b'M \n\n\n\nW* \n\n\n\n\n\n\nIr^l; \n\n\n\n^Sh \n\n\n\nKvi^rv. \n\n\n\nhn*-^! \n\n\n\n\'1 \'. \xc2\xbb\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\niw \n\n\n\n!i^ \n\n\n\nii\' .1. \n\n\n\n/ >\' \n\n\n\n(M^* \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2t \n\n\n\n\'.y: \n\n\n\n\n\n\nt \n\n\n\n\\,ll \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\'(\'!. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0\xe2\x80\xa2\xc2\xab \n\n\n\n\n\n\n111 r V \xc2\xbb* M., /wv( M\'l? ; , \n\n\n\niVAm \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0iV.\\tU.. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nm.\'\'-, ""iiV \xe2\x96\xa0\xe2\x96\xa0>\xe2\x96\xa0\xe2\x96\xa0\xe2\x96\xa0\xe2\x96\xa0/ ^\' v -i \xe2\x96\xa0\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\n\n\ni \n\n\n\n(-\\^ \xe2\x96\xa0<_\xe2\x96\xa0 ..-A.-^ t" \n\n\n\n\n(jLa.^ c^..-^ \n\n\n\nTHE POEMS AND BALLADS \n\nOF \n\nROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON \n\n\n\nCOMPLETE EDITIOW \n\n\n\nNEW YORK \n\nCHARLES SCRIBNER\'S SONS \n\nMCMXIX \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCopyright, 1895, 1913, by \nCharles Scribner\'s Sons. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS \nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\n\n\nTO ALISON CUNNINGHAM \n\nPAGE \n\nI Bed in Summer t \n\nII A Thought 2 \n\nIII At the Sea-side 3 \n\nIV Young Night Thought 4 \n\nV Whole Duty of Children 5 \n\nVI Rain 6 \n\nVII Pirate Story 7 \n\nVIII Foreign Lands 8 \n\nIX Windy Nights 9 \n\nX Travel 10 \n\nXI Singing 12 \n\nXII Looking Forward 13 \n\nXIII A Good Play 14 \n\nXIV Where Go the Boats? 15 \n\nXV Auntie\'s Skirts 16 \n\nXVI The Land of Counterpane 17 \n\nXVII The Land of Nod 18 \n\nXVIII My Shadow 19 \n\nXIX System 20 \n\nXX A Good Boy 21 \n\nXXI Escape at Bedtime 22 \n\nXXII Marching Song 23 \n\nXXIII The Cow 24 \n\nXXIV Happy Thought 25 \n\nXXV The Wind 26 \n\nXXVI Keepsake Mill ... 27 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\nPAGE \n\nXXVII Good and Bad Children 29 \n\nXXVill Foreign Children 30 \n\nXXIX The Sun\'s Travels 31 \n\nXXX The Lamplighter 32 \n\nXXXI My Bed is a Boat 33 \n\nXXXII The Moon 34 \n\nXXXIII The Swing 35 \n\nXXXIV Time to Rise }6 \n\nXXXV Looking-glass River 37 \n\nXXXVI Fairy Bread 39 \n\nXXXVIl From a Railway Carriage 40 \n\nXXXVIII Winter-time 41 \n\nXXXIX The Hayloft 42 \n\nXL Farewell to the Farm 43 \n\nXL! North-west Passage 44 \n\n1 Good-Night \n\n2 Shadow March \n\n3 In Port \n\n\n\nTHE CHILD ALONE \n\nI The Unseen Playmate 49 \n\nII My Ship and I 50 \n\nill My Kingdom 51 \n\nIV Picture-books in Vv^inter 53 \n\nV My Treasures 54 \n\nVI Block City 55 \n\nVII The Land of Story-books 57 \n\nVIII Armies in the Fire 59 \n\nIX The Little Land 60 \n\nGARDEN DAYS \n\nI Night and Day 65 \n\nII Nest Eggs 67 \n\nIII The Flowers 69 \n\nIV Summer Sun i 70 \n\nV The Dumb Soldier" 71 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\nPAGE \n\nV! Autumn Fires 73 \n\nVll The Gardener 74 \n\nVIII Historical Associations 75 \n\nENVOYS \n\nI To Willie and Henrietta 79 \n\nII To My Mother 80 \n\nin To Auntie 81 \n\nIV To Minnie 82 \n\nV To My Name-child 85 \n\nVI To Any Reader 87 \n\n\n\n?ri \n\n\n\nUNDERiVOODS \n\n\n\nBook I \xe2\x80\x94 In English \n\nI ENVOY : Go, Little Book 97 \n\nII A SONG OF THE ROAD : The Gauger Walked . . 98 \n\nIII THE CANOE SPEAKS : On the Great Streams . . 100 \n\nIV It is the Season 102 \n\nV THE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL: A Naked House, a \n\nNaked Moor 104 \n\nVI A VISIT FROM THE SEA: Far from the Loud \n\nSea Beaches 106 \n\nVII TO A GARDENER : Friend, in my Mountain-side \n\nDemesne 107 \n\nVIII TO MINNIE : A Picture Frame for you to Fill . . 109 \n\nIX TO K. DE M. : A Lover of the Moorland Bare . .110 \n\nX TO N. V. DE G. S. : The Unfathomable Sea . . .111 \nXI TO WILL H. LOW: Youth now Flees 112 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\nPAGE \n\nXII TO MRS. WILL H. LOW: Even in the Bluest \n\nNoonday of July 114 \n\nXIII TO H. F. BROWN: I Sit and Wait . . . .115 \n\nXIV TO ANDREW LANG: Dear Andrew . . . .117 \nXV ET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI : In Ancient Tales, \n\nO Friend 119 \n\nXVI TO W. E. HENLEY : The Year Runs through her \n\nPhases 122 \n\nXVII HENRY JAMES: Who Comes to-night? .... 124 \n\nXVIII THE MIRROR SPEAKS: Where the Bells . . .125 \nXIX KATHARINE : We See you as we See a Face . .127 \n\nXX TO F. J. S. : I Read, Dear Friend 128 \n\nXXI REQUIEM : Under the Wide and Starry Sky . . 129 \n\nXXII THE CELESTIAL SURGEON : If I Have Faltered. 130 \n\nXXIII OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS: Out of the Sun. 131 \n\nXXIV Not yet, my Soul 134 \n\nXXV It is not yours, O Mother, to Complain . . . .136 \n\nXXVI THE SICK CHILD: O Mother, Lay your Hand \n\nON MY Brow 138 \n\nXXVII IN MEMORIAM F. a. S. : Yet, O Stricken Heart. 139 \n\nXXVIIl TO MY FATHER: Peace and her Huge Invasion . 140 \n\nXXIX IN THE STATES : With Half a Heart .... 142 \n\nXXX A PORTRAIT: I Am a Kind of Farthing Dip . .143 \n\nXXXI Sing Clearlier, Muse 144 \n\nXXXII A CAMP : The Bed Was Made 145 \n\nXXXIII THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS : We \n\nTravelled in the Print of Olden Wars . . . 146 \n\nXXXIV SKERRY VORE : For Love of Lovely Words . .147 \nXXXV SKERRYVORE: THE PARALLEL: Here All is \n\nSunny 148 \n\nXXXVI My House, I Say 149 \n\nXXXVII My Body Which My Dungeon is 150 \n\nXXXVIII Say not of me that weakly I declined . . . .152 \n\nBook II \xe2\x80\x94 In Scots \n\nTable of Common Scottish Vowel Sounds 154 \n\nI THE MAKER TO POSTERITY : Far \'yont Amang the \n\nYears to be 155 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\nPAGE \n\n11 ILLE TERRARUM : Frae Nirly, Nippw\', Eas\'lan Breeze 157 \n\nIII When Aince Aprile has Fairly Come 160 \n\nIV A MILE AN\' A BITTOCK 161 \n\nV A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN : The Clinkum-clank o\' \n\nSabbath Bells 163 \n\nVI THE SPAEWIFE : O, I Wad Like to Ken 169 \n\nVn THE BLAST, 1875 : It\'s Rainin\'. Weet\'s the Gairden \n\nSod 171 \n\nVIII THE COUNTERBLAST, 1886: My Bonny Man, the \n\nWarld, it\'s True 173 \n\nIX TyE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL: It\'s Strange that \n\nGod Should Fash to Frame 176 \n\nX THEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER \n\nCLUB: Dear Thamson Class, Whaure\'er I Gang . 178 \n\nXI EMBRO HIE KIRK : The Lord Himsel\' in Former Days 181 \nXII THE SCOTSMAN\'S RETURN FROM ABROAD: In \n\nMoNY A Foreign Pairt I\'ve Been 184 \n\nXIII Late in the Nicht 188 \n\nXIV MY CONSCIENCE: Of a\' the ills That Flesh can Fear 191 \nXV TO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN : By Lyne and Tyne, by \n\nThames and Tees 193 \n\nXVI It\'s an Owercome Sooth for Age an\' Youth . . . .196 \n\nBook III \nBeing Songs of Travel and Other Verses Written \nPrincipally in the South Seas, 1888-1894 \n\nI THE VAGABOND: Give to me the Life I Love . . .199 \n\nII YOUTH AND LOVE : I: Once Only by the Garden Gate 201 \n\nIII YOUTH AND LOVE : II : To the Heart of Youth . 202 \n\nIV THE UNFORGOTTEN: I: In Dreams, Unhappy . . .203 \n\nV THE UNFORGOTTEN : II : She Rested by the Broken \n\nBrook 204 \n\nVI The Infinite Shining Heavens 205 \n\nVII MADRIGAL : Plain as the Glistering Planets . . . 206 \n\nVIII To You, LET Snow and Roses 208 \n\nIX LET BEAUTY AWAKE 209 \n\nX I Know not How it is With You 210 \n\nXI I Will Make You Brooches and Toys 211 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\nPAGE \n\nXn WE HAVE LOVED OF YORE : Berried Brake \n\nAND Reedy Island 212 \n\nXIII DITTY : The Cock shall Crow 214 \n\nXIV MATER TRIUMPH ANS: Son of my Woman\'s Body. 215 \nXV Bright is the Ring of Words 216 \n\nXVI In the Highlands, in the Country Places . . . .217 \n\nXVII WANDERING WILLIE : Home no more Home . .218 \n\nXVIII TO DR. HAKE : In the Beloved Hour . . . .220 \n\nXIX TO : I Knew thee Strong 221 \n\nXX The Morning Drum-Call 223 \n\nXXI I Have Trod 224 \n\nXXII He Hears with Gladdened Heart 225 \n\nXXIII THE LOST OCCASION : Farewell, Fair Day . . 226 \n\nXXIV IF THIS WERE FAITH : God, if this were enough. 227 \nXXV MY WIFE: Trusty, Dusky, Vivid, True .... 229 \n\nXXVI WINTER : In Rigorous Hours 230 \n\nXXVII The Stormy Evening Closes 231 \n\nXXVIII TO AN ISLAND PRINCESS : Since Long Ago . . 232 \n\nXXIX TO KALAKAUA : The Silver Ship, my King . . .234 \n\nXXX TO PRINCESS KAIULANI : Forth from her Land. 235 \n\nXXXI TO MOTHER MARYANNE: To see the Infinite Pity. 236 \n\nXXXII IN MEMORIAM, E. H.: I Knew a Silver Head . . 237 \n\nXXXIII TO MY WIFE: Long must Elapse Ere You . . . 238 \n\nXXXIV TO THE MUSE : Resign the Rhapsody .... 240 \n\nXXXV TO MY OLD FAMILIARS : Do you Remember . . 241 \nXXXVI The Tropics Vanish 243 \n\nXXXVII TO S. C. : I Heard the Pulse 245 \n\nXXXVIII THE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA: Let us, who Part. 247 \n\nXXXIX THE WOODMAN : In all the Grove 252 \n\nXL TROPIC RAIN : As the Single Pang of the Blow 257 \n\nXLI AN END OF TRAVEL : Let now your Soul . . 259 \n\nXLII We Uncommiserate Pass 260 \n\nXLIII THE LAST SIGHT: Once More 1 Saw Him . . . 261 \n\nXLIV Sing Me a Song 262 \n\nXLV TO S. R. CROCKETT : Blows the Wind To-day . 264 \n\nXLVl EVENSONG : The Embers of the Day 265 \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\n\n\n"POEMS "POSTHUMOUSLY "PUBLISHED \n\n\n\nPAGE \n\nA MARTIAL ELEGY FOR SOME LEAD SOLDIERS : For \n\nCertain Soldiers 269 \n\nVERSES WRITTEN IN 1872 : Though He That Ever . . .270 \nTO H. C. BUNNER : You Know the Way to Arcady . . . 272 \nFROM WISHING-LAND : Dear Lady, Tapping at Your Door 273 \n\n\n\n"BALLADS \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nDedication : to Ori a Ori 278 \n\nI The Slaying of Tamatea 279 \n\nII The Venging of Tamatea 289 \n\nIII Rahero 302 \n\nNotes to the Song of Rahero 312 \n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\nI The Priest\'s Vigil 317 \n\nII The Lovers 321 \n\nIII The Feast 325 \n\nIV The Raid ... . .... . 