"Under the long-boat, hey? Now mind your tip.I'll have the skids kept clear with nothing round them;The long-boat ain't a store in this here ship.Lucky for you it wasn't I who found them.If I had seen them, Dauber, I'd have drowned them.Now you be warned by this. I tell you plain--Don't stow your brass-rags under boats again."Go forward to your berth." The Dauber turned.The listeners down below them winked and smiled,Knowing how red the Dauber's temples burned,Having lost the case about his only child.His work was done to nothing and defiled,And there was no redress: the Captain's voiceSpoke, and called "Painter," making him rejoice.The Captain and the Mate conversed together."Drawings, you tell me, Mister?" "Yes, sir; views:Wiped off with turps, I gather that's his blether.He says they're things he can't afford to lose.He's Dick, who came to sea in dancing shoes,And found the dance a bear dance. They were hiddenUnder the long-boat's chocks, which I've forbidden.""Wiped off with turps?" The Captain sucked his lip."Who did it, Mister?" "Reefers, I suppose;Them devils do the most pranks in a ship;The round-house might have done it, Cook or Bose.""I can't take notice of it till he knows.How does he do his work?" "Well, no offence;He tries; he does his best. He's got no sense.""Painter," the Captain called; the Dauber came."What's all this talk of drawings? What's the matter?""They spoiled my drawings, sir." "Well, who's to blame?The long-boat's there for no one to get at her;You broke the rules, and if you choose to scatterGear up and down where it's no right to be,And suffer as result, don't come to me."Your place is in the round-house, and your gearBelongs where you belong. Who spoiled your things?Find out who spoiled your things and fetch him here.""But, sir, they cut the canvas into strings.""I want no argument nor questionings.Go back where you belong and say no more,And please remember that you're not on shore."The Dauber touched his brow and slunk away--They eyed his going with a bitter eye."Dauber," said Sam, "what did the Captain say?"The Dauber drooped his head without reply."Go forward, Dauber, and enjoy your cry."The Mate limped to the rail; like little feetOver his head the drumming reef-points beat.The Dauber reached the berth and entered in.Much mockery followed after as he went,And each face seemed to greet him with the grinOf hounds hot following on a creature spent."Aren't you a fool?" each mocking visage meant."Who did it, Dauber? What did Captain say?It is a crime, and there'll be hell to pay."He bowed his head, the house was full of smoke;The Sails was pointing shackles on his chest."Lord, Dauber, be a man and take a joke"--He puffed his pipe--"and let the matter rest.Spit brown, my son, and get a hairy breast;Get shoulders on you at the crojick braces,And let this painting business go to blazes."What good can painting do to anyone?I don't say never do it; far from that--No harm in sometimes painting just for fun.Keep it for fun, and stick to what you're at.Your job's to fill your bones up and get fat;Rib up like Barney's bull, and thick your neck.Throw paints to hell, boy; you belong on deck.""That's right," said Chips; "it's downright good advice.Painting's no good; what good can painting doUp on a lower topsail stiff with ice,With all your little fish-hooks frozen blue?Painting won't help you at the weather clew,Nor pass your gaskets for you, nor make sail.Painting's a balmy job not worth a nail."The Dauber did not answer; time was passing.He pulled his easel out, his paints, his stool.The wind was dropping, and the sea was glassing--New realms of beauty waited for his rule;The draught out of the crojick kept him cool.He sat to paint, alone and melancholy."No turning fools," the Chips said, "from their folly."He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line,And then came peace, and gentle beauty came,Turning his spirit's water into wine,Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame:O, joy of trying for beauty, ever the same,You never fail, your comforts never end;O, balm of this world's way; O, perfect friend!IIIThey lost the Trades soon after; then came calm,Light little gusts and rain, which soon increasedTo glorious northers shouting out a psalmAt seeing the bright blue water silver fleeced;Hornwards she rushed, trampling the seas to yeast.There fell a rain-squall in a blind day's endWhen for an hour the Dauber found a friend.Out of the rain the voices called and passed,The stay-sails flogged, the tackle yanked and shook.Inside the harness-room a lantern castLight and wild shadows as it ranged its hook.The watch on deck was gathered in the nook,They had taken shelter in that secret place,Wild light gave wild emotions to each face.One beat the beef-cask, and the others sangA song that had brought anchors out of seasIn ports where bells of Christians never rang,Nor any sea mark blazed among the trees.By forlorn swamps, in ice, by windy keys,That song had sounded; now it shook the airFrom these eight wanderers brought together there.Under the poop-break, sheltering from the rain,The Dauber sketched some likeness of the room,A note to be a prompting to his brain,A spark to make old memory reillume."Dauber," said someone near him in the gloom,"How goes it, Dauber?" It was reefer Si."There's not much use in trying to keep dry."They sat upon the sail-room doorway coaming,The lad held forth like youth, the Dauber listenedTo how the boy had had a taste for roaming,And what the sea is said to be and isn't.Where the dim lamplight fell the wet deck glistened.Si said the Horn was still some weeks away,"But tell me, Dauber, where d'you hail from? Eh?"The rain blew past and let the stars appear;The seas grew larger as the moonlight grew;For half an hour the ring of heaven was clear,Dusty with moonlight, grey rather than blue;In that great moon the showing stars were few.The sleepy time-boy's feet passed overhead."I come from out past Gloucester," Dauber said;"Not far from Pauntley, if you know those parts;The place is Spital Farm, near Silver Hill,Above a trap-hatch where a mill-stream starts.We had the mill once, but we've stopped the mill;My dad and sister keep the farm on still.We're only tenants, but we've rented there,Father and son, for over eighty year."Father has worked the farm since grandfer went;It means the world to him; I can't think why.They bleed him to the last half-crown for rent,And this and that have almost milked him dry.The land's all starved; if he'd put money by,And corn was up, and rent was down two-thirds....But then they aren't, so what's the use of words."Yet still he couldn't bear to see it passTo strangers, or to think a time would comeWhen other men than us would mow the grass,And other names than ours have the home.Some sorrows come from evil thought, but someComes when two men are near, and both are blindTo what is generous in the other's mind."I was the only boy, and father thoughtI'd farm the Spital after he was dead,And many a time he took me out and taughtAbout manures and seed-corn white and red,And soils and hops, but I'd an empty head;Harvest or seed, I would not do a turn--I loathed the farm, I didn't want to learn."He did not mind at first, he thought it youthFeeling the collar, and that I should change.Then time gave him some inklings of the truth,And that I loathed the farm, and wished to range.Truth to a man of fifty's always strange;It was most strange and terrible to himThat I, his heir, should be the devil's limb."Yet still he hoped the Lord might change my mind.I'd see him bridle-in his wrath and hate,And almost break my heart he was so kind,Biting his lips sore with resolve to wait.And then I'd try awhile; but it was Fate:I didn't