Chapter 2
Times are gone that knew the craft in the role of rovers, Fellows of the open, care could never load: Unalarmed for bed or board, they were leisure's lovers, Summer bloomed in story on the Hyde Park Road. Summer was a blossom, but the fruit was autumn, Fragrant haylofts for a bed, cider-cakes in store, Warmer was a cup they know, when the north wind caught 'em Down at Benny Havens' by the West Point shore.
Idlers now-and loafers pass, joy is out of fashion, Honest fun that fooled a dog or knew a friendly gate, Now the craft are vagabonds, sick with modern passion, Riding up and down the shore, on an aching freight; Sullen are the battered looks, cheerless talk or tipsy, Sickly in the smoky air, starving in the day, Pining for a city's noise at Kingston or Po'keepsie, Eager more for Gotham and a great White Way.
Rich is all the countryside, but glory has departed, What if yachts and mansions be, by the river's marge! Dim though was a hillside, lamps were happy-hearted, Near the cove of Rondout in a hut or barge. Silken styles are tyrants, fashion kills the playtime, Robs the heart of largess that is kindly to the poor, Richer were the freemen, welcome as the Maytime, Glad was boy or maiden, seeing Brennan of the moor.
Send us back the olden knights, tell no law to track 'em, Give to boy and maid the storytellers as of yore, Millionaires in legend-wealth, though no bank would back 'em, But old Benny Havens by the West Point Shore. Off with lazy vagabonds, social ghosts that shiver, Give to worthy road-men the great green way, And we'll hear a song again up the Hudson river, Ringing from a drifting raft, set in silver spray.
A WINTER MINSTER
(For Fr. C. L. O'Donnell)
The interlacing trees Arise in Gothic traceries, As if a vast cathedral deep and dim; And through the solemn atmosphere The low winds hymn Such thoughts as solitude will hear. To lead your way across Gray carpet aisles of moss Unto the chantry stalls, The sumach candelabra are alight; Along the cloister walls, Like chorister and acolyte, The shrubs are vested white; The dutiful monastic oak In his gray-friar cloak Keeps penitential ways And solemn orisons of praise; For beads upon the cincture-vine Red berries warm with color shine, And to their constant rosary The bedesmen firs incline; And fair as frescoes be Among the shrines of Italy, These lights and shadows are, Impalpable in gray and green Upon the hills afar And the gold westering sun between. The music! Hark! Oh, an it be no rapturous lark, Yet has the lesser chant The blessedness of song. The snowbird mendicant Intones the antiphon-- Et laboremus nos;
And all the grottoed aisles along, Where servitors rejoice, The chorused echoes run--
Oremus nos.
The inspiration of the breeze Gives every reed a voice From tenebrae and silences; Over the valleys borne, Come organ harmonies; And when the low winds call, The pines with miserere mourn A requiem musical, Softer than moonbeams fall Across the starry oriels of night, Flooding the azure round With hushed delight And sanctity of sound.
THE DARK LITTLE ROSE
IRELAND
When shall we find the spring come in, And the fragrant air it blows? And when shall the bounty of summer win Fairer than fields of Camolin For the dark little Rose?
Long was the winter, the storms how long! What flower may live i' the snows! No bloom shall last under heels of wrong, If the heart-blood be not deathless strong, As the dark little Rose.
Sing hers the culture sweeter than rain That healed old Europe's woes; Older than bowers of Lille and Louvain Grew by the Rhine and the towns of Spain From the dark little Rose.
Leagues in the sunlight never shall fail While the broad, round ocean flows; Though never a fleet goes up Kinsale, See, all the world is within the pale Of the dark little Rose.
THE MONK MAELANFAID
Maelanfaid saw a tiny bird A-grieving on the ground, And O, the sad lament he heard, That sorrow's self might sound: He could not read a note or word The song of grief inwound.
Maelanfaid went within his cell To keep a fast and pray, To listen to a voice would tell The mystery away: What was the red long pain befell The bird of grief all day?
"Maelanfaid," airy voices call, "MacOcha Molv is dead, Who killed no creature great or small, Who helped all life instead: Now griefs of bird and blossom fall Around his funeral bed."
THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS
We will go adventuring, will you come adventuring, Hail, to all who sail with us the seven pleasant seas: All the shores with lily bells, all the flutes of woodland dells Are calling like a legend upon a fragrant breeze.
Throw away the haughty cares, children here are millionaires, Laughter take for baggage and give your laugh a song; We must sail the seas of grass, round the isles of clover pass, And delve in leagues of shadowland, when clouds come along.
