Part 3

Forth from the channel they came,-- Adventure of despair!-- Each stately and splendid name Foredoomed to thunder and flame, Foredoomed to ruin and fame, But the Admiral was not there! He saw from afar his ships close in, The smoke-veils thicken, the chase begin, (And _O for wings!_ sighed the Admiral’s heart, As the flagship followed, apart.)

“Then it was, as we speeded west, Just as the flagship came abreast Of the poor Theresa there, on the beach, And the Almirante Oquendo, each Wrecked and ablaze,” he said, “We saw on the seaward side, All alone in the waters wide, Rising and falling, the round black head Of a Spanish sailor as good as dead, Fighting death in the sea.

“Strange it seemed when the strife Shrank to a single man, Fighting alone for his life! One of the flagship’s crew A second stood at a loss, Then leaped and shouted and ran And reached and lifted and threw The desk with the wooden cross Where the chaplain used to read. He hurled it over the side. ‘Dago, cling to the Cross And you shall be saved!’ he cried. And the thing was so indeed.

“Strange, how the terrible battle-strain Goes like wine to the brain! Those were the words we heard him speak, With a twitch of his leathern cheek. Did he jest? would his own soul know? ‘_Dago, cling to the Cross And you shall be saved!_’ he cried; And indeed the thing was so.”

This the Admiral told To the boys of alien race, Each eager, sparkling face Insistently outthrust To hear and to behold; He, robbed of his desire, Gentle and blanched and frail, War’s martyr, ashen-pale, Burnt brittle in that fire,-- And now a long time dust.

DEATH AFTER WAR

Gone the Red Harvester, with heaped-up wain Darkening against the blood-bright sky; yet lingers The lone, gaunt Gleaner on the twilight plain, Blind-gathering with the clutch of hungry fingers.

THE RIDDLE OF WRECK

Dark hemlocks, seventy and seven, High on the hill-slope sigh in dream, With plumy heads in heaven; They silver the sunbeam.

One broken body of a tree, Stabbed through and slashed by lightning keen, Unsouled, and grim to see, Hangs o’er the hushed ravine.

A hundred masts, a hundred more, Crowd close against the sunset-fires. Their late adventure o’er, They mingle with the spires.

But one is lying prone, alone, Where gleaming gulls to seaward sweep, White sand of burial blown In sheets about its sleep.

When lightning’s leashed, and sea is still, Ye sacrificial mysteries dread, Scapegoats of shore and hill, Your riddle may be read.

THE COMMON STREET

The common street climbed up against the sky, Gray meeting gray; and wearily to and fro I saw the patient, common people go, Each with his sordid burden trudging by. And the rain dropped; there was not any sigh Or stir of a live wind; dull, dull and slow All motion; as a tale told long ago The faded world; and creeping night drew nigh.

Then burst the sunset, flooding far and fleet, Leavening the whole of life with magic leaven. Suddenly down the long wet glistening hill Pure splendor poured--and lo! the common street, A golden highway into golden heaven, With the dark shapes of men ascending still.

CALNAN’S CHRISTMAS

When you hear the fire-gongs beat fierce along the startled street, See the great-limbed horses bound, and the gleaming engine sway, And the driver in his place, with his fixed, heroic face, Say a prayer for Calnan’s sake--he that died on Christmas day!

Cling! Cling! Each to his station! Clang! Clang! Quick to clear the way! (Christ keep the soldiers of salvation, Fighting nameless battles in the war of every day!)

In the morning, blue and mild, of the Mother and the Child, While the blessed bells were calling, thrilled the summons through the wire; In the morning, blue and mild, for a woman and a child Died a man of gentle will, plunging on to fight the fire.

Ring, swing, bells in the steeple! Ring the Child and ring the Star, as sweetly as ye may! Ring, swing, bells, to tell the people God’s good will to earthly men, the men of every day!

“Thirty-four” swung out agleam, with her mighty, bounding team; Horses’ honor pricked them on, and they leaped as at a goad; Jimmy Calnan in his place, with his clean-cut Irish face, Iron hands upon the reins, eyes a-strain upon the road.

