Part 3
February fair maids, All along the lane, Dancing with the breezes, Nodding to the rain, Whispering tales of Springtime Through the snow and sleet, February fair maids, Brave and bright and sweet.
February fair maids, Soon you'll disappear, Soon the swallow's twitter Tells that Spring is here. Soon the rose and lily Laugh 'neath skies of blue-- February fair maids, None so brave as you.
February fair maids, Dancing down the lane, Bowing to the breezes, Smiling at the rain, Lifting laughing faces Through the snow and sleet-- February fair maids, Brave and bright and sweet.
SPRING
Lo, the spring has come again! Down the lane Silent, first, the snowdrop came; Green each bursting leaf-bud swells In the dells Where the crocus breaks in flame.
Spring, with all the daffodils On her hills, Comes and wakes the world to mirth: List with what reverberant glee Streams set free Tell their triumph to the earth.
Hark! Once more the cuckoo's call, Musical, magical, Over all the land doth ring; Little waves upon the beach, Each to each Laughing, whisper, "'Tis the Spring."
OCTOBER WIND
The piper wind goes straying Into the morning skies, With fern seed in his pocket, And laughter in his eyes, And the swift clouds break, and follow His magic melodies.
The piper wind goes playing His music, sweet and shrill, And, brave in red and yellow, The leaves dance on the hill; And the purple plumes of aster Nod gaily by the rill.
The piper wind goes roaming O'er upland, glade and plain, He whispers to the sunshine, He whistles through the rain, He dreams among the pine trees And wakes, and laughs again.
The piper wind goes homing Adown the sunset skies, With fern seed in his pocket, And laughter in his eyes; And our hearts are fain to follow His magic melodies.
OCTOBER
Now, when the summer flowers are past and dead, And, from the earth's wild bosom, brown and bare, No trillium lifts its head; When, in the hollows where the violets were Purple and white and fair, Only a few brown leaves are falling now, The wind shakes from the bough:
Now, when the tiger-lily's flame no more Burns in the long, lush grasses on the hill, And, by the river shore, The smoky trail of asters, lingering still, Thins, and the air grows chill With the first feathery snowflakes, that anon Fall softly and are gone:
O let us leave this dull and dusty street, The noise and heat and turmoil of the town For country waysides sweet, Lanes where the nuts are clustering, plump and brown, Hedges blackberries crown; Come, ere the shivering blasts of winter blow, Let us make haste and go.
IN ARCADIE
Heart of my heart, the long road lies A streak of white across the down To where the hill-tops touch the skies; Then let us seek the mountain's crown And cross its summit, bare and brown, Heart of my heart, O come with me To walk the ways of Arcadie.
Heart of my heart, right merrily The little winds of Springtime blow, The air is full of melody, The birds are singing, soft and low; Heart of my heart, then let us go Across the hills, and wander free The pleasant paths of Arcadie.
There sunny land and sunny sea Lie drowsing in the noontide heat, There song of bird and hum of bee Mix in a music wild and sweet, And in the thyme beneath our feet Cicalas chirp their melody, Across the hills in Arcadie.
Or, when the twilight shadows steep The hill-tops with a misty light, And stars their quiet watches keep Through the short hours of summer night, And glow-worms burn their lanterns bright, The streams still murmur sleepily Across the hills in Arcadie.
Heart of my heart, O let us leave The toil and turmoil of the town, And men that work and men that grieve, And take the road across the down And climb the hill-top, bare and brown; Heart of my heart, O come with me To walk the ways of Arcadie.
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Wave your hand to him! Let him go Back from the dusty paths we stray, To the land where his boyhood's rivers flow; He is not dead--he is just away, Gone to laugh at 'Lizabuth Ann, And swap old yarns with the Raggedy Man.
Hush! Do you hear, in the distance dim, Faint and sweet as an elfin tune, Orphant Annie is calling him, Counting him in with the old-time rune-- Intry, mintry, eatery, corn, Apple blossom and apple thorn.