want to learn; the farm to meWas mire and hopeless work and misery."Though there were things I loved about it, too--The beasts, the apple-trees, and going haying.And then I tried; but no, it wouldn't do,The farm was prison, and my thoughts were straying.And there'd come father, with his grey head, praying,'O, my dear son, don't let the Spital pass;It's my old home, boy, where your grandfer was."'And now you won't learn farming; you don't care.The old home's nought to you. I've tried to teach you;I've begged Almighty God, boy, all I dare,To use His hand if word of mine won't reach you.Boy, for your granfer's sake I do beseech you,Don't let the Spital pass to strangers. SquireHas said he'd give it you if we require."'Your mother used to walk here, boy, with me;It was her favourite walk down to the mill;And there we'd talk how little death would be,Knowing our work was going on here still.You've got the brains, you only want the will--Don't disappoint your mother and your father.I'll give you time to travel, if you'd rather.'"But, no, I'd wander up the brooks to read.Then sister Jane would start with nagging tongue,Saying my sin made father's heart to bleed,And how she feared she'd live to see me hung.And then she'd read me bits from Dr. Young.And when we three would sit to supper, JaneWould fillip dad till dad began again."'I've been here all my life, boy. I was bornUp in the room above--looks on the mead.I never thought you'd cockle my clean corn,And leave the old home to a stranger's seed.Father and I have made here 'thout a weed:We've give our lives to make that. Eighty years.And now I go down to the grave in tears.'"And then I'd get ashamed and take off coat,And work maybe a week, ploughing and sowingAnd then I'd creep away and sail my boat,Or watch the water when the mill was going.That's my delight--to be near water flowing,Dabbling or sailing boats or jumping stanks,Or finding moorhens' nests along the banks."And one day father found a ship I'd built;He took the cart-whip to me over that,And I, half mad with pain, and sick with guilt,Went up and hid in what we called the flat,A dusty hole given over to the cat.She kittened there; the kittens had worn pathsAmong the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths."And putting down my hand between the beamsI felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear:A book with white cocoons stuck in the seams.Where spiders had had nests for many a year.It was my mother's sketch-book; hid, I fear,Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's lifeWas not her own while she was father's wife."There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint.March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three,Unfinished that, for tears had smeared the paint.The rest was landscape, not yet brought to be.That was a holy afternoon to me;That book a sacred book; the flat a placeWhere I could meet my mother face to face."She had found peace of spirit, mother had,Drawing the landscape from the attic there--Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad,Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair.That rotting sketch-book showed me how and whereI, too, could get away; and then I knewThat drawing was the work I longed to do."Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled,And every penny I could get I spentOn paints and artist's matters, which I spoiledUp in the attic to my heart's content,Till one day father asked me what I meant;The time had come, he said, to make an end.Now it must finish: what did I intend?"Either I took to farming, like his son,In which case he would teach me, early and late(Provided that my daubing mood was done),Or I must go: it must be settled straight.If I refused to farm, there was the gate.I was to choose, his patience was all gone,The present state of things could not go on."Sister was there; she eyed me while he spoke.The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour,And something told me father's heart was broke,For all he stood so set and looked so sour.Jane took a duster, and began to scourA pewter on the dresser; she was crying.I stood stock still a long time, not replying."Dad waited, then he snorted and turned round.'Well, think of it,' he said. He left the room,His boots went clop along the stony groundOut to the orchard and the apple-bloom.A cloud came past the sun and made a gloom;I swallowed with dry lips, then sister turned.She was dead white but for her eyes that burned."'You're breaking father's heart, Joe,' she began;'It's not as if----' she checked, in too much pain.'O, Joe, don't help to kill so fine a man;You're giving him our mother over again.It's wearing him to death, Joe, heart and brain;You know what store he sets on leaving thisTo (it's too cruel)--to a son of his."'Yet you go painting all the day. O, Joe,Couldn't you make an effort? Can't you seeWhat folly it is of yours? It's not as thoughYou are a genius or could ever be.O, Joe, for father's sake, if not for me,Give up this craze for painting, and be wiseAnd work with father, where your duty lies.'"'It goes too deep,' I said; 'I loathe the farm;I couldn't help, even if I'd the mind.Even if I helped, I'd only do him harm;Father would see it, if he were not blind.I was not built to farm, as he would find.O, Jane, it's bitter hard to stand aloneAnd spoil my father's life or spoil my own.'"'Spoil both,' she said, 'the way you're shaping now.You're only a boy not knowing your own good.Where will you go, suppose you leave here? HowDo you propose to earn your daily food?Draw? Daub the pavements? There's a feckless broodGoes to the devil daily, Joe, in citiesOnly from thinking how divine their wit is."'Clouds are they, without water, carried away.And you'll be one of them, the way you're going,Daubing at silly pictures all the day,And praised by silly fools who're always blowing.And you choose this when you might go a-sowing,Casting the good corn into chosen mouldThat shall in time bring forth a hundred-fold.'"So we went on, but in the end it ended.I felt I'd done a murder; I felt sick.There's much in human minds cannot be mended,And that, not I, played dad a cruel trick.There was one mercy: that it ended quick.I went to join my mother's brother: heLived down the Severn. He was kind to me."And there I learned house-painting for a living.I'd have been happy there, but that I knewI'd sinned before my father past forgiving,And that they sat at home, that silent two,Wearing the fire out and the evening through,Silent, defeated, broken, in despair,My plate unset, my name gone, and my chair."I saw all that; and sister Jane came white--White as a ghost, with fiery, weeping eyes.I saw her all day long and half the night,Bitter as gall, and passionate and wise.'Joe, you have killed your father: there he lies.You have done your work--you with our mother's ways.'She said it plain, and then her eyes would blaze."And then one day I had a job to doDown below bridge, by where the docks begin,And there I saw a clipper towing through,Up from the sea that morning, entering in.Raked to the nines she was, lofty and thin,Her ensign ruffling red, her bunts in pile,Beauty and strength together, wonder, style."She docked close to the gates, and there she layOver the water from me, well in sight;And as I worked I watched her all the day,Finding her beauty ever fresh delight.Her house-flag was bright green with strips of white;High in the sunny air it rose to shakeAbove the skysail poles' most splendid rake."And when I felt unhappy I would lookOver the river at her; and her pride,So calm, so quiet, came as a rebukeTo half the passionate pathways which I tried;And though the autumn ran its term and died,And winter fell and cold