Clang! Clang! Quick to clear the way! (Sweetly rang, above the clang, the bells of Christmas day.)

Tearing, plunging through the din, scarce a man can hold them in; None on earth could pull them short: Mary Mother, guard from harm Yonder woman straight ahead, stony-still with sudden dread, And the little woman-child, with her waxen child in arm!

Oh, God’s calls, how swift they are! Oh, the Cross that hides the Star! Oh, the fire-gong beating fierce through the bells of Christmas day! Just a second there to choose, and a life to keep or lose-- To the curb he swung the horses, and he flung his life away!

Ring, swing, bells in the steeple! Ring the Star and ring the Cross, for Star and Cross are one! Ring, swing, bells, to tell the people God is pleased with manly men, and deeds that they have done!

GUION

Is it so hard to die in the glory and fury of fight? Sweet is the death for the flag--splendid the death when Fame Snatches the sinking torch, and lifts it alive, alight!-- Let us remember his name who drank of a cup of flame Silently pledging Duty, and would not shirk Death in the plain day’s work.

Guion was running the lift There at the doomed hotel When the grim chance befell. Twenty years, day out, day in, Still the same had the day’s work been: Up and down, steady and swift, At the thrill of the calling bell. Boy and man, and still the same; Then--the wild moment came.

Fire and fear, and the rush, and the gush of the choking smoke; Cries, and the hoarse command, and the engine’s clanging stroke; Still, at the well-known call, in the wonted way, Up and down, steady and swift, Guion kept running the lift; Many and many a life is his gift That had else gone out that day.

How it billowed, the surge of black On the delicate springtime sky! The firemen knew they were come to the end of it all,-- They were beaten, the roof must fall. Hands laid hold upon Guion: “You can’t go back!” But he answered, “I’ll stand by!” And again through the tumult--hark! Shrill, oh pitiful-shrill, The throb of the bell that summoned, the agony-thrill, Calling,--it fell on his soul like the sting of a spark. “One more trip!” said Guion; and steady and swift Mounted the man and the lift. --Save in the dust of ruin, that baffles ken, None saw Guion again.

Year after year, when the great March sunsets flame, Let us remember his name.

POVERTY ROW

Brave old neighbors in Poverty Row, Why should we grudge to dwell with you? Pinch of poverty well ye know-- Doubtful dinner and clouted shoe. Grinned the wolf at your doors, and yet You sang your songs and you said your say. Lashed to labor by devil Debt, All were manful, and some were gay.

What, old Chaucer! a royal jest Once you made in your laughing verse: “No more goldfinch-song in the nest-- Autumn nest of the empty purse!” Master Spenser, your looks are spare; Princes’ favors, how fleet they be! Thinking that yours was the selfsame fare, Crust or crumb shall be sweet to me.

Worshipful Shakespeare of Stratford town, Prosperous-portly in doublet red, What of the days when you first came down To London city to earn your bread? What of the lodging where Juliet’s face Startled your dream with its Southern glow, Flooding with splendor the sordid place? That was a garret in Poverty Row!

Many a worthy has here, I ween, Made brief sojourn or long abode: Johnson, dining behind the screen; Goldsmith, vagrant along the road; Keats, ah, pitiful! poor and ill, Harassed and hurt, in his short spring day; Best Sir Walter, with flagging quill Digging the mountain of debt away.

Needy comrade, whose evil star, Pallid-frowning, decrees you wrong, Greatly neighbored, in truth, we are; Hold your heart up and sing your song! Lift your eyes to the book-shelf where, Glorious-gilded, a shining show, Every man in his mansion fair, Dwell the princes of Poverty Row!

THE INN OF THE STAR

When the Old Year plods down Toward the end of the hill, Where the white little town Lies asleep, wonder-still, Then he mends his dull pace, For a ray, streaming far, Strikes a gleam on his face From the Inn of the Star.

Then the staff is set by, And the shoon from his feet, And the burden let lie, And he sitteth at meat; Old jests round the board, Old songs round the blaze, While the faint bells accord Like the souls of old days.