333 \n\nNotes to the Feast of Famine 339 \n\nTICONDEROGA : A Legend of the West Highlands. \n\nI The Saying of the Name 343 \n\nII The Seeking of the Name 348 \n\nIII The Place of the Name 351 \n\nNotes to Ticonderoga 334 \n\nHEATHER ALE : A Galloway Legend 357 \n\nNote to Heather Ale 361 \n\nCHRISTMAS AT SEA 365 \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\n\n\nTO \n\nALISON CUNNINGHAM \n\nFROM HER BOY \n\nFOR the long nights you lay awake \nAnd watched for my unworthy sake: \nFor your most comfortable hand \nThat led me through the uneven land: \nFor all the story-books you read: \nFor all the pains you comforted : \nFor all you pitied, all you bore, \nIn sad and happy days of yore: \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy second Mother, my first Wife. \nThe angel of my infant life \xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom the sick child, now well and old, \nTake, nurse, the little book you hold ! \n\nAnd grant it, Heaven, that all who read \nMay find as dear a nurse at need. \nAnd every child who lists my rhyme, \nIn the bright, fireside, nursery clime, \nMay hear it in as kind a voice \nAs made my childish days rejoice ! \n\n\n\nR. I.. S. \n\n\n\nBED IN SUMMER \n\nIN winter I get up at night \nAnd dress by yellow candle-light \nIn summer, quite the other way, \nI have to go to bed by day. \n\n1 have to go to bed and see \nThe birds still hopping on the tree, \nOr hear the grown-up people\'s feet \nStill going past me in the street. \n\nAnd does it not seem hard to you, \nWhen all the sky is clear and blue, \nAnd I should like so much to play, \nTo have to go to bed by day ? \n\n\n\nA THOUGHT \n\n\n\nIT is very nice to think \nTile world is full of meat and drink \nWitii little children saying grace \nIn every Christian kind of place. \n\n\n\n3 \n\n\n\nw \n\n\n\nIII \n\nAT THE SEA-SIDE \n\nHEN I was down beside the sea \nA wooden spade they gave to me \nTo dig the sandy shore. \n\n\n\nMy holes were empty like a cup. \nIn every hole the sea came up, \nTill it could come no more. \n\n\n\nIV \n\nYOUNG NIGHT THOUGHT \n\nA LL night long and every night, \nl\\ When my mama puts out the light, \nI see the people marching by, \nAs plain as day, before my eye. \n\nArmies and emperors and kings, \nAll carrying different kinds of things. \nAnd marching in so grand a way, \nYou never saw the like by day. \n\nSo fine a show was never seen \nAt the great circus on the green; \nFor every kind of beast and man \nIs marching in that caravan. \n\nAt first they move a little slow, \nBut still the faster on they go. \nAnd still beside them close I keep \nUntil we reach the town of Sleep. \n\n\n\n4 \n\n\n\nWHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN \n\n\n\nA CHILD should always say what\'s true \nAnd speak when he is spoken to, \nAnd behave mannerly at table; \nAt least as far as he is able. \n\n\n\nVI \n\nRAIN \n\nTHE rain is raining all around \nIt falls on field and tree, \nh rains on the umbrellas here, \nAnd on the ships at sea. \n\n\n\nvn \n\nPIRATE STORY \n\nTHREE of US afloat in the meadow by the swing, \nThree of us aboard in the basket on the lea. \nWinds are in the air, they are blowing in the spring, \nAnd waves are on the meadow like the waves there \nare at sea. \n\nWhere shall we adventure, to-day that we\'re afloat, \nWary of the weather and steering by a star ? \n\nShall it be to Africa, a-steering of the boat, \nTo Providence, or Babylon, or off to Malabar ? \n\nHi! but here\'s a squadron a-rowing on the sea \xe2\x80\x94 \nCattle on the meadow a-charging with a roar! \n\nQuick, and we\'ll escape them, they\'re as mad as they \ncan be. \nThe wicket is the harbour and the garden is the shore. \n\n\n\nVIII \n\nFOREIGN LANDS \n\nUP into the cherry tree \nWho should climb but little me? \nI held the trunk with both my hands \nAnd looked abroad on foreign lands. \n\nI saw the next door garden lie, \nAdorned with flowers, before my eye, \nAnd many pleasant places more \nThat I had never seen before. \n\nI saw the dimpling river pass \nAnd be the sky\'s blue looking-glass; \nThe dusty roads go up and down \nWith people tramping into town. \n\nIf I could find a higher tree \nFarther and farther I should see. \nTo where the grown-up river slips \nInto the sea among the ships, \n\nTo where the roads on either hand \nLead onward into fairy land, \nWhere all the children dine at five, \nAnd all the playthings come alive. \n8 \n\n\n\nIX \n\nWINDY NIGHTS \n\nWHENEVER the moon and stars are set \nWhenever the wind is high, \nAll night long in the dark and wet, \n\nA man goes riding by. \nLate in the night when the fires are out. \nWhy does he gallop and gallop about ? \n\nWhenever the trees are crying aloud, \n\nAnd ships are tossed at sea, \nBy, on the highway, low and loud. \n\nBy at the gallop goes he. \nBy at the gallop he goes, and then \nBy he comes back at the gallop again. \n\n\n\nX \n\nTRAVEL \n\nI SHOULD like to rise and go \nWhere the golden apples grow; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere below another sky \nParrot islands anchored lie, \nAnd, watched by cockatoos and goats. \nLonely Crusoes building boats; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere in sunshine reaching out \nEastern cities, miles about, \nAre with mosque and minaret \nAmong sandy gardens set. \nAnd \'the rich goods from near and far \nHang for sale in the bazaar; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere the Great Wall round China goes, \nAnd on one side the desert blows. \nAnd with bell and voice and drum. \nCities on the other hum; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere are forests, hot as fire. \nWide as England, tall as a spire, \nFull of apes and cocoa-nuts \nAnd the negro hunters\' huts; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere the knotty crocodile \nLies and blinks in the Nile, \nAnd the red flamingo flies \n\nlO \n\n\n\nTRAVEL \n\nHunting fish before his eyes; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere in jungles, near and far, \nMan-devouring tigers are, \nLying close and giving ear \nLest the hunt be drawing near, \nOr a comer-by be seen \nSwinging in a palanquin ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhere among the desert sands \nSome deserted city stands, \nAll its children, sweep and prince, \nGrown to manhood ages since, \nNot a foot in street or house. \nNot a stir of child or mouse. \nAnd when kindly falls the night. \nIn all the town no spark of light. \nThere I\'ll come when I\'m a man \nWith a camel caravan; \nLight a fire in the gloom \nOf some dusty dining room; \nSee the pictures on the walls. \nHeroes, fights and festivals; \nAnd in a corner find the toys \nOf the old Egyptian boys. \n\n\n\nII \n\n\n\nXI \n\nSINGING \n\n\n\nOF speckled eggs the birdie sings \nAnd nests among tiie trees; \nThe sailor sings of ropes and things \nIn ships upon the seas. \n\nThe children sing in far Japan, \nThe children sing in Spain; \n\nThe organ with the organ man \nIs singing in the rain. \n\n\n\n\\2 \n\n\n\nXII \n\nLOOKING FORWARD \n\n\n\nWHEN I am grown to man\'s estate \nI shall be very proud and great, \nAnd tell the other girls and boys \nNot to meddle with my toys. \n\n\n\nI? \n\n\n\nXIII \n\nA GOOD PLAY \n\nWE built a ship upon the stairs \nAll made of the back-bedroom chairs. \nAnd filled it full of sofa pillows \nTo go a-sailing on the billows. \n\nWe took a saw and several nails, \nAnd water in the nursery pails; \nAnd Tom said, " Let us also take \nAn apple and a slice of cake; " \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhich was enough for Tom and me \nTo go a-sailing on, till tea. \n\nWe sailed along for days and days, \nAnd had the very best of plays; \nBut Tom fell out and hurt his knee, \nSo there was no one left but me. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa24 \n\n\n\nXIV \n\nWHERE GO THE BOATS ? \n\nDARK brown is the river. \nGolden is the sand. \nIt flows along for ever, \nWith trees on either hand. \n\nGreen leaves a-floating, \n\nCastles of the foam, \nBoats of mine a-boating \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere will all come home ? \n\nOn goes the river \nAnd out past the mill. \n\nAway down the valley, \nAway down the hill. \n\nAway down the river, \nA hundred miles or more. \n\nOther little children \nShall bring my boats ashore. \n\n\n\ni5 \n\n\n\nXV \n\nauntie\'s skirts \n\nWHENEVER Auntie moves around, \nHer dresses make a curious souna, \nThey trail behind her up the floor, \nAnd trundle after through the door. \n\n\n\nXVI \n\nTHE LAND OF COUNTERPANE \n\nWHEN I was sick and lay a-bed, \nI had two pillows at my head. \nAnd all my toys beside me lay \n\' To keep me happy all the day. \n\nAnd sometimes for an hour or so \nI watched my leaden soldiers go, \nWith different uniforms and drills, \nAmong the bed-clothes, through the hills; \n\nAnd sometimes sent my ships in fleets \nAll up and down among the sheets; \nOr brought my trees and houses out. \nAnd planted cities all about. \n\nI was the giant great and still \nThat sits upon the pillow-hill, \nAnd sees before him, dale and plain. \nThe pleasant land of counterpane. \n\n\n\nIT \n\n\n\nXVII \n\nTHE LAND OF NOD \n\nFROM breakfast on through all the day \nAt home among my friends I stay, \nBut every night I go abroad \nAfar into the land of Nod. \n\nAll by myself 1 have to go, \n\nWith none to tell me what to do \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAll alone beside the streams \n\nAnd up the mountain-sides of dreams. \n\nThe strangest things are there for me, \nBoth things to eat and things to see, \nAnd many frightening sights abroad \nTill morning in the land of Nod. \n\nTry as I like to find the way, \nI never can get back by day. \nNor can remember plain and clear \nThe curious music that I hear. \n\n\n\ni8 \n\n\n\nXVIII \n\nMY SHADOW \n\nI HAVE a little shadow that goes in and out with me, \nAnd what can be the use of him is more than I can \nsee. \nHe is very, very like me fiom the heels up to the head; \nAnd I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. \n\nThe funniest thing about him is the way he likes to \n\ngrow \xe2\x80\x94 \nNot at all like proper children, which is always very \n\nslow; \nFor he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber \n\nball, \nAnd he sometimes gets so little that there\'s none of him \n\nat all. \n\nHe hasn\'t got a notion of how children ought to play. \nAnd can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. \nHe stays so close beside me, he\'s a coward you can see; \nI\'d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks \nto me! \n\nOne morning, very early, before the sun was up, \nI rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; \nBut my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head. \nHad stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in \nbed. \n\n10 \n\n\n\nXIX \n\nSYSTEM \n\nEVERY night my prayers I say, \nAnd get my dinner every day; \nAnd every day that I\'ve been good, \nI get an orange after food. \n\nThe child that is not clean and