Chapter 1

Produced by Thierry Alberto, Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions (www.canadiana.org))

Ballads of Lost Haven

_A Book of the Sea_

By BLISS CARMAN

_Author of_ Low Tide on Grand Pré, Behind the Arras, Songs from Vagabondia, &c.

Lamson, Wolffe and Company Boston, New York and London

MDCCCXCVII

Copyright, 1897

by Lamson, Wolffe and Company

_All rights reserved_

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith

Norwood Mass. U.S.A.

Contents

PAGE A SON OF THE SEA 7 THE GRAVEDIGGER 8 THE YULE GUEST 12 THE MARRING OF MALYN 26 THE NANCY'S PRIDE 43 ARNOLD, MASTER OF THE SCUD 48 THE SHIPS OF ST. JOHN 55 THE KING OF YS 59 THE KELPIE RIDERS 68 NOONS OF POPPY 93 LEGENDS OF LOST HAVEN 95 THE SHADOW BOATSWAIN 98 THE MASTER OF THE ISLES 104 THE LAST WATCH 110 OUTBOUND 116

A SON OF THE SEA

I was born for deep-sea faring; I was bred to put to sea; Stories of my father's daring Filled me at my mother's knee.

I was sired among the surges; I was cubbed beside the foam; All my heart is in its verges, And the sea wind is my home.

All my boyhood, from far vernal Bourns of being, came to me Dream-like, plangent, and eternal Memories of the plunging sea.

THE GRAVEDIGGER

Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, And well his work is done. With an equal grave for lord and knave, He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,-- Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre Went out, and where are they? In the port they made, they are delayed With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far, As the ships of long ago; And the ships of France they led him a dance, But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him Is the sexton of the town; For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, He shovels the dead men down.

But though he delves so fierce and grim, His honest graves are wide, As well they know who sleep below The dredge of the deepest tide.

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, And loud is the chorus skirled; With the burly rote of his rumbling throat He batters it down the world.

He learned it once in his father's house, Where the ballads of eld were sung; And merry enough is the burden rough, But no man knows the tongue.

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see, And wilful she must have been, That she could bide at his gruesome side When the first red dawn came in.

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those She greets to his border home; And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep That beckons, and they come.

Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough To handle the tallest mast; From the royal barque to the slaver dark, He buries them all at last.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,-- Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore.

THE YULE GUEST

And Yanna by the yule log Sat in the empty hall, And watched the goblin firelight Caper upon the wall:

The goblins of the hearthstone, Who teach the wind to sing, Who dance the frozen yule away And usher back the spring;

The goblins of the Northland, Who teach the gulls to scream, Who dance the autumn into dust, The ages into dream.

Like the tall corn was Yanna, Bending and smooth and fair,-- His Yanna of the sea-gray eyes And harvest-yellow hair.

Child of the low-voiced people Who dwell among the hills, She had the lonely calm and poise Of life that waits and wills.

Only to-night a little With grave regard she smiled, Remembering the morn she woke And ceased to be a child.

Outside, the ghostly rampikes, Those armies of the moon, Stood while the ranks of stars drew on To that more spacious noon,--

While over them in silence Waved on the dusk afar The gold flags of the Northern light Streaming with ancient war.

And when below the headland The riders of the foam Up from the misty border rode The wild gray horses home,

And woke the wintry mountains With thunder on the shore, Out of the night there came a weird And cried at Yanna's door.

"O Yanna, Adrianna, They buried me away In the blue fathoms of the deep, Beyond the outer bay.

"But in the yule, O Yanna, Up from the round dim sea And reeling dungeons of the fog, I am come back to thee!"

The wind slept in the forest, The moon was white and high, Only the shifting snow awoke To hear the yule guest cry.

"O Yanna, Yanna, Yanna, Be quick and let me in! For bitter is the trackless way And far that I have been!"

Then Yanna by the yule log Starts from her dream to hear A voice that bids her brooding heart Shudder with joy and fear.

The wind is up a moment And whistles at the eaves, And in his troubled iron dream The ocean moans and heaves.

She trembles at the door-lock That he is come again, And frees the wooden bolt for one No barrier could detain.

"O Garvin, bonny Garvin, So late, so late you come!" The yule log crumbles down and throws Strange figures on the gloom;

But in the moonlight pouring Through the half-open door Stands the gray guest of yule and casts No shadow on the floor.

The change that is upon him She knows not in her haste; About him her strong arms with glad Impetuous tears are laced.

She's led him to the fireside, And set the wide oak chair, And with her warm hands brushed away The sea-rime from his hair.

"O Garvin, I have waited,-- Have watched the red sun sink, And clouds of sail come flocking in Over the world's gray brink,

"With stories of encounter On plank and mast and spar; But never the brave barque I launched And waved across the bar.

