"Port Fore." "Up with her, Port"; each cutter harbouredTen eye-shut painsick stragglers, "Heave, oh, heave,"Catcalls waked echoes like a shrieking sheave."Heave," and I saw a back, then two. "Port Fore.""Starboard." "Come on." I saw the midship oarAnd knew we had done them. "Port Fore." "Starboard." "Now."I saw bright water spurting at their bowTheir cox' full face an instant. They were done.The watchers' cheering almost drowned the gun.We had hardly strength to toss our oars; our cryCheering the losing cutter was a sigh.Other bright days of action have seemed great:Wild days in a pampero off the Plate;Good swimming days, at Hog Back or the CovesWhich the young gannet and the corbie loves;Surf-swimming between rollers, catching breathBetween the advancing grave and breaking death,Then shooting up into the sunbright smoothTo watch the advancing roller bare her tooth,And days of labour also, loading, hauling;Long days at winch or capstan, heaving, pawling;The days with oxen, dragging stone from blasting,And dusty days in mills, and hot days masting.Trucking on dust-dry deckings smooth like ice,And hunts in mighty wool-racks after mice;Mornings with buckwheat when the fields did blanchWith White Leghorns come from the chicken ranch.Days near the spring upon the sunburnt hill,Plying the maul or gripping tight the drill.Delights of work most real, delights that changeThe headache life of towns to rapture strangeNot known by townsmen, nor imagined; healthThat puts new glory upon mental wealthAnd makes the poor man rich.But that ends, too,Health with its thoughts of life; and that bright viewThat sunny landscape from life's peak, that glory,And all a glad man's comments on life's storyAnd thoughts of marvellous towns and living menAnd what pens tell and all beyond the penEnd, and are summed in words so truly deadThey raise no image of the heart and head,The life, the man alive, the friend we knew,The mind ours argued with or listened to,None; but are dead, and all life's keenness, all,Is dead as print before the funeral,Even deader after, when the dates are sought,And cold minds disagree with what we thought.This many pictured world of many passionsWears out the nations as a woman fashions,And what life is is much to very few,Men being so strange, so mad, and what men doSo good to watch or share; but when men countThose hours of life that were a bursting fount,Sparkling the dusty heart with living springs,There seems a world, beyond our earthly things,Gated by golden moments, each bright timeOpening to show the city white like lime,High towered and many peopled. This made sure,Work that obscures those moments seems impure,Making our not-returning time of breathDull with the ritual and records of death,That frost of fact by which our wisdom givesCorrectly stated death to all that lives.Best trust the happy moments. What they gaveMakes man less fearful of the certain grave,And gives his work compassion and new eyes.The days that make us happy make us wise.SHIPSI cannot tell their wonder nor make knownMagic that once thrilled through me to the bone,But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale,Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale,Pour their heart's blood to flourish one green leaf,Follow some Helen for her gift of grief,And fail in what they mean, whate'er they do:You should have seen, man cannot tell to youThe beauty of the ships of that my city.That beauty now is spoiled by the sea's pity;For one may haunt the pier a score of times,Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes,Yet never see those proud ones swaying homeWith mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam,Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine,Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine,As once, long since, when all the docks were filledWith that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.Yet, though their splendour may have ceased to be,Each played her sovereign part in making me;Now I return my thanks with heart and lipsFor the great queenliness of all those ships.And first the first bright memory, still so clear,An autumn evening in a golden year,When in the last lit moments before darkTheChepica, a steel-grey lovely barque,Came to an anchor near us on the flood,Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.Then come so many ships that I could fillThree docks with their fair hulls remembered still,Each with her special memory's special grace,Riding the sea, making the waves give placeTo delicate high beauty; man's best strength,Noble in every line in all their length.Ailsa,Genista, ships, with long jibbooms,TheWandererwith great beauty and strange dooms,Liverpool(mightiest then) superb, sublime,TheCaliforniahuge, as slow as time.TheCopleyswift, the perfectJ. T. North,The loveliest barque my city has sent forth,DaintyJohn Lockettwell remembered yet,The splendidArguswith her skysail set,StalwartDrumcliff, white-blocked, majesticSierras,Divine bright ships, the water's standard-bearers;Melpomene,Euphrosyne, and their sweetSea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet;Corunna(in whom my friend died) and the oldLong since lovedEsmeraldalong since sold.Centurionpassed in Rio,Glaucusspoken,Aladdinburnt, theBidstonwater-broken,Yola,in whom my friend sailed,Dawpooltrim,Fierce-bowedEgeriaplunging to the swim,Stanmorewide-sterned, sweetCupica, tallBard,Queen in all harbours with her moon sail yard.Though I tell many, there must still be others,McVickar Marshall's ships and Fernie Brothers',Lochs,Counties,Shires,Drums, the countless linesWhose house-flags all were once familiar signsAt high main-trucks on Mersey's windy waysWhen sunlight made the wind-white water blaze.Their names bring back old mornings, when the docksShone with their house-flags and their painted blocks,Their raking masts below the Custom HouseAnd all the marvellous beauty of their bows.Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers,Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers,Umbria,Etruria, noble, still at sea,The grandest, then, that man had brought to be.Majestic,City of Paris,City of Rome,Forever jealous racers, out and home.TheAlfred Holt'sblue smoke-stacks down the stream,The fairLoandawith her bows a-cream.Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners,The marks and styles of countless ship-designers,TheMagdalena,Puno,Potosi,LostCotopaxi, all well known to me.These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory,Her memory of old song or comrade's story,Still in my mind the image of life's need,Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed."They built great ships and sailed them" sounds most braveWhatever arts we have or fail to have;I touch my country's mind, I come to gripsWith half her purpose, thinking of these shipsThat art untouched by softness, all that lineDrawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine,That nobleness and grandeur, all that beautyBorn of a manly life and bitter duty,That splendour of fine bows which yet could standThe shock of rollers never checked by land.That art of masts, sail crowded, fit to break,Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake,The life demanded by that art, the keenEye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean,--They are grander things than all the art of towns,Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns,They are my country's line, her great art doneBy strong brains labouring on the thought unwon,They mark our passage as a race of men,Earth will not see such ships as those again.TRUTHMan with his burning soulHas but an hour of breathTo build a ship of TruthIn which his soul may sail,Sail on the sea of death.For death takes tollOf beauty, courage, youth,Of all but Truth.Life's city ways are dark,Men mutter by; the wellsOf the great waters moan.O death, O sea, O tide,The waters moan like bells.No light, no mark,The soul goes out aloneOn seas unknown.Stripped of all purple robes,Stripped of all golden lies,I will not be afraid.Truth will preserve through death;Perhaps the stars will rise,The stars like globes.The ship my striving madeMay see night fade.THEY CLOSED HER EYESFROM THE SPANISH OF DON GUSTAVO A. BÉCQUER.They closed her eyes,They were still open;They hid her faceWith a white linen,And, some sobbing,Others in silence,From the sad bedroomAll came away.The night-light in a dishBurned on the floor,It flung on the wallThe bed's shadow,And in that shadowOne saw sometimesDrawn in sharp lineThe body's shape.The day awakenedAt its first whitenessWith its thousand noises;The town awokeBefore that contrastOf life and strangeness,Of light and darkness.I thought a momentMy God, how lonelyThe dead are!From the house, shoulder-highTo church they bore her,And in a chapelThey left her bier.There they surroundedHer pale bodyWith yellow candlesAnd black stuffs.At the last strokeOf the ringing for the soulsAn old crone finishedHer last prayers.She crossed the narrow nave;The doors moaned,And the holy placeRemained deserted.From a clock one heardThe measured ticking,And from some candlesThe guttering.All things thereWere so grim and sad,So dark and rigid,That I thought a moment,My God, how lonelyThe dead are!From the high belfryThe tongue of ironClanged, giving outHis sad farewell.Crape on their clothes,Her friends and kindredPassed in a row,Making procession.In the last vault,Dark and narrow,The pickaxe openedA niche at one end;There they laid her down.Soon they bricked the place up,And with a gestureBade grief farewell.Pickaxe on shoulderThe grave-digger,Singing between his teeth,Passed out of sight.The night came down;It was all silent,Lost in the shadowsI thought a moment.My God, how lonelyThe dead are!In the long nightsOf bitter winter,When the wind makesThe rafters creak,When the violent rainLashes the windows,Lonely, I rememberThat poor girl.There falls the rainWith its noise eternal.There the north windFights with the rain.Stretched in the hollowOf the damp bricksPerhaps her bonesFreeze with the cold.Does the dust return to dust?Does the soul fly to heaven?Is all vile matter,Rottenness, filthiness?I know not. ButThere is something--somethingThat I cannot explain,Something that gives usLoathing, terror,To leave the deadSo alone, so wretched.THE HARPFROM THE SPANISH OF DON GUSTAVO A. BÉCQUERIn a dark corner of the room,Perhaps forgotten by its owner,Silent and dim with dust,I saw the harp.How many musics slumbered in its strings,As the bird sleeps in the branches,Waiting the snowy handThat could awaken them.Ah me, I thought, how many, many timesGenius thus slumbers in a human soul,Waiting, as Lazarus waited, for a voiceTo bid him "Rise and walk."SONNETFROM THE SPANISH OF DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDOI saw the ramparts of my native land,One time so strong, now dropping in decay,Their strength destroyed by this new age's wayThat has worn out and rotted what was grand.I went into the fields: there I could seeThe sun drink up the waters newly thawed,And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed;Their miseries robbed the day of light for me.I went into my house: I saw how spotted,Decaying things made that old home their prize.My withered walking-staff had come to bend;I felt the age had won; my sword was rotted,And there was nothing on which I set my eyesThat was not a reminder of the end.SONNET ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFEFROM THE PORTUGUESE OF ANTONIO DE FERREIROThat blessed sunlight that once showed to meMy way to heaven more plain more certainly,And with her bright beam banished utterlyAll trace of mortal sorrow far from me,Has gone from me, has left her prison sad,And I am blind and alone and gone astray,Like a lost pilgrim in a desert wayWanting the blessed guide that once he had.Thus with a spirit bowed and mind a blurI trace the holy steps where she has gone,By valleys and by meadows and by mountains,And everywhere I catch a glimpse of her.She takes me by the hand and leads me on,And my eyes follow her, my eyes made fountains.SONGOne sunny time in MayWhen lambs were sporting,The sap ran in the sprayAnd I went courting,And all the apple boughsWere bright with blossom,I picked an early roseFor my love's bosom.And then I met her friend,Down by the water,Who cried "She's met her end,That gray-eyed daughter;That voice of hers is stilledHer beauty broken."O me, my love is killed,My love unspoken.She was too sweet, too dear,To die so cruel,O Death, why leave me hereAnd take my jewel?Her voice went to the bone,So true, so ringing,And now I go alone,Winter or springing.THE BALLAD OF SIR BORSWould I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease,In the cool grey hush of the dusk, in the dim green place of the trees,Where the birds are singing, singing, singing, crying aloudThe song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the seas.Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to fail,And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the mail;The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the Christ,In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy Grail.The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims the West,The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest;But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and waits,That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends the Quest.My horse is spavined and ribbed, and his bones come through his hide,My sword is rotten with rust, but I shake the reins and ride,For the bright white birds of God that nest in the rose have called,And never a township now is a town where I can bide.It will happen at last, at dusk, as my horse limps down the fell,A star will glow like a note God strikes on a silver bell,And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul to Christ,And the sight of the Rose, the Rose, will pay for the years of hell.SPANISH WATERSSpanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years;Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to meOf the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.There's a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops to roar,And it's there we came to anchor, and it's there we went ashore,Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting trees,Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas.We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was red,We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head;And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was done,We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we had won.We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests,Sinking, in the sucking quagmires, to the sunburn on our breasts,Heaving over tree-trunks, gasping, damning at the flies and heat,Longing for a long drink, out of silver, in the ship's cool lazareet.The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,There was gear there'd make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town,Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish crews,Gold doubloons and double moydores, louis d'ors and portagues,Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil;Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica bronze,Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons.We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree,Which marks yon where the gear is hid that none will ever see,And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we steers,Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.I'm the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone their waysKilled, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas Cays,And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair,And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there.It's not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly blind,And an old man's past's a strange thing, for it never leaves his mind.And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun's disc dipping red,And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.I'd be glad to step ashore there. Glad to take a pick and goTo the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know,And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for yearsBy the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.CARGOESQuinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,With a cargo of ivory,And apes and peacocks,Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,With a cargo of diamonds,Emeralds, amethysts,Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,With a cargo of Tyne coal,Road-rails, pig-lead,Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.CAPTAIN STRATTON'S FANCYOh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white,And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight;But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delightOf the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
"Port Fore." "Up with her, Port"; each cutter harbouredTen eye-shut painsick stragglers, "Heave, oh, heave,"Catcalls waked echoes like a shrieking sheave."Heave," and I saw a back, then two. "Port Fore.""Starboard." "Come on." I saw the midship oarAnd knew we had done them. "Port Fore." "Starboard." "Now."I saw bright water spurting at their bowTheir cox' full face an instant. They were done.The watchers' cheering almost drowned the gun.We had hardly strength to toss our oars; our cryCheering the losing cutter was a sigh.Other bright days of action have seemed great:Wild days in a pampero off the Plate;Good swimming days, at Hog Back or the CovesWhich the young gannet and the corbie loves;Surf-swimming between rollers, catching breathBetween the advancing grave and breaking death,Then shooting up into the sunbright smoothTo watch the advancing roller bare her tooth,And days of labour also, loading, hauling;Long days at winch or capstan, heaving, pawling;The days with oxen, dragging stone from blasting,And dusty days in mills, and hot days masting.
"Port Fore." "Up with her, Port"; each cutter harboured
Ten eye-shut painsick stragglers, "Heave, oh, heave,"
Catcalls waked echoes like a shrieking sheave.
"Heave," and I saw a back, then two. "Port Fore."
"Starboard." "Come on." I saw the midship oar
And knew we had done them. "Port Fore." "Starboard." "Now."
I saw bright water spurting at their bow
Their cox' full face an instant. They were done.
The watchers' cheering almost drowned the gun.
We had hardly strength to toss our oars; our cry
Cheering the losing cutter was a sigh.