In the sweet bed of peace He shall sleep for a night, And faith, like a fleece, Lap him kindly and light; Then the wind, crooning wild, Mystic music shall seem, And the brow of the Child Be a light through his dream.

And we, too, follow down The long slope of the hill: See, the white little Town, Where it shines, wonder-still! Be our hopes quenched or bright, Be our griefs what they are, We shall sojourn a night At the Inn of the Star.

MARINA SINGS

(_Pericles, Act V, Sc. i._)

This is the song Marina sang To forlorn Pericles: Silver the young voice rang. The gray beard blew about his knees, And the hair of his bowed head, like a veil, Fell over his cheeks and blent with it: He knew not anything. Above him the Tyrian fold Of the curtain billowed, fringed with gold, As might beseem a king. Sunset was rose on every sail That did along the far sea flit, And rose on the cedarn deck Of the ship that at anchor swayed; And the harbor was golden-lit. He lifted not his neck At the coming of the maid. She swept him with her eyes, As though some tender wing Just touched a bleaching wreck In sheeted sand that lies; Then she began to sing.

THE SONG

Hush, ah hush! the sea is kind! Lullaby is in the wind; Grief the babe forgets to weep, Lapped and spelled and laid to sleep: His lip is wet with the milk of the spray; He shall not wake till another day. Ah hush! the sea is kind!

Who can tell, ah who can tell, The cradling nurse’s croonèd spell? While the slumber-web she weaves Never nursling stirs or grieves: The tears that drowned his sweet eye-beams Are turned to mists of rainbow dreams. Ah hush! she charms us well!

“All thy hurts I balm and bind; All thy heart’s loves thou shalt find!” Yea, this she murmurs, best of all: “It was not loss that did befall! All thy joys are put away; They shall be thine another day!” Ah hush! the sea is kind!

She sang; she trembled like a lyre; Her pure eyes burned with azure fire; About her lucent brow the hair Played like light flames divine ones wear: The maid was very fair. But when she saw he gave no heed,-- Close-mantled up in ancient pain As in some sad-wound weed, Dumb as a shape of stone, Being years past all moan,-- She tried no other strain, But softly spake: “Most royal sir!” He raised his head and looked at her. So might a castaway, half dead, Lift up his haggard head, Waked by the swirl of sudden rain, A cool, unhoped-for grace, Against his tearless face: And see, with happy-crazèd mind, Upon his raft a Bright One stand,-- His love of youth, her grave long left behind In some sweet-watered land.

THE KING’S DIAMOND

_This diamond he greets your wife withal By the name of most kind hostess._

_Macbeth, Act II, sc. i._

Duncan the King,--Heaven rest his bier!-- Had a diamond icy-clear; Clear as ice and fierce as flame,-- I wot not whence he had the same. Its fellow was not in the land. It shot keen shafts of every hue On the old king’s trembling hand Where the veins were large and blue. A jewel of price was that indeed, Fit to buy a prince’s life; A royal gift for the lady wife Of a kinsman bold and true Who had served the king at need. Who was he, but the Red Macbeth That wrought the false Macdonwald’s death, And drave the sea-wolf in dismay, Sweyn the king of Norroway? Being guest to that great thane, Ere his limbs on couch had lain Duncan sent that frozen flame To Lady Gruach, the gracious dame. (Clear as ice was the lady’s fame, A flawless jewel indeed!)

Duncan the king at Colmkill sleeps, So sound he will not turn or moan; His slumber-draught was deep, I ween, Bitter-spiced with daggers keen. It is the Red Macbeth that keeps Stern state upon the throne, With Gruach, his kind queen. (“Most kind,” the old King Duncan said, Before he lay in his last bed.)

The Lady Gruach wears the crown, She wears the glistering golden gown, But yet she has not worn the ring That was the guerdon of the king. In the dark the diamond lies, Seen of no vassal’s eyes.

Nor any vassal’s tongue can tell How,--when the spying Day is sped And sleeps with the safe dead; When Gruach loosens her long hair Midnight-black on her shoulders bare, And sinks to the comfort of despair; At the witches’ hour, when the shadows swell As the swinging cressets flare, And the small swart crickets harp and harp On the tune remembered, torturing-sharp, And the sobbing owlets wake,-- The diamond in the dark Draws, draws her, like the spark In the head of a deadly snake.

