I envy every Southern nightThat paves her path with moonbeams white,And silvers all the leaves for her,And in their shadow weaves for herA dream of dear delight.
I envy none whose love requiresOf her a gift, a task that tires:I only long to live to her,I only ask to give to herAll that her heart desires.
O wonderful! How liquid clearThe molten gold of that ethereal tone,Floating and falling through the wood alone,A hermit-hymn poured out for God to hear!O holy, holy, holy! Hyaline,Long light, low light, glory of eventide!Love far away, far up,—up,—love divine!Little love, too, for ever, ever near,Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine,In the leafy dark where you hide,You are mine,—mine,—mine!
Ah, my beloved, do you feel with meThe hidden virtue of that melody,The rapture and the purity of love,The heavenly joy that can not find the word?Then, while we wait again to hear the bird,Come very near to me, and do not move,—Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anewThe cool, green cup of air with harmony,And we will drink the wine of love with you.
Like a long arrow through the dark the trainis darting,Bearing me far away, after a perfect day oflove's delight:Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories ofparting,I lift the narrow window-shade and look outon the night.
Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flow-ing,Forest and field and hill are gliding backwardstill athwart my dream;Till in that country strange, and ever strangergrowing,A magic city full of lights begins to glow andgleam.
Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are litin millions;Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of goldacross the green;Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pa-vilions,—Oh, who will tell the city's name, and whatthese wonders mean?
Why do they beckon me, and what have they toshow me?Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where thefeasters meet, kisses and wine:Many to laugh with me, but never one to knowme:A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beatwith mine!
Look how the glittering lines are wavering andlifting,—Softly the breeze of night, scatters the visionbright: and, passing fair,Over the meadow-grass and through the forestdrifting,The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in emptyair!
Girl of the golden eyes, to you my heart isturning:Sleep in your quiet room, while through themidnight gloom my train is whirled.Clear in your dreams of me the light of love isburning,—The only never failing light in all the phantomworld.
"Through many a land your journey ran,And showed the best the world can boastNow tell me, traveller, if you can,The place that pleased you most."
She laid her hands upon my breast,And murmured gently in my ear,"The place I loved and liked the bestWas in your arms, my dear!"
O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea,—Whose bluest billows kiss thy curving bays,Whose amorous light enfolds thee in warmraysThat fill with fruit each dark-leaved orange-tree,—What hidden hatred hath the Earth for thee?Behold, again, in these dark, dreadful days,She trembles with her wrath, and swiftly laysThy beauty waste in wreck and agony!
Is Nature, then, a strife of jealous powers,And man the plaything of unconscious fate?Not so, my troubled heart! God reigns aboveAnd man is greatest in his darkest hours:Walking amid the cities desolate,The Son of God appears in human love.
Tertius and Henry van Dyke, January, 1909.
All night long, by a distant bell,The passing hours were notchedOn the dark, while her breathing rose and fell,And the spark of life I watchedIn her face was glowing or fading,—who couldtell?—And the open window of the room,With a flare of yellow light,Was peering out into the gloom,Like an eye that searched the night.
Oh, what do you see in the dark, little window, andwhy do you fear?"I see that the garden is crowded wtth creeping formsof fear:Little white ghosts in the locust-tree, that wave in thenight-wind's breath,And low in the leafy laurels the lurking shadow ofdeath."
Sweet, clear notes of a waking birdTold of the passing awayOf the dark,—and my darling may have heard;For she smiled in her sleep, while the rayOf the rising dawn spoke joy without a word,Till the splendor born in the east outburnedThe yellow lamplight, pale and thin,And the open window slowly turnedTo the eye of the morning, looking in.
Oh, what do you see in the room, little window, thatmakes you so bright?"I see that a child is asleep on her pillow, soft andwhite.With the rose of life on her lips, and the breath of lifein her breast,And the arms of God around her as she quietly takesher rest."
Neuilly, June, 1909.
I love the hour that comes, with dusky hairAnd dewy feet, along the Alpine dellsTo lead the cattle forth. A thousand bellsGo chiming after her across the fairAnd flowery uplands, while the rosy flareOf sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,And valleys darken, and the drowsy spellsOf peace are woven through the purple air.
Dear is the magic of this hour: she seemsTo walk before the dark by falling rills,And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;She opens all the doors of night, and fillsWith moving bells the music of my dreams,That wander far among the sleeping hills.
Gstaad, August, 1909.
The land was broken in despair,The princes quarrelled in the dark,When clear and tranquil, through the troubled airOf selfish minds and wills that did not dare,Your star arose, Jeanne d'Arc.
O virgin breast with lilies white,O sun-burned hand that bore the lance,You taught the prayer that helps men to unite,You brought the courage equal to the fight,You gave a heart to France!
Your king was crowned, your country free,At Rheims you had your soul's desire:And then, at Rouen, maid of Domremy,The black-robed judges gave your victoryThe martyr's crown of fire.
And now again the times are ill,And doubtful leaders miss the mark;The people lack the single faith and willTo make them one,—your country needs youstill,—Come back again, Jeanne d'Arc!
O woman-star, arise once moreAnd shine to bid your land advance:The old heroic trust in God restore,Renew the brave, unselfish hopes of yore,And give a heart to France!
Paris, July, 1909.
