain,And Bartimæus still go blind;The healing hem shall ne’er againBe touch’d by suffering humankind.
Yet all the while I see them rest,The poor and outcast, on His breast.
No more unto the stubborn heartWith gentle knocking shall He plead,No more the mystic pity start,For Christ twice dead is dead indeed.
So in the street I hear men say,Yet Christ is with me all the day.
b. 1869
870.
COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning!Joyous, O Youth, in the agèd world renewFreshness to feel the eternities around it,Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew.The strong sun shines above thee:That strength, that radiance bring!If Winter come to Winter,When shall men hope for Spring?
COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning!Joyous, O Youth, in the agèd world renewFreshness to feel the eternities around it,Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew.The strong sun shines above thee:That strength, that radiance bring!If Winter come to Winter,When shall men hope for Spring?
COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning!Joyous, O Youth, in the agèd world renewFreshness to feel the eternities around it,Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew.The strong sun shines above thee:That strength, that radiance bring!If Winter come to Winter,When shall men hope for Spring?
871.
OWORLD, be nobler, for her sake!If she but knew thee what thou art,What wrongs are borne, what deeds are doneIn thee, beneath thy daily sun,Know’st thou not that her tender heartFor pain and very shame would break?O World, be nobler, for her sake!
OWORLD, be nobler, for her sake!If she but knew thee what thou art,What wrongs are borne, what deeds are doneIn thee, beneath thy daily sun,Know’st thou not that her tender heartFor pain and very shame would break?O World, be nobler, for her sake!
OWORLD, be nobler, for her sake!If she but knew thee what thou art,What wrongs are borne, what deeds are doneIn thee, beneath thy daily sun,Know’st thou not that her tender heartFor pain and very shame would break?O World, be nobler, for her sake!
b. 1853
872.
WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;I am one with the twilight’s dream.When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,I am one with their hearts at rest.From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and loveStray’d away along the margin of the unknown tide,All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far aboveWord or touch from the lips beside.Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and drawFrom the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,Such primæval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,Growing one with its silent stream.
WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;I am one with the twilight’s dream.When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,I am one with their hearts at rest.From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and loveStray’d away along the margin of the unknown tide,All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far aboveWord or touch from the lips beside.Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and drawFrom the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,Such primæval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,Growing one with its silent stream.
WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;I am one with the twilight’s dream.
When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,I am one with their hearts at rest.
From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and loveStray’d away along the margin of the unknown tide,All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far aboveWord or touch from the lips beside.
Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and drawFrom the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,Such primæval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,Growing one with its silent stream.
873.
ITS edges foam’d with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glows,Its petals fade away.A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills—for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Near’d to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
ITS edges foam’d with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glows,Its petals fade away.A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills—for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Near’d to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
ITS edges foam’d with amethyst and rose,Withers once more the old blue flower of day:There where the ether like a diamond glows,Its petals fade away.
A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;The great deep thrills—for through it everywhereThe breath of Beauty blows.
I saw how all the trembling ages past,Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,Near’d to the hour when Beauty breathes her lastAnd knows herself in death.
b. 1870
874.
‘FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air,Flowers posied, flowers for the hair,Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare——’‘O pick me some!’‘Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum,Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisperCome,Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb——’‘O let me hear.’‘Eyes so black they draw one trembling near,Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear,Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear——’‘O look at me!’‘Kisses sadly blown across the sea,Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free,Bob-a-cherry kisses ’neath a tree——’‘O give me one!’Thus sang a king and queen in Babylon.
‘FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air,Flowers posied, flowers for the hair,Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare——’‘O pick me some!’‘Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum,Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisperCome,Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb——’‘O let me hear.’‘Eyes so black they draw one trembling near,Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear,Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear——’‘O look at me!’‘Kisses sadly blown across the sea,Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free,Bob-a-cherry kisses ’neath a tree——’‘O give me one!’Thus sang a king and queen in Babylon.
‘FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air,Flowers posied, flowers for the hair,Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare——’‘O pick me some!’
‘Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum,Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisperCome,Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb——’‘O let me hear.’