Wave your hand to him--call good-bye! Faintly his answer echoes back; Voices of children eagerly Lure him on by the fairy track To the wonder-world, where all hearts are gay; He is not dead, he is just--away.
THE SANDMAN
When the long, hot day is over, And the sun drops down the west, And the childish hands are weary, And the childish feet must rest, The Sandman steals through the portals Where the dying sunlight gleams, And touches the tired eyelids And lulls them into dreams.
Even so, when life is over, And the long day's march is past, We wait in gathering shadows Till the Sandman comes at last. Sad are our hearts and weary, And long the waiting seems; Lord, we are tired children; Touch Thou our eyes with dreams.
Take from the slackened fingers The toys so heavy grown, Give to Thy tired children Visions of Thee alone; Then, when at length the shadows Darken adown the west, Send to us Death, Thy Sandman, To call Thine own to rest.
THE REMITTANCE MEN
She stands in peace by her waters, Our Mother, fair and wise, And ever amid our dreaming We see her hills arise; We, who have sold our birthright, Sons, who have failed at need, Outcast, lost and dishonoured, We know her fair indeed.
Yes, we have sold our birthright-- Well have we learned the cost-- Drink-sodden, hateful bodies, And souls forever lost; We see the heights above us, The depths into which we fall, And we turn from that sight in horror, Drinking to drown it all.
Lo, we have lost her forever! Exiled, unclean, alone; Yet she was once our Mother, Once we were sons of her own; We--who have failed her and shamed her, Cast from her shores so long, Still in our dreams we see her, Noble and wise and strong.
Once in a far-off country We named her great and fair, They mocked us with scornful laughter, "Lo, these are the sons she bare!" Do we not feel our bondage, We, who have owned her name, When we dare not whisper her praises Lest we whelm her in our shame?
Yet do the outcasts love her, Who once were bone of her bone, Pray for her life and honour Who dare not pray for their own; Out of the hell we have chosen Watch her, with longing eyes-- She, who was once our Mother, Excellent, just and wise.
THE LAST VOYAGE
When I loose my vessel's moorings, and put out to sea once more On the last and longest voyage that shall never reach the shore, O Thou Master of the Ocean, send no tranquil tides to me, But 'mid all Thy floods and thunders let my vessel put to sea.
Let her lie within no tropic sea, dead rotten to the bone, Till the lisping, sluggish waters claim my vessel for their own; Till the sun shall scar her timbers, and the slimy weed shall crawl O'er her planks that gape and widen, and the slow sea swallow all.
Let her not go down in darkness, where the smoking mist-wreaths hide The white signal of the breakers, dimly guessed at, overside; While her decks are in confusion, and the wreck drops momently, And she drifts in dark and panic to the death she cannot see.
But out in the open ocean, where the great waves call and cry, Leap and thunder at her taffrail, while the scud blows stinging by, With the life still strong within her, struggling onward through the blast, Till one last long wave shall whelm her, and our voyaging is past.
BALLADE OF DREAMS
We dreamed our dreams in full many lands, By mount and forest, by stream and lea, Dreams of the touch of old-time hands, Dreams of a future destiny, Dreams of battle and victory, Laughter and love and wealth and fame; Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we-- Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?
Our rivers of dream had golden sands, Our forests of Dream waved fair to see, Our Dreamland Isles were enchanted strands With shores of magic and mystery; How should we dream of misery With the blood of youth at our hearts aflame? Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we-- Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?
If a mortal now our fate demands (We who so long forgotten be), He shall seek in vain, for our wandering bands Now wait here, all so dreamlessly; O the restless hearts rest quietly, And the fire is quenched that no frost could tame; Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we-- Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?
_L'Envoi_
Prince, this world is all vanity, And dream and deed, they are still the same; Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we-- Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?
SHIPS OF OLD RENOWN
Triremes of the Roman, cruising down to Antioch, Longships of the Northmen, galleons of Spain, Tall, gleaming caravels, swinging in the tideway, Never shall the sunlight gild their sails again.