Caves are walled with treasure trove, rich as any south-sea cove, Bullion of the meadow where the gold sun flows;
Round the reefs of mignonette, up the waves of violet, Fragrant go our sails and spars with attar of the rose.
On, gay adventurers, bravely ride the billowy furze, Golden foil and dewy pearls are swaying to a tune: Quaff the brew of red raspberry through the vine veils gossamery. Till we turn when night comes down alleys of the moon.
Yea, with laughter in our sails and our hearts a book of tales, Down the silver roadways, a homeward hymn we say:-- Praise the Lord ye great and small, flower and weed majestical, For pleasant seas that God gave adventurers today.
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
(For Osceola and Pocahontas)
Was it a hundred years ago, Or was it but yesterday, When we found the roads that grow Blossom and song of May? Maybe it was but yesterday, Or a hundred years ago.
The roads from Bersabee to Dan Are old and quickly tire, But to the heart of child or man Youth is a fairy fire: Our youthful roads, they never tire From Bersabee to Dan.
Ponce de Leon found no spring, But legend's long, long ruth; But the grace of God is a magic thing Abides with chivalrous youth: The grace of God that brings no ruth For them who find the spring.
There is a land, there is a May Beyond the graveyard tree; Ten thousand years are like a day Of a youth that we shall see: Our young hearts pass the graveyard tree To a land forever in May.
THE BONNIE PRINCE O' SPRING
The little green soldiers are here at last, With their waving blades and spears; And across the hills they are marching fast With the drill of a thousand years: And I wave afar, and I shout, Hurrah! Till I hear their echoing cheers.
A bonnie prince is at their head, And his love the legions know: For he gives them rest where the twigs are red At the hedges cool in a row: And afoot are they soon to a birdlike tune On the northward march to go.
Oh, I am leal to the marching men, To my bonnie Prince I'm true; For he tells me the way to his tented glen, And the secret password too: And he sets in my hair a blossom to wear, Like his own good horsemen do.
Then I will follow on all the day Where the bonnie Prince has led, Till we drive the Winter foeman away And throne my Prince instead: And sing willaloo! With the birds, willaloo! For the Winter King is dead.
ON A TRAIN
(For Christine and Tom)
Oases are charming 'mid the Afric sands, Beautiful is summer after rain; But the sweetest blossoms may be eyes and hands, And two playful children on a train.
Aileen and her brother, home from holiday, Left behind them Narragansett town; Innocence like music followed all the way, Summer glowed upon the cheeks of brown.
She that was their escort read a magazine: They were young, and trains are dull at night; All the passing signals, red and blue and green, Counted up the miles for young delight.
I was there behind them, earnest in a book: Lo, the journey turned to fairyland, When, like magic mirrors, dusty windows took Aileen's dancing eyes and waving hand!
That is how it happened on a creeping train, How a play began without a word,-- Peekaboo reflections in a window-pane, Such a story-hour was never heard.
Aileen and her brother, strangers were to me; They were friendly for the cloth I wore; And through leagues of window, youthful play could see We were friends to be for evermore.
So we passed the hamlets, passed the miles of night In a fairyland of silent games, Till the travel ended in the Worcester light,-- Yet we parted, strangers in our names.
But a fortnight later, by an autumn tree, Aileen and her brother came my way, And another, glad to tell the names of them and me, And to hear how travellers can play.
Life is but a journey, say we evermore, Passing lights the years have, like a train; Three good friends will travel up to heaven's door, With the world a merry window-pane.
THE COLUMBINE
Gray lonely rocks about thee stand, Ignored of sun and dew, Yet is thy breath upon the land, To thy vocation true.
So come they character to me That works in sunless ways, And I shall learn to give with thee Dark hills a constant praise.
TWO SEANICHIES
(For Aedh)
'Tis the queerest trade we have, the two of us that go about, I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings, We to tell the story of a Land you ought to know about,-- The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.
Sure it is a wonder land, richer than the books it is, Full of magic stories and a hopeful heart of song; Faith, and near the mountains and the sunny lakes and brooks it is, Like the olden seanichies, the pair of us belong.
Far and broad our journeyin', up and down the land we go, Today among the mountains and tomorrow by the sea; Pleasant are the roads with us, and to a welcome grand we go, Erin wins the heart of you, whoever you may be.
Erin's heart will capture you, if you will but listen now, Great she was afore the Danes and all her Saxon foes, After that the sorrows came, sure your eyes will glisten now, Up, my lad, and sing for them "The Dark Little Rose."
Rest awhile and I will tell the fame of Tara's Hall to them, All the deeds of valor and a thousand scenes of joy, Wicklow hills and Derry fields where Killarney calls to them. Come, my lad, it's Ninety-Eight and sing "The Croppy Boy."