‘Eyes so black they draw one trembling near,Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear,Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear——’‘O look at me!’
‘Kisses sadly blown across the sea,Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free,Bob-a-cherry kisses ’neath a tree——’‘O give me one!’
Thus sang a king and queen in Babylon.
1859-1907
875.
SUMMER set lip to earth’s bosom bare,And left the flush’d print in a poppy there;Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame.With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drankThe blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank,And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shineWhen the eastern conduits ran with wine.Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,And hot as a swinkèd gipsy is,And drowsed in sleepy savageries,With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.A child and man paced side by side,Treading the skirts of eventide;But between the clasp of his hand and hersLay, felt not, twenty wither’d years.She turn’d, with the rout of her dusk South hair,And saw the sleeping gipsy there;And snatch’d and snapp’d it in swift child’s whim,With—‘Keep it, long as you live!’—to him.And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres,Trembled up from a bath of tears;And joy, like a mew sea-rock’d apart,Toss’d on the wave of his troubled heart.Forhesaw what she did not see,That—as kindled by its own fervency—The verge shrivell’d inward smoulderingly:And suddenly ’twixt his hand and hersHe knew the twenty withered years—No flower, but twenty shrivelled years.‘Was never such thing until this hour,’Low to his heart he said; ‘the flowerOf sleep brings wakening to me,And of oblivion memory.’‘Was never this thing to me,’ he said,‘Though with bruisèd poppies my feet are red!’And again to his own heart very low:‘O child! I love, for I love and know;‘But you, who love nor know at allThe diverse chambers in Love’s guest-hall,Where some rise early, few sit long:In how differing accents hear the throngHis great Pentecostal tongue;‘Who know not love from amity,Nor my reported self from me;A fair fit gift is this, meseems,You give—this withering flower of dreams.‘O frankly fickle, and fickly true,Do you know what the days will do to you?To your Love and you what the days will do,O frankly fickle, and fickly true?‘You have loved me, Fair, three lives—or days:’Twill pass with the passing of my face.But whereIgo, your face goes too,To watch lest I play false to you.‘I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover,Knowing well when certain years are overYou vanish from me to another;Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.‘So, frankly fickle, and fickly true!For my brief life-while I take from youThis token, fair and fit, meseems,For me—this withering flower of dreams.’. . .The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head,Heavy with dreams, as that with bread:The goodly grain and the sun-flush’d sleeperThe reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.I hang ’mid men my needless head,And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread:The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeperTime shall reap, but after the reaperThe world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!Love! love! your flower of wither’d dreamIn leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem,Shelter’d and shut in a nook of rhyme,From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.Love!Ifall into the claws of Time:But lasts within a leavèd rhymeAll that the world of me esteems—My wither’d dreams, my wither’d dreams.
SUMMER set lip to earth’s bosom bare,And left the flush’d print in a poppy there;Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame.With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drankThe blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank,And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shineWhen the eastern conduits ran with wine.Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,And hot as a swinkèd gipsy is,And drowsed in sleepy savageries,With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.A child and man paced side by side,Treading the skirts of eventide;But between the clasp of his hand and hersLay, felt not, twenty wither’d years.She turn’d, with the rout of her dusk South hair,And saw the sleeping gipsy there;And snatch’d and snapp’d it in swift child’s whim,With—‘Keep it, long as you live!’—to him.And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres,Trembled up from a bath of tears;And joy, like a mew sea-rock’d apart,Toss’d on the wave of his troubled heart.Forhesaw what she did not see,That—as kindled by its own fervency—The verge shrivell’d inward smoulderingly:And suddenly ’twixt his hand and hersHe knew the twenty withered years—No flower, but twenty shrivelled years.‘Was never such thing until this hour,’Low to his heart he said; ‘the flowerOf sleep brings wakening to me,And of oblivion memory.’‘Was never this thing to me,’ he said,‘Though with bruisèd poppies my feet are red!’And again to his own heart very low:‘O child! I love, for I love and know;‘But you, who love nor know at allThe diverse chambers in Love’s guest-hall,Where some rise early, few sit long:In how differing accents hear the throngHis great Pentecostal tongue;‘Who know not love from amity,Nor my reported self from me;A fair fit gift is this, meseems,You give—this withering flower of dreams.‘O frankly fickle, and fickly true,Do you know what the days will do to you?To your Love and you what the days will do,O frankly fickle, and fickly true?‘You have loved me, Fair, three lives—or days:’Twill pass with the passing of my face.But whereIgo, your face goes too,To watch lest I play false to you.‘I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover,Knowing well when certain years are overYou vanish from me to another;Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.‘So, frankly fickle, and fickly true!For my brief life-while I take from youThis token, fair and fit, meseems,For me—this withering flower of dreams.’. . .The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head,Heavy with dreams, as that with bread:The goodly grain and the sun-flush’d sleeperThe reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.I hang ’mid men my needless head,And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread:The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeperTime shall reap, but after the reaperThe world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!Love! love! your flower of wither’d dreamIn leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem,Shelter’d and shut in a nook of rhyme,From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.Love!Ifall into the claws of Time:But lasts within a leavèd rhymeAll that the world of me esteems—My wither’d dreams, my wither’d dreams.
