Part 1

Rhymes _of_ Old Plimouth

_By_ Herbert Randall

Published by the Author Hartford, Conn. 1921

Copyright, 1921

By HERBERT RANDALL

FOREWORD.

If be it so--by chance--this little book should claim for me a friend, who, sometime, when I’m far away, shall search and find a bit of rosemary, swept through with light, and scatter it among the grasses where I sleep,

Then, then will I have found the garland I had hoped to win, and from that quiet spot, that Land of Youth, where my immortal spirit dwells, I’ll send a little wandering prayer of gratitude, that heart hath answered heart.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT.

Acknowledgment is made to _The Outlook_, _The American Magazine_, _The Youth’s Companion_, _New England Magazine_, _The Nautilus_, _American Forestry Magazine_, _Boston Transcript_, _The Hartford Courant and The Hartford Times_, wherein have appeared many of the poems printed in this book.

HERBERT RANDALL.

INDEX.

Foreword 3

Acknowledgment 4

To My Pilgrim Mother 7

The Tryst of Nations 8

Plymouth Rock 9

To the Standish Guards of the Old Colony 11

Burial Hill 13

The Old Road Down to Plymouth 14

Rose of Plymouth 15

The Angelus of Plymouth Woods 16

Plimoth Through an Old Spy Glass 17

The Dream That’s in the Sea 19

The Old Skipper 20

Romp of the Sea 21

The Derelict 22

Salt o’ the Sea 24

Mid-Ocean 25

Easterly Weather 26

“Outside” 28

Off 29

Dawn in Plymouth Harbor 30

Twin Lights 31

White Gulls 32

To the Red Man 33

To Massasoit 34

The Winnetuxet 35

Hymn Ancestral 36

Feel of the Wander-lure 37

Overheard at the Money Changers of Nineveh 38

The Innermost 39

The Autumn Rain 40

Cry of the Wounded Loon 41

The Old Bush Pasture 42

A Garland 43

The Umpame Musketeers 44

A Memory 46

New England 47

Hills o’ My Heart 48

Mascotte 49

Ye Olden Time 50

Sundown on the Marshes 52

Neighbors 54

A Pastoral 55

The White Pine 56

The Colonial Pioneer 57

The Lindens 58

The Old Rockin’ Chair 59

Out of Gethsamane 60

Greetings 61

Love o’ My Heart 62

To a Friend 63

“Aunt Sally” 64

Intimacy 65

My Mother’s “Bible-Book” 66

My Faith 68

An Apostrophe 69

Glimmer 70

A Nocturne 71

The Invisible 72

Antiphonal 73

Lady May 74

A Fragment 75

Away From Home 76

Grandma Brown 78

Slumber Song 80

The Enigma 81

The Passing of the Old Elm 82

Afterward 84

“The Pilgrim Spirit” 86

In Memoriam 87

L’Envoi 88

TO MY PILGRIM MOTHER.

To her who sanctified the simple things of life, Across the journeying years I bring A wreath of amaranth and asphodel To mingle with the everlasting light about her brow, And on her breast, serene, I fold the glory of an angel’s wing.

Singlehurst, Plympton, Massachusetts.

THE TRYST OF NATIONS.

Tremendous dawn! that turns its back upon a fumbling past, and then, in radiant ecstasy, sweeps up the heavens, down the spaces of the wind, revealing, healing, seeking out the darkest places of the world.

Night, still crimsoned by the blood of sacrifice, has sung its Sorrow-Song; we must forget, and pray for those who day by day must grow more intimate with pain, or some unspoken loneliness.

O Dawn of Love’s completion, though earth still trembles we no longer fear imperial will, and, phoenix-like, the peasant rises from the dust, stares with his blinded eyes, and praises God.

Cold Royalty, intolerable, an outcast, false and dull, the cruel lines about its lips still tightly drawn--lost in the art of savagery--sees not the new rich dawn, hears not the herald-trumpetings, knows not the meaning of a broken crown.

Written for the Pilgrim Tercentenary, Plymouth, 1921.

PLYMOUTH ROCK.