neat. \nWith lots of toys and things to eat, \nHe is a naughty child, I\'m sure \xe2\x80\x94 \nOr else his dear papa is poor. \n\n\n\n20 \n\n\n\nXX \n\nA GOOD BOY \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nWOKE before the morning, I was happy all the day, \nI never said an ugly word, but smiled and stuck to \nplay. \n\n\n\nAnd now at last the sun is going down behind the \n\nwood, \nAnd I am very happy, for I know that I\'ve been good. \n\nMy bed is waiting cool and fresh, with linen smooth and \n\nfair, \nAnd I must off to sleepsin-by, and not forget my prayer. \n\nI know that, till to-morrow I shall see the sun arise. \nNo ugly dream shall fright my mind, no ugly sight my \neyes. \n\nBut slumber hold me tightly till I waken in the dawn. \nAnd hear the thrushes singing in the lilacs round the \nlawn. \n\n\n\n21 \n\n\n\nXXI \n\nESCAPE AT BEDTIME \n\nTHE lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out \nThrough the blinds and the windows and bars; \nAnd high overhead and all moving about, \n\nThere were thousands of millions of stars. \nThere ne\'er were such thousands of leaves on a tree, \n\nNor of people in church or the Park, \nAs the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me. \nAnd that glittered and winked in the dark. \n\nThe Dog, and the Plough, and the Hunter, and all, \n\nAnd the star of the sailor, and Mars, \nThese shone in the sky, and the pail by the wall \n\nWould be half full of water and stars. \nThey saw me at last, and they chased me with cries, \n\nAnd they soon had me packed into bed; \nBut the glory kept shining and bright in my eyes, \n\nAnd the stars going round in my head. \n\n\n\n32 \n\n\n\nXXII \n\nMARCHING SONG \n\nBRING the comb and play upon it! \nMarching, here we come! \nWillie cocks his highland bonnet, \nJohnnie beats the drum. \n\nMary Jane commands the party, \n\nPeter leads the rear; \nFeet in time, alert and hearty, \n\nEach a Grenadier! \n\nAll in the most martial manner \n\nMarching double-quick; \nWhile the napkin like a banner \n\nWaves upon the stick! \n\nHere\'s enough of fame and pillage, \n\nGreat commander Jane! \nNow that we\'ve been round the village, \n\nLet\'s go home again. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xbbi \n\n\n\nXXIII \n\nTHE COW \n\nTHE friendly cow all red and white, \nI love with all my heart: \nShe gives me cream with all her might. \nTo eat with apple-tart. \n\nShe wanders lowing here and there. \n\nAnd yet she cannot stray, \nAll in the pleasant open air, \n\nThe pleasant light of day; \n\nAnd blown by all the winds that pass \nAnd wet with all the showers, \n\nShe walks among the meadow grass \nAnd eats the meadow flowers. \n\n\n\n34 \n\n\n\nT \n\n\n\nXXIV \n\nHAPPY THOUGHT \n\nHE world is so full of a number of things, \nI\'m sure we should all be as happy as kings. \n\n\n\n*% \n\n\n\nXXV \n\nTHE WIND \n\nI SAW you toss the kites on high \nAnd blow the birds about the sky; \nAnd all around I heard you pass, \nLike ladies\' skirts across the grass \xe2\x80\x94 \nO wind, a-blowing all day long, \nO wind, that sings so loud a song I \n\nI saw the different things you did, \nBut always you yourself you hid. \nI felt you push, I heard you call, \nI could not see yourself at all \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nO wind, a-blowing all day long, \nO wind, that sings so loud a song! \n\nO you that are so strong and cold, \nO blower, are you young or old ? \nAre you a beast of field and tree, \nOr just a stronger child than me ? \nO wind, a-blowing all day long, \nO wind, that sings so loud a song! \n\n\n\n30 \n\n\n\nXXVI \n\nKEEPSAKE MILL \n\nOVER the borders, a sin without pardon, \nBreai^ing the branches and crawling below, \nOut through the breach in the wall of the garden, \nDown by the banks of the river, we go. \n\nHere is the mill with the humming of thunder. \nHere is the weir with the wonder of foam, \n\nHere is the sluice with the race running under \xe2\x80\x94 \nMarvellous places, though handy to home I \n\nSounds of the village grow stiller and stiller, \nStiller the note of the birds on the hill; \n\nDusty and dim are the eyes of the miller. \nDeaf are his ears with the moil of the mill. \n\nYears may go by, and the wheel in the river \nWheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day. \n\nWheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever \nLong after all of the boys are away. \n\nHome from the Indies and home from the ocean- \nHeroes and soldiers we all shall come home; \n\nStill we shall find the old mill wheel in motion, \nTurning and churning that river to foam. \n\n27 \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nYou with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled, \n\nI with your marble of Saturday last, \nHonoured and old and all gaily apparelled, \n\nHere we shall meet and remember the past. \n\n\n\n28 \n\n\n\nXXVII \n\nGOOD AND BAD CHILDREN \n\nCHILDREN, you are very little, \nAnd your bones are very brittle; \nIf you would grow great and stately. \nYou must try to walk sedately. \n\nYou must still be bright and quiet, \nAnd content with simple diet; \nAnd remain, through all bewild\'ring, \nInnocent and honest children. \n\nHappy hearts and happy faces, \nHappy play in grassy places \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat was how, in ancient ages. \nChildren grew to kings and sages. \n\nBut the unkind and the unruly. \nAnd the sort who eat unduly, \nThey must never hope for glory \xe2\x80\x94 \nTheirs is quite a different story! \n\nCruel children, crying babies. \nAll grow up as geese and gabies. \nHated, as their age increases, \nBy their nephews and their nieces. \n29 \n\n\n\nXXVIII \n\nFOREIGN CHILDREN \n\nLITTLE Indian, Sioux or Crow, \na Little frosty Eskimo, \nLittle Turk or Japanee, \nO! don\'t you wish that you were me? \n\nYou have seen the scarlet trees \nAnd the lions over seas; \nYou have eaten ostrich eggs, \nAnd turned the turtles off their legs. \n\nSuch a life is very fine, \nBut it\'s not so nice as mine: \nYou must often, as you trod, \nHave wearied not to be abroad. \n\nYou have curious things to eat, \nI am fed on proper meat; \nYou must dwell beyond the foam, \nBut I am safe and live at home. \n\nLittle Indian, Sioux or Crow, \n\nLittle frosty Eskimo, \n\nLittle Turk or Japanee, \nO! don\'t you wish that you were me? \n\n\n\n30 \n\n\n\nXXIX \n\nTHE sun\'s travels \n\nTHE sun is not a-bed, when I \nAt night upon my pillow lie; \nStill round the earth his way he takes, \nAnd morning after morning makes. \n\nWhile here at home, in shining day, \nWe round the sunny garden play, \nEach little Indian sleepy-head \nIs being kissed and put to bed. \n\nAnd when at eve I rise from tea, \nDay dawns beyond the Atlantic Sea; \nAnd all the children in the West \nAre getting up and being dressed. \n\n\n\n31 \n\n\n\nXXX \n\nTHE LAMPLIGHTER \n\nMY tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; \nIt\'s time to take the window to see Leerie going by ; \nFor every night at teatime and before you take your seat, \nWith lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the \nstreet. \n\nNow Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea, \nAnd my papa\'s a banker and as rich as he can be; \nBut 1, when 1 am stronger and can choose what I\'m to do, \nO Leerie, I\'ll go round at night and light the lamps \nwith you! \n\nFor we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, \nAnd Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; \nAnd O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light, \nO Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night! \n\n\n\nja \n\n\n\nXXXI \n\nMY BED IS A BOAT \n\nMY bed is like a little boat; \nNurse helps me in when I embark; \nShe girds me in my sailor\'s coat \nAnd starts me in the dark. \n\nAt night, I go on board and say \nGood-night to all my friends on shore; \n\nI shut my eyes and sail away \nAnd see and hear no more. \n\nAnd sometimes things to bed I take, \nAs prudent sailors have to do; \n\nPerhaps a slice of wedding-cake, \nPerhaps a toy or two. \n\nAll night across the dark we steer; \n\nBut when the day returns at last. \nSafe in my room, beside the pier, \n\nI find my vessel fast. \n\n\n\n33 \n\n\n\nXXXII \n\nTHE MOON \n\nTHE moon has a face like the clock in the halJ; \nShe shines on thieves on the garden wall, \nOn streets and fields and harbour quays, \nAnd birdies asleep in the forks of the trees. \n\nThe squalling cat and the squeaking mouse. \nThe howling dog by the door of the house, \nThe bat that lies in bed at noon, \nAll love to be out by the light of the moon. \n\nBut all of the things that belong to the day \nCuddle to sleep to be out of her way ; \nAnd flowers and children close their eyes \nTill up in the morning the sun shall arise. \n\n\n\n34 \n\n\n\nXXXIII \n\nTHE SWING \n\nHOW do you like to go up in a swing. \nUp in the air so blue ? \nOh, I do think it the pleasantest thing \nEver a child can do! \n\nUp in the air and over the wall, \n\nTill I can see so wide, \nRivers and trees and cattle and all \n\nOver the countryside \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTill I look down on the garden green, \nDown on the roof so brown \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nUp in the air I go flying again, \nUp in the air and down! \n\n\n\n3J \n\n\n\nXXXIV \n\nTIME TO RISE \n\n\n\nA BIRDIE with a yellow bill \nHopped upon the window sill. \nCocked his shining eye and said: \n" Ain\'t you \'shamed, you sleepy-head!