December came,She was still splendid there, and still the same."Then on a day she sailed; but when she wentMy mind was clear on what I had to try:To see the sea and ships, and what they meant,That was the thing I longed to do; so IDrew and worked hard, and studied and put by,And thought of nothing else but that one end,But let all else go hang--love, money, friend."And now I've shipped as Dauber I've begun.It was hard work to find a dauber's berth;I hadn't any friends to find me one,Only my skill, for what it may be worth;But I'm at sea now, going about the earth,And when the ship's paid off, when we return,I'll join some Paris studio and learn."He stopped, the air came moist, Si did not speak;The Dauber turned his eyes to where he sat,Pressing the sail-room hinges with his cheek,His face half covered with a drooping hat.Huge dewdrops from the stay-sails dropped and spat.Si did not stir, the Dauber touched his sleeve;A little birdlike noise came from a sheave.Si was asleep, sleeping a calm deep sleep,Still as a warden of the Egyptian deadIn some old haunted temple buried deepUnder the desert sand, sterile and red.The Dauber shook his arm; Si jumped and said,"Good yarn, I swear! I say, you have a brain--Was that eight bells that went?" He slept again.Then waking up, "I've had a nap," he cried."Was that one bell? What, Dauber, you still here?""Si there?" the Mate's voice called. "Sir," he replied.The order made the lad's thick vision clear;A something in the Mate's voice made him fear."Si," said the Mate, "I hear you've made a friend--Dauber, in short. That friendship's got to end."You're a young gentleman. Your place aboardIs with the gentlemen abaft the mast.You're learning to command; you can't affordTo yarn with any man. But there ... it's past.You've done it once; let this time be the last.The Dauber's place is forward. Do it again,I'll put you bunking forward with the men."Dismiss." Si went, but Sam, beside the Mate,Timekeeper there, walked with him to the railAnd whispered him the menace of "You wait"--Words which have turned full many a reefer pale.The watch was changed; the watch on deck trimmed sail.Sam, going below, called all the reefers down,Sat in his bunk and eyed them with a frown."Si here," he said, "has soiled the half-deck's nameTalking to Dauber--Dauber, the ship's clout.A reefer takes the Dauber for a flame,The half-deck take the round-house walking out.He's soiled the half-deck's honour; now, no doubt,The Bosun and his mates will come here sneaking,Asking for smokes, or blocking gangways speaking."I'm not a vain man, given to blow or boast;I'm not a proud man, but I truly feelThat while I've bossed this mess and ruled this roastI've kept this hooker's half-deck damned genteel.Si must ask pardon, or be made to squeal.Down on your knees, dog; them we love we chasten.Jao, pasea, my son--in English, Hasten."Si begged for pardon, meekly kneeling downBefore the reefer's mess assembled grim.The lamp above them smoked the glass all brown;Beyond the door the dripping sails were dim.The Dauber passed the door; none spoke to him.He sought his berth and slept, or, waking, heardRain on the deck-house--rain, no other word.IVOur of the air a time of quiet came,Calm fell upon the heaven like a drouth;The brass sky watched the brassy water flame.Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered southSlowly, with no white bone across her mouth;No rushing glory, like a queen made bold,The Dauber strove to draw her as she rolled.There the four leaning spires of canvas rose,Royals and skysails lifting, gently lifting,White like the brightness that a great fish blowsWhen billows are at peace and ships are drifting;With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting,The courses tugged their tethers: a blue hazeDrifted like ghosts of flocks come down to graze.There the great skyline made her perfect round,Notched now and then by the sea's deeper blue;A smoke-smutch marked a steamer homeward bound,The haze wrought all things to intenser hue.In tingling impotence the Dauber drewAs all men draw, keen to the shaken soulTo give a hint that might suggest the whole.A naked seaman washing a red shirtSat at a tub whistling between his teeth;Complaining blocks quavered like something hurt.A sailor cut an old boot for a sheath,The ship bowed to her shadow-ship beneath,And little slaps of spray came at the rollOn to the deck-planks from the scupper-hole.He watched it, painting patiently, as paints,With eyes that pierce behind the blue sky's veil,The Benedictine in a Book of SaintsWatching the passing of the Holy Grail;The green dish dripping blood, the trump, the hail,The spears that pass, the memory and the passion,The beauty moving under this world's fashion.
"Under the long-boat, hey? Now mind your tip.I'll have the skids kept clear with nothing round them;The long-boat ain't a store in this here ship.Lucky for you it wasn't I who found them.If I had seen them, Dauber, I'd have drowned them.Now you be warned by this. I tell you plain--Don't stow your brass-rags under boats again.
"Under the long-boat, hey? Now mind your tip.
I'll have the skids kept clear with nothing round them;
The long-boat ain't a store in this here ship.
Lucky for you it wasn't I who found them.
If I had seen them, Dauber, I'd have drowned them.
Now you be warned by this. I tell you plain--
Don't stow your brass-rags under boats again.
"Go forward to your berth." The Dauber turned.The listeners down below them winked and smiled,Knowing how red the Dauber's temples burned,Having lost the case about his only child.His work was done to nothing and defiled,And there was no redress: the Captain's voiceSpoke, and called "Painter," making him rejoice.
"Go forward to your berth." The Dauber turned.
The listeners down below them winked and smiled,
Knowing how red the Dauber's temples burned,
Having lost the case about his only child.
His work was done to nothing and defiled,
And there was no redress: the Captain's voice
Spoke, and called "Painter," making him rejoice.
The Captain and the Mate conversed together."Drawings, you tell me, Mister?" "Yes, sir; views:Wiped off with turps, I gather that's his blether.He says they're things he can't afford to lose.He's Dick, who came to sea in dancing shoes,And found the dance a bear dance. They were hiddenUnder the long-boat's chocks, which I've forbidden."
The Captain and the Mate conversed together.
"Drawings, you tell me, Mister?" "Yes, sir; views:
Wiped off with turps, I gather that's his blether.
He says they're things he can't afford to lose.
He's Dick, who came to sea in dancing shoes,
And found the dance a bear dance. They were hidden
Under the long-boat's chocks, which I've forbidden."
"Wiped off with turps?" The Captain sucked his lip."Who did it, Mister?" "Reefers, I suppose;Them devils do the most pranks in a ship;The round-house might have done it, Cook or Bose.""I can't take notice of it till he knows.How does he do his work?" "Well, no offence;He tries; he does his best. He's got no sense."
"Wiped off with turps?" The Captain sucked his lip.
"Who did it, Mister?" "Reefers, I suppose;
Them devils do the most pranks in a ship;
The round-house might have done it, Cook or Bose."
"I can't take notice of it till he knows.
How does he do his work?" "Well, no offence;
He tries; he does his best. He's got no sense."
"Painter," the Captain called; the Dauber came."What's all this talk of drawings? What's the matter?""They spoiled my drawings, sir." "Well, who's to blame?The long-boat's there for no one to get at her;You broke the rules, and if you choose to scatterGear up and down where it's no right to be,And suffer as result, don't come to me.
"Painter," the Captain called; the Dauber came.