"How come you so unsignalled, When I have watched so well? Where rides the Adrianna With my name on boat and bell?"

"O Yanna, golden Yanna, The Adrianna lies With the sea dredging through her ports, The white sand through her eyes.

"And strange unearthly creatures Make marvel of her hull, Where far below the gulfs of storm There is eternal lull.

"O Yanna, Adrianna, This midnight I am here, Because one night of all my life At yule tide of the year,

"With the stars white in heaven, And peace upon the sea, With all my world in your white arms You gave yourself to me.

"For that one night, my Yanna, Within the dying year, Was it not well to love, and now Can it be well to fear?"

"O Garvin, there is heartache In tales that are half told; But ah, thy cheek is pale to-night, And thy poor hands are cold!

"Tell me the course, the voyage, The ports, and the new stars; Did the long rollers make green surf On the white reefs and bars?"

"O Yanna, Adrianna, Though easily I found The set of those uncharted tides In seas no line could sound,

"And made without a pilot The port without a light, No log keeps tally of the knots That I have sailed to-night.

"It fell about mid-April; The Trades were holding free; We drove her till the scuppers hissed And buried in the lee.

* * * * *

"O Yanna, Adrianna, Loose hands and let me go! The night grows red along the East, And in the shifting snow

"I hear my shipmates calling, Sent out to search for me In the pale lands beneath the moon Along the troubling sea."

"O Garvin, bonny Garvin, What is the booming sound Of canvas, and the piping shrill, As when a ship comes round?"

"It is the shadow boatswain Piping his hands to bend The looming sails on giant yards Aboard the Nomansfriend.

"She sails for Sunken Harbor And ports of yester year; The tern are shrilling in the lift, The low wind-gates are clear.

"O Yanna, Adrianna, The little while is done. Thou wilt behold the brightening sea Freshen before the sun,

"And many a morning redden The dark hill slopes of pine; But I must sail hull-down to-night Below the gray sea-line.

"I shall not hear the snowbirds Their morning litany, For when the dawn comes over dale I must put out to sea."

"O Garvin, bonny Garvin, To have thee as I will, I would that never more on earth The dawn came over hill."

* * * * *

Then on the snowy pillow, Her hair about her face, He laid her in the quiet room, And wiped away all trace

Of tears from the poor eyelids That were so sad for him, And soothed her into sleep at last As the great stars grew dim.

Tender as April twilight He sang, and the song grew Vague as the dreams which roam about This world of dust and dew:

"O Yanna, Adrianna, Dear Love, look forth to sea And all year long until the yule, Dear Heart, keep watch for me!

"O Yanna, Adrianna, I hear the calling sea, And the folk telling tales among The hills where I would be.

"O Yanna, Adrianna, Over the hills of sea The wind calls and the morning comes, And I must forth from thee.

"But Yanna, Adrianna, Keep watch above the sea; And when the weary time is o'er, Dear Life, come back to me!"

"O Garvin, bonny Garvin--" She murmurs in her dream, And smiles a moment in her sleep To hear the white gulls scream.

Then with the storm foreboding Far in the dim gray South, He kissed her not upon the cheek Nor on the burning mouth,

But once above the forehead Before he turned away; And ere the morning light stole in, That golden lock was gray.

"O Yanna, Adrianna--" The wind moans to the sea; And down the sluices of the dawn A shadow drifts alee.

THE MARRING OF MALYN

I

THE MERRYMAKERS

Among the wintry mountains beside the Northern sea There is a merrymaking, as old as old can be.

Over the river reaches, over the wastes of snow, Halting at every doorway, the white drifts come and go.

They scour upon the open, and mass along the wood, The burliest invaders that ever man withstood.

With swoop and whirl and scurry, these riders of the drift Will mount and wheel and column, and pass into the lift.

All night upon the marshes you hear their tread go by, And all night long the streamers are dancing on the sky.

Their light in Malyn's chamber is pale upon the floor, And Malyn of the mountains is theirs for evermore.

She fancies them a people in saffron and in green, Dancing for her. For Malyn is only seventeen.

Out there beyond her window, from frosty deep to deep, Her heart is dancing with them until she falls asleep.

Then all night long through heaven, with stately to and fro, To music of no measure, the gorgeous dancers go.

The stars are great and splendid, beryl and gold and blue, And there are dreams for Malyn that never will come true.

Yet for one golden Yule-tide their royal guest is she, Among the wintry mountains beside the Northern sea.