Never shall those white sails, lifting on the sea-line, Swoop like a swallow across the blinding blue, Caracque and caravel, lying 'neath the waters, Wait till the bugles shall call the last review.
There in the darkness lie friend and foe together, Drake's English pinnaces, the great Armada's host; Quiet they lie in the silence of the sea-depths, Waiting the call that shall sound from coast to coast.
War-ship and merchantmen, lying in the slime there, Galleys of the Algerine, and traders of Almayne, Hoys of the Dutchman, and haughty ships of Venice, Never shall the sunlight gild their sails again.
SEA-SONG
I will go down to my sea again--to the waste of waters, wild and wide; I am tired--so tired--of hill and plain and the dull tame face of the country side.
I will go out across the bar, with a swoop like the flight of a sea-bird's wings, To where the winds and the waters are, with their multitudinous thunderings.
My prows shall furrow the whitening sea, out into the teeth of the lashing wind, Where a thousand billows snarl and flee and break in a smother of foam behind.
O strong and terrible Mother Sea, let me lie once more on your cool white breast, Your winds have blown through the heart of me and called me back from the land's dull rest.
For night by night they blow through my sleep; the voice of waves through my slumber rings; I feel the spell of the steadfast deep; I hear its tramplings and triumphings.
And at last, when my hours of life are sped, let them make me no grave by hill or plain-- Thy waves, O Mother, shall guard my head. I will go down to my sea again.
THE SEA-WIND
I am weary of this country, with its hedges and its walls, And all night I do be dreaming how the water calls and calls; Of the booming of the breakers as they dash against the shore, And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind I'll hear no more.
I am weary of these meadows, where the sun comes scorching down Till the ways are dry and dusty, and the grass is burnt and brown; And forever through my dreaming come the great waves' lash and leap, And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind upon the deep.
Should I die here in this country, and its stifling turf be pressed Hot and heavy o'er my bosom, O 'tis never I could rest; Let me lie beneath the washing of the green and silent wave, With the salt wind, the sea-wind, to sing above my grave.
MY PHILOSOPHY
Life is a game that all must play; Though you win or lose, though you gain or pay, Whatever the cards you hold, I say, Throw back your head and laugh.
Keep Youth's fire at your heart aglow, A clasp for a friend and a fist for a foe, And then let come or joy or woe, Throw back your head and laugh.
Laugh, though the world upon you frown, Laugh, though the deeps your soul shall drown, Many a better man goes down-- Throw back your head and laugh.
And when Death's hand on your shoulder lies And the world grows dim to your failing eyes, Let him not say: "A coward dies." Throw back your head and laugh.
EASTER, 1917
_I. M. Thomas MacDonagh_
He died for thee, O mournful Mother Erin! A year ago he turned his face away From the glad Spring, in her young green appearing; He lingered not to listen to the lay Of thrush or blackbird; turned him not aside To watch the glory of the daffodils That shone and fluttered on a hundred hills, But where the mists had gathered, chill and grey, He chose his path--and died.
And now another Spring makes green the meadows, The daffodils are golden once again, The little winds are dancing with the shadows The young leaves make; once more the world is fain Of life and laughter--but he shall not see The leaf-strewn hollows where the violets grow, Or watch the hawthorn buds foam into snow, No more shall feel the warm, soft, springtime rain, For he has died for thee.
And yet this year, 'mid all the Spring's rejoicing, There sounds at times, I think, a sadder note; This Spring no longer is the blackbird voicing Such jubilation from his golden throat; The winds, grown older, dance with feet of lead, The daffodils are nodding listlessly, The violet has no perfume for the bee, The grasshopper has donned his dullest coat, Remembering he is dead.