"What's all this talk of drawings? What's the matter?"
"They spoiled my drawings, sir." "Well, who's to blame?
The long-boat's there for no one to get at her;
You broke the rules, and if you choose to scatter
Gear up and down where it's no right to be,
And suffer as result, don't come to me.
"Your place is in the round-house, and your gearBelongs where you belong. Who spoiled your things?Find out who spoiled your things and fetch him here.""But, sir, they cut the canvas into strings.""I want no argument nor questionings.Go back where you belong and say no more,And please remember that you're not on shore."
"Your place is in the round-house, and your gear
Belongs where you belong. Who spoiled your things?
Find out who spoiled your things and fetch him here."
"But, sir, they cut the canvas into strings."
"I want no argument nor questionings.
Go back where you belong and say no more,
And please remember that you're not on shore."
The Dauber touched his brow and slunk away--They eyed his going with a bitter eye."Dauber," said Sam, "what did the Captain say?"The Dauber drooped his head without reply."Go forward, Dauber, and enjoy your cry."The Mate limped to the rail; like little feetOver his head the drumming reef-points beat.
The Dauber touched his brow and slunk away--
They eyed his going with a bitter eye.
"Dauber," said Sam, "what did the Captain say?"
The Dauber drooped his head without reply.
"Go forward, Dauber, and enjoy your cry."
The Mate limped to the rail; like little feet
Over his head the drumming reef-points beat.
The Dauber reached the berth and entered in.Much mockery followed after as he went,And each face seemed to greet him with the grinOf hounds hot following on a creature spent."Aren't you a fool?" each mocking visage meant."Who did it, Dauber? What did Captain say?It is a crime, and there'll be hell to pay."
The Dauber reached the berth and entered in.
Much mockery followed after as he went,
And each face seemed to greet him with the grin
Of hounds hot following on a creature spent.
"Aren't you a fool?" each mocking visage meant.
"Who did it, Dauber? What did Captain say?
It is a crime, and there'll be hell to pay."
He bowed his head, the house was full of smoke;The Sails was pointing shackles on his chest."Lord, Dauber, be a man and take a joke"--He puffed his pipe--"and let the matter rest.Spit brown, my son, and get a hairy breast;Get shoulders on you at the crojick braces,And let this painting business go to blazes.
He bowed his head, the house was full of smoke;
The Sails was pointing shackles on his chest.
"Lord, Dauber, be a man and take a joke"--
He puffed his pipe--"and let the matter rest.
Spit brown, my son, and get a hairy breast;
Get shoulders on you at the crojick braces,
And let this painting business go to blazes.
"What good can painting do to anyone?I don't say never do it; far from that--No harm in sometimes painting just for fun.Keep it for fun, and stick to what you're at.Your job's to fill your bones up and get fat;Rib up like Barney's bull, and thick your neck.Throw paints to hell, boy; you belong on deck."
"What good can painting do to anyone?
I don't say never do it; far from that--
No harm in sometimes painting just for fun.
Keep it for fun, and stick to what you're at.
Your job's to fill your bones up and get fat;
Rib up like Barney's bull, and thick your neck.
Throw paints to hell, boy; you belong on deck."
"That's right," said Chips; "it's downright good advice.Painting's no good; what good can painting doUp on a lower topsail stiff with ice,With all your little fish-hooks frozen blue?Painting won't help you at the weather clew,Nor pass your gaskets for you, nor make sail.Painting's a balmy job not worth a nail."
"That's right," said Chips; "it's downright good advice.
Painting's no good; what good can painting do
Up on a lower topsail stiff with ice,
With all your little fish-hooks frozen blue?
Painting won't help you at the weather clew,
Nor pass your gaskets for you, nor make sail.
Painting's a balmy job not worth a nail."
The Dauber did not answer; time was passing.He pulled his easel out, his paints, his stool.The wind was dropping, and the sea was glassing--New realms of beauty waited for his rule;The draught out of the crojick kept him cool.He sat to paint, alone and melancholy."No turning fools," the Chips said, "from their folly."
The Dauber did not answer; time was passing.
He pulled his easel out, his paints, his stool.
The wind was dropping, and the sea was glassing--
New realms of beauty waited for his rule;
The draught out of the crojick kept him cool.
He sat to paint, alone and melancholy.
"No turning fools," the Chips said, "from their folly."
He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line,And then came peace, and gentle beauty came,Turning his spirit's water into wine,Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame:O, joy of trying for beauty, ever the same,You never fail, your comforts never end;O, balm of this world's way; O, perfect friend!
He dipped his brush and tried to fix a line,
And then came peace, and gentle beauty came,
Turning his spirit's water into wine,
Lightening his darkness with a touch of flame:
O, joy of trying for beauty, ever the same,
You never fail, your comforts never end;
O, balm of this world's way; O, perfect friend!
III
They lost the Trades soon after; then came calm,Light little gusts and rain, which soon increasedTo glorious northers shouting out a psalmAt seeing the bright blue water silver fleeced;Hornwards she rushed, trampling the seas to yeast.There fell a rain-squall in a blind day's endWhen for an hour the Dauber found a friend.
They lost the Trades soon after; then came calm,
Light little gusts and rain, which soon increased
To glorious northers shouting out a psalm
At seeing the bright blue water silver fleeced;
Hornwards she rushed, trampling the seas to yeast.
There fell a rain-squall in a blind day's end
When for an hour the Dauber found a friend.
Out of the rain the voices called and passed,The stay-sails flogged, the tackle yanked and shook.Inside the harness-room a lantern castLight and wild shadows as it ranged its hook.The watch on deck was gathered in the nook,They had taken shelter in that secret place,Wild light gave wild emotions to each face.
Out of the rain the voices called and passed,
The stay-sails flogged, the tackle yanked and shook.
Inside the harness-room a lantern cast
Light and wild shadows as it ranged its hook.
The watch on deck was gathered in the nook,
They had taken shelter in that secret place,
Wild light gave wild emotions to each face.
One beat the beef-cask, and the others sangA song that had brought anchors out of seasIn ports where bells of Christians never rang,Nor any sea mark blazed among the trees.By forlorn swamps, in ice, by windy keys,That song had sounded; now it shook the airFrom these eight wanderers brought together there.
One beat the beef-cask, and the others sang
A song that had brought anchors out of seas
In ports where bells of Christians never rang,
Nor any sea mark blazed among the trees.
By forlorn swamps, in ice, by windy keys,
That song had sounded; now it shook the air
From these eight wanderers brought together there.
Under the poop-break, sheltering from the rain,The Dauber sketched some likeness of the room,A note to be a prompting to his brain,A spark to make old memory reillume."Dauber," said someone near him in the gloom,"How goes it, Dauber?" It was reefer Si."There's not much use in trying to keep dry."