II

A SAILOR'S WEDDING

There is a Norland laddie who sails the round sea-rim, And Malyn of the mountains is all the world to him. The Master of the Snowflake, bound upward from the line, He smothers her with canvas along the crumbling brine. He crowds her till she buries and shudders from his hand, For in the angry sunset the watch has sighted land; And he will brook no gainsay who goes to meet his bride. But their will is the wind's will who traffic on the tide. Make home, my bonny schooner! The sun goes down to light The gusty crimson wind-halls against the wedding night.

She gathers up the distance, and grows and veers and swings, Like any homing swallow with nightfall in her wings. The wind's white sources glimmer with shining gusts of rain; And in the Ardise country the spring comes back again. It is the brooding April, haunted and sad and dear, When vanished things return not with the returning year. Only, when evening purples the light in Malyn's dale, With sound of brooks and robins, by many a hidden trail, With stir of lulling rivers along the forest floor, The dream-folk of the gloaming come back to Malyn's door. The dusk is long and gracious, and far up in the sky You hear the chimney-swallows twitter and scurry by. The hyacinths are lonesome and white in Malyn's room; And out at sea the Snowflake is driving through the gloom. The whitecaps froth and freshen; in squadrons of white surge They thunder on to ruin, and smoke along the verge. The lift is black above them, the sea is mirk below, And down the world's wide border they perish as they go. They comb and seethe and founder, they mount and glimmer and flee, Amid the awful sobbing and quailing of the sea. They sheet the flying schooner in foam from stem to stern, Till every yard of canvas is drenched from clew to ear'n'. And where they move uneasy, chill is the light and pale; They are the Skipper's daughters, who dance before the gale. They revel with the Snowflake, and down the close of day Among the boisterous dancers she holds her dancing way; And then the dark has kindled the harbor light alee, With stars and wind and sea-room upon the gurly sea. The storm gets up to windward to heave and clang and brawl; The dancers of the open begin to moan and call. A lure is in their dancing, a weird is in their song; The snow-white Skipper's daughters are stronger than the strong. They love the Norland sailor who dares the rough sea play; Their arms are white and splendid to beckon him away. They promise him, for kisses a moment at their lips, To make before the morning the port of missing ships, Where men put in for shelter, and dreams put forth again, And the great sea-winds follow the journey of the rain. A bridal with no morrow, no welling of old tears, For him, and no more tidings of the departed years! For there of old were fashioned the chambers cool and dim, In the eternal silence below the twilight's rim. The borders of that country are slumberous and wide; And they are well who marry the fondlers of the tide. Within their arms immortal, no mortal fear can be; But Malyn of the mountains is fairer than the sea. And so the scudding Snowflake flies with the wind astern, And through the boding twilight are blown the shrilling tern. The light is on the headland, the harbor gate is wide; But rolling in with ruin the fog is on the tide. Fate like a muffled steersman sails with that Norland gloom; The Snowflake in the offing is neck and neck with doom. Ha, ha, my saucy cruiser, crowd up your helm and run! There'll be a merrymaking to-morrow in the sun. A cloud of straining canvas, a roar of breaking foam, The Snowflake and the sea-drift are racing in for home. Her heart is dancing shoreward, but silently and pale The swift relentless phantom is hungering on her trail. They scour and fly together, until across the roar He signals for a pilot--and Death puts out from shore. A moment Malyn's window is gleaming in the lee, And then--the ghost of wreckage upon the iron sea.

Ah, Malyn, lay your forehead upon your folded arm, And hear the grim marauder shake out the reefs of storm! Loud laughs the surly Skipper to feel the fog drive in, Because a blue-eyed sailor shall wed his kith and kin, And the red dawn discover a rover spent for breath Among the merrymakers who fondle him to death. And all the snowy sisters are dancing wild and grand, For him whose broken beauty shall slacken to their hand. They wanton in their triumph, and skirl at Malyn's plight; Lift up their hands in chorus, and thunder to the night. The gulls are driven inland; but on the dancing tide The master of the Snowflake is taken to his bride.

And there when daybreak yellows along the far sea-plain, The fresh and buoyant morning comes down the wind again. The world is glad of April, the gulls are wild with glee, And Malyn on the headland alone looks out to sea. Once more that gray Shipmaster smiles, for the night is done, And all his snow-white daughters are dancing in the sun.