\' \n\n\n\n36 \n\n\n\ns \n\n\n\nXXXV \n\nLOOKING-GLASS RIVER \n\nMOOTH it slides upon its travel, \nHere a wimple, there a gleam \xe2\x80\x94 \nO the clean gravel! \nO the smooth stream ! \n\n\n\nSailing blossoms, silver fishes, \nPaven pools as clear as air \xe2\x80\x94 \nHow a child wishes \nTo live down there! \n\nWe can see our coloured faces \nFloating on the shaken poo! \nDown in cool places, \nDim and very cool; \n\nTill a wind or water wrinkle. \nDipping marten, plumping trout. \nSpreads in a twinkle \nAnd blots all out. \n\nSee the rings pursue each other; \nAll below grows black as night, \nJust as if mother \nHad blown out the light! \n3? \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nPatience, children, just a minute \xe2\x80\x94 \nSee the spreading circles die; \nThe stream and all in it \nWill clear by-and-bv. \n\n\n\n18 \n\n\n\nXXXVI \n\nFAIRY BREAD \n\nCOME up here, O dusty feet! \nHere is fairy bread to eat. \nHere in my retiring room, \nChildren, you may dine \nOn the golden smell of broom \n\nAnd the shade of pine; \nAnd when you have eaten weU. \nFairy stories hear and tell. \n\n\n\n39 \n\n\n\nXXXVII \n\n\n\nFROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE \n\n\n\nFASTER than fairies, faster than witches, \nBridges and houses, hedges and ditches; \nAnd charging along like troops in a battle, \nAll through the meadows the horses and cattle: \nAll of the sights of the hill and the plain \nFly as thick as driving rain ; \nAnd ever again, in the wink of an eye, \nPainted stations whistle by. \n\nHere is a child who clambers and scrambles, \nAll by himself and gathering brambles; \nHere is a tramp who stands and gazes; \nAnd there is the green for stringing the daisies 1 \nHere is a cart run away in the road \nLumping along with man and load; \nAnd here is a mill and there is a river: \nEach a glimpse and gone for ever! \n\n\n\n40 \n\n\n\nXXXVIII \n\nWINTER-TIME \n\nLATE lies the wintry sun a-bed, \n-rf A frosty, fiery sleepy-head ; \nBlini^s but an hour or two ; and then, \nA blood-red orange, sets again. \n\nBefore the stars have left the skies, \nAt morning in the dark I rise; \nAnd shivering in my nakedness, \nBy the cold candle, bathe and dress. \n\nClose by the jolly fire I s\'t \nTo warm my frozen bones a bit; \nOr with a reindeer-sled, explore \nThe colder countries round the door. \n\nWhen to go out, my nurse doth wrap \nMe in my comforter and cap ; \nThe cold wind burns my face, and blows \nIts frosty pepper up my nose. \n\nBlack are my steps on silver sod; \nThick blows my frosty breath abroad ; \nAnd tree and house, and hill and lake. \nAre frosted like a wedding-cake. \n\n\n\n41 \n\n\n\nXXXIX \n\nTHE HAYLOFT \n\nTHROUGH all the pleasant meadow-side \nThe grass grew shoulder-high, \nTill the shining scythes went far and wide \nAnd cut it down to dry. \n\nThese green and sweetly smelling crops \n\nThey led in waggons home; \nAnd they piled them here in mountain tops \n\nFor mountaineers to roam. \n\nHere is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail, \nMount Eagle and Mount High; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe mice that in these mountains dwell, \nNo happier are than I ! \n\nO what a joy to clamber there, \n\nO what a place for play. \nWith the sweet, the dim, the dusty air, \n\nThe happy hills of hay! \n\n\n\n42 \n\n\n\nXL \n\nFAREWELL TO THE FARM \n\nTHE coach is at the door at last; \nThe eager children, mounting fast \nAnd kissing hands, in chorus sing: \nGood-bye, good-bye, to everything! \n\nTo house and garden, field and lawn, \nThe meadow-gates we swang upon, \nTo pump and stable, tree and swing. \nGood-bye, good-bye, to everything! \n\nAnd fare you well for evermore, \nO ladder at the hayloft door, \nO hayloft where the cobwebs cling, \nGood-bye, good-bye, to everything! \n\nCrack goes the whip, and off we go; \nThe trees and houses smaller grow; \nLast, round the woody turn we swing: \nGood-bye, good-bye, to everything! \n\n\n\n43 \n\n\n\nXLI \n\nNORTH-WEST PASSAGE \n\nI. GOOD NIGHT. \n\nWHEN the bright lamp is carried in, \nThe sunless hours again begin; \nO\'er all without, in field and lane, \nThe haunted night returns again. \n\nNow we behold the embers flee \nAbout the firelit hearth ; and see \nOur faces painted as we pass, \nLike pictures, on the window-glass. \n\nMust we to bed indeed ? Well then. \nLet us arise and go like men. \nAnd face with an undaunted tread \nThe long black passage up to bed. \n\nFarewell, O brother, sister, sire! \nO pleasant party round the fire! \nThe songs you sing, the tales you tell. \nTill far to-morrow, fare ye well ! \n\n\n\n44 \n\n\n\nSHADOW MARCH. \n\n\n\nAll round the house is the jet-black night; \n\nIt stares through the window-pane; \nIt crawls in the corners, hiding from the light, \n\nAnd it moves with the moving flame. \n\nNow my little heart goes a-beating like a drum, \nWith the breath of the Bogie in my hair; \n\nAnd all round the candle the crooked shadows come, \nAnd go marching along up the stair. \n\nThe shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp, \nThe shadow of the child that goes to bed \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAll the wicked shadows coming tramp, tramp, tramp. \nWith the black night overhead. \n\n\n\n45 \n\n\n\nIN PORT. \n\n\n\nLast, to the chamber where I lie \nMy fearful footsteps patter nigh, \nAnd come from out the cold and gloom \nInto my warm and cheerful room. \n\nThere, safe arrived, we turn about \nTo keep the coming shadows out, \nAnd close the happy door at last \nOn all the perils that we past. \n\nThen, when mamma goes by to bed. \nShe shall come in with tip-toe tread, \nAnd see me lying warm and fast \nAnd in the Land of Nod at last. \n\n\n\n46 \n\n\n\nTHE CHILD ALONE \n\n\n\nTHE UNSEEN PLAYMATE \n\nWHEN children are playing alone on the greeOf \nIn comes the playmate that never was seen. \nWhen children are happy and lonely and good, \nThe Friend of the Children comes out of the wood. \n\nNobody heard him and nobody saw, \n\nHis is a picture you never could draw. \n\nBut he\'s sure to be present, abroad or at home, \n\nWhen children are happy and playing alone. \n\nHe lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass. \nHe sings when you tinkle the musical glass; \nWhene\'er you are happy and cannot tell why. \nThe Friend of the Children is sure to be by! \n\nHe loves to be little, he hates to be big, \n\'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig; \n\'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin \nThat sides with the Frenchmen and never can win, \n\n\'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed. \nBids you go to your sleep and not ^rouble your head; \nFor wherever they\'re lying, in cupboard or shelf, \n\'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself I \n\n\n\n49 \n\n\n\nII \n\nMY SHIP AND I \n\nOIT\'S I that am the captain of a tidy little ship, \nOf a ship that goes a-sailing on the pond; \nAnd my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about; \nBut when I\'m a little older, I shall find the secret out \nHow to send my vessel sailing on beyond. \n\nFor I mean to grow as little as the dolly at the helm, \n\nAnd the dolly I intend to come alive; \nAnd with him beside to help me, it\'s a-sailing I shall go, \nIt\'s a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow \n\nAnd the vessel goes a divie-divie-dive, \n\nO it\'s then you\'ll see me sailing through the rushes and \nthe reeds. \n\nAnd you\'ll hear the water singing at the prow; \nFor beside the dolly sailor, I\'m to voyage and explore, \nTo land upon the island where no dolly was before, \n\nAnd to fire the penny cannon in the bow. \n\n\n\n50 \n\n\n\nIll \n\nMY KINGDOM \n\nDOWN by a shining water well \nI found a very little dell, \nNo higher than my head. \nThe heather and the gorse about \nIn summer bloom were coming out, \nSome yellow and some red. \n\nI called the little pool a sea; \nThe little hills were big to me; \n\nFor I am very small. \nI made a boat, I made a town, \nI searched the caverns up and down, \n\nAnd named them one and all. \n\nAnd all about was mine, I said, \nThe little sparrows overhead, \n\nThe little minnows too. \nThis was the world and 1 was king; \nFor me the bees came by to sing, \n\nFor me the swallows flew. \n5\xc2\xab \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nI played there were no deeper seas, \nNor any wider plains than these. \n\nNor other kings than me. \nAt last I heard my mother call \nOut from the house at evenfall, \n\nTo call me home to tea. \n\nAnd I must rise and leave my dell, \nAnd leave my dimpled water well, \n\nAnd leave my heather blooms. \nAlas! and as my home I neared, \nHow very big my nurse appeared, \n\nHow great and cool the rooms! \n\n\n\n%a \n\n\n\nIV \n\nPICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER \n\nSUMMER fading, winter comes \xe2\x80\x94 \nFrosty mornings, tingling thumbs, \nWindow robins, winter rooks, \nAnd the picture story-booi^s. \n\nWater now is turned to stone \nNurse and I can walk upon; \nStill we find the flowing brooks \n(n the picture story-books. \n\nAll the pretty things put by, \nWait upon the children\'s eye, \nSheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, \nIn the picture story-books. \n\nWe may see how all things are \nSeas and cities, near and far, \nAnd the flying fairies\' looks. \nIn the picture story-books. \n\nHow am I to sing your praise, \nHappy chimney-corner days. \nSitting safe in nursery nooks, \nReading picture story-books ? \n\n\n\n^ \n\n\n\nMY TREASURES \n\nTHESE nuts, that I keep in the back of the nest \nWhere all my lead soldiers are lying at rest, \nWere gathered in autumn by nursie and me \nIn a wood with a well by the side of the sea. \n\nThis whistle we made (and how clearly it sounds!) \nBy the side of a field at the end of the grounds. \nOf a branch of a plane, with a knife of my own, \nIt was nursie who made it, and nursie alone! \n\nThe stone, with the white and the yellow and grey, \nWe discovered I cannot tell how far away; \nAnd I carried it back although weary and cold, \nFor though father denies it, I\'m sure it is gold. \n\nBut of all my treasures the last is the king, \nFor there\'s very few children possess such a thing; \nAnd that is a chisel, both handle and blade. \nWhich a man who was really a carpenter made. \n\n\n\n54 \n\n\n\nVI \n\nBLOCK CITY \n\nWHAT are you able to build with your blocks ? \nCastles and palaces, temples and docks. \nRain may keep raining, and others go roam. \nBut I can be happy and building at home. \n\nLet the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea, \n\nThere I\'ll establish a city for me: \n\nA kirk and a mill and a palace beside. \n\nAnd a harbour as well where my vessels may ride. \n\nGreat is the palace with pillar and wall, \nA sort of a tower on the top of it all. \nAnd steps coming down in an orderly way \nTo where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay. \n\nThis one is sailing and that one is moored: \n\nHark to the song of the sailors on board ! \n\nAnd see on the steps of my palace, the kings C \n\nComing and going with presents and things! \n\nNow I have done with it, down let it go! \nAll in a moment the town is laid low. \nBlock upon block lying scattered and free. \nWhat is there left of my town by the sea ? \n\n55 \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nYet as I saw it, I see it again, \nThe kirk and the palace, the ships and the men. \nAnd as long as I live and where\'er I may be, \nI\'ll always remember my town by the sea. \n\n\n\nse \n\n\n\nVII \n\nTHE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS \n\nAT evening when the lamp is lit, \nAround the fire my parents sit; \nThey sit at home and talk and sing, \nAnd do not play at anything. \n\nNow, with my little gun, I crawl \nAll in the dark along the wall, \nAnd follow round the forest track \nAway behind the sofa back. \n\nThere, in the night, where none can spy, \nAll in my hunter\'s camp I lie, \nAnd play at books that 1 have read \nTill it is time to go to bed. \n\nThese are the hills, these are the woods. \nThese are my starry solitudes ; \nAnd there the river by whose brink \nThe roaring lions come to drink. \n\nI see the others far away \nAs if in firelit camp they lay. \nAnd 1, like to an Indian scout, \nAround their party prowled about. \n\n57 \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nSo, when my nurse comes in for me, \nHome I return across the sea, \nAnd go to bed with backward looks \nAt my dear land of Story-books. \n\n\n\n58 \n\n\n\nVIII \n\nARMIES IN THE FIRE \n\nTHE lamps now glitter down the street; \nFaintly sound the falling feet; \nAnd the blue even slowly falls \nAbout the garden trees and walls. \n\nNow in the falling of the gloom \nThe red fire paints the empty room: \nAnd warmly on the roof it looks, \nAnd flickers on the backs of books. \n\nArmies march by tower and spire \nOf cities blazing, in the fire; \xe2\x80\x94 \nTill as I gaze with staring eyes, \nThe armies fade, the lustre dies. \n\nThen once again the glow returns; \nAgain the phantom city burns; \nAnd down the red-hot valley, lo! \nThe phantom armies marching go! \n\nBlinking embers, tell me true \nWhere are those armies marching to. \nAnd what the burning city is \nThat crumbles in your furnaces! \n\n\n\n\\9 \n\n\n\nIX \n\nTHE LITTLE LAND \n\nWHEN at home alone I sit \nAnd am very tired of it, \nI have just to shut my eyes \nTo go sailing through the skies \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo go sailing far away \nTo the pleasant Land of Play; \nTo the fairy land afar \nWhere the Little People are; \nWhere the clover-tops are trees. \nAnd the rain-pools are the seas. \nAnd the leaves like little ships \nSail about on tiny trips ; \nAnd above the daisy tree \n\nThrough the grasses, \nHigh o\'erhead the Bumble Bee \n\nHums and passes. \n\nIn that forest to and fro \nI can wander, I can go; \nSee the spider and the fly, \nAnd the ants go marching by \nCarrying parcels with their feet \nDown the green and grassy street. \n60 \n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE LAND \n\nI can in the sorrel sit \n\nWhere the ladybird alit. \n\nI can climb the jointed grass; \n\nAnd on high \nSee the greater swallows pass \n\nIn the sky. \nAnd the round sun rolling by \nHeeding no such things as I. \n\n\n\nThrough that forest I can pass \nTill, as in a looking-glass. \nHumming fly and daisy tree \nAnd my tiny self I see, \nPainted very clear and neat \nOn the rain-pool at my feet. \nShould a leaflet come to land \nDrifting near to where I stand. \nStraight I\'ll board that tiny boat \nRound the rain-pool sea to float. \n\n\n\nLittle thoughtful creatures sit \nOn the grassy coasts of it; \nLittle things with lovely eyes \nSee me sailing with surprise. \nSome are clad in armour green \xe2\x80\x94 \n(These have sure to battle been !) \xe2\x80\x94 \nSome are pied with ev\'ry hue, \nBlack and crimson, gold and blue; \nSome have wings and swift are gone;- \nBut they all look kindly on. \n6i \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nWhen my eyes I once again \nOpen, and see all things plain: \nHigh bare walls, great bare floor; \nGreat big knobs on drawer and door; \nGreat big people perched on chairs. \nStitching tucks and mending tears, \nEach a hill that I could climb, \nAnd talking nonsense all the time \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nO dear me, \n\nThat I could be \nA sailor on the rain-poo! sea, \nA climber in the clover tree, \nAnd just come back, a sleepy-head, \nLate at night to go to bed. \n\n\n\noa \n\n\n\nGARDEN DAYS \n\n\n\nNIGHT AND DAY \n\nWHEN the golden day is done, \nThrough the closing portal, \nChild and garden, flower and sun. \nVanish all things mortal. \n\nAs the blinding shadows fall \n\nAs the rays diminish, \nUnder evening\'s cloak, they all \n\nRoll away and vanish. \n\nGarden darkened, daisy shut, \nChild in bed, they slumber \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGlow-worm in the highway rut. \nMice among the lumber. \n\nIn the darkness houses shine, \nParents move with candles; \n\nTill on all, the night divine \nTurns the bedroom handles. \n\nTill at last the day begins \n\nIn the east a-breaking, \nIn the hedges and the whins \n\nSleeping birds a-waking. \n\n65 \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nIn the darkness shapes of things, \nHouses, trees and hedges, \n\nClearer grow ; and sparrow\'s wings \nBeat on window ledges. \n\nThese shall wake the yawning maid; \n\nShe the door shall open \xe2\x80\x94 \nFinding dew on garden glade \n\nAnd the morning broken. \n\nThere my garden grows again \n\nGreen and rosy painted. \nAs at eve behind the pane \n\nFrom my eyes it fainted. \n\nJust as it was shut away. \n\nToy-like, in the even. \nHere I see it glow with day \n\nUnder glowing heaven. \n\nEvery path and every plot, \n\nEvery bush of roses. \nEvery blue forget-me-not \n\nWhere the dew reposes, \n\n" Up ! " they cry, " the day is come \n\nOn the smiling valleys: \nWe have beat the morning drum; \n\nPlaymate, join your allies 1 " \n\n\n\n^ \n\n\n\nii \n\nNEST EGGS \n\nBIRDS all the sunny day \nFlutter and quarrel \nHere in the arbour-like \nTent of the laurel. \n\nHere in the fork \n\nThe brown nest is seated; \nFour little blue eggs \n\nThe mother keeps heated. \n\nWhile we stand watching her, \n\nStaring like gabies, \nSafe in each egg are the \n\nBird\'s little babies. \n\nSoon the frail eggs they shall \nChip, and upspringing, \n\nMake all the April woods \nMerry with singing. \n\nYounger than we are, \nO children, and frailer, \n\nSoon in blue air they\'ll be, \nSinger and sailor. \n67 \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nWe, SO much older, \nTaller and stronger. \n\nWe shall look down on the \nBirdies no longer. \n\nThey shall go flying \nWith musical speeches \n\nHigh overhead in the \nTops of the beeches. \n\nIn spite of our wisdom \nAnd sensible talking, \n\nWe on our feet must go \nPlodding and walking. \n\n\n\n68 \n\n\n\nIll \n\nTHE FLOWERS \n\nALL the names I know from nurse: \niV Gardener\'s garters, Shepherd\'s purse, \nBachelor\'s buttons, Lady\'s smock, \nAnd the Lady Hollyhock. \n\nFairy places, fairy things. \n\nFairy woods where the wild Dee wings. \n\nTiny trees for tiny dames \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese must all be fairy names! \n\nTiny woods below whose boughs \nShady fairies weave a house: \nTiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, \nWhere the braver fairies climb! \n\nFair are grown-up people\'s trees. \nBut the fairest woods are these; \nWhere if I were not so tall, \nI should live for good and all. \n\n\n\n69 \n\n\n\nIV \n\nSUMMER SUN \n\nGREAT is the sun. and wide he goes \nThrough empty heaven without repose; \nAnd in the blue and glowing days \nMore thick than rain he showers his rays. \n\nThough closer still the blinds we pull \nTo keep the shady parlour cool, \nYet he will find a chink or two \nTo slip his golden fingers through. \n\nThe dusty attic spider-clad \nHe, through the keyhole, maketh glad; \nAnd through the broken edge of tiles, \nInto the laddered hay-loft smiles. \n\nMeantime his golden face around \nHe bares to all the garden ground. \nAnd sheds a warm and glittering look \nAmong the ivy\'s inmost nook. \n\nAbove the hills, along the blue, \nRound the bright air with footing true, \nTo please the child, to paint the rose, \nThe gardener of the World, he goes. \n\n\n\n70 \n\n\n\nTHE DUMB SOLDIER \n\nWHEN the grass was closely mown. \nWalking on the lawn alone, \nIn the turf a hole I found \nAnd hid a soldier underground. \n\nSpring and daisies came apace; \nGrasses hide my hiding place; \nGrasses run like a green sea \nO\'er the lawn up to my knee. \n\nUnder grass alone he lies, \nLooking up with leaden eyes. \nScarlet coat and pointed gun. \nTo the stars and to the sun. \n\nWhen the grass is ripe like grain, \nWhen the scythe is stoned again, \nWhen the lawn is shaven clear, \nThen my hole shall reappear. \n\nI shall find him, never fear, \nI shall find my grenadier; \nBut for all that\'s gone and come, \nI shall find my soldier dumb. \n7\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nHe has lived, a little thing, \nIn the grassy woods of spring; \nDone, if he could tell me true, \nJust as I should like to do. \n\nHe has seen the starry hours \nAnd the springing of the flowers; \nAnd the fairy things that pass \nIn the forests of the grass. \n\nIn the silence he has heard \nTalking bee and ladybird. \nAnd the butterfly has flown \nO\'er him as he lay alone. \n\nNot a word will he disclose. \nNot a word of all he knows. \nI must lay him on the shelf. \nAnd make up the taie ni vseli^ \n\n\n\nVI \n\nAUTUMN FIRES \n\nIN the other gardens \nAnd all up the vale, \nFrom the autumn bonfires \nSee the smoke trail! \n\nPleasant summer over \n\nAnd all the summer flowers, \nThe red fire blazes, \n\nThe grey smoke towers. \n\nSmg a song of seasons! \n\nSomething bright in all! \nFlowers in the summer. \n\nFires in the fall ! \n\n\n\n\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nVII \n\nTHE GARDENER \n\nTHE gardener does not love to talk, \nHe makes me keep the gravel walk; \nAnd when he puts his tools away, \nHe locks the door and takes the key. \n\nAway behind the currant row \nWhere no one else but cook may go. \nFar in the plots, 1 see him dig, \nOld and serious, brown and big. \n\nHe digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, \nNor wishes to be spoken to. \nHe digs the flowers and cuts the hay, \nAnd never seems to want to play. \n\nSilly gardener! summer goes, \nAnd winter comes with pinching toes, \nWhen in the garden bare and brown \nYou must lay your barrow down. \n\nWell now, and while the summer stays. \nTo profit by these garden days, \nO how much wiser you would be \nTo play at Indian wars with me! \n\n\n\n74 \n\n\n\nVIII \n\nHISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS \n\nDEAR Uncle Jim, this garden ground \nThat now you smoke your pipe around, \nHas seen immortal actions done \nAnd