Long ago the stranger came and learned to love the ways of her, Irish more than Irish the Norman foe became; Sure and here across the sea you give your hearts to praise of her, The tear and smile within her eyes that ever are the same.
Not for gold or little fame the two of us to go about, I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings, We to win your love for her, the Land you're glad to know about, The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.
THE GREEN BRIGADE
ON THE FIELD OF CORN
Where is the war ye march unto, From the early tents of morn? And what are the deeds ye hope to do, Brave Grenadiers of Corn? Pearls of the dew are on your hair, And the jewels of morning light, Pennants of green ye fling to the air, And the tall plumes waving bright.
Gaily away and steady ye go, Never a faltering line: Forward! I follow and try to know Word of your countersign: Hist! The spies of the tyrant sun Eagerly watch your plan, Lavish with bribes of gold, they run Down to your outmost man.
Steady, good lads, go bravely on By the parching hills of pain, An armor of shade ye soon may don And meet the allies of rain: And night in the bivouac hours will sing Praise of the march ye made, And into your pockets good gold will bring, Men of the Green Brigade.
Yea, and upon September's field, When the long campaign is done, With arms up-stacked, your hearts will yield Conquest of rain and sun: The pennants and plumes will then be sere, Your pearls delight no morn, But tents of plenty will bless the year, Brave Grenadiers of Corn.
ALLELUIA HEIGHT
Obedience to the seasons' marshall-rod, That is a law of God, Here beauty passes with her gorgeous train, On paths that range from bud to grain. O, here the searching eyes In traffic for the soul's good gain Earn wealth of rare delight. Far pathways of surprise, In color's frumenty bedight, Lead off from avenues of day Through miles of pageantries: And from the starry chancels of the night And the inscrutable farther skies, Beyond where trackless comets stray, Outspreads a world in thought's array. And lo! the heart's true voices sing From the exulting reverent breast, And lips proclaim, with adoration blessed, Glad Alleluias to the King.
Prompt is our praise unto a jewelled queen In all her courtly splendor set, (Fair as those fairylands are seen By childhood's other sight): But if in pauper mien, Too poor for stray regret Where crowded streets affright She stood in beggary, Unknown, though faithful to her high degree,-- O, then her praise 'twere easy to forget. Yet ever here, For all of time's prompt fickleness-- From plenteous June and wide largess Of full midsummer days, To dwarf December pitiless Amid the earth's uncomplimented ways-- Yea, constant through the changeful year, This queenly Height commands our praise. To stand in meek unflinching hardihood When fortune blows its storm of fright, And work to full effect that good Resolved in open days of clearer sight-- O, this is worth! That daily sees the soul To braver liberties give birth, That heeds not time's annoy, And hears surrounding voices roll Perennial circumstance of joy. Then come not only when the springtime blows The old familiar strangeness of its breath Across the long-lain snows, And chants her resurrected songs About the tombs of death; Nor yet when summer glows In roseate throngs And works her plenitude of deeds By tangled dells and waving meads, Come here in beauty's pilgrimage: Nor when the autumn reads Illuminate her page With tints of magicry besprent Of iridescent wonderment-- (As scrolls in old monastic towers, Done in an earnest far-off age). But choose to come in winter hours To see how character can live, How noble character will give Through desolate distress And cold neglect's duress, The fulness of its powers And win the soul its victor sign. Yea, come when in a peasant gown, Amid the ample banners of the pine, And the resounding harpers of the vine, Lone winter holds upon the Height Her court in full renown. Obedient her courtiers go, Their gonfalons aloft and bright, And scatter pearls of snow; Her sturdy knighthood wear for crown Prismatic sheen in young delight, And wave the cedar oriflamme on high; While windward heralds cry, Across the battlements of earth To parapets along the sky, The lauds of character's full worth.
The winter passes and the days come in Vibrant with spring. And men find welcome at the Easter tomb, Reward they win, Who make their hearts with courage sing Through Lenten opportunity of gloom: (Not as the Pharisees, With faces lacrimose, Who wear pretence of ashen woes, And murmur like the tuneless bees, Whose honies are hypocrisies), But men of character's delight, Who like this valiant Height Still serving through the bleakest day, With humble offerings of sound and sight, Do steadfast stand and pray: O, count those souls of noble worth, And God's good pleasure on His earth, Who still, if joy or pain Brings sun or rain, Heroic sing The law of Alleluia to the King.
End of Project Gutenberg's Ballads of Peace in War, by Michael Earls