Then will she sit, and dully stare On the cold diamond’s serpent-glare; Her lip is fallen, she does not stir, Her life is sucked into the gem; It is as though the Powers malign Had made with mystery in the mine A thing to be like the soul of her: It was a jest to them! All the light upgathered they That might have been a sunshine day, Broadcast blessing and heavenly boon, Peace of even and power of noon; Seized the rays with a spell unknown, Forced them into a core of fire Like the glede of a covetous desire, Shut them fast in the heart of a stone. And hard, and harder than the sword, They made the crystal, fiery-cored; On steel that oft had steel withstood Might it grave the word it would. A gem of beauty and of bale, A prisoned force in narrow pale, Evil-perfect, pure of good! --So will she sit, till naked Morn Peers at the world with visage white Like a sleeper roused in fright, Aghast and most forlorn.

What of the end? since end must be. She knows a skilled artificer, And he shall set in a dagger’s haft The thing that is like the soul of her. When first she thought thereon, she laughed, And then she shuddered fearfully. Ah, what if Heaven no end will grant, Resolved in any heats of wrath, To that which for its symbol hath The unsubduable adamant? Ah, what if like a falling jewel The soul whose light was mocking-cruel, Through gulfs of loss unplummeted Should fall, and fall, forevermore, Fire of torment at its core? Oh, horrible and leaden dread! The grace of God blot out our sins! --The women knock at the chamber door, The queen starts up, the day begins.

DEATH-TRYST

(_Shelley, 1822: Tennyson, 1892._)

I

One sailed an azure sea in fateful hour: A Youth, yet age had touched him, and he seemed Lovely and piteous, like a frosted flower.

A Book was in his hand, a page that teemed With joy of beauty. (He who made it, slept Where o’er his heart the Roman violets dreamed.)

Sailing, he smiled; a tryst his spirit kept; Thoughts lucent-pinioned did as psyches flit Across his summer dream; till on him swept

The swift black storm, and Fate and Death did sit Betwixt its cloudy wings as down it bore; And he who read was rapt to him who writ. Twin stars they shine, one fame forevermore. A fire of funeral blazed, beside the sobbing shore.

II

One slept a sacred sleep, while golden lay Autumnal moonlight glorious on his bed,-- Sleep ebbing deathward like a sea-drawn bay.

A Book was in his hand, whence late he read Majestic words of that great Spirit that still Doth haunt by Avon April-garlanded.

So sleeping, held he fast with fixéd will His Master’s Book; and all the night was peace, Bright peace on lawn and terrace, dale and hill.

Calm consummation, and most sweet surcease! That tryst of sovereign powers Death would not wrong, Shattering the bars with all-too-rough release, But softly dealt.--They rule in splendor long, Large lights, a moon and sun in England’s heaven of song.

THE IRIS-BRIDGE

That morn when men to one another said “Browning is dead in Venice,” ere the thrill Of the tidings touched us, lo! our eyes beheld Strange portent flashed upon the winter sky. From hill to hill the jewel-splendid span Of the light rainbow leaped, transcendent joy, The brave bright delicate bridge, frail as a flower, Yet firm enough to bear the feet of Hope. --“Browning is dead,” they told us; but our thoughts Followed along the aerial sunbuilt arch The onward quest of that still ardent soul. Could he be holden of death, who built indeed, Flinging his lyric faith across the vast, An iris-bridge for man while words endure?

DESIRE OF FAME

O unapproachable glories of the night! You type not my desire: enough for me The vanished meteor’s immortality, Brief memory of a moment touched with light.

ROSE-RENT

Life! lordly giver and gay! I, for this manor of Time, Lightly and lovingly pay Rent with the rose of a rhyme.

THE FRIGATE-GHOST

Yes, you may build her again As she was when she sailed the sea; She may bear the brave old name, And the harbors hail her the same; ’Tis her semblance, it is not she! She is gone from our mortal ken.