Archaic sphinx, but speak to me Of things when this old world was new, When Chaos was baptized in fire, Such secrets must be known to you. Would that the magic wand were mine To rend the silence! Yours the heart More wise than babbling multitudes; Of what strange scenes were you a part? An offspring of some glacial slope, You may have been a thing of grace Some ancient caryatid poised, To hold Earth’s architrave in place.

Mayhap you were a thunderbolt By Vulcan forged for Thor, red hot; A miracle was never made, So this may all be true, or not. A child of some wild catapult Who toyed with Sisyphus, and then, Broke loose, went tumbling down to earth, To habitat with tribes of men. A missile from Orion’s belt, Some dullard chiseled out of clay; Perchance some treasure, Glancus owned, Before his Furies ran away.

The throne of Neptune washed ashore From some old chamber of the sea; A Dryad-altar, pagan-blest, An aerolite, lo! such it be! Made sacred by the pounding waves, To mark the aeons on the slopes Where time looks out to heavens afar, And God again renews man’s hopes And rallies him to dare and die, For Liberty, through all the years, To dyke and drain and build anew, By labour, gladness, dreams and tears.

’Tis here I lift my humble prayers, And thanks for Life’s sweet mysteries, For joy of song within my soul, And chant its solemn histories; If kings shall reign, O make us kings, On seas and on the land, Kings of the One Great Church where all Shall bow at Love’s command.

Thou prophet, orb, and corner-stone, As things immortal are as one, Clad in the garb of wonder-fire, Of gloom and the Olympian sun, I bring a spray of arbutus, From underneath the snow and sleet, The angels fashioned like a star, And drop at your anointed feet.

TO THE STANDISH GUARDS OF THE OLD COLONY.

New England’s old three-cornered hat still guards this ancient town, The men who followed Lafayette are marching up and down. The spirit born at Lexington, and all the men are here, With fife and drum, and here they come, and each a brigadier! The heirs of Freedom ne’er broke ranks, or failed to face the brunt, In every fight for righteousness our men are at the front; In every battle fought for peace the past and future meet, And grenadiers and cavaliers still flank each home and street. The covenants our fathers made forever move in rhyme, They’ve never found the Port of Rest; the iron tongues of Time Are bugling men to saddle, and comrades, side by side, From Gettysburg to Flanders join in a dusty ride! And here they come! and there they come! The farmer and the knight, And dead men, shouting--“load and fire!” from parapets of light. And every one a mother’s son, the khaki, and the gold, Old Glory prancing on ahead, a shout in every fold! In every star a mother’s prayer, in every stripe is found A country’s solace for the slain to wrap him, ’round and ’round. March on, and let your scabbards swing, your swords shall never rust; Ride! Ride! ye belted horsemen! the sacrificial trust Of bygone days is haloed by bayonet and scroll, Where millions read a simple creed that binds a nation’s soul. High on the walls of Heaven it crowns a lifting sky; Hats off! ye peoples of the earth, America goes by!

Written on the return of the Plymouth Boys from the World War.

BURIAL HILL.

How many years have ripened, gone to seed, and died, Since first this Holy Precinct of the Dead was set apart and sanctified. Sunset and purple cloud have kept their vestal watch, The morning breezes played, And noontide spanned the waters, day by day; The lightnings and the frost disturb them nevermore, Wrapt in a reverie of God, they heed not if the Shepherd-stars be caring for a weary world or no, Or violets be budding in the melting snows. They wonder not at creeds of men, Or why their prayers are lost in space; Long since they found the sky-hung stretches of Eternity, The pastorals of peace. And yet, as ’twere a spectral mist, I half suspect they may return sometime, Remembering the beauty of this sylvan scene, The wide blue vista of the deep, Its glinting sails; Perhaps they come to brush away the withered leaves that clog our minds, And blaze a trail for Immortality, More sunshine and more flowers; To help us hear the blackbird’s whistle in the trees, The rustle in the hedge, The whisper in the grass when dandelions bloom, The madrigals that lift the dampness hanging over graves.