valiant battles lost and won. \n\nHere we had best on tip-toe tread, \nWhile I for safety march ahead, \nFor this is that enchanted ground \nWhere all who loiter slumber sound. \n\nHere is the sea, here is the sand. \nHere is simple Shepherd\'s Land, \nHere are the fairy hollyhocks, \nAnd there are Ali Baba\'s rocks. \n\nBut yonder, see! apart and high, \nFrozen Siberia lies; where I, \nWith Robert Bruce and William Tell, \nWas bound by an enchanter\'s spell. \n\n\n\n75 \n\n\n\nENVOYS \n\n\n\nTO WILLIE AND HENRIETTA \n\nF two may read aright \nThese rhymes of old delight \nAnd house and garden play, \nYou two, my cousins, and you only, may. \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nYou in a garden green \nWith me were king and queen, \nWere hunter, soldier, tar, \nAnd all the thousand things that children are. \n\nNow in the elders\' seat \nWe rest with quiet feet. \nAnd from the window-bay \nWe watch the children, our successors, play. \n\n"Time was," the golden head \nIrrevocably said ; \nBut time which none can bind. \nWhile flowing fast away, leaves love behind \n\n\n\n7Q \n\n\n\nII \n\nTO MY MOTHER \n\nYOU too, my mother, read my rhymes \nFor love of unforgotten times. \nAnd you may chance to hear once more \nThe little feet along the floor. \n\n\n\n80 \n\n\n\nIll \n\nTO AUNTIE \n\nCHIEF of our aunts \xe2\x80\x94 not only I, \nBut all your dozen of nurselings cry- \nIVhat did the other children do ? \nAnd what were childhood, wanting you ? \n\n\n\n8i \n\n\n\nIV \n\nTO MINNIE \n\nTHE red room with the giant bed \nWhere none but elders laid their head. \nThe little room where you and 1 \nDid for awhile together lie \nAnd, simple suitor, ! your hand \nIn decent marriage did demand; \nThe great day nursery, best of all, \nWith pictures pasted on the wall \nAnd leaves upon the blind \xe2\x80\x94 \nA pleasant room wherein to wake \nAnd hear the leafy garden shake \nAnd rustle in the wind \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd pleasant there to lie in bed \nAnd see the pictures overhead \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe wars about Sebastopol, \nThe grinning guns along the wall, \nThe daring escalade. \nThe plunging ships, the bleating sheep, \nThe happy children ankle-deep \nAnd laughing as they wade: \nAll these are vanished clean away, \nAnd the old manse is changed to-day; \nIt wears an altered face \nAnd shields a stranger race. \n\n82 \n\n\n\nTO MINNIE \n\nThe river, on from mill to mill, \nFlows past our childhood\'s garden still; \nBut ah! we children never more \nShall watch it from the water-door! \nBelow the yew \xe2\x80\x94 it still is there \xe2\x80\x94 \nOur phantom voices haunt the air \nAs we were still at play, \nAnd I can hear them call and say: \n" How far is it to Babylon ? \' \' \n\nAh, far enough, my dear, \nFar, far enough from here \xe2\x80\x94 \nYet you have farther gone! \n"\xe2\x96\xa0 Can I get there by candlelight? " \nSo goes the old refrain. \nI do not know \xe2\x80\x94 perchance you might \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut only, children, hear it right, \nAh, never to return again! \nThe eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, \nShall break on hill and plain, \nAnd put all stars and candles out \nEre we be young again. \n\nTo you in distant India, these \nI send across the seas. \nNor count it far across. \nFor which of us forgets \nThe Indian cabinets. \n\nThe bones of antelope, the wings of albatross, \nThe pied and painted birds and beans. \nThe junks and bangles, beads and screens, \n83 \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nThe gods and sacred bells, \n\nAnd the loud-humming, twisted shells! \n\nThe level of the parlour floor \n\nWas honest, homely, Scottish shore; \n\nBut when we climbed upon a chair. \n\nBehold the gorgeous East was there! \n\nBe this a fable; and behold \n\nMe in the parlour as of old. \n\nAnd Minnie just above me set \n\nIn the quaint Indian cabinet! \n\nSmiling and kind, you grace a shelf \n\nToo high for me to reach myself. \n\nReach down a hand, my dear, and take \n\nThese rhymes for old acquaintance\' sake! \n\n\n\n% \n\n\n\nTO MY NAME-CHILD \n\n\n\nSOME day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn \nwith proper speed, \nLittle Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read. \nThen shall you discover, that your name was printed \n\ndown \nBy the English printers, long before, in London town. \n\nIn the great and busy city where the East and West are \n\nmet. \nAll the little letters did the English printer set; \nWhile you thought of nothing, and were still too young \n\nto play. \nForeign people thought of you in places far away. \n\nAy, and while you slept, a baby, over all the English \n\nlands \nOther little children took the volume in their hands; \nOther children questioned, in their homes across the seas : \nWho was little Louis, won\'t you tell us, mother, please ? \n\n85 \n\n\n\nA CHILD\'S GARDEN OF VERSES \n\nNow that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and \n\ngo and play, \nSeeking shells and seaweed on the sands of Monterey, \nWatching all the mighty whalebones, lying buried by \n\nthe breeze, \nTiny sandy-pipers, and the huge Pacific seas. \n\nAnd remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you, \nLong ere you could read it, how I told you what to do; \nAnd that while you thought of no one, nearly half the \n\nworld away \nSome one thought of Louis on the beach of Monterey ! \n\n\n\n% \n\n\n\nVI \n\nTO ANY READER \n\nAS from the house your mother sees \nYou playing round the garden trees, \nSo you may see, if you will look \nThrough the windows of this book, \nAnother child, far, far away. \nAnd in another garden, play. \nBut do not think you can at all, \nBy knocking on the window, call \nThat child to hear you. He intent \nIs all on his play-business bent. \nHe does not hear; he will not look, \nNor yet be lured out of this book. \nFor, long ago, the truth to say. \nHe has grown up and gone away, \nAnd it is but a child of air \nThat lingers in the garden there. \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\n\n\nOf all my verse, like not a single line; \n\nBut like my title, for it is not mine. \n\nThat title from a better man I stole : \n\nyth, bow much better, had I stol\'n the whole! \n\n\n\nDEDICATION \n\nThere are men and classes of men that stand above the common herd: \nthe soldier, the sailor, and the shepherd not unfrequently ; the artist \nrarely; rarelier still, the clergyman; the physician almost as a rule. \nHe is the flower (such as it is) of our civilisation; and when that \nstage of man is done with, and only remembered to be marvelled at \nin history, he will be thought to have shared as little as any in the \ndefects of the period, and most notably exhibited the virtues of the \nrace. Generosity he has, such as is possible to those who practise \nan art, never to those who drive a trade; discretion, tested by a \nhundred secrets; tact, tried in a thousand embarrassments; and what \nare more important, Heraclean cheerfulness and courage. So it is \nthat he brings air and cheer into the sick-room, and often enough, \nthough not so often as he wishes, brings healing. \n\nGratitude is but a lame sentiment; thanks, when they are ex- \npressed, are often more embarrassing than welcome; and yet I must \nset forth mine to a few out of many doctors who have brought me \ncomfort and help: to Dr. Willey of San Francisco, whose kindness to \na stranger it must be as grateful to him, as it is touching to me, to \nremember; to Dr. Karl Ruedi of Davos, the good genius of the Eng- \nlish in his frosty mountains; to Dr. Herbert of Paris, whom 1 knew \nonly for a week, and to Dr. Caissot of Montpellier, whom I knew \nonly for ten days, and who have yet written their names deeply in \nmy memory; to Dr. Brandt of Royat; to Dr. Wakefield of Nice; to \nDr. Chepnell, whose visits make it a pleasure to be ill; to Dr. Horace \nDobell, so wise in counsel; to Sir Andrew Clark, so unwearied in \nkindness; and to that wise youth, my uncle. Dr. Balfour. \n\nI forget as many as I remember; and I ask both to pardon me, \nthese for silence, those for inadequate speech. But one name I have \nkept on purpose to the last, because it is a household word with me, \nand because if I had not received favours from so many hands and \n\n91 \n\n\n\nDEDICATION \n\nin so many quarters of the world, it should have stood upon this page \nalone: that of my friend Thomas Bodley Scott of Bournemouth, \nWill he accept this, although shared among so many, for a dedica- \ntion to himself? and when next my ill-fortune (which has thus its \npleasant side) brings him hurrying to me when he would fain sit \ndown to meat or lie down to rest, will he care to remember that he \ntakes this trouble for one who is not fool enough to be ungrateful ? \n\nR. L. S. \n\nSkerryvore, \n\nBournemouth. \n\n\n\n93 \n\n\n\nNOTE \n\nThe human conscience has fled of late the troublesome domain of con- \nduct for what I should have supposed to be the less congenial field \nof art: there she may now be said to rage, and with special severity \nin all that touches dialect; so that in every novel the letters of the \nalphabet are tortured, and the reader wearied, to commemorate \nshades of mispronunciation. Now spelling is an art of great diffi- \nculty in my eyes, and I am inclined to lean upon the printer, even in \ncommon practice, rather than to venture abroad upon new quests. \nAnd the Scots tongue has an orthography of its own, lacking neither \n" authority nor author." Yet the temptation is great to lend a little \nguidance to the bewildered Englishman. Some simple phonetic ar- \ntifice might defend your verses from barbarous mishandling, and yet \nnot injure any vested interest. So it seems at first; but there are \nrocks ahead. Thus, if I wish the diphthong ou to have its proper \nvalue, I may write oor instead of our ; many have done so and lived, \nand the pillars of the universe remained unshaken. But if I did so, \nand came presently to doun, which is the classical Scots spelling of \nthe English down, I should begin to feel uneasy; and if I went on \na little farther, and came to a classical Scots word, like stour or dour \nor clour, I should know precisely where I was \xe2\x80\x94 that is to say, that \nI was out of sight of land on those high seas of spelling reform in \nwhich so many strong swimmers have toiled vainly. To some the \nsituation is exhilarating; as for me, 1 give one bubbling