Chapter 2
He drones along with his rough sea-song And the throat of a salty tar, This devil-may-care, till he makes his lair By the light of a yellow star.
He looks like a gentleman, lives like a lord, And works like a Trojan hero; Then loafs all winter upon his hoard, With the mercury at zero.
A SONG BY THE SHORE.
"Lose and love" is love's first art; So it was with thee and me, For I first beheld thy heart On the night I last saw thee. Pine-woods and mysteries! Sea-sands and sorrows! Hearts fluttered by a breeze That bodes dark morrows, morrows,-- Bodes dark morrows!
Moonlight in sweet overflow Poured upon the earth and sea! Lovelight with intenser glow In the deeps of thee and me! Clasped hands and silences! Hearts faint and throbbing! The weak wind sighing in the trees! The strong surf sobbing, sobbing,-- The strong surf sobbing!
A HILL SONG.
Hills where once my love and I Let the hours go laughing by! All your woods and dales are sad,-- You have lost your Oread. Falling leaves! Silent woodlands! Half your loveliness is fled. Golden-rod, wither now! Winter winds, come hither now! All the summer joy is dead.
There's a sense of something gone In the grass I linger on. There's an under-voice that grieves In the rustling of the leaves. Pine-clad peaks! Rushing waters! Glens where we were once so glad! There's a light passed from you, There's a joy outcast from you,-- You have lost your Oread.
AT SEA.
As a brave man faces the foe, Alone against hundreds, and sees Death grin in his teeth, But, shutting his lips, fights on to the end Without speech, without hope, without flinching,-- So, silently, grimly, the steamer Lurches ahead through the night.
A beacon-light far off, Twinkling across the waves like a star! But no star in the dark overhead! The splash of waters at the prow, and the evil light Of the death-fires flitting like will-o'-the-wisps beneath! And beyond Silence and night!
I sit by the taffrail, Alone in the dark and the blown cold mist and the spray, Feeling myself swept on irresistibly, Sunk in the night and the sea, and made one with their footfall-less onrush, Letting myself be borne like a spar adrift Helplessly into the night.
Without fear, without wish, Insensate save of a dull, crushed ache in my heart, Careless whither the steamer is going, Conscious only as in a dream of the wet and the dark And of a form that looms and fades indistinctly Everywhere out of the night.
O love, how came I here? Shall I wake at thy side and smile at my dream? The dream that grips me so hard that I cannot wake nor stir! O love! O my own love, found but to be lost! My soul sends over the waters a wild inarticulate cry, Like a gull's scream heard in the night.
The mist creeps closer. The beacon Vanishes astern. The sea's monotonous noises Lapse through the drizzle with a listless, subsiding cadence. And thou, O love, and the sea throb on in my brain together, While the steamer plunges along, Butting its way through the night.
ISABEL.
In her body's perfect sweet Suppleness and languor meet,-- Arms that move like lapsing billows, Breasts that Love would make his pillows, Eyes where vision melts in bliss, Lips that ripen to a kiss.
CONTEMPORARIES.
"A barbered woman's man,"--yes, so He seemed to me a twelvemonth since; And so he may be--let it go-- Admit his flaws--we need not wince To find our noblest not all great. What of it? He is still the prince, And we the pages of his state.
The world applauds his words; his fame Is noised wherever knowledge be; Even the trader hears his name, As one far inland hears the sea; The lady quotes him to the beau Across a cup of Russian tea; They know him and they do not know.
I know him. In the nascent years Men's eyes shall see him as one crowned; His voice shall gather in their ears With each new age prophetic sound; And you and I and all the rest, Whose brows to-day are laurel-bound, Shall be but plumes upon his crest.
A year ago this man was poor,-- This Alfred whom the nations praise; He stood a beggar at my door For one mere word to help him raise From fainting limbs and shoulders bent The burden of the weary days; And I withheld it--and he went.
I knew him then, as I know now, Our largest heart, our loftiest mind; Yet for the curls upon his brow And for his lisp, I could not find The helping word, the cheering touch. Ah, to be just, as well as kind,-- It costs so little and so much!
It seemed unmanly in my sight That he, whose spirit was so strong To lead the blind world to the light, Should look so like the mincing throng Who advertise the tailor's art. It angered me--I did him wrong-- I grudged my groat and shut my heart.
I might have been the prophet's friend, Helped him who is to help the world! Now, when the striving is at end, The reek-stained battle-banners furled, And the age hears its muster-call, Then I, because his hair was curled, I shall have lost my chance--that's all.