THE OLD ROAD DOWN TO PLYMOUTH.

The old road down to Plymouth can never change for me, In vagabond abandon it roams a century, Braids through the dusky mornings, and evening’s afterglow, An irridescent sunbeam, no matter where I go.

The old road down to Plymouth leads from a farmhouse door, Leads like a jewelled ribbon, a thousand miles or more; The door has lost its hinges, the barn has tumbled down, But the old road down to Plymouth, the only road in town,

Winds in and out the bluets, the butterflies and hay; I’ve sometimes made the journey a dozen times a day. And yonder lies the vision, a sheltered, calm retreat, For the old road down to Plymouth is a balm for weary feet.

ROSE OF PLYMOUTH.

(THE SABBATIA).

By the fairy-gods who nursed thee, Suns and satellites grown cold, By the loves our fathers plighted, By my dearest thoughts untold,

Rose of Plymouth, here’s my promise, I will wear thee in my heart, Shield and cherish as a lover, Nevermore with thee to part.

I will wear thee as a rainbow, Radiant with light and spray, Radiant with tomorrow’s splendor, And a far-off yesterday.

I will wear thee as an emblem. Of New England’s pride and power, Wear thee as a starry token, O my pretty, pretty flower.

Symbol of the pure and comely, She that maiden of repose, She the one they called Priscilla, O my fair, my winsome rose.

Scintilating, brave and blushing, Like that maiden time adores, She the one that crossed the waters, Idol of our Pilgrim shores.

THE ANGELUS OF PLYMOUTH WOODS.

I know a place ’mid desert wilds, From city cares apart, Where sheening ponds, like sleeping swans, Dream on the world’s warm heart; Its vesper-bells are calling, and ever calling me, To worshipful devotion, from every leafy tree. And none hath caught the music Of praise and prayer divine, More distant from life’s bitter hour Than murmurs in the pine; Nor acolyte of incense, nor robed Te Deum choirs, E’er awed my soul with mysteries, so free from vain desires, As cherubim and seraphim, Who stay their phantom flight, Amid the choirs of God’s green spires, To tune their harps of light, When evening’s drowsy whisper, the new moon in the west, Broods Nature’s benediction, where lapwings float at rest.

PLIMOTH THROUGH AN OLD SPY GLASS.

(A SKETCH).

Deep nestled in my heart there glows, Against an azure sky, A picture I would paint for you, But O, how dare I try? My brush should be a sheldrake’s wing, My palette were the moon, My colors were the pulsing morn, With mystic odors strewn; Its background wandering tribes of men, The wilderness, the sea, Whose vast unbroken solitudes Were moaning to be free. Or yet, as on that natal day, The fate-winds, white and cold, The tide and wrack, far ebbing back, Strange secrets should unfold.

We blot a page, and cross ourselves, The cross is red, blood red; Eternal change in girded loins, And progress, hide the dead. The hour glass turns, the mill-wheels hum, O’er arching field and hill, In rainbow tints a finger writes: “Peace, Peace on Earth, Good Will.” I glimpse the narrow winding streets, Where linden trees bend o’er, And homes with windows quaintly draped, With hollyhocks by the door.

How were my picture made complete, No kindly faces here? But do I need the master-touch, So radiant they appear. How filled with joy, forever young, The wanton breezes play; How magical the distant blue, How lily-white the way Of phantom sails, all shimmering, With lights where shallops roam, When Aphrodite from the mist Salutes the sea-born foam.

Dim as a half forgotten dream The pageant moves along, The Land of Promise beckoning; I hear a spinning-song, From lighthouse, school and steeple-bell, O’er country-side and glen, Love’s madrigals go ringing out In praise of honest men.

But I would paint the twisted pines On that old sturdy strand, And I would have you see me kneel And kiss the holy sand. And then, my brush all palpitant With light of virgin skies, I’d consecrate my little sketch And name it “Paradise.”

THE DREAM THAT’S IN THE SEA.