SUMMER set lip to earth’s bosom bare,And left the flush’d print in a poppy there;Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame.
With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drankThe blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank,And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shineWhen the eastern conduits ran with wine.
Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,And hot as a swinkèd gipsy is,And drowsed in sleepy savageries,With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.
A child and man paced side by side,Treading the skirts of eventide;But between the clasp of his hand and hersLay, felt not, twenty wither’d years.
She turn’d, with the rout of her dusk South hair,And saw the sleeping gipsy there;And snatch’d and snapp’d it in swift child’s whim,With—‘Keep it, long as you live!’—to him.
And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres,Trembled up from a bath of tears;And joy, like a mew sea-rock’d apart,Toss’d on the wave of his troubled heart.
Forhesaw what she did not see,That—as kindled by its own fervency—The verge shrivell’d inward smoulderingly:
And suddenly ’twixt his hand and hersHe knew the twenty withered years—No flower, but twenty shrivelled years.
‘Was never such thing until this hour,’Low to his heart he said; ‘the flowerOf sleep brings wakening to me,And of oblivion memory.’
‘Was never this thing to me,’ he said,‘Though with bruisèd poppies my feet are red!’And again to his own heart very low:‘O child! I love, for I love and know;
‘But you, who love nor know at allThe diverse chambers in Love’s guest-hall,Where some rise early, few sit long:In how differing accents hear the throngHis great Pentecostal tongue;
‘Who know not love from amity,Nor my reported self from me;A fair fit gift is this, meseems,You give—this withering flower of dreams.
‘O frankly fickle, and fickly true,Do you know what the days will do to you?To your Love and you what the days will do,O frankly fickle, and fickly true?
‘You have loved me, Fair, three lives—or days:’Twill pass with the passing of my face.But whereIgo, your face goes too,To watch lest I play false to you.
‘I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover,Knowing well when certain years are overYou vanish from me to another;Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.
‘So, frankly fickle, and fickly true!For my brief life-while I take from youThis token, fair and fit, meseems,For me—this withering flower of dreams.’. . .The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head,Heavy with dreams, as that with bread:The goodly grain and the sun-flush’d sleeperThe reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.
I hang ’mid men my needless head,And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread:The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeperTime shall reap, but after the reaperThe world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!
Love! love! your flower of wither’d dreamIn leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem,Shelter’d and shut in a nook of rhyme,From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.
Love!Ifall into the claws of Time:But lasts within a leavèd rhymeAll that the world of me esteems—My wither’d dreams, my wither’d dreams.
1861-1917
876.
NOT unto us, O Lord,Not unto us the rapture of the day,The peace of night, or love’s divine surprise,High heart, high speech, high deeds ’mid honouring eyes;For at Thy wordAll these are taken away.Not unto us, O Lord:To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar,The ache of life, the loneliness of death,The insufferable sufficiency of breath;And with Thy swordThou piercest very far.Not unto us, O Lord:Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given—My light and life and earth and sky be blasted—But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted:Let Hell affordThe pavement of her Heaven!