Under the poop-break, sheltering from the rain,
The Dauber sketched some likeness of the room,
A note to be a prompting to his brain,
A spark to make old memory reillume.
"Dauber," said someone near him in the gloom,
"How goes it, Dauber?" It was reefer Si.
"There's not much use in trying to keep dry."
They sat upon the sail-room doorway coaming,The lad held forth like youth, the Dauber listenedTo how the boy had had a taste for roaming,And what the sea is said to be and isn't.Where the dim lamplight fell the wet deck glistened.Si said the Horn was still some weeks away,"But tell me, Dauber, where d'you hail from? Eh?"
They sat upon the sail-room doorway coaming,
The lad held forth like youth, the Dauber listened
To how the boy had had a taste for roaming,
And what the sea is said to be and isn't.
Where the dim lamplight fell the wet deck glistened.
Si said the Horn was still some weeks away,
"But tell me, Dauber, where d'you hail from? Eh?"
The rain blew past and let the stars appear;The seas grew larger as the moonlight grew;For half an hour the ring of heaven was clear,Dusty with moonlight, grey rather than blue;In that great moon the showing stars were few.The sleepy time-boy's feet passed overhead."I come from out past Gloucester," Dauber said;
The rain blew past and let the stars appear;
The seas grew larger as the moonlight grew;
For half an hour the ring of heaven was clear,
Dusty with moonlight, grey rather than blue;
In that great moon the showing stars were few.
The sleepy time-boy's feet passed overhead.
"I come from out past Gloucester," Dauber said;
"Not far from Pauntley, if you know those parts;The place is Spital Farm, near Silver Hill,Above a trap-hatch where a mill-stream starts.We had the mill once, but we've stopped the mill;My dad and sister keep the farm on still.We're only tenants, but we've rented there,Father and son, for over eighty year.
"Not far from Pauntley, if you know those parts;
The place is Spital Farm, near Silver Hill,
Above a trap-hatch where a mill-stream starts.
We had the mill once, but we've stopped the mill;
My dad and sister keep the farm on still.
We're only tenants, but we've rented there,
Father and son, for over eighty year.
"Father has worked the farm since grandfer went;It means the world to him; I can't think why.They bleed him to the last half-crown for rent,And this and that have almost milked him dry.The land's all starved; if he'd put money by,And corn was up, and rent was down two-thirds....But then they aren't, so what's the use of words.
"Father has worked the farm since grandfer went;
It means the world to him; I can't think why.
They bleed him to the last half-crown for rent,
And this and that have almost milked him dry.
The land's all starved; if he'd put money by,
And corn was up, and rent was down two-thirds....
But then they aren't, so what's the use of words.
"Yet still he couldn't bear to see it passTo strangers, or to think a time would comeWhen other men than us would mow the grass,And other names than ours have the home.Some sorrows come from evil thought, but someComes when two men are near, and both are blindTo what is generous in the other's mind.
"Yet still he couldn't bear to see it pass
To strangers, or to think a time would come
When other men than us would mow the grass,
And other names than ours have the home.
Some sorrows come from evil thought, but some
Comes when two men are near, and both are blind
To what is generous in the other's mind.
"I was the only boy, and father thoughtI'd farm the Spital after he was dead,And many a time he took me out and taughtAbout manures and seed-corn white and red,And soils and hops, but I'd an empty head;Harvest or seed, I would not do a turn--I loathed the farm, I didn't want to learn.
"I was the only boy, and father thought
I'd farm the Spital after he was dead,
And many a time he took me out and taught
About manures and seed-corn white and red,
And soils and hops, but I'd an empty head;
Harvest or seed, I would not do a turn--
I loathed the farm, I didn't want to learn.
"He did not mind at first, he thought it youthFeeling the collar, and that I should change.Then time gave him some inklings of the truth,And that I loathed the farm, and wished to range.Truth to a man of fifty's always strange;It was most strange and terrible to himThat I, his heir, should be the devil's limb.
"He did not mind at first, he thought it youth
Feeling the collar, and that I should change.
Then time gave him some inklings of the truth,
And that I loathed the farm, and wished to range.
Truth to a man of fifty's always strange;
It was most strange and terrible to him
That I, his heir, should be the devil's limb.
"Yet still he hoped the Lord might change my mind.I'd see him bridle-in his wrath and hate,And almost break my heart he was so kind,Biting his lips sore with resolve to wait.And then I'd try awhile; but it was Fate:I didn't want to learn; the farm to meWas mire and hopeless work and misery.
"Yet still he hoped the Lord might change my mind.
I'd see him bridle-in his wrath and hate,
And almost break my heart he was so kind,
Biting his lips sore with resolve to wait.
And then I'd try awhile; but it was Fate:
I didn't want to learn; the farm to me
Was mire and hopeless work and misery.
"Though there were things I loved about it, too--The beasts, the apple-trees, and going haying.And then I tried; but no, it wouldn't do,The farm was prison, and my thoughts were straying.And there'd come father, with his grey head, praying,'O, my dear son, don't let the Spital pass;It's my old home, boy, where your grandfer was.
"Though there were things I loved about it, too--
The beasts, the apple-trees, and going haying.
And then I tried; but no, it wouldn't do,
The farm was prison, and my thoughts were straying.
And there'd come father, with his grey head, praying,
'O, my dear son, don't let the Spital pass;
It's my old home, boy, where your grandfer was.
"'And now you won't learn farming; you don't care.The old home's nought to you. I've tried to teach you;I've begged Almighty God, boy, all I dare,To use His hand if word of mine won't reach you.Boy, for your granfer's sake I do beseech you,Don't let the Spital pass to strangers. SquireHas said he'd give it you if we require.
"'And now you won't learn farming; you don't care.
The old home's nought to you. I've tried to teach you;
I've begged Almighty God, boy, all I dare,
To use His hand if word of mine won't reach you.
Boy, for your granfer's sake I do beseech you,
Don't let the Spital pass to strangers. Squire
Has said he'd give it you if we require.
"'Your mother used to walk here, boy, with me;It was her favourite walk down to the mill;And there we'd talk how little death would be,Knowing our work was going on here still.You've got the brains, you only want the will--Don't disappoint your mother and your father.I'll give you time to travel, if you'd rather.'
"'Your mother used to walk here, boy, with me;
It was her favourite walk down to the mill;
And there we'd talk how little death would be,
Knowing our work was going on here still.
You've got the brains, you only want the will--
Don't disappoint your mother and your father.
I'll give you time to travel, if you'd rather.'
"But, no, I'd wander up the brooks to read.Then sister Jane would start with nagging tongue,Saying my sin made father's heart to bleed,And how she feared she'd live to see me hung.And then she'd read me bits from Dr. Young.And when we three would sit to supper, JaneWould fillip dad till dad began again.
"But, no, I'd wander up the brooks to read.