III

THE LIGHT ON THE MARSH

The year grows on to harvest, the tawny lilies burn Along the marsh, and hillward the roads are sweet with fern. All day the windless heaven pavilions the sea-blue, Then twilight comes and drenches the sultry dells with dew. The lone white star of evening comes out among the hills, And in the darkling forest begin the whip-poor-wills. The fireflies that wander, the hawks that flit and scream, And all the wilding vagrants of summer dusk and dream, Have all their will, and reck not of any after thing, Inheriting no sorrow and no foreshadowing. The wind forgets to whisper, the pines forget to moan, And Malyn of the mountains is there among her own. Malyn, whom grief nor wonder can trouble nevermore, Since that spring night the Snowflake was wrecked beside her door, And strange her cry went seaward once, and her soul thereon With the vast lonely sea-winds, a wanderer, was gone. But she, that patient beauty which is her body fair, Endures on earth still lovely, untenanted of care. The folk down at the harbor pity from day to day; With a "God save you, Malyn!" they bid her on her way. She smiles, poor feckless Malyn, the knowing smile of those Whom the too sudden vision God sometimes may disclose Of his wild, lurid world-wreck, has blinded with its sheen. Then, with a fond insistence, pathetic and serene, They pass among their fellows for lost minds none can save, Bent on their single business, and marvel why men rave. Now far away a sighing comes from the buried reef, As though the sea were mourning above an ancient grief. For once the restless Mother of all the weary lands Went down to him in beauty, with trouble in her hands, And gave to him forever all memory to keep, But to her wayward children oblivion and sleep, That no immortal burden might plague one living thing, But death should sweetly visit us vagabonds of spring. And so his heart forever goes inland with the tide, Searching with many voices among the marshes wide. Under the quiet starlight, up through the stirring reeds, With whispering and lamenting it rises and recedes. All night the lapsing rivers croon to their shingly bars The wizardries that mingle the sea-wind and the stars. And all night long wherever the moving waters gleam, The little hills hearken, hearken, the great hills hear and dream. And Malyn keeps the marshes all the sweet summer night, Alone, foot-free, to follow a wandering wisp-light. For every day at sundown, at the first beacon's gleam, She calls the gulls her brothers and keeps a tryst with them. "O gulls, white gulls, what see you beyond the sloping blue? And where away's the Snowflake, she's so long overdue?" Then, as the gloaming settles, the hilltop stars emerge And watch that plaintive figure patrol the dark sea verge. She follows the marsh fire; her heart laughs and is glad; She knows that light to seaward is her own sailor lad! What are these tales they tell her of wreckage on the shore? Delay but makes his coming the nearer than before! Surely her eyes have sighted his schooner in the lift! But the great tide he homes on sets with an outward drift. So will-o'-the-wisp deludes her till dawn, and she turns home In unperturbed assurance, "To-morrow he will come." This is the tale of Malyn, whom sudden grief so marred. And still each lovely summer resumes that sweet regard,-- The old unvexed eternal indifference to pain; The sea sings in the marshes, and June comes back again. All night the lapsing rivers lisp in the long dike grass, And many memories whisper the sea-winds as they pass; The tides disturb the silence; but not a hindrance bars The wash of time, where founder even the galleon stars. And all night long wherever the moving waters gleam, The little hills hearken, hearken, the great hills hear and dream.

THE NANCY'S PRIDE

On the long slow heave of a lazy sea, To the flap of an idle sail, The Nancy's Pride went out on the tide; And the skipper stood by the rail.

All down, all down by the sleepy town, With the hollyhocks a-row In the little poppy gardens, The sea had her in tow.

They let her slip by the breathing rip, Where the bell is never still, And over the sounding harbor bar, And under the harbor hill.

She melted into the dreaming noon, Out of the drowsy land, In sight of a flag of goldy hair, To the kiss of a girlish hand.

For the lass who hailed the lad who sailed, Was--who but his April bride? And of all the fleet of Grand Latite, Her pride was the Nancy's Pride.

So the little vessel faded down With her creaking boom a-swing, Till a wind from the deep came up with a creep, And caught her wing and wing.

She made for the lost horizon line, Where the clouds a-castled lay, While the boil and seethe of the open sea Hung on her frothing way.

She lifted her hull like a breasting gull Where the rolling valleys be, And dipped where the shining porpoises Put ploughshares through the sea.

A fading sail on the far sea-line, About the turn of the tide, As she made for the Banks on her maiden cruise, Was the last of the Nancy's Pride.

To-day a boy with goldy hair, In a garden of Grand Latite, From his mother's knee looks out to sea For the coming of the fleet.

They all may home on a sleepy tide, To the flap of the idle sail; But it's never again the Nancy's Pride That answers a human hail.

They all may home on a sleepy tide To the sag of an idle sheet; But it's never again the Nancy's Pride That draws men down the street.

On the Banks to-night a fearsome sight The fishermen behold, Keeping the ghost watch in the moon When the small hours are cold.

When the light wind veers, and the white fog clears, They see by the after rail An unknown schooner creeping up With mildewed spar and sail.

Her crew lean forth by the rotting shrouds, With the Judgment in their face; And to their mates' "God save you!" Have never a word of grace.