THE TWO BOBBIES.
Bobbie Burns and Bobbie Browning, They're the boys I'd like to see. Though I'm not the boy for Bobbie, Bobbie is the boy for me!
Bobbie Browning was the good boy; Turned the language inside out, Wrote his plays and had his days, Died--and held his peace, no doubt.
Poor North Bobbie was the bad boy,-- Bad, bad, bad, bad Bobbie Burns! Loved and made the world his lover, Kissed and barleycomed by turns.
London's dweller, child of wisdom, Kept his counsel, took his toll; Ayrshire's vagrant paid the piper, Lost the game--God save his soul!
Bobbie Burns and Bobbie Browning, What's the difference, you see? Bob the lover, Bob the lawyer; Bobbie is the boy for me!
A TOAST.
Here's a health to thee, Roberts, And here's a health to me; And here's to all the pretty girls From Denver to the sea!
Here's to mine and here's to thine! Now's the time to clink it! Here's a flagon of old wine, And here are we to drink it.
Wine that maketh glad the heart Of the bully boy! Here's the toast that we love most, "Love and song and joy!"
Song that is the flower of love, And joy that is the fruit! Here's the love of woman, lad, And here's our love to boot!
You and I are far too wise Not to fill our glasses. Here's to me and here's to thee, And here's to all the lasses!
THE KAVANAGH.
A stone jug and a pewter mug, And a table set for three! A jug and a mug at every place, And a biscuit or two with Brie! Three stone jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn, And a cheese like crusted foam! The Kavanagh receives to-night! McMurrough is at home!
We three and the barley-bree! And a health to the one away, Who drifts down careless Italy, God's wanderer and estray! For friends are more than Arno's store Of garnered charm, and he Were blither with us here the night Than Titian bids him be.
Throw ope the window to the stars, And let the warm night in! Who knows what revelry in Mars May rhyme with rouse akin? Fill up and drain the loving cup And leave no drop to waste! The moon looks in to see what's up-- Begad, she'd like a taste!
What odds if Leinster's kingly roll Be now an idle thing? The world is his who takes his toll, A vagrant or a king. What though the crown be melted down, And the heir a gypsy roam? The Kavanagh receives to-night! McMurrough is at home!
We three and the barley-bree! And the moonlight on the floor! Who were a man to do with less? What emperor has more? Three stone jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn, And three stout hearts to drain A slanter to the truth in the heart of youth And the joy of the love of men.
A CAPTAIN OF THE PRESS-GANG.
Shipmate, leave the ghostly shadows, Where thy boon companions throng! We will put to sea together Through the twilight with a song.
Leering closer, rank and girding, In this Black Port where we bide, Reel a thousand flaring faces; But escape is on the tide.
Let the tap-rooms of the city Reek till the red dawn comes round. There is better wine in plenty On the cruise where we are bound.
I've aboard a hundred messmates Better than these 'long-shore knaves. There is wreckage on the shallows; It's the open sea that saves.
Hark, lad, dost not hear it calling? That's the voice thy father knew, When he took the King's good cutlass In his grip, and fought it through.
Who would palter at press-money When he heard that sea-cry vast? That's the call makes lords of lubbers, When they ship before the mast.
Let thy cronies of the tavern Keep their kisses bought with gold; On the high seas there are regions Where the heart is never old,
Where the great winds every morning Sweep the sea-floor clean and white, And upon the steel-blue arches Burnish the great stars of night;
There the open hand will lose not, Nor the loosened tongue betray. Signed, and with our sailing orders, We will clear before the day;
On the shining yards of heaven See a wider dawn unfurled.... The eternal slaves of beauty Are the masters of the world.
THE BUCCANEERS.
Oh, not for us the easy mirth Of men that never roam! The crackling of the narrow hearth, The cabined joys of home! Keep your tame, regulated glee, O pale protected State! Our dwelling-place is on the sea, Our joy the joy of Fate!
No long caresses give us ease, No lazy languors warm, We seize our mates as the sea-gulls seize, And leave them to the storm. But in the bridal halls of gloom The couch is stern and strait; For us the marriage rite of Doom, The nuptial joy of Fate.
Wine for the weaklings of the town, Their lucky toasts to drain! Our skoal for them whose star goes down, Our drink the drink of men! No Bacchic ivy for our brows! Like vikings, we await The grim, ungarlanded carouse We keep to-night with Fate.