Other bright days of action have seemed great:
Wild days in a pampero off the Plate;
Good swimming days, at Hog Back or the Coves
Which the young gannet and the corbie loves;
Surf-swimming between rollers, catching breath
Between the advancing grave and breaking death,
Then shooting up into the sunbright smooth
To watch the advancing roller bare her tooth,
And days of labour also, loading, hauling;
Long days at winch or capstan, heaving, pawling;
The days with oxen, dragging stone from blasting,
And dusty days in mills, and hot days masting.
Trucking on dust-dry deckings smooth like ice,And hunts in mighty wool-racks after mice;Mornings with buckwheat when the fields did blanchWith White Leghorns come from the chicken ranch.Days near the spring upon the sunburnt hill,Plying the maul or gripping tight the drill.Delights of work most real, delights that changeThe headache life of towns to rapture strangeNot known by townsmen, nor imagined; healthThat puts new glory upon mental wealthAnd makes the poor man rich.But that ends, too,Health with its thoughts of life; and that bright viewThat sunny landscape from life's peak, that glory,And all a glad man's comments on life's storyAnd thoughts of marvellous towns and living menAnd what pens tell and all beyond the penEnd, and are summed in words so truly deadThey raise no image of the heart and head,The life, the man alive, the friend we knew,The mind ours argued with or listened to,None; but are dead, and all life's keenness, all,Is dead as print before the funeral,Even deader after, when the dates are sought,And cold minds disagree with what we thought.This many pictured world of many passionsWears out the nations as a woman fashions,And what life is is much to very few,Men being so strange, so mad, and what men doSo good to watch or share; but when men countThose hours of life that were a bursting fount,Sparkling the dusty heart with living springs,There seems a world, beyond our earthly things,Gated by golden moments, each bright timeOpening to show the city white like lime,High towered and many peopled. This made sure,Work that obscures those moments seems impure,Making our not-returning time of breathDull with the ritual and records of death,That frost of fact by which our wisdom givesCorrectly stated death to all that lives.
Trucking on dust-dry deckings smooth like ice,
And hunts in mighty wool-racks after mice;
Mornings with buckwheat when the fields did blanch
With White Leghorns come from the chicken ranch.
Days near the spring upon the sunburnt hill,
Plying the maul or gripping tight the drill.
Delights of work most real, delights that change
The headache life of towns to rapture strange
Not known by townsmen, nor imagined; health
That puts new glory upon mental wealth
And makes the poor man rich.
But that ends, too,
But that ends, too,
Health with its thoughts of life; and that bright view
That sunny landscape from life's peak, that glory,
And all a glad man's comments on life's story
And thoughts of marvellous towns and living men
And what pens tell and all beyond the pen
End, and are summed in words so truly dead
They raise no image of the heart and head,
The life, the man alive, the friend we knew,
The mind ours argued with or listened to,
None; but are dead, and all life's keenness, all,
Is dead as print before the funeral,
Even deader after, when the dates are sought,
And cold minds disagree with what we thought.
This many pictured world of many passions
Wears out the nations as a woman fashions,
And what life is is much to very few,
Men being so strange, so mad, and what men do
So good to watch or share; but when men count
Those hours of life that were a bursting fount,
Sparkling the dusty heart with living springs,
There seems a world, beyond our earthly things,
Gated by golden moments, each bright time
Opening to show the city white like lime,
High towered and many peopled. This made sure,
Work that obscures those moments seems impure,
Making our not-returning time of breath
Dull with the ritual and records of death,
That frost of fact by which our wisdom gives
Correctly stated death to all that lives.
Best trust the happy moments. What they gaveMakes man less fearful of the certain grave,And gives his work compassion and new eyes.The days that make us happy make us wise.
Best trust the happy moments. What they gave
Makes man less fearful of the certain grave,
And gives his work compassion and new eyes.
The days that make us happy make us wise.
SHIPS
I cannot tell their wonder nor make knownMagic that once thrilled through me to the bone,But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale,Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale,Pour their heart's blood to flourish one green leaf,Follow some Helen for her gift of grief,And fail in what they mean, whate'er they do:You should have seen, man cannot tell to youThe beauty of the ships of that my city.
I cannot tell their wonder nor make known
Magic that once thrilled through me to the bone,
But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale,
Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale,
Pour their heart's blood to flourish one green leaf,
Follow some Helen for her gift of grief,
And fail in what they mean, whate'er they do:
You should have seen, man cannot tell to you
The beauty of the ships of that my city.
That beauty now is spoiled by the sea's pity;For one may haunt the pier a score of times,Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes,Yet never see those proud ones swaying homeWith mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam,Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine,Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine,As once, long since, when all the docks were filledWith that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.
That beauty now is spoiled by the sea's pity;
For one may haunt the pier a score of times,
Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes,
Yet never see those proud ones swaying home
With mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam,
Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine,
Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine,
As once, long since, when all the docks were filled
With that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.
Yet, though their splendour may have ceased to be,Each played her sovereign part in making me;Now I return my thanks with heart and lipsFor the great queenliness of all those ships.