June 22,1611
One sail in sight upon the lonely seaAnd only one, God knows! For never shipBut mine broke through the icy gates that guardThese waters, greater grown than any sinceWe left the shores of England. We were first,My men, to battle in between the bergsAnd floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine;I name it! and that flying sail is mine!And there, hull-down below that flying sail,The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine!My ship Discoverie!The sullen dogsOf mutineers, the bitches' whelps that snatchedTheir food and bit the hand that nourished them,Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene,I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch,And paid your debts, and kept you in my house,And brought you here to make a man of you!You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man,Toothless and tremulous, how many timesHave I employed you as a master's mateTo give you bread? And you Abacuck Prickett,You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan,You knew the plot and silently agreed,Salving your conscience with a pious lie!Yes, all of you—hounds, rebels, thieves! BringbackMy ship!Too late,—I rave,—they cannot hearMy voice: and if they heard, a drunken laughWould be their answer; for their minds havecaughtThe fatal firmness of the fool's resolve,That looks like courage but is only fear.They'll blunder on, and lose my ship, anddrown,—Or blunder home to England and be hanged.Their skeletons will rattle in the chainsOf some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs,While passing mariners look up and say:"Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men"Who left their captain in the frozen North!"
O God of justice, why hast Thou ordainedPlans of the wise and actions of the braveDependent on the aid of fools and cowards?Look,—there she goes,—her topsails in the sunGleam from the ragged ocean edge, and dropClean out of sight! So let the traitors goClean out of mind! We'll think of braver things!Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King,You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west.You Philip Staffe, the only one who choseFreely to share our little shallop's fate,Rather than travel in the hell-bound ship,—Too good an English seaman to desertThese crippled comrades,—try to make them restMore easy on the thwarts. And John, my son,My little shipmate, come and lean your headAgainst your father's knee. Do you recallThat April morn in Ethelburga's church,Five years ago, when side by side we kneeledTo take the sacrament with all our men,Before the Hopewell left St. Catherine's docksOn our first voyage? It was then I vowedMy sailor-soul and years to search the seaUntil we found the water-path that leadsFrom Europe into Asia.I believeThat God has poured the ocean round His world,Not to divide, but to unite the lands.And all the English captains that have daredIn little ships to plough uncharted waves,—Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher,Raleigh and Gilbert,—all the other names,—Are written in the chivalry of GodAs men who served His purpose. I would claimA place among that knighthood of the sea;And I have earned it, though my quest shouldfail!For, mark me well, the honour of our lifeDerives from this: to have a certain aimBefore us always, which our will must seekAmid the peril of uncertain ways.Then, though we miss the goal, our search iscrownedWith courage, and we find along our pathA rich reward of unexpected things.Press towards the aim: take fortune as it fares!
I know not why, but something in my heartHas always whispered, "Westward seek yourgoal!"Three times they sent me east, but still I turnedThe bowsprit west, and felt among the floesOf ruttling ice along the Groneland coast,And down the rugged shore of Newfoundland,And past the rocky capes and wooded baysWhere Gosnold sailed,—like one who feels hiswayWith outstretched hand across a darkenedroom,—I groped among the inlets and the isles,To find the passage to the Land of Spice.I have not found it yet,—but I have foundThings worth the finding!
Son, have you forgotThose mellow autumn days, two years ago,When first we sent our little ship Half-Moon,—The flag of Holland floating at her peak,—Across a sandy bar, and sounded inAmong the channels, to a goodly bayWhere all the navies of the world could ride?A fertile island that the redmen calledManhattan, lay above the bay: the landAround was bountiful and friendly fair.But never land was fair enough to holdThe seaman from the calling of the sea.And so we bore to westward of the isle,Along a mighty inlet, where the tideWas troubled by a downward-flowing floodThat seemed to come from far away,—perhapsFrom some mysterious gulf of Tartary?Inland we held our course; by palisadesOf naked rock where giants might have builtTheir fortress; and by rolling hills adornedWith forests rich in timber for great ships;Through narrows where the mountains shut us inWith frowning cliffs that seemed to bar thestream;And then through open reaches where the banksSloped to the water gently, with their fieldsOf corn and lentils smiling in the sun.Ten days we voyaged through that placid land,Until we came to shoals, and sent a boatUpstream to find,—what I already knew,—We travelled on a river, not a strait.
But what a river! God has never pouredA stream more royal through a land more rich.Even now I see it flowing in my dream,While coming ages people it with menOf manhood equal to the river's pride.I see the wigwams of the redmen changedTo ample houses, and the tiny plotsOf maize and green tobacco broadened outTo prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill anddaleThe many-coloured mantle of their crops;I see the terraced vineyard on the slopeWhere now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine;And cattle feeding where the red deer roam;And wild-bees gathered into busy hives,To store the silver comb with golden sweet;And all the promised land begins to flowWith milk and honey. Stately manors riseAlong the banks, and castles top the hills,And little villages grow populous with trade,Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine,—The thread that links a hundred towns andtowers!And looking deeper in my dream, I seeA mighty city covering the isleThey call Manhattan, equal in her stateTo all the older capitals of earth,—The gateway city of a golden world,—A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires,And swarming with a host of busy men,While to her open door across the bayThe ships of all the nations flock like doves.My name will be remembered there, for menWill say, "This river and this isle were foundBy Henry Hudson, on his way to seekThe Northwest Passage into Farthest Inde."Yes! yes! I sought it then, I seek it still,—My great adventure and my guiding star!For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done;We hold by hope as long as life endures!Somewhere among these floating fields of ice,Somewhere along this westward widening bay,Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night,The channel opens to the Orient,—I know it,—and some day a little shipWill push her bowsprit in, and battle through!And why not ours,—to-morrow,—who can tell?The lucky chance awaits the fearless heart!These are the longest days of all the year;The world is round and God is everywhere,And while our shallop floats we still can steer.So point her up, John King, nor'west by north.We'll keep the honour of a certain aimAmid the peril of uncertain ways,And sail ahead, and leave the rest to God.
Oberhofen, July, 1909.