Ho, gamesters of the pampered court! What stakes are those at strife? Your thousands are but paltry sport To them that play for life. You risk doubloons, and hold your breath. Win groats, and wax elate; But we throw loaded dice with Death, And call the turn on Fate.
The kings of earth are crowned with care, Their poets wail and sigh; Our music is to do and dare, Our empire is to die. Against the storm we fling our glee And shout, till Time abate The exultation of the sea, The fearful joy of Fate.
THE WAR-SONG OF GAMELBAR.
Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar! Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war! Heave a breath And dare a death For the doom of Gamelbar! Wealth for Gamel, Wine for Gamel, Crimson wine for Gamelbar!
CHORUS:--Oh, sleep for a knave, With his sins in the sod! And death for the brave, With his glory up to God! And joy for the girl, And ease for the churl! But the great game of war For our lord Gamelbar, Gamelbar!
Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar, With his Saxon thirty score! Heave a sword For our overlord, Lord of warriors, Gamelbar! Life for Gamel, Love for Gamel, Lady-loves for Gamelbar!
Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar! Swim the ford and climb the scaur! Heave a hand For the maiden land, The maiden land of Gamelbar! Glory for Gamel, Gold for Gamel, Yellow gold for Gamelbar!
Armorers for Gamelbar, Rivet and forge and fear no scar! Heave a hammer With anvil clamor, To weld and brace for Gamelbar! Ring for Gamel! Rung for Gamel! _Ring-rung-ring_ for Gamelbar!
Yeomen, shout for Gamelbar, And his battle-hand in war! Heave his pennon; Cheer his men on, In the ranks of Gamelbar! Strength for Gamel, Song for Gamel, One war-song for Gamelbar!
Roncliffe, shout for Gamelbar! Menthorpe, Bryan, Castelfar! Heave, Thorparch Of the Waving Larch, And Spofford's thane, for Gamelbar! Blaise for Gamel, Brame for Gamel, Rougharlington for Gamelbar!
Maidens; strew for Gamelbar Roses down his way to war! Heave a handful, Fill the land full Of your gifts to Gamelbar! Dream of Gamel, Dance for Gamel, Dance in the halls for Gamelbar!
Servitors, shout for Gamelbar! Roast the ox and stick the boar! Heave a bone To gaunt Harone, The great war-hound of Gamelbar! Mead for Gamel, Mirth for Gamel, Mirth at the board for Gamelbar!
Trumpets, speak for Gamelbar! Blare as ye never blared before! Heave a bray In the horns to-day, The red war-horns of Gamelbar! To-night for Gamel, The North for Gamel, With fires on the hills for Gamelbar!
Shout for Gamel, Gamelbar, Till your throats can shout no more! Heave a cry As he rideth by, Sons of Orm, for Gamelbar! Folk for Gamel, Fame for Gamel, Years and fame for Gamelbar!
CHORUS:--Oh, sleep for a knave With his sins in the sod! And death for the brave, With his glory up to God! And joy for the girl, And ease for the churl! But the great game of war For our lord Gamelbar, Gamelbar!
THE OUTLAW.
Oh, let my lord laugh in his halls When he the tale shall tell! But woe to Jarlwell and its walls When I shall laugh as well! And he that laughs the last, lads, Laughs well, laughs well!
He's lord of many a burg and farm And mickle thralls and gold, And I am but my own right arm, My dwelling-place the wold. But when we twain meet face to face, He will hot laugh so bold.
The shame he chuckles as he shows This time he need not tell; I'll give his body to the crows, And his black soul to Hell. For he that laughs the last, lads, Laughs well, laughs well!
THE KING'S SON.
"Daughter, daughter, marry no man, Though a king's son come to woo, If he be not more than blessing or ban To the secret soul of you."
"'Tis the King's son, indeed, I ween, And he left me even but now, And he shall make me a dazzling queen, With a gold crown on my brow."
"And are you one that a golden crown, Or the lust of a name can lure? You had better wed with a country clown, And keep your young heart pure."
"Mother, the King has sworn, and said That his son shall wed but me; And I must gang to the prince's bed, Or a traitor I shall be."
"Oh, what care you for an old man's wrath? Or what care you for a king? I had rather you fled on an outlaw's path, A rebel, a hunted thing."
"Mother, it is my father's will, For the King has promised him fair A goodly earldom of hollow and hill, And a coronet to wear."
"Then woe is worth a father's name, For it names your dourest foe! I had rather you came the child of shame Than to have you fathered so."