You ask me why I love the sea? How can I tell? I only know, the miracle, flowing, flowing, ever flowing, And the white foam blowing, The bubbling undertones, The madness when the old gods rave, The eddies, far and wide, that swing the door to memories, When I am sad, make me glad, With a tremulous joy, As if I were a boy.

How can I tell the legend of its spell, When skies are blue, And earth rings true? Or, underneath the mystic moon, When I, the happiest of men, Behold a love so great as that of life? ’Tis written in my soul, Yet O, so far beyond the utterance of human tongue!

But sometimes, in the night, Like a flash of light, When I hear it breaking on the rocks, Then speed away, It seems to say, “Defeat is not!” Perhaps that’s why I love the sea.

THE OLD SKIPPER.

I laud no fabled glory Of potentate or kings, No beatific story Of Love’s meanderings. My pennon not for conquest That gloats above the slain, But let me hoist the halyards Above the wind and rain For him, the sun-burned sailor-- The skipper, with an eye Long searching to the windward-- If be it wet or dry, The hurricane, hell-haunted, And sundogs in the sky, The jib and topmast splintered, The breakers mountain high. God help him keep the channel, If nor-nor-east or snow, Or be the night red-footed, And “kiss the bride,” or no. God bless the weathered sailor-- The “outside” fisherman-- Who swears a little when he must, And whistles when he can.

ROMP OF THE SEA.

(Off the coast of Boulogne at midnight, awaiting the Spaandam.)

O, the romp and the rift of the shifting sea! The pomp of the lifting sea! O, the hurrying rills where the cauldron spills On the rocks in their scurrying glee!

O, the bellowing leagues of the sea’s intrigues, As we row like a galley-slave, Where the breakers glide as we slither and ride On the back of a balky wave!

O, we whistle a song as we swash along Through gullies and mountain high, As we hunt the dark, and we hunt the rain, And we hunt the haunts of the wind’s domain, For a glim in the inky sky.

O, the bloom of the night as she heaves in sight, On the desolate water’s wings! O, the bellying sheer (and no Chaplain near) Where the old ship’s ladder swings.

O, the pomp and the rift, the slip and the shift, The wheel of the Stygian foam; O, the shimmering shroud where the thunders crowd, And wilder our dreams of home.

THE DERELICT.

Make way! Make way! to the larboard! port! The chop and the swell are mine! And I am the ghost of the brawling tide, The lord of the whelming brine!

And I am the wraith of the inky rain, Made mad by the swash and swirl, That pillaged the souls of a hundred men, Who sunk in a dizzy whirl.

Dip, dip your flag and your milk-white rag, And lavish your dole and fee, But turn your prow! Make room! Make room! For there’s never a truce for me!

I challenge the bar and the stout sea-wall; I silence the brazen bell; I muffle the song of the galley-slave In a maze and a dream of hell.

For mine is the blood of the blackest night, Made red by the comet’s flare; And I am in league with the rampant blade That leaps from the thunder’s lair.

I masque in the targe of the afterglow, When the fisherman tacks for home; I crouch in the track where the green-bills whirl, And hide in the gullied foam.

O, the long-wide waves, with their snowy bloom, When the winds are at rest, are mine; And the organ-shrill of the equinox, Which musters the hordes in line,

Comes echoing back from the low frontier, And crags where the breakers boom, Like the crooning notes of a lorelei, For I am the sleuth of Doom.

And ever the cry of the wander-lure, Alert with a lifting wing, Is urging me on through the sludge and spume, With a sugg and a heave and swing.

And I am alive! though the dead be dead, And huddled in crowds below, With their faces paled in a murky sleep; Make way! Make way! Yo ho!

For I am in search of the glut and sack, The plunder of ship and crew, And I am the skipper of wrack and raid, And my hundred souls are true!

And I am the stumbling-block of life, The lord of the whelming brine, I flank the gates of the curving world, And its great sea-paths are mine.

SALT O’ THE SEA.

I love the sea, as I’ve often said, An’ I mean it, too, from my boots to my head; I love the joggle, the lurch an’ swell, I love the taste o’ the salt, an’ the smell; I love the cap’n what’s brown an’ tanned, An’ I love to roll in the yaller sand, An’ soak my soul in the heavin’ blue, An’ I love to rock in a boat, don’t you?