cry and sink. \nThe compromise at which 1 have arrived is indefensible, and I have \nno thought of trying to defend it. As I have stuck for the most part \nto the proper spelling, I append a table of some common vowel \nsounds which no one need consult; and just to prove that I belong \nto my age and have in me the stuff of a reformer, I have used modi- \nfication marks throughout Thus I can tell myself, not without \n\n93 \n\n\n\nNOTE \n\npride, that I have added a fresh stumbling-block for English readers, \nand to a page of print in my native tongue, have lent a new un- \ncouthness. Sed non nobis. \n\nI note again, that among our nevf dialecticians, the local habitat \nof every dialect is given to the square mile. I could not emulate \nthis nicety if I desired; for I simply wrote my Scots as well as I was \nable, not caring if it hailed from Lauderdale or Angus, from the \nMearns or Galloway; if I had ever heard a good word, I used it \nwithout shame; and when Scots was lacking, or the rhyme jibbed, \nI was glad (like my betters) to fall back on English. For all that, 1 \nown to a friendly feeling for the tongue of Fergusson and of Sir Walter, \nboth Edinburgh men; and 1 confess that Burns has always sounded \nin my ear like something partly foreign. And indeed I am from the \nLothians myself; it is there 1 heard the language spoken about my \nchildhood; and it is in the drawling Lothian voice that I repeat it to \nmyself. Let the precisians call my speech that of the Lothians. And \nif it be not pure, alas! what matters it? The day draws near when \nthis illustrious and malleable tongue shall be quite forgotten; and \nBurns\'s Ayrshire, and Dr. Macdonald\'s Aberdeen-awa\', and Scott\'s \nbrave, metropolitan utterance will be all equally the ghosts of speech. \nTill then 1 would love to have my hour as a native Maker, and be \nread by my own countryfolk in our own dying language : an ambi- \ntion surely rather of the heart than of the head, so restricted as it is \nin prospect of endurance, so parochial in bounds of space. \n\n\n\nQ4 \n\n\n\nBOOK 1 \n\nIN ENGLISH \n\n\n\nENVOY \n\nGO, little book, and wish to all \nFlowers in the garden, meat in the hall, \nA bin of wine, a spice of wit, \nA house with lawns enclosing it, \nA living river by the door, \nA nightingale in the sycamore! \n\n\n\n9> \n\n\n\nII \n\nA SONG OF THE ROAD \n\nT\'HE gauger walked with willing foot, \nAnd aye the gauger played the flute; \nAnd what should Master Gauger play \nBut Over the hills and far away? \n\nWhene\'er I buckle on my pack \nAnd foot it gaily in the track, \n\npleasant gauger, long since dead, \n\n1 hear you fluting on ahead. \\ \n\nYou go with me the self-same way \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe self-same air for me you play; \nFor I do think and so do you \nIt is the tune to travel to. \n\nFor who would gravely set his face \nTo go to this or t\'other place ? \nThere\'s nothing under heav\'n so blue \nThat\'s fairly worth the travelling to. \n\nOn every hand the roads begin, \nAnd people walk with zeal therein; \nBut wheresoe\'er the highways tend. \nBe sure there\'s nothing at the end. \n\n08 \n\n\n\nA SONG OF THE ROAD \n\nThen follow you, wherever hie \nThe travelling mountains of the sky. \nOr let the streams in civil mode \nDirect your choice upon a road; \n\nFor one and all, or high or low, \nWill lead you where you wish to go; \nAnd one and all go night and day \nOver the hills and far away ! \n\n\n\nForest of Montargis, 1878. \n\n\n\n99 \n\n\n\nIll \n\nTHE CANOE SPEAKS \n\nON the great streams the ships may go \nAbout men\'s business to and fro. \nBut I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep \nOn crystal waters ankle-deep: \nI, whose diminutive design, \nOf sweeter cedar, pithier pine, \nIs fashioned on so frail a mould, \nA hand may launch, a hand withhold: \nI, rather, with the leaping trout \nWind, among lilies, in and out; \nI, the unnamed, inviolate, \nGreen, rustic rivers, navigate; \nMy dipping paddle scarcely shakes \nThe berry in the bramble-brakes ; \nStill forth on my green way I wend \nBeside the cottage garden-end; \nAnd by the nested angler fare, \nAnd take the lovers unaware. \nBy willow wood and water-wheel \nSpeedily fleets my touching keel; \nBy all retired and shady spots \nWhere prosper dim forget-me-nots; \nBy meadows where at afternoon \nThe growing maidens troop in June \n\nlOO \n\n\n\nTHE CANOE SPEAKS \n\nTo loose their girdles on the grass. \nAh! speedier than before the glass \nThe backward toilet goes; and swift \nAs swallows quiver, robe and shift \nAnd the rough country stockings lie \nAround each young divinity. \nWhen, following the recondite brook, \nSudden upon this scene I look, \nAnd light with unfamiliar face \nOn chaste Diana\'s bathing-place, \nLoud ring the hills about and all \nThe shallows are abandoned. . . . \n\n\n\nkOI \n\n\n\nIV \n\nIT is the season now to go \nAbout the country high and low, \nAmong the lilacs hand in hand, \nAnd two by two in fairy land. \n\nThe brooding boy, the sighing maid. \nWholly fain and half afraid, \nNow meet along the hazel\'d brook \nTo pass and linger, pause and look. \n\nA year ago, and blithely paired, \nTheir rough-and-tumble play they shared; \nThey kissed and quarrelled, laughed and cried, \nA year ago at Eastertide. \n\nWith bursting heart, with fiery face, \n\nShe strove against him in the race; \n\nHe unabashed her garter saw, \n\nThat now would touch her skirts with awe. \n\nNow by the stile ablaze she stops, \nAnd his demurer eyes he drops; \nNow they exchange averted sighs \nOr stand and marry silent eyes. \n\n\'Q3 \n\n\n\nIT IS THE SEASON NOW \n\nAnd he to her a hero is \nAnd sweeter she than primroses; \nTheir common silence dearer far \nThan nightingale or mavis are. \n\nNow when they sever wedded hands, \nJoy trembles in their bosom-strands, \nAnd lovely laughter leaps and falls \nUpon their lips in madrigals. \n\n\n\n\\<\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL \n\nyj NAKED home, a naked moor, \n^J. A shivering pool before the door, \nA garden hare of flowers and fruit \nAnd poplars at the garden foot: \nSuch is the place that I live in. \nBleak without and bare within. \n\nYet shall your ragged moor receive \nThe incomparable pomp of eve, \nAnd the cold glories of the dawn \nBehind your shivering trees be drawn; \nAnd when the wind from place to place \nDoth the unmoored cloud-galleons chase. \nYour garden gloom and gleam again, \nWith leaping sun, with glancing rain. \nHere shall the wizard moon ascend \nThe heavens, in the crimson end \nOf day\'s declining splendour; here \nThe army of the stars appear. \nThe neighbour hollows dry or wet, \nSpring shall with tender flowers beset; \nAnd oft the morning muser see \nLarks rising from the broomy lea, \n104 \n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE BEAUTIFUL \n\nAnd every fairy wheel and thread \n\nOf cobweb dew-bediamonded. \n\nWhen daisies go, shall winter time \n\nSilver the simple grass with rime; \n\nAutumnal frosts enchant the pool \n\nAnd make the cart-ruts beautiful; \n\nAnd when snow-bright the moor expands, \n\nHow shall your children clap their hands 1 \n\nTo make this earth, our hermitage, \n\nA cheerful and a changeful page, \n\nGod\'s bright and intricate device \n\nOf days and seasons doth suffice. \n\n\n\n!0\xc2\xab \n\n\n\nVI \n\nA VISIT FROM THE SEA \n\nFAR from the loud sea beaches \nWhere he goes fishing and crying, \nHere in the inland garden \nWhy is the sea-gull flying ? \n\nHere are no fish to dive for; \n\nHere is the corn and lea; \nHere are the green trees rustling. \n\nHie away home to sea! \n\nFresh is the river water \n\nAnd quiet among the rushes; \nThis is no home for the sea-gull \n\nBut for the rooks and thrushes. \n\nPity the bird that has wandered J \n\nPity the sailor ashore! \nHurry him home to the ocean, \n\nLet him come here no more! \n\nHigh on the sea-cliff ledges \n\nThe white gulls are trooping and crying. \nHere among rooks and roses, \n\nWhy is the sea-gull flying ? \n\n\n\nI06 \n\n\n\nVII \n\nTO A GARDENER \n\nFRIEND, in my mountain-side demesne, \nMy plain-beholding, rosy, green \nAnd linnet-haunted garden-ground, \nLet still the esculents abound. \nLet first the onion flourish there, \nRose among roots, the maiden-fair, \nN- Wine-scented and poetic soul \n\nOf the capacious salad bowl. \nLet thyme the mountaineer (to dress \nThe tinier birds) and wading cress, \nThe lover of the shallow brook, \nFrom all my plots and borders look. \nNor crisp and ruddy radish, nor \nPease-cods for the child\'s pinafore \nBe lacking; nor of salad clan \nThe last and least that ever ran \nAbout great nature\'s garden-beds. \nNor thence be missed the speary heads \nOf artichoke; nor thence the bean \nThat gathered innocent and green \nOutsavours the belauded pea. \n\nThese tend, I prithee; and for me, \nThy most long-suffering master, bring \nIn April, when the linnets sing \n107 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nAnd the days lengthen more and morC; \nAt sundown to the garden door. \nAnd I, being provided thus, \nShall, with superb asparagus, \nA book, a taper, and a cup \nOf country wine, divinely sup. \n\n\n\nLa Solitude, Hyeres, \n\n\n\nio6 \n\n\n\nVIII \n\nTO MINNfE \n{With a hand-gtass) \n\nA PICTURE-FRAME for you to fill, \nA paltry setting for your face, \nA thing that has no worth until \nYou lend it something of your grace, \n\nI send (unhappy 1 that sing \nLaid by awhile upon the shelf) \n\nBecause 1 would not send a thing \nLess charming than you are yourself. \n\nAnd happier than I, alas! \n\n(Dumb thing, 1 envy its delight) \nT will wish you well, the looking-glass, \n\nAnd look you in the face to-night. \n\n\n\nlOQ \n\n\n\nIX \n\nTO K. DE M. \n\nA LOVER of the moorland bare, \nAnd honest country winds, you were; \nThe silver-skimming rain you took; \nAnd loved the floodings of the brook, \nDew, frost and mountains, fire and seas, \nTumultuary silences, \nWinds that in darkness fifed a tune, \nAnd the high-riding virgin moon. \n\nAnd as the berry, pale and sharp, \nSprings on some ditch\'s counterscarp \nIn our ungenial, native north \xe2\x80\x94 \nYou put your frosted wildings forth, \nAnd on the heath, afar from man, \nA strong and bitter virgin ran. \n\nThe berry ripened keeps the rude \nAnd racy flavour of the wood. \nAnd you that loved the empty plain \nAll redolent of wind and rain, \nAround you still the curlew sings \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe freshness of the weather