Yet once again, O thrush, break into singing; Laugh, daffodils, to feel the falling rain; Winter is past, and the young earth is springing Joyous to greet her risen Lord again: And he who loved you--deem not that he lies Unheeding of your grief beneath his mound, No more the sleep of Death enwraps him round; Rejoice, O Erin, Death to-day is slain, But Valour never dies.
"HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD"
April in England! Daffodils are growing 'Neath every hedgerow, golden, tall and fair; April! and all the little winds are blowing The scents of Springtime through the sunny air; April in England! God! that we were there!
April in England! And her sons are lying On these red fields, and dreaming of her shore; April! We hear the thrushes' songs replying Each unto each, above the cannons' roar. April in England! Shall we see it more?
April in England! There's the cuckoo calling Down in her meadows, where the cowslip gleams; April! And little showers are softly falling, Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams. April in England! How the shrapnel screams!
April in England! Blood and dust and smother, Screaming of horses, moans of agony; April! Full many of thy sons, O Mother, Never again those dewy dawns shall see. April in England! God, keep England free.
THE KAISER
"I am the Lord of War," he said, and bared His blade. "Dominion shall be mine alone." East, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared, His battle lines were thrown.
Then lo! the leopards of England woke from sleep, Roaring their challenge forth across the sea, And France's voice was heard in thunders deep, Calling on Liberty.
And Belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe, And from her mountains Serbia sent her bands, And the great bear of Russia, growling low, Turned from his northern lands.
Far over land and sea the summons swept, And Canada, among her fields of grain, Threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt, Shouting, across the main.
Australia, hasting from the southward, came; Africa, India sprang into the fight. "Lo, Kaiser! here our answer to thy claim; Now God shall show the right."
Then he who drew the blade looked forth, and saw That ring of steel and fire about his throne, And knew himself at last, with trembling awe, The Lord of Death alone.
CAPTAINS ADVENTUROUS
Captains adventurous, from your ports of quiet, From the ghostly harbours where your sea-beat galleons lie, Say, do your dreams go back across the sea-line Where cliffs of England rise grey against the sky?
Say, do you dream of the pleasant ports of old-time, Orchards of old Devon, all afoam with snowy bloom? Or have the mists that veil the Sea of Shadows Closed from your eyes all the memories of home?
Feet of the Captains hurry through the stillness, Ghostly sails of galleons are drifting to and fro, Voices of mariners sound across the shadows, Waiting the word that shall bid them up and go.
"Lo now," they say, "for the grey old Mother calls us," (Listening to the thunder of the guns about her shore) "Death shall not hold us, nor years that lie between us, Sail we to England, to strike for her once more."
Captains adventurous, rest ye in your havens, Pipe your ghostly mariners to keep their watch below; Sons of your sons are here to strike for England, Heirs of your glory--Beatty, Jellicoe.
Yet shall your names ring on in England's story, You, who were the prophets of the mighty years to be; Drake, Blake, and Nelson, thundering down the ages, Captains adventurous, the Masters of the Sea.
DRAKE'S DRUM
Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon: "Mariners, O Mariners, who warred so well with Spain, Lo, the foe is here once more! Leave the ports of Heaven, Haste across the jasper sea, and drive them home again."
All the streets of Paradise echo to its rattle-- Golden roads a-tremble to the chime of tramping feet; Hawkins, Drake and Frobisher are marching forth to battle: "Peter, open wide the gates. We're out to join the fleet."
Pinnace, caravel, caracque--many a galleon drifting-- Shadowy sails of old renown upon the shadowy sea; Ghostly voices through the mists; "Lo, the white cliffs lifting; Heaven's streets for those who will, but Devon's shores for me."
Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon, Calling, as in days of old it called to vanquish Spain; Drake and Blake and Raleigh, they have left the ports of Heaven, Homing back across the stars to England's cliffs again.
OUR DEAD
Not where the English turf grows green we laid them, Where their forefathers lie; O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made them Arches an alien sky.
No chime of bells from old-time towers above them; No sound of English streams, Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them, Ever shall break their dreams.