I know not how or when, But her spirit escaped away From the dock and the dull decay, From the uses of unprized age And the changes wrought of men; Like a wild sea-bird from a cage, Her soul took flight from the form To the tides that none can tame, To the restless fields of her fame, To the wet salt wind and the storm!

Somewhere she ranges free, Stately, a shape of light, Revisiting leagues of sea Illumined with glorious fight. She hangs like a lucent cloud On the coast where her guns spoke loud, In the gates of the Moslem proud, Till the Crescent grew faint with fright. Exultant she bounds on the brine, Tracing the course of the race When the Æolus held her in chase, And the Belvidere and the Shannon, And the Africa, ship-o’-the-line, With another, doomed to her cannon, To be blazoned in flame at the last, When the grim sea-duel was done: God rest the souls that passed Ere the Guerrière’s leeward gun! Ere the noblest flag on the sea Came down to the Stripes and Stars! Oh, the frigate-ghost, as she ranges free, Thrills yet through her spectral spars!

Aye, the old pride stirs her still As she sails and sails at will; In her cross-trees memories nestle, Though she walks the wave a ghost. Well she minds the wary wrestle When her shot poured hot as lava On the shattered, stubborn Java, Off the dim Brazilian coast; And she haunts the moonlit seas Where her crashing broadsides broke Through the drift of silvered smoke While she waged a double battle In the waters Portuguese. Still the ghostly muskets rattle, And the old drums beat, beat, beat, Like a heart that will not die; And the old fife whistles high, And the powder-scent is rank, And she feels on her hollow plank The old, dead heroes’ feet!

Ah, never sailor-man Has seen her where she ranges, Escaped from time and changes As only spirits can, Clear, absolute, and free! Yet, some stern hour to be, When a fight is fought at sea, And the right of the fight is ours, And the cause of the right is failing, There shall rise a frigate sailing, A luminous presence paling Through the powder-cloud where it lowers; Pale smoke from her side shall break, Pale faces over her railing Shall frown, till the foemen shake With fear and bewildered passion, Marking her old-time fashion, In the turrets of hostile powers; And then shall the rumor run Like a lightning from lip to lip, And shall leap from ship to ship, While the wounded gunner reels Again to his reeking gun, Touched with a magic that heals, Feeling this vision remind him That the strong Dead fight behind him: “’Tis the ghost of IRONSIDES, Come back from the tameless tides, From the ocean-fields unbounded, Complete with her scattered spars, Manned with the shades of her tars, With the smoke of her guns surrounded, To succor the Stripes and Stars!”

FAIR ENGLAND

White England shouldering from the sea, Green England in thy rainy veil, Old island-nest of Liberty And loveliest Song, all hail!

God guard thee long from scath and grief! Not any wish of ours would mar One richly glooming ivy-leaf, One rosy daisy-star.

What! phantoms are we, spectre-thin, Unfathered, out of nothing born? Did Being in this world begin With blaze of yestermorn?

Nay! sacred Life, a scarlet thread, Through lost unnumbered lives has run; No strength can tear us from the dead; The sire is in the son.

Nay! through the years God’s purpose glides, And links in sequence deed with deed; Hoar Time along his chaplet slides Bead after jewel-bead.

O brother, breathing English air! If both be just, if both be free, A lordlier heritage we share Than any earth can be:

If hearts be high, if hands be pure, A bond unseen shall bind us still,-- The only bond that can endure, Being welded with God’s will!

A bond unseen! and yet God speed The apparent sign, when He finds good; When in His sight it types indeed That inward brotherhood.

For not the rose-and-emerald bow Can bid the battling storm to cease, But leaps at last, that all may know The sign, not source, of peace.

Oh, what shall shameful peace avail, If east or west, if there or here, Men sprung of ancient England fail To hold their birthright dear?

If west or east, if here or there, Brute Mammon sit in Freedom’s place, And judge a wailing world’s despair With hard, averted face?

O great Co-heir, whose lot is cast Beside the hearthstone loved of yore! Inherit with us that best Past That lives for evermore!

Inherit with us! Lo, the days Are evil; who may know the end? Strike hands, and dare the darkening ways, Twin strengths, with God to friend!