Yet, though their splendour may have ceased to be,
Each played her sovereign part in making me;
Now I return my thanks with heart and lips
For the great queenliness of all those ships.
And first the first bright memory, still so clear,An autumn evening in a golden year,When in the last lit moments before darkTheChepica, a steel-grey lovely barque,Came to an anchor near us on the flood,Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.
And first the first bright memory, still so clear,
An autumn evening in a golden year,
When in the last lit moments before dark
TheChepica, a steel-grey lovely barque,
Came to an anchor near us on the flood,
Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.
Then come so many ships that I could fillThree docks with their fair hulls remembered still,Each with her special memory's special grace,Riding the sea, making the waves give placeTo delicate high beauty; man's best strength,Noble in every line in all their length.Ailsa,Genista, ships, with long jibbooms,TheWandererwith great beauty and strange dooms,Liverpool(mightiest then) superb, sublime,TheCaliforniahuge, as slow as time.TheCopleyswift, the perfectJ. T. North,The loveliest barque my city has sent forth,DaintyJohn Lockettwell remembered yet,The splendidArguswith her skysail set,StalwartDrumcliff, white-blocked, majesticSierras,Divine bright ships, the water's standard-bearers;Melpomene,Euphrosyne, and their sweetSea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet;Corunna(in whom my friend died) and the oldLong since lovedEsmeraldalong since sold.Centurionpassed in Rio,Glaucusspoken,Aladdinburnt, theBidstonwater-broken,Yola,in whom my friend sailed,Dawpooltrim,Fierce-bowedEgeriaplunging to the swim,Stanmorewide-sterned, sweetCupica, tallBard,Queen in all harbours with her moon sail yard.
Then come so many ships that I could fill
Three docks with their fair hulls remembered still,
Each with her special memory's special grace,
Riding the sea, making the waves give place
To delicate high beauty; man's best strength,
Noble in every line in all their length.
Ailsa,Genista, ships, with long jibbooms,
TheWandererwith great beauty and strange dooms,
Liverpool(mightiest then) superb, sublime,
TheCaliforniahuge, as slow as time.
TheCopleyswift, the perfectJ. T. North,
The loveliest barque my city has sent forth,
DaintyJohn Lockettwell remembered yet,
The splendidArguswith her skysail set,
StalwartDrumcliff, white-blocked, majesticSierras,
Divine bright ships, the water's standard-bearers;
Melpomene,Euphrosyne, and their sweet
Sea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet;
Corunna(in whom my friend died) and the old
Long since lovedEsmeraldalong since sold.
Centurionpassed in Rio,Glaucusspoken,
Aladdinburnt, theBidstonwater-broken,
Yola,in whom my friend sailed,Dawpooltrim,
Fierce-bowedEgeriaplunging to the swim,
Stanmorewide-sterned, sweetCupica, tallBard,
Queen in all harbours with her moon sail yard.
Though I tell many, there must still be others,McVickar Marshall's ships and Fernie Brothers',Lochs,Counties,Shires,Drums, the countless linesWhose house-flags all were once familiar signsAt high main-trucks on Mersey's windy waysWhen sunlight made the wind-white water blaze.Their names bring back old mornings, when the docksShone with their house-flags and their painted blocks,Their raking masts below the Custom HouseAnd all the marvellous beauty of their bows.
Though I tell many, there must still be others,
McVickar Marshall's ships and Fernie Brothers',
Lochs,Counties,Shires,Drums, the countless lines
Whose house-flags all were once familiar signs
At high main-trucks on Mersey's windy ways
When sunlight made the wind-white water blaze.
Their names bring back old mornings, when the docks
Shone with their house-flags and their painted blocks,
Their raking masts below the Custom House
And all the marvellous beauty of their bows.
Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers,Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers,Umbria,Etruria, noble, still at sea,The grandest, then, that man had brought to be.Majestic,City of Paris,City of Rome,Forever jealous racers, out and home.TheAlfred Holt'sblue smoke-stacks down the stream,The fairLoandawith her bows a-cream.Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners,The marks and styles of countless ship-designers,TheMagdalena,Puno,Potosi,LostCotopaxi, all well known to me.
Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers,
Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers,
Umbria,Etruria, noble, still at sea,
The grandest, then, that man had brought to be.
Majestic,City of Paris,City of Rome,
Forever jealous racers, out and home.
TheAlfred Holt'sblue smoke-stacks down the stream,
The fairLoandawith her bows a-cream.
Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners,
The marks and styles of countless ship-designers,
TheMagdalena,Puno,Potosi,
LostCotopaxi, all well known to me.