NOT unto us, O Lord,Not unto us the rapture of the day,The peace of night, or love’s divine surprise,High heart, high speech, high deeds ’mid honouring eyes;For at Thy wordAll these are taken away.Not unto us, O Lord:To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar,The ache of life, the loneliness of death,The insufferable sufficiency of breath;And with Thy swordThou piercest very far.Not unto us, O Lord:Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given—My light and life and earth and sky be blasted—But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted:Let Hell affordThe pavement of her Heaven!
NOT unto us, O Lord,Not unto us the rapture of the day,The peace of night, or love’s divine surprise,High heart, high speech, high deeds ’mid honouring eyes;For at Thy wordAll these are taken away.
Not unto us, O Lord:To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar,The ache of life, the loneliness of death,The insufferable sufficiency of breath;And with Thy swordThou piercest very far.
Not unto us, O Lord:Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given—My light and life and earth and sky be blasted—But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted:Let Hell affordThe pavement of her Heaven!
b. 1861
877.
ALL in the April morning,April airs were abroad;The sheep with their little lambsPass’d me by on the road.The sheep with their little lambsPass’d me by on the road;All in an April eveningI thought on the Lamb of God.The lambs were weary, and cryingWith a weak human cry,I thought on the Lamb of GodGoing meekly to die.Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastures are sweet:Rest for the little bodies,Rest for the little feet.Rest for the Lamb of GodUp on the hill-top green,Only a cross of shameTwo stark crosses between.All in the April evening,April airs were abroad;I saw the sheep with their lambs,And thought on the Lamb of God.
ALL in the April morning,April airs were abroad;The sheep with their little lambsPass’d me by on the road.The sheep with their little lambsPass’d me by on the road;All in an April eveningI thought on the Lamb of God.The lambs were weary, and cryingWith a weak human cry,I thought on the Lamb of GodGoing meekly to die.Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastures are sweet:Rest for the little bodies,Rest for the little feet.Rest for the Lamb of GodUp on the hill-top green,Only a cross of shameTwo stark crosses between.All in the April evening,April airs were abroad;I saw the sheep with their lambs,And thought on the Lamb of God.
ALL in the April morning,April airs were abroad;The sheep with their little lambsPass’d me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambsPass’d me by on the road;All in an April eveningI thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary, and cryingWith a weak human cry,I thought on the Lamb of GodGoing meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountainsDewy pastures are sweet:Rest for the little bodies,Rest for the little feet.
Rest for the Lamb of GodUp on the hill-top green,Only a cross of shameTwo stark crosses between.
All in the April evening,April airs were abroad;I saw the sheep with their lambs,And thought on the Lamb of God.
878.
ICAME into the City and none knew me;None came forth, none shouted ‘He is here!Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me,All the way by which I drew anear—Night my banner, and my herald Fear.But I knew where one so long had waitedIn the low room at the stairway’s height,Trembling lest my foot should be belated,Singing, sighing for the long hours’ flightTowards the moment of our dear delight.I came into the City when you hail’d meSaviour, and again your chosen Lord:—Not one guessing what it was that fail’d me,While along the way as they adoredThousands, thousands, shouted in accord.But through all the joy I knew—I only—How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold,Silent of its music, and how lonely!Never, though you crown me with your gold,Shall I find that little chamber as of old!
ICAME into the City and none knew me;None came forth, none shouted ‘He is here!Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me,All the way by which I drew anear—Night my banner, and my herald Fear.But I knew where one so long had waitedIn the low room at the stairway’s height,Trembling lest my foot should be belated,Singing, sighing for the long hours’ flightTowards the moment of our dear delight.I came into the City when you hail’d meSaviour, and again your chosen Lord:—Not one guessing what it was that fail’d me,While along the way as they adoredThousands, thousands, shouted in accord.But through all the joy I knew—I only—How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold,Silent of its music, and how lonely!Never, though you crown me with your gold,Shall I find that little chamber as of old!