Yes, I love the pranks o’ the handsum sea, An’ the handsum things what it sez to me; An’ I love its flash at the peep o’ day, When the sails is fillin’ an’ goin’ away; An’ I allers sez to myself, sez I, As they nose an’ dip in the mornin’ sky, “How I’d love to go!” An’ I would, ’tis true, For I love to sail in a boat, don’t you?

I love the slide o’ the slantin’ deck, An’ the old blue shirt folded in at the neck; I love the slip o’ the greasy coat, An’ the feel o’ the brine on my face an’ throat, An’ the things I hears, an’ the things I see, When the skipper is drivin’ his helm hard-a-lee, Wall--I love the tune, an’ I love the view, But I don’t guess much it’s consarnin’ you.

But the best of all is the smell I get, When the tides is out an’ the flats is wet; An’ I love to think when the tides come in Of the things they’s seen, in the place they’s been; An’ there ain’t no end o’ the things I’d do Ef I owned a boat, an’ I owned a crew, An’ an ile-skin coat, ’n’ a sweater, too, For I love the salt o’ the sea, don’t you?

MID-OCEAN.

The wholeness of Almighty God lies fathoms deep, and stretches either side; Colossal splendor rolls whichever way I look, And never terminates, Extols the secret power of Life. Our keel divides the waters in a silver streak, Our prow, a golden sword, goes plunging toward the dawn, I gaze in wonderment and awe, Confused by unknown tongues, and towering sounds, I long to clasp the world in one embrace.

On board the “Kronprinz Wilhelm,” Sept. 1, 1911.

EASTERLY WEATHER.

OFF MANOMET POINT.

The winds had whiffled for a week, The tides ran high with choppy seas, The buoys that marked the channel rocked, The mortar-guns slept on their knees,

In readiness to leap when called; The coast-patrol saw boding sign; Men climbed the cliffs to scan the deep, And spliced an extra breeches-line.

And then the weather settled down, The green of every wave took flight, And one great hollow voice made moan, And rumbled, rumbled day and night,

In dull unbroken monotone, The breakers running breast to breast, Like hounds of Death, with frothy jaws, From north to south, from east to west.

The low horizon rocked and swayed To mazy motion of the spume, Till ’yond the fog it crawled away And hid behind a leaden gloom.

Oblivion swept through the night, And coiled the dark through every place; The old tarpaulins dripped with salt, And flapped it in the eyes and face.

The dawn rolled in with rush and roar, And blubbered with an outworn groan, And up the sand-dunes’ terraced sides In layers were the waters blown.

At last the drift of wreckage came; What matters that to you or me? Wild, with the east wind in their teeth, The hounds of Death ran out to sea.

“OUTSIDE.”

O the rolling sea is the place for me, With the whine of the wind at play, And the skies a-brim to their hazy rim With the dream of a summer’s day; With the dip and drip and the shifting whip Of the sail in the silvery blue, And the swish and blow of the summer-snow From the hills that are lost to view.

O the rolling sea is the place for me, With its hush and its rush and swirl; With its bugling quest to the sloping west, And its flurry and drift and whirl; With its shifting race and the salt in my face, With its spill and its gusty rhyme, With its mermaids fair, with the dusk in their hair, And its drench and its mystic chime.

O the rolling sea is the place for me, With the kittiwakes swaying by, On their lyric wings where the breaker swings, In the trail of their haunting cry; Where the whispering lip and the ragged rip, With the kiss of the tide entwine; Where the billows crash and the rainbows flash, And the heart of the world is mine.

OFF.

The wind is where we want it with a hornpipe in its heels, The harbor-bar is spouting like a whale; There’s the flash and splash of morning spun behind a dozen keels, And a nixie-band a-whistling in the sail.

There’s a rolling path of glory for a hundred leagues or more, With a streak of tumbling shadows breaking through; O these foaming hills of wonder, where the siren trumpets roar, While the seraphs are a-singing in the blue!