These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory,Her memory of old song or comrade's story,Still in my mind the image of life's need,Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed."They built great ships and sailed them" sounds most braveWhatever arts we have or fail to have;I touch my country's mind, I come to gripsWith half her purpose, thinking of these shipsThat art untouched by softness, all that lineDrawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine,That nobleness and grandeur, all that beautyBorn of a manly life and bitter duty,That splendour of fine bows which yet could standThe shock of rollers never checked by land.That art of masts, sail crowded, fit to break,Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake,The life demanded by that art, the keenEye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean,--They are grander things than all the art of towns,Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns,They are my country's line, her great art doneBy strong brains labouring on the thought unwon,They mark our passage as a race of men,Earth will not see such ships as those again.
These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory,
Her memory of old song or comrade's story,
Still in my mind the image of life's need,
Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed.
"They built great ships and sailed them" sounds most brave
Whatever arts we have or fail to have;
I touch my country's mind, I come to grips
With half her purpose, thinking of these ships
That art untouched by softness, all that line
Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine,
That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty
Born of a manly life and bitter duty,
That splendour of fine bows which yet could stand
The shock of rollers never checked by land.
That art of masts, sail crowded, fit to break,
Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake,
The life demanded by that art, the keen
Eye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean,--
They are grander things than all the art of towns,
Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns,
They are my country's line, her great art done
By strong brains labouring on the thought unwon,
They mark our passage as a race of men,
Earth will not see such ships as those again.
TRUTH
Man with his burning soulHas but an hour of breathTo build a ship of TruthIn which his soul may sail,Sail on the sea of death.For death takes tollOf beauty, courage, youth,Of all but Truth.
Man with his burning soul
Has but an hour of breath
To build a ship of Truth
In which his soul may sail,
Sail on the sea of death.
For death takes toll
Of beauty, courage, youth,
Of all but Truth.
Life's city ways are dark,Men mutter by; the wellsOf the great waters moan.O death, O sea, O tide,The waters moan like bells.No light, no mark,The soul goes out aloneOn seas unknown.
Life's city ways are dark,
Men mutter by; the wells
Of the great waters moan.
O death, O sea, O tide,
The waters moan like bells.
No light, no mark,
The soul goes out alone
On seas unknown.
Stripped of all purple robes,Stripped of all golden lies,I will not be afraid.Truth will preserve through death;Perhaps the stars will rise,The stars like globes.The ship my striving madeMay see night fade.
Stripped of all purple robes,
Stripped of all golden lies,
I will not be afraid.
Truth will preserve through death;
Perhaps the stars will rise,
The stars like globes.
The ship my striving made
May see night fade.
THEY CLOSED HER EYES
FROM THE SPANISH OF DON GUSTAVO A. BÉCQUER.
They closed her eyes,They were still open;They hid her faceWith a white linen,And, some sobbing,Others in silence,From the sad bedroomAll came away.
They closed her eyes,
They were still open;
They hid her face
With a white linen,
And, some sobbing,
Others in silence,
From the sad bedroom
All came away.
The night-light in a dishBurned on the floor,It flung on the wallThe bed's shadow,And in that shadowOne saw sometimesDrawn in sharp lineThe body's shape.
The night-light in a dish
Burned on the floor,
It flung on the wall
The bed's shadow,
And in that shadow
One saw sometimes
Drawn in sharp line
The body's shape.
The day awakenedAt its first whitenessWith its thousand noises;The town awokeBefore that contrastOf life and strangeness,Of light and darkness.I thought a momentMy God, how lonelyThe dead are!
The day awakened
At its first whiteness
With its thousand noises;
The town awoke
Before that contrast
Of life and strangeness,
Of light and darkness.
I thought a moment
My God, how lonelyThe dead are!
My God, how lonely
The dead are!
From the house, shoulder-highTo church they bore her,And in a chapelThey left her bier.There they surroundedHer pale bodyWith yellow candlesAnd black stuffs.
From the house, shoulder-high
To church they bore her,
And in a chapel
They left her bier.
There they surrounded
Her pale body
With yellow candles
And black stuffs.
At the last strokeOf the ringing for the soulsAn old crone finishedHer last prayers.She crossed the narrow nave;The doors moaned,And the holy placeRemained deserted.
At the last stroke
Of the ringing for the souls
An old crone finished
Her last prayers.
She crossed the narrow nave;
The doors moaned,
And the holy place
Remained deserted.
From a clock one heardThe measured ticking,And from some candlesThe guttering.All things thereWere so grim and sad,So dark and rigid,That I thought a moment,My God, how lonelyThe dead are!
From a clock one heard
The measured ticking,
And from some candles
The guttering.
All things there
Were so grim and sad,
So dark and rigid,
That I thought a moment,
My God, how lonelyThe dead are!
My God, how lonely
The dead are!
From the high belfryThe tongue of ironClanged, giving outHis sad farewell.Crape on their clothes,Her friends and kindredPassed in a row,Making procession.
From the high belfry
The tongue of iron
Clanged, giving out
His sad farewell.
Crape on their clothes,
Her friends and kindred
Passed in a row,
Making procession.