Then sister Jane would start with nagging tongue,
Saying my sin made father's heart to bleed,
And how she feared she'd live to see me hung.
And then she'd read me bits from Dr. Young.
And when we three would sit to supper, Jane
Would fillip dad till dad began again.
"'I've been here all my life, boy. I was bornUp in the room above--looks on the mead.I never thought you'd cockle my clean corn,And leave the old home to a stranger's seed.Father and I have made here 'thout a weed:We've give our lives to make that. Eighty years.And now I go down to the grave in tears.'
"'I've been here all my life, boy. I was born
Up in the room above--looks on the mead.
I never thought you'd cockle my clean corn,
And leave the old home to a stranger's seed.
Father and I have made here 'thout a weed:
We've give our lives to make that. Eighty years.
And now I go down to the grave in tears.'
"And then I'd get ashamed and take off coat,And work maybe a week, ploughing and sowingAnd then I'd creep away and sail my boat,Or watch the water when the mill was going.That's my delight--to be near water flowing,Dabbling or sailing boats or jumping stanks,Or finding moorhens' nests along the banks.
"And then I'd get ashamed and take off coat,
And work maybe a week, ploughing and sowing
And then I'd creep away and sail my boat,
Or watch the water when the mill was going.
That's my delight--to be near water flowing,
Dabbling or sailing boats or jumping stanks,
Or finding moorhens' nests along the banks.
"And one day father found a ship I'd built;He took the cart-whip to me over that,And I, half mad with pain, and sick with guilt,Went up and hid in what we called the flat,A dusty hole given over to the cat.She kittened there; the kittens had worn pathsAmong the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths.
"And one day father found a ship I'd built;
He took the cart-whip to me over that,
And I, half mad with pain, and sick with guilt,
Went up and hid in what we called the flat,
A dusty hole given over to the cat.
She kittened there; the kittens had worn paths
Among the cobwebs, dust, and broken laths.
"And putting down my hand between the beamsI felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear:A book with white cocoons stuck in the seams.Where spiders had had nests for many a year.It was my mother's sketch-book; hid, I fear,Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's lifeWas not her own while she was father's wife.
"And putting down my hand between the beams
I felt a leathery thing, and pulled it clear:
A book with white cocoons stuck in the seams.
Where spiders had had nests for many a year.
It was my mother's sketch-book; hid, I fear,
Lest dad should ever see it. Mother's life
Was not her own while she was father's wife.
"There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint.March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three,Unfinished that, for tears had smeared the paint.The rest was landscape, not yet brought to be.That was a holy afternoon to me;That book a sacred book; the flat a placeWhere I could meet my mother face to face.
"There were her drawings, dated, pencilled faint.
March was the last one, eighteen eighty-three,
Unfinished that, for tears had smeared the paint.
The rest was landscape, not yet brought to be.
That was a holy afternoon to me;
That book a sacred book; the flat a place
Where I could meet my mother face to face.
"She had found peace of spirit, mother had,Drawing the landscape from the attic there--Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad,Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair.That rotting sketch-book showed me how and whereI, too, could get away; and then I knewThat drawing was the work I longed to do.
"She had found peace of spirit, mother had,
Drawing the landscape from the attic there--
Heart-broken, often, after rows with dad,
Hid like a wild thing in a secret lair.
That rotting sketch-book showed me how and where
I, too, could get away; and then I knew
That drawing was the work I longed to do.
"Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled,And every penny I could get I spentOn paints and artist's matters, which I spoiledUp in the attic to my heart's content,Till one day father asked me what I meant;The time had come, he said, to make an end.Now it must finish: what did I intend?
"Drawing became my life. I drew, I toiled,
And every penny I could get I spent
On paints and artist's matters, which I spoiled
Up in the attic to my heart's content,
Till one day father asked me what I meant;
The time had come, he said, to make an end.
Now it must finish: what did I intend?
"Either I took to farming, like his son,In which case he would teach me, early and late(Provided that my daubing mood was done),Or I must go: it must be settled straight.If I refused to farm, there was the gate.I was to choose, his patience was all gone,The present state of things could not go on.
"Either I took to farming, like his son,
In which case he would teach me, early and late
(Provided that my daubing mood was done),
Or I must go: it must be settled straight.
If I refused to farm, there was the gate.
I was to choose, his patience was all gone,
The present state of things could not go on.
"Sister was there; she eyed me while he spoke.The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour,And something told me father's heart was broke,For all he stood so set and looked so sour.Jane took a duster, and began to scourA pewter on the dresser; she was crying.I stood stock still a long time, not replying.
"Sister was there; she eyed me while he spoke.
The kitchen clock ran down and struck the hour,
And something told me father's heart was broke,
For all he stood so set and looked so sour.
Jane took a duster, and began to scour
A pewter on the dresser; she was crying.
I stood stock still a long time, not replying.
"Dad waited, then he snorted and turned round.'Well, think of it,' he said. He left the room,His boots went clop along the stony groundOut to the orchard and the apple-bloom.A cloud came past the sun and made a gloom;I swallowed with dry lips, then sister turned.She was dead white but for her eyes that burned.
"Dad waited, then he snorted and turned round.
'Well, think of it,' he said. He left the room,
His boots went clop along the stony ground
Out to the orchard and the apple-bloom.
A cloud came past the sun and made a gloom;
I swallowed with dry lips, then sister turned.
She was dead white but for her eyes that burned.
"'You're breaking father's heart, Joe,' she began;'It's not as if----' she checked, in too much pain.'O, Joe, don't help to kill so fine a man;You're giving him our mother over again.It's wearing him to death, Joe, heart and brain;You know what store he sets on leaving thisTo (it's too cruel)--to a son of his.
"'You're breaking father's heart, Joe,' she began;
'It's not as if----' she checked, in too much pain.
'O, Joe, don't help to kill so fine a man;
You're giving him our mother over again.
It's wearing him to death, Joe, heart and brain;
You know what store he sets on leaving this
To (it's too cruel)--to a son of his.
"'Yet you go painting all the day. O, Joe,Couldn't you make an effort? Can't you seeWhat folly it is of yours? It's not as thoughYou are a genius or could ever be.O, Joe, for father's sake, if not for me,Give up this craze for painting, and be wiseAnd work with father, where your duty lies.'
"'Yet you go painting all the day. O, Joe,
Couldn't you make an effort? Can't you see
What folly it is of yours? It's not as though
You are a genius or could ever be.
O, Joe, for father's sake, if not for me,
Give up this craze for painting, and be wise
And work with father, where your duty lies.'
"'It goes too deep,' I said; 'I loathe the farm;I couldn't help, even if I'd the mind.Even if I helped, I'd only do him harm;Father would see it, if he were not blind.I was not built to farm, as he would find.O, Jane, it's bitter hard to stand aloneAnd spoil my father's life or spoil my own.'