"Mother, I shall have gold enow, Though love be never mine, To buy all else that the world can show Of good and fair and fine."
"Oh, what care you for a prince's gold, Or the key of a kingdom's till? I had rather see you a harlot bold That sins of her own free will.
"For I have been wife for the stomach's sake, And I know whereof I say; A harlot is sold for a passing slake, But a wife is sold for aye.
"Body and soul for a lifetime sell, And the price of the sale shall be That you shall be harlot and slave as well Until Death set you free."
LAURANA'S SONG. FOR "A LADY OF VENICE."
Who'll have the crumpled pieces of a heart? Let him take mine! Who'll give his whole of passion for a part, And call't divine? Who'll have the soiled remainder of desire? Who'll warm his fingers at a burnt-out fire? Who'll drink the lees of love, and cast i' the mire The nobler wine?
Let him come here, and kiss me on the mouth, And have his will! Love dead and dry as summer in the South When winds are still And all the leafage shrivels in the heat! Let him come here and linger at my feet Till he grow weary with the over-sweet, And die, or kill.
LAUNA DEE.
Weary, oh, so weary With it all! Sunny days or dreary-- How they pall! Why should we be heroes, Launa Dee, Striving to no winning? Let the world be Zero's! As in the beginning Let it be!
What good comes of toiling, When all's done? Frail green sprays for spoiling Of the sun; Laurel leaf or myrtle, Love or fame-- Ah, what odds what spray, sweet? Time, that makes life fertile, Makes its blooms decay, sweet, As they came.
Lie here with me dreaming, Cheek to cheek, Lithe limbs twined and gleaming, Brown and sleek; Like two serpents coiling In their lair. Where's the good of wreathing Sprays for Time's despoiling? Let me feel your breathing In my hair.
You and I together-- Was it so? In the August weather Long ago! Did we kiss and fellow, Side by side, Till the sunbeams quickened From our stalks great yellow Sunflowers, till we sickened There and died?
Were we tigers creeping Through the glade Where our prey lay sleeping, Unafraid, In some Eastern jungle? Better so. I am sure the snarling Beasts could never bungle Life as men do, darling, Who half know.
Ah, if all of life, love, Were the living! Just to cease from strife, love, And from grieving; Let the swift world pass us, You and me, Stilled from all aspiring,-- Sinai nor Parnassus Longer worth desiring, Launa Dee!
Just to live like lilies In the lake! Where no thought nor will is, To mistake! Just to lose the human Eyes that weep! Just to cease from seeming Longer man and woman! Just to reach the dreaming And the sleep!
THE MENDICANTS.
We are as mendicants who wait Along the roadside in the sun. Tatters of yesterday and shreds Of morrow clothe us every one.
And some are dotards, who believe And glory in the days of old; While some are dreamers, harping still Upon an unknown age of gold.
Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, As lavish Time comes down the way And tosses in the suppliant hat One great new-minted gold To-day.
Ungrateful heart and grudging thanks, His beggar's wisdom only sees Housing and bread and beer enough; He knows no other things than these.
O foolish ones, put by your care! Where wants are many, joys are few; And at the wilding springs of peace, God keeps an open house for you.
But that some Fortunatus' gift Is lying there within his hand, More costly than a pot of pearls, His dulness does not understand.
And so his creature heart is filled; His shrunken self goes starved away. Let him wear brand-new garments still, Who has a threadbare soul, I say.
But there be others, happier few, The vagabondish sons of God, Who know the by-ways and the flowers, And care not how the world may plod.
They idle down the traffic lands, And loiter through the woods with spring; To them the glory of the earth Is but to hear a bluebird sing.
They too receive each one his Day; But their wise heart knows many things Beyond the sating of desire, Above the dignity of kings.
One I remember kept his coin, And laughing flipped it in the air; But when two strolling pipe-players Came by, he tossed it to the pair.
Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart Danced to their wild outlandish bars; Then supperless he laid him down That night, and slept beneath the stars.
THE MARCHING MORROWS.
Now gird thee well for courage, My knight of twenty year, Against the marching morrows That fill the world with fear!
The flowers fade before them; The summer leaves the hill; Their trumpets range the morning, And those who hear grow still.
Like pillagers of harvest, Their fame is far abroad, As gray remorseless troopers That plunder and maraud.
The dust is on their corselets; Their marching fills the world; With conquest after conquest Their banners are unfurled.
They overthrow the battles Of every lord of war, From world-dominioned cities Wipe out the names they bore.