What matters it? The earth that o'er them closes Its flowers as softly sheds As English winds could bring the English roses To rain upon their heads.
And though an alien land their dust is keeping, Still in their hearts with pride They say: "Though England may not guard our sleeping, Yet 'tis for her we died."
And with each wind across the waves that sever Them from the land they knew, Shall blow this message through their hearts forever: "England remembers too."
NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1916
Gregory fell beside the Marne, And John where flows the Aisne; But here to-night, ere midnight chime, We three shall meet again.
Though land and sea lie wide between, Their ghosts this way shall win, For, three true men, we made a bond To watch the New Year in.
We made it on a Flanders field Where white the shell-smoke ran; And who is Death to break the faith That man has pledged to man?
Then draw their chairs beside the fire And brim their cups with wine; For ere the bells of midnight swing Their hands shall clasp with mine.
Though Gregory lies where Marne runs down, And John beside the Aisne, Living and dead, ere midnight chime, We three shall meet again.
TO IRELAND'S DEAD
Ah, golden youths! who leave for evermore Your ports of quiet breath, Turning your prows from Life's familiar shore Forth with adventurous Death.
With that great comrade sailing, side by side, To meet your warrior peers, Whose names have starred the roll of Erin's pride Down all the echoing years.
Your sunlit sails flash for a moment's space, Fade, waver and are gone; But, straining through the mists, our spirits trace A glory lingering on.
Farewell, great fellowship! Sail on, nor mourn Your ports of quiet breath; Your prows with singing and with laughter turn Forth with adventurous Death.
A SONG OF EXILE
What is the news of England? The April breezes blow, Bringing to us faint odours From lanes we used to know-- Lanes, where the hawthorn hedges Foam into blossoms white; What is the news of England For England's sons to-night?
What is the news of England? 'Neath her white cliffs the sea Croons its soft song of summer, The golden days to be. Her hills are fair with promise, Her woods with voices ring, From every copse the cuckoo Shouts to the jocund Spring.
What is the news of England? Once more the cowslip gleams Gold in her misty meadows, Gold by her murmuring streams. Once more the April breezes Blow secrets of delight From the great heart of England To England's sons to-night.
THE AIR-MEN
We brought great ships to birth, We builded towns and towers-- Lords of the sea and earth, Soon shall the sky be ours.
Soon shall our navies drift Like swallows down the wind, Shall wheel and swoop and lift, Leaving the clouds behind.
The stars our keels shall know, The eagle, as it flies, Shall scream to see us go Swift moving through the skies.
High o'er the mountain-steep Our winged fleets shall sail, The serried squadrons sweep, White-pinioned down the gale.
We are the lords of the land, We built us towns and towers, The sea has felt our hand-- Soon shall the sky be ours.
THE DEFEATED
Cheer if you will the brave deed done, with laurels the victor crown, But keep one leaf of your wreath of bay for the men who lost and are down-- For the fight in vain, for the cankered grain that in blood and tears was sown.
Honour the strong of heart and hand, the sure of will and of sight, But what of the stumbling feet, the eyes that strain in vain for light? Is there no gain for the tears and pain of the men who fell in the fight?
Beaten--baffled--with standards lost--knowing no rallying cry, Struggling still, but with failing strength, while stronger men pass by:-- Keep ye your bays; I give my praise to the men who lose and die.
THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD
The sunny streets of Oxford Are lying still and bare, No sound of voice or laughter Rings through the golden air; And, chiming from her belfry, No longer Christchurch calls The eager, boyish faces To gather in her halls.
The colleges are empty, Only the sun and wind Make merry in the places The lads have left behind. But, when the trooping shadows Have put the day to flight, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come homing through the night.
From France they come, and Flanders, From Mons, and Marne and Aisne, From Greece and from Gallipoli They come to her again; From the North Sea's grey waters, From many a grave unknown, The Gentlemen of Oxford Come back to claim their own.