"'It goes too deep,' I said; 'I loathe the farm;
I couldn't help, even if I'd the mind.
Even if I helped, I'd only do him harm;
Father would see it, if he were not blind.
I was not built to farm, as he would find.
O, Jane, it's bitter hard to stand alone
And spoil my father's life or spoil my own.'
"'Spoil both,' she said, 'the way you're shaping now.You're only a boy not knowing your own good.Where will you go, suppose you leave here? HowDo you propose to earn your daily food?Draw? Daub the pavements? There's a feckless broodGoes to the devil daily, Joe, in citiesOnly from thinking how divine their wit is.
"'Spoil both,' she said, 'the way you're shaping now.
You're only a boy not knowing your own good.
Where will you go, suppose you leave here? How
Do you propose to earn your daily food?
Draw? Daub the pavements? There's a feckless brood
Goes to the devil daily, Joe, in cities
Only from thinking how divine their wit is.
"'Clouds are they, without water, carried away.And you'll be one of them, the way you're going,Daubing at silly pictures all the day,And praised by silly fools who're always blowing.And you choose this when you might go a-sowing,Casting the good corn into chosen mouldThat shall in time bring forth a hundred-fold.'
"'Clouds are they, without water, carried away.
And you'll be one of them, the way you're going,
Daubing at silly pictures all the day,
And praised by silly fools who're always blowing.
And you choose this when you might go a-sowing,
Casting the good corn into chosen mould
That shall in time bring forth a hundred-fold.'
"So we went on, but in the end it ended.I felt I'd done a murder; I felt sick.There's much in human minds cannot be mended,And that, not I, played dad a cruel trick.There was one mercy: that it ended quick.I went to join my mother's brother: heLived down the Severn. He was kind to me.
"So we went on, but in the end it ended.
I felt I'd done a murder; I felt sick.
There's much in human minds cannot be mended,
And that, not I, played dad a cruel trick.
There was one mercy: that it ended quick.
I went to join my mother's brother: he
Lived down the Severn. He was kind to me.
"And there I learned house-painting for a living.I'd have been happy there, but that I knewI'd sinned before my father past forgiving,And that they sat at home, that silent two,Wearing the fire out and the evening through,Silent, defeated, broken, in despair,My plate unset, my name gone, and my chair.
"And there I learned house-painting for a living.
I'd have been happy there, but that I knew
I'd sinned before my father past forgiving,
And that they sat at home, that silent two,
Wearing the fire out and the evening through,
Silent, defeated, broken, in despair,
My plate unset, my name gone, and my chair.
"I saw all that; and sister Jane came white--White as a ghost, with fiery, weeping eyes.I saw her all day long and half the night,Bitter as gall, and passionate and wise.'Joe, you have killed your father: there he lies.You have done your work--you with our mother's ways.'She said it plain, and then her eyes would blaze.
"I saw all that; and sister Jane came white--
White as a ghost, with fiery, weeping eyes.
I saw her all day long and half the night,
Bitter as gall, and passionate and wise.
'Joe, you have killed your father: there he lies.
You have done your work--you with our mother's ways.'
She said it plain, and then her eyes would blaze.
"And then one day I had a job to doDown below bridge, by where the docks begin,And there I saw a clipper towing through,Up from the sea that morning, entering in.Raked to the nines she was, lofty and thin,Her ensign ruffling red, her bunts in pile,Beauty and strength together, wonder, style.
"And then one day I had a job to do
Down below bridge, by where the docks begin,
And there I saw a clipper towing through,
Up from the sea that morning, entering in.
Raked to the nines she was, lofty and thin,
Her ensign ruffling red, her bunts in pile,
Beauty and strength together, wonder, style.
"She docked close to the gates, and there she layOver the water from me, well in sight;And as I worked I watched her all the day,Finding her beauty ever fresh delight.Her house-flag was bright green with strips of white;High in the sunny air it rose to shakeAbove the skysail poles' most splendid rake.
"She docked close to the gates, and there she lay
Over the water from me, well in sight;
And as I worked I watched her all the day,
Finding her beauty ever fresh delight.
Her house-flag was bright green with strips of white;
High in the sunny air it rose to shake
Above the skysail poles' most splendid rake.
"And when I felt unhappy I would lookOver the river at her; and her pride,So calm, so quiet, came as a rebukeTo half the passionate pathways which I tried;And though the autumn ran its term and died,And winter fell and cold December came,She was still splendid there, and still the same.
"And when I felt unhappy I would look
Over the river at her; and her pride,
So calm, so quiet, came as a rebuke
To half the passionate pathways which I tried;
And though the autumn ran its term and died,
And winter fell and cold December came,
She was still splendid there, and still the same.
"Then on a day she sailed; but when she wentMy mind was clear on what I had to try:To see the sea and ships, and what they meant,That was the thing I longed to do; so IDrew and worked hard, and studied and put by,And thought of nothing else but that one end,But let all else go hang--love, money, friend.
"Then on a day she sailed; but when she went
My mind was clear on what I had to try:
To see the sea and ships, and what they meant,
That was the thing I longed to do; so I
Drew and worked hard, and studied and put by,
And thought of nothing else but that one end,
But let all else go hang--love, money, friend.
"And now I've shipped as Dauber I've begun.It was hard work to find a dauber's berth;I hadn't any friends to find me one,Only my skill, for what it may be worth;But I'm at sea now, going about the earth,And when the ship's paid off, when we return,I'll join some Paris studio and learn."
"And now I've shipped as Dauber I've begun.
It was hard work to find a dauber's berth;
I hadn't any friends to find me one,
Only my skill, for what it may be worth;
But I'm at sea now, going about the earth,
And when the ship's paid off, when we return,
I'll join some Paris studio and learn."
He stopped, the air came moist, Si did not speak;The Dauber turned his eyes to where he sat,Pressing the sail-room hinges with his cheek,His face half covered with a drooping hat.Huge dewdrops from the stay-sails dropped and spat.Si did not stir, the Dauber touched his sleeve;A little birdlike noise came from a sheave.
He stopped, the air came moist, Si did not speak;
The Dauber turned his eyes to where he sat,
Pressing the sail-room hinges with his cheek,
His face half covered with a drooping hat.
Huge dewdrops from the stay-sails dropped and spat.
Si did not stir, the Dauber touched his sleeve;
A little birdlike noise came from a sheave.
Si was asleep, sleeping a calm deep sleep,Still as a warden of the Egyptian deadIn some old haunted temple buried deepUnder the desert sand, sterile and red.The Dauber shook his arm; Si jumped and said,"Good yarn, I swear! I say, you have a brain--Was that eight bells that went?" He slept again.