Sohrab, Rameses, Roland, Ramoth, Napoleon, Tyre, And the Romeward Huns of Attila-- Alas, for their desire!
By April and by autumn They perish in their pride, And still they close and gather Out of the mountain-side.
The tanned and tameless children Of the wild elder earth, With stature of the northlights, They have the stars for girth.
There's not a hand to stay them, Of all the hearts that brave; No captain to undo them, No cunning to off-stave.
Yet fear thou not! If haply Thou be the kingly one, They'll set thee in their vanguard To lead them round the sun.
IN THE WORKSHOP.
Once in the Workshop, ages ago, The clay was wet and the fire was low.
And He who was bent on fashioning man Moulded a shape from a clod, And put the loyal heart therein; While another stood watching by.
"What's that?" said Beelzebub. "A lover," said God. And Beelzebub frowned, for he knew that kind.
And then God fashioned a fellow shape As lithe as a willow rod, And gave it the merry roving eye And the range of the open road.
"What's that?" said Beelzebub. "A vagrant," said God. And Beelzebub smiled, for he knew that kind.
And last of all God fashioned a form, And gave it, what was odd, The loyal heart and the roving eye; And he whistled, light of care.
"What's that?" said Beelzebub. "A poet," said God. And Beelzebub frowned, for he did not know.
THE MOTE.
Two shapes of august bearing, seraph tall, Of indolent imperturbable regard, Stood in the Tavern door to drink. As the first Lifted his glass to let the warm light melt In the slow bubbles of the wine, a sunbeam, Red and broad as smouldering autumn, smote Down through its mystery; and a single fleck, The tiniest sun-mote settling through the air, Fell on the grape-dark surface and there swam.
Gently the Drinker with fastidious care Stretched hand to clear the speck away. "No, no!"-- His comrade stayed his arm. "Why," said the first, "What would you have me do?" "Ah, let it float A moment longer!" And the second smiled. "Do you not know what that is?" "No, indeed." "A mere dust-mote, a speck of soot, you think, A plague-germ still unsatisfied. It is not. That is the Earth. See, I will stretch my hand Between it and the sun; the passing shadow Gives its poor dwellers a glacial period. Let it but stand an hour, it would dissolve, Intangible as the color of the wine. There, throw it away now! Lift it from the sweet Enveloping flood it has enjoyed so well;" (He smiled as only those who live can smile) "Its time is done, its revelry complete, Its being accomplished. Let us drink again."
IN THE HOUSE OF IDIEDAILY.
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly, In the house of Idiedaily!
There were always throats to sing Down the river-banks with spring,
When the stir of heart's desire Set the sapling's heart on fire.
Bobolincolns in the meadows, Leisure in the purple shadows,
Till the poppies without number Bowed their heads in crimson slumber,
And the twilight came to cover Every unreluctant lover.
Not a night but some brown maiden Bettered all the dusk she strayed in,
While the roses in her hair Bankrupted oblivion there.
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly, In the house of Idiedaily!
But this hostelry, The Barrow, With its chambers, bare and narrow,
Mean, ill-windowed, damp, and wormy, Where the silence makes you squirmy,
And the guests are never seen to, Is a vile place, a mere lean-to,
Not a traveller speaks well of, Even worse than I heard tell of,
Mouldy, ramshackle, and foul. What a dwelling for a soul!
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly, In the house of Idiedaily!
There the hearth was always warm, From the slander of the storm.
There your comrade was your neighbor, Living on to-morrow's labor.
And the board was always steaming, Though Sir Ringlets might be dreaming.
Not a plate but scoffed at porridge, Not a cup but floated borage.
There were always jugs of sherry Waiting for the makers merry,
And the dark Burgundian wine That would make a fool divine.
Oh, but life went gayly, gayly In the house of Idiedaily!
RESIGNATION.
When I am only fit to go to bed, Or hobble out to sit within the sun, Ring down the curtain, say the play is done, And the last petals of the poppy shed!
I do not want to live when I am old, I have no use for things I cannot love; And when the day that I am talking of (Which God forfend!) is come, it will be cold.
But if there is another place than this, Where all the men will greet me as "Old Man," And all the women wrap me in a smile, Where money is more useless than a kiss, And good wine is not put beneath the ban, I will go there and stay a little while.
COMRADES.
Comrades, pour the wine to-night For the parting is with dawn! Oh, the clink of cups together, With the daylight coming on! Greet the morn With a double horn, When strong men drink together!