In the last vault,Dark and narrow,The pickaxe openedA niche at one end;There they laid her down.Soon they bricked the place up,And with a gestureBade grief farewell.
In the last vault,
Dark and narrow,
The pickaxe opened
A niche at one end;
There they laid her down.
Soon they bricked the place up,
And with a gesture
Bade grief farewell.
Pickaxe on shoulderThe grave-digger,Singing between his teeth,Passed out of sight.The night came down;It was all silent,Lost in the shadowsI thought a moment.My God, how lonelyThe dead are!
Pickaxe on shoulder
The grave-digger,
Singing between his teeth,
Passed out of sight.
The night came down;
It was all silent,
Lost in the shadows
I thought a moment.
My God, how lonelyThe dead are!
My God, how lonely
The dead are!
In the long nightsOf bitter winter,When the wind makesThe rafters creak,When the violent rainLashes the windows,Lonely, I rememberThat poor girl.
In the long nights
Of bitter winter,
When the wind makes
The rafters creak,
When the violent rain
Lashes the windows,
Lonely, I remember
That poor girl.
There falls the rainWith its noise eternal.There the north windFights with the rain.Stretched in the hollowOf the damp bricksPerhaps her bonesFreeze with the cold.
There falls the rain
With its noise eternal.
There the north wind
Fights with the rain.
Stretched in the hollow
Of the damp bricks
Perhaps her bones
Freeze with the cold.
Does the dust return to dust?Does the soul fly to heaven?Is all vile matter,Rottenness, filthiness?I know not. ButThere is something--somethingThat I cannot explain,Something that gives usLoathing, terror,To leave the deadSo alone, so wretched.
Does the dust return to dust?
Does the soul fly to heaven?
Is all vile matter,
Rottenness, filthiness?
I know not. But
There is something--something
That I cannot explain,
Something that gives us
Loathing, terror,
To leave the dead
So alone, so wretched.
THE HARP
FROM THE SPANISH OF DON GUSTAVO A. BÉCQUER
In a dark corner of the room,Perhaps forgotten by its owner,Silent and dim with dust,I saw the harp.
In a dark corner of the room,
Perhaps forgotten by its owner,
Silent and dim with dust,
I saw the harp.
How many musics slumbered in its strings,As the bird sleeps in the branches,Waiting the snowy handThat could awaken them.
How many musics slumbered in its strings,
As the bird sleeps in the branches,
Waiting the snowy hand
That could awaken them.
Ah me, I thought, how many, many timesGenius thus slumbers in a human soul,Waiting, as Lazarus waited, for a voiceTo bid him "Rise and walk."
Ah me, I thought, how many, many times
Genius thus slumbers in a human soul,
Waiting, as Lazarus waited, for a voice
To bid him "Rise and walk."
SONNET
FROM THE SPANISH OF DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO
I saw the ramparts of my native land,One time so strong, now dropping in decay,Their strength destroyed by this new age's wayThat has worn out and rotted what was grand.I went into the fields: there I could seeThe sun drink up the waters newly thawed,And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed;Their miseries robbed the day of light for me.
I saw the ramparts of my native land,
One time so strong, now dropping in decay,
Their strength destroyed by this new age's way
That has worn out and rotted what was grand.
I went into the fields: there I could see
The sun drink up the waters newly thawed,
And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed;
Their miseries robbed the day of light for me.
I went into my house: I saw how spotted,Decaying things made that old home their prize.My withered walking-staff had come to bend;I felt the age had won; my sword was rotted,And there was nothing on which I set my eyesThat was not a reminder of the end.
I went into my house: I saw how spotted,
Decaying things made that old home their prize.
My withered walking-staff had come to bend;
I felt the age had won; my sword was rotted,
And there was nothing on which I set my eyes
That was not a reminder of the end.
SONNET ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF ANTONIO DE FERREIRO
That blessed sunlight that once showed to meMy way to heaven more plain more certainly,And with her bright beam banished utterlyAll trace of mortal sorrow far from me,Has gone from me, has left her prison sad,And I am blind and alone and gone astray,Like a lost pilgrim in a desert wayWanting the blessed guide that once he had.
That blessed sunlight that once showed to me
My way to heaven more plain more certainly,
And with her bright beam banished utterly
All trace of mortal sorrow far from me,
Has gone from me, has left her prison sad,
And I am blind and alone and gone astray,
Like a lost pilgrim in a desert way
Wanting the blessed guide that once he had.
Thus with a spirit bowed and mind a blurI trace the holy steps where she has gone,By valleys and by meadows and by mountains,And everywhere I catch a glimpse of her.She takes me by the hand and leads me on,And my eyes follow her, my eyes made fountains.
Thus with a spirit bowed and mind a blur
I trace the holy steps where she has gone,
By valleys and by meadows and by mountains,
And everywhere I catch a glimpse of her.