Si was asleep, sleeping a calm deep sleep,
Still as a warden of the Egyptian dead
In some old haunted temple buried deep
Under the desert sand, sterile and red.
The Dauber shook his arm; Si jumped and said,
"Good yarn, I swear! I say, you have a brain--
Was that eight bells that went?" He slept again.
Then waking up, "I've had a nap," he cried."Was that one bell? What, Dauber, you still here?""Si there?" the Mate's voice called. "Sir," he replied.The order made the lad's thick vision clear;A something in the Mate's voice made him fear."Si," said the Mate, "I hear you've made a friend--Dauber, in short. That friendship's got to end.
Then waking up, "I've had a nap," he cried.
"Was that one bell? What, Dauber, you still here?"
"Si there?" the Mate's voice called. "Sir," he replied.
The order made the lad's thick vision clear;
A something in the Mate's voice made him fear.
"Si," said the Mate, "I hear you've made a friend--
Dauber, in short. That friendship's got to end.
"You're a young gentleman. Your place aboardIs with the gentlemen abaft the mast.You're learning to command; you can't affordTo yarn with any man. But there ... it's past.You've done it once; let this time be the last.The Dauber's place is forward. Do it again,I'll put you bunking forward with the men.
"You're a young gentleman. Your place aboard
Is with the gentlemen abaft the mast.
You're learning to command; you can't afford
To yarn with any man. But there ... it's past.
You've done it once; let this time be the last.
The Dauber's place is forward. Do it again,
I'll put you bunking forward with the men.
"Dismiss." Si went, but Sam, beside the Mate,Timekeeper there, walked with him to the railAnd whispered him the menace of "You wait"--Words which have turned full many a reefer pale.The watch was changed; the watch on deck trimmed sail.Sam, going below, called all the reefers down,Sat in his bunk and eyed them with a frown.
"Dismiss." Si went, but Sam, beside the Mate,
Timekeeper there, walked with him to the rail
And whispered him the menace of "You wait"--
Words which have turned full many a reefer pale.
The watch was changed; the watch on deck trimmed sail.
Sam, going below, called all the reefers down,
Sat in his bunk and eyed them with a frown.
"Si here," he said, "has soiled the half-deck's nameTalking to Dauber--Dauber, the ship's clout.A reefer takes the Dauber for a flame,The half-deck take the round-house walking out.He's soiled the half-deck's honour; now, no doubt,The Bosun and his mates will come here sneaking,Asking for smokes, or blocking gangways speaking.
"Si here," he said, "has soiled the half-deck's name
Talking to Dauber--Dauber, the ship's clout.
A reefer takes the Dauber for a flame,
The half-deck take the round-house walking out.
He's soiled the half-deck's honour; now, no doubt,
The Bosun and his mates will come here sneaking,
Asking for smokes, or blocking gangways speaking.
"I'm not a vain man, given to blow or boast;I'm not a proud man, but I truly feelThat while I've bossed this mess and ruled this roastI've kept this hooker's half-deck damned genteel.Si must ask pardon, or be made to squeal.Down on your knees, dog; them we love we chasten.Jao, pasea, my son--in English, Hasten."
"I'm not a vain man, given to blow or boast;
I'm not a proud man, but I truly feel
That while I've bossed this mess and ruled this roast
I've kept this hooker's half-deck damned genteel.
Si must ask pardon, or be made to squeal.
Down on your knees, dog; them we love we chasten.
Jao, pasea, my son--in English, Hasten."
Si begged for pardon, meekly kneeling downBefore the reefer's mess assembled grim.The lamp above them smoked the glass all brown;Beyond the door the dripping sails were dim.The Dauber passed the door; none spoke to him.He sought his berth and slept, or, waking, heardRain on the deck-house--rain, no other word.
Si begged for pardon, meekly kneeling down
Before the reefer's mess assembled grim.
The lamp above them smoked the glass all brown;
Beyond the door the dripping sails were dim.
The Dauber passed the door; none spoke to him.
He sought his berth and slept, or, waking, heard
Rain on the deck-house--rain, no other word.
IV
Our of the air a time of quiet came,Calm fell upon the heaven like a drouth;The brass sky watched the brassy water flame.Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered southSlowly, with no white bone across her mouth;No rushing glory, like a queen made bold,The Dauber strove to draw her as she rolled.
Our of the air a time of quiet came,
Calm fell upon the heaven like a drouth;
The brass sky watched the brassy water flame.
Drowsed as a snail the clipper loitered south
Slowly, with no white bone across her mouth;
No rushing glory, like a queen made bold,
The Dauber strove to draw her as she rolled.
There the four leaning spires of canvas rose,Royals and skysails lifting, gently lifting,White like the brightness that a great fish blowsWhen billows are at peace and ships are drifting;With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting,The courses tugged their tethers: a blue hazeDrifted like ghosts of flocks come down to graze.
There the four leaning spires of canvas rose,
Royals and skysails lifting, gently lifting,
White like the brightness that a great fish blows
When billows are at peace and ships are drifting;
With mighty jerks that set the shadows shifting,
The courses tugged their tethers: a blue haze
Drifted like ghosts of flocks come down to graze.
There the great skyline made her perfect round,Notched now and then by the sea's deeper blue;A smoke-smutch marked a steamer homeward bound,The haze wrought all things to intenser hue.In tingling impotence the Dauber drewAs all men draw, keen to the shaken soulTo give a hint that might suggest the whole.
There the great skyline made her perfect round,
Notched now and then by the sea's deeper blue;
A smoke-smutch marked a steamer homeward bound,
The haze wrought all things to intenser hue.
In tingling impotence the Dauber drew
As all men draw, keen to the shaken soul
To give a hint that might suggest the whole.
A naked seaman washing a red shirtSat at a tub whistling between his teeth;Complaining blocks quavered like something hurt.A sailor cut an old boot for a sheath,The ship bowed to her shadow-ship beneath,And little slaps of spray came at the rollOn to the deck-planks from the scupper-hole.
A naked seaman washing a red shirt
Sat at a tub whistling between his teeth;
Complaining blocks quavered like something hurt.
A sailor cut an old boot for a sheath,
The ship bowed to her shadow-ship beneath,
And little slaps of spray came at the roll
On to the deck-planks from the scupper-hole.
He watched it, painting patiently, as paints,With eyes that pierce behind the blue sky's veil,The Benedictine in a Book of SaintsWatching the passing of the Holy Grail;The green dish dripping blood, the trump, the hail,The spears that pass, the memory and the passion,The beauty moving under this world's fashion.
He watched it, painting patiently, as paints,
With eyes that pierce behind the blue sky's veil,
The Benedictine in a Book of Saints
Watching the passing of the Holy Grail;
The green dish dripping blood, the trump, the hail,
The spears that pass, the memory and the passion,
The beauty moving under this world's fashion.