ICAME into the City and none knew me;None came forth, none shouted ‘He is here!Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me,All the way by which I drew anear—Night my banner, and my herald Fear.
But I knew where one so long had waitedIn the low room at the stairway’s height,Trembling lest my foot should be belated,Singing, sighing for the long hours’ flightTowards the moment of our dear delight.
I came into the City when you hail’d meSaviour, and again your chosen Lord:—Not one guessing what it was that fail’d me,While along the way as they adoredThousands, thousands, shouted in accord.
But through all the joy I knew—I only—How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold,Silent of its music, and how lonely!Never, though you crown me with your gold,Shall I find that little chamber as of old!
b. 1850
879.
IMUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,I shun the love that lurks in all delight—The love of thee—and in the blue heaven’s height,And in the dearest passage of a song.Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throngThis breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;But it must never, never come in sight;I must stop short of thee the whole day long.But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—With the first dream that comes with the first sleepI run, I run, I am gather’d to thy heart.
IMUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,I shun the love that lurks in all delight—The love of thee—and in the blue heaven’s height,And in the dearest passage of a song.Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throngThis breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;But it must never, never come in sight;I must stop short of thee the whole day long.But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—With the first dream that comes with the first sleepI run, I run, I am gather’d to thy heart.
IMUST not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,I shun the love that lurks in all delight—The love of thee—and in the blue heaven’s height,And in the dearest passage of a song.Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throngThis breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;But it must never, never come in sight;I must stop short of thee the whole day long.But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,Must doff my will as raiment laid away,—With the first dream that comes with the first sleepI run, I run, I am gather’d to thy heart.
880.
SHE walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;She guards them from the steep.She feeds them on the fragrant heightAnd folds them in for sleep.She roams maternal hills and bright,Dark valleys safe and deep.Her dreams are innocent at night;The chastest stars may peep.She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.She holds her little thoughts in sight,Though gay they run and leap.She is so circumspect and right;She has her soul to keep.She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.
SHE walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;She guards them from the steep.She feeds them on the fragrant heightAnd folds them in for sleep.She roams maternal hills and bright,Dark valleys safe and deep.Her dreams are innocent at night;The chastest stars may peep.She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.She holds her little thoughts in sight,Though gay they run and leap.She is so circumspect and right;She has her soul to keep.She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.
SHE walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;She guards them from the steep.She feeds them on the fragrant heightAnd folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright,Dark valleys safe and deep.Her dreams are innocent at night;The chastest stars may peep.She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.
She holds her little thoughts in sight,Though gay they run and leap.She is so circumspect and right;She has her soul to keep.She walks—the lady of my delight—A shepherdess of sheep.
d. 1918
881.
’TWAS the dream of a God,And the mould of His hand,That you shook ’neath His stroke,That you trembled and brokeTo this beautiful land.Here He loosed from His holdA brown tumult of wings,Till the wind on the seaBore the strange melodyOf an island that sings.He made you all fair,You in purple and gold,You in silver and green,Till no eye that has seenWithout love can behold.I have left you behindIn the path of the past,With the white breath of flowers,With the best of God’s hours,I have left you at last.
’TWAS the dream of a God,And the mould of His hand,That you shook ’neath His stroke,That you trembled and brokeTo this beautiful land.Here He loosed from His holdA brown tumult of wings,Till the wind on the seaBore the strange melodyOf an island that sings.He made you all fair,You in purple and gold,You in silver and green,Till no eye that has seenWithout love can behold.I have left you behindIn the path of the past,With the white breath of flowers,With the best of God’s hours,I have left you at last.
’TWAS the dream of a God,And the mould of His hand,That you shook ’neath His stroke,That you trembled and brokeTo this beautiful land.
Here He loosed from His holdA brown tumult of wings,Till the wind on the seaBore the strange melodyOf an island that sings.
He made you all fair,You in purple and gold,You in silver and green,Till no eye that has seenWithout love can behold.
I have left you behindIn the path of the past,With the white breath of flowers,With the best of God’s hours,I have left you at last.
b. 1856
882.