She takes me by the hand and leads me on,
And my eyes follow her, my eyes made fountains.
SONG
One sunny time in MayWhen lambs were sporting,The sap ran in the sprayAnd I went courting,And all the apple boughsWere bright with blossom,I picked an early roseFor my love's bosom.
One sunny time in May
When lambs were sporting,
The sap ran in the spray
And I went courting,
And all the apple boughs
Were bright with blossom,
I picked an early rose
For my love's bosom.
And then I met her friend,Down by the water,Who cried "She's met her end,That gray-eyed daughter;That voice of hers is stilledHer beauty broken."O me, my love is killed,My love unspoken.
And then I met her friend,
Down by the water,
Who cried "She's met her end,
That gray-eyed daughter;
That voice of hers is stilled
Her beauty broken."
O me, my love is killed,
My love unspoken.
She was too sweet, too dear,To die so cruel,O Death, why leave me hereAnd take my jewel?Her voice went to the bone,So true, so ringing,And now I go alone,Winter or springing.
She was too sweet, too dear,
To die so cruel,
O Death, why leave me here
And take my jewel?
Her voice went to the bone,
So true, so ringing,
And now I go alone,
Winter or springing.
THE BALLAD OF SIR BORS
Would I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease,In the cool grey hush of the dusk, in the dim green place of the trees,Where the birds are singing, singing, singing, crying aloudThe song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the seas.
Would I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease,
In the cool grey hush of the dusk, in the dim green place of the trees,
Where the birds are singing, singing, singing, crying aloud
The song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the seas.
Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to fail,And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the mail;The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the Christ,In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy Grail.
Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to fail,
And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the mail;
The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the Christ,
In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy Grail.
The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims the West,The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest;But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and waits,That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends the Quest.
The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims the West,
The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest;
But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and waits,
That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends the Quest.
My horse is spavined and ribbed, and his bones come through his hide,My sword is rotten with rust, but I shake the reins and ride,For the bright white birds of God that nest in the rose have called,And never a township now is a town where I can bide.
My horse is spavined and ribbed, and his bones come through his hide,
My sword is rotten with rust, but I shake the reins and ride,
For the bright white birds of God that nest in the rose have called,
And never a township now is a town where I can bide.
It will happen at last, at dusk, as my horse limps down the fell,A star will glow like a note God strikes on a silver bell,And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul to Christ,And the sight of the Rose, the Rose, will pay for the years of hell.
It will happen at last, at dusk, as my horse limps down the fell,
A star will glow like a note God strikes on a silver bell,
And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul to Christ,
And the sight of the Rose, the Rose, will pay for the years of hell.
SPANISH WATERS
Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years;Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to meOf the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.
Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears,
Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years;
Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to me
Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.
There's a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops to roar,And it's there we came to anchor, and it's there we went ashore,Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting trees,Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas.
There's a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops to roar,
And it's there we came to anchor, and it's there we went ashore,
Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting trees,
Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas.
We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was red,We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head;And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was done,We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we had won.
We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was red,
We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head;
And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was done,
We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we had won.
We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests,Sinking, in the sucking quagmires, to the sunburn on our breasts,Heaving over tree-trunks, gasping, damning at the flies and heat,Longing for a long drink, out of silver, in the ship's cool lazareet.
We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests,
Sinking, in the sucking quagmires, to the sunburn on our breasts,
Heaving over tree-trunks, gasping, damning at the flies and heat,
Longing for a long drink, out of silver, in the ship's cool lazareet.
The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,There was gear there'd make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town,Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish crews,Gold doubloons and double moydores, louis d'ors and portagues,
The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down,
There was gear there'd make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town,
Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish crews,
Gold doubloons and double moydores, louis d'ors and portagues,
Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil;Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica bronze,Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons.
Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil,
Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil;
Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica bronze,
Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons.
We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree,Which marks yon where the gear is hid that none will ever see,And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we steers,Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.
We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree,
Which marks yon where the gear is hid that none will ever see,
And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we steers,
Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.
I'm the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone their waysKilled, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas Cays,And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair,And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there.
I'm the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone their ways
Killed, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas Cays,
And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair,
And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there.
It's not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly blind,And an old man's past's a strange thing, for it never leaves his mind.And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun's disc dipping red,And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.
It's not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly blind,
And an old man's past's a strange thing, for it never leaves his mind.
And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun's disc dipping red,
And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.
I'd be glad to step ashore there. Glad to take a pick and goTo the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know,And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for yearsBy the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.
I'd be glad to step ashore there. Glad to take a pick and go
To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know,
And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for years
By the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.
CARGOES
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,With a cargo of ivory,And apes and peacocks,Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,With a cargo of diamonds,Emeralds, amethysts,Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,With a cargo of Tyne coal,Road-rails, pig-lead,Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rails, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
CAPTAIN STRATTON'S FANCY
Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white,And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight;But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delightOf the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white,
And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight;
But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delight
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.
Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.