clings \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe maiden jewels of the rain \nSit in your dabbled locks again. \n\n\n\nno \n\n\n\nTO N. V. DE G. S. \n\nTHE unfathomable sea, and time, and tears, \nThe deeds of heroes and the crimes of kings \nDispart us; and the river of events \nHas, for an age of years, to east and west \nMore widely borne our cradles. Thou to me \nArt foreign, as when seamen at the dawn \nDescry a land far off and know not which. \nSo I approach uncertain ; so I cruise \nRound thy mysterious islet, and behold \nSurf and great mountains and loud river-bars, \nAnd from the shore hear inland voices call. \nStrange is the seaman\'s heart; he hopes, he fears; \nDraws closer and sweeps wider from that coast; \nLast, his rent sail refits, and to the deep \nHis shattered prow uncomforted puts back. \nYet as he goes he ponders at the helm \nOf that bright island; where he feared to touch, \nHis spirit readventures; and for years. \nWhere by his wife he slumbers safe at home. \nThoughts of that land revisit him; he sees \nThe eternal mountains beckon, and awakes \nYearning for that far home that might have been. \n\n\n\nIII \n\n\n\nXI \n\nTO WILL. H. LOW \n\nYOUTH now flees on feathered foot \nFaint and fainter sounds the flute. \nRarer songs of gods; and still \nSomewhere on the sunny hill, \nOr along the winding stream, \nThrough the willows, flits a dream; \nFlits, but shows a smiling face, \nFlees, but with so quaint a grace. \nNone can choose to stay at home. \nAll must follow, all must roam. \n\nThis is unborn beauty: she \nNow in air floats high and free, \nTakes the sun and breaks the blue;^ \nLate with stooping pinion flew \nRaking hedgerow trees, and wet \nHer wing in silver streams, and set \nShining foot on temple roof : \nNow again she flies aloof, \nCoasting mountain clouds and kiss\'t \nBy the evening\'s amethyst. \n\nIn wet wood and miry lane. \nStill we pant and pound in vain; \n\n112 \n\n\n\nTO WILL H. LOW \n\nStill with leaden foot we chase \nWaning pinion, fainting face; \nStill with grey hair we stumble on, \nTill, behold, the vision gone! \nWhere hath fleeting beauty led ? \nTo the doorway of the dead. \nLife is over, life was gay : \nWe have come the primrose way. \n\n\n\nif^ \n\n\n\nXII \n\nTO MRS. WILL. H. LOW \n\nEVEN in the bluest noonday of July, \nThere could not run the smallest breath of wind \nBut all the quarter sounded like a wood; \nAnd in the chequered silence and above \nThe hum of city cabs that sought the Bois, \nSuburban ashes shivered into song. \nA patter and a chatter and a chirp \nAnd a long dying hiss \xe2\x80\x94 it was as though \nStarched old brocaded dames through all the house \nHad trailed a strident skirt, or the whole sky \nEven in a wink had over-brimmed in rain. \nHark, in these shady parlours, how it talks \nOf the near autumn, how the smitten ash \nTrembles and augurs floods! O not too long \nIn these inconstant latitudes delay, \nO not too late from the unbeloved north \nTrim your escape! For soon shall this low roof \nResound indeed with rain, soon shall your eyes \nSearch the foul garden, search the darkened rooms, \nNor find one jewel but the blazing log. \n\n12 Rue Vernier, Paris. \n\n\n\n114 \n\n\n\nXIII \n\nTO H. F. BROWN \n{IVritten during a dangerous sickness) \n\nI SIT and wait a pair of oars \nOn cis-Elysian river-shores. \nWhere the immortal dead have sate, \n\'T is mine to sit and meditate; \nTo re-ascend life\'s rivulet, \nWithout remorse, without regret; \nAnd sing my Alma Genetrix \nAmong the willows of the Styx. \n\nAnd lo, as my serener soul \nDid these unhappy shores patrol, \nAnd wait with an attentive ear \nThe coming of the gondolier, \nYour fire-surviving roll I took, \nYour spirited and happy book;^ \nWhereon, despite my frowning fate, \nIt did my soul so recreate \nThat all my fancies fled away \nOn a Venetian holiday. \n\n1 Life on the Lagoons, by H. F. Brown, originally burned in the fire \nat Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench & Co.\'s. \n\n11$ \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nNow, thanks to your triumphant care, \n\nYour pages clear as April air, \n\nThe sails, the bells, the birds, I know, \n\nAnd the far-off Friulan snow; \n\nThe land and sea, the sun and shade, \n\nAnd the blue even lamp-inlaid. \n\nFor this, for these, for all, O friend. \n\nFor your whole book from end to end- \n\nFor Paron Piero\'s muttonham \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI your defaulting debtor am. \n\nPerchance, reviving, yet may I \nTo your sea-paven city hie, \nAnd in Sifelie, some day yet \nLight at your pipe my cigarette. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa3SA \n\n\n\nXIV \n\nTO ANDREW LANG \n\nDHAR Andrew, with the brindled hair, \nWho glory to have thrown in air, \nHigh over arm, the trembling reed, \nBy Ale and Kail, by Till and Tweed: \nAn equal craft of hand you show \nThe pen to guide, the fly to throw : \nI count you happy starred ; for God, \nWhen He with inkpot and with rod \nEndowed you, bade your fortune lead \nForever by the crooks of Tweed, \nForever by the woods of song \nAnd lands that to the Muse belong; \nOr if in peopled streets, or in \nThe abhorred pedantic sanhedrim. \nIt should be yours to wander, still \nAirs of the morn, airs of the hill. \nThe plovery Forest and the seas \nThat break about the Hebrides, \nShould follow over field and plain \nAnd find you at the window pane; \nAnd you again see hill and peel. \nAnd the bright springs gush at your heel. \nSo went the fiat forth, and so \nGarrulous like a brook you go, \n\nI \'7 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nWith sound of happy mirth and sheen \nOf daylight \xe2\x80\x94 whether by the green \nYou fare that moment, or the grey; \nWhether you dwell in March or May; \nOr whether treat of reels and rods \nOr of the old unhappy gods: \nStill like a brook your page has shone, \nAnd your mR sings of Helicon. \n\n\n\nt.-d \n\n\n\nXV \n\nET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI \n* (To R. A. M. S.) \n\nIN ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt; \nThere, from of old, thy childhood passed ; and there \nHigh expectation, high delights and deeds, \nThy fluttering heart with hope and terror moved. \nAnd thou hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast, \nAnd Roland\'s horn, and that war-scattering shout \nOf all-unarmed Achilles, segis-crowned. \nAnd perilous lands thou sawest, sounding shores \nAnd seas and forests drear, island and dale \nAnd mountain dark. For thou with Tristram rod\'st \nOr Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse. \nThou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat \nSide-looking Magians trafficked; thence, by night, \nAn Afreet snatched thee, and with wings upbore \nBeyond the Aral mount; or, hoping gain, \nThou, with a jar of money, didst embark, \nFor Balsorah, by sea. But chiefly thou \nIn that clear air took\'st life; in Arcady \nThe haunted, land of song; and by the wells \nWhere most the gods frequent. There Chiron old. \nIn the Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore \n\n119 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nThe plants, he taught, and by the shining stars \nIn forests dim to steer. There hast thou seen \nImmortal Pan dance secret in a glade, \nAnd, dancing, roll his eyes; these, where they fell. \nShed glee, and through the congregated oaks \nA flying horror winged; while all the earth \nTo the god\'s pregnant footing thrilled within. \nOr whiles, beside the sobbing stream, he breathed. \nIn his clutched pipe, unformed and wizard strains, \nDivine yet brutal ; which the forest heard, \nAnd thou, with awe; and far upon the plain \nThe unthinking ploughman started and gave ear. \n\nNow things there are that, upon him who sees, \nA strong vocation lay; and strains there are \nThat whoso hears shall hear for evermore. \nFor evermore thou hear\'st immortal Pan \nAnd those melodious godheads, ever young \nAnd ever quiring, on the mountains old. \n\nWhat was this earth, child of the gods, to thee ? \n\nForth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam\'st, \n\nAnd in thine ears the olden music rang. \n\nAnd in thy mind the doings of the dead, \n\nAnd those heroic ages long forgot. \n\nTo a so fallen earth, alas ! too late, \n\nAlas! in evil days, thy steps return, \n\nTo list at noon for nightingales, to grow \n\nA dweller on the beach till Argo come \n\nThat came long since, a lingerer by the pool \n\nWhere that desired angel bathes no more. \n\n1 20 \n\n\n\nET TU IN ARCADIA VIXISTI \n\nAs when the Indian to Dakota comes, \n\nOr farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt. \n\nHe with his clan, a humming city finds; \n\nThereon awhile, amazed, he stares, and then \n\nTo right and leftward, like a questing dog, \n\nSeeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth \n\nLong cold with rains, and where old terror lodged, \n\nAnd where the dead. So thee undying Hope, \n\nWith all her pack, hunts screaming through the years: \n\nHere, there, thou fleeest; but nor here nor there \n\nThe pleasant gods abide, the glory dwells. \n\nThat, that was not Apollo, not the god. \n\nThis was not Venus, though she Venus seemed \n\nA moment. And though fair yon river move, \n\nShe, all the way, from disenchanted fount \n\nTo seas unhallowed runs; the gods forsook \n\nLong since her trembling rushes; from her plains \n\nDisconsolate, long since adventure fled; \n\nAnd now although the inviting river flows. \n\nAnd every poplared cape, and every bend \n\nOr willowy islet, win upon thy soul \n\nAnd to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed; \n\nYet hope not thou at all; hope is no more; \n\nAnd O, long since the golden groves are dead, \n\nThe faery cities vanished from the land! \n\n\n\n121 \n\n\n\nXVI \n\nTO W. E. HENLEY \n\nTHE year runs through her phases; rain and sun, \nSpringtime and summer pass; winter succeeds; \nBut one pale season rules the house of death. \nCold falls the imprisoned daylight; fell disease \nBy each lean pallet squats, and pain and sleep \nToss gaping on the pillows. \n\nBut O thou! \nUprise and take thy pipe. Bid music flow, \nStrains by good thoughts attended, like the spring \nThe swallows follow over land and sea. \nPain sleeps at once; at once, with open eyes, \nDozing despair awakes. The shepherd sees \nHis flock come bleating home; the seaman hears \nOnce more the cordage rattle. Airs of home! \nYouth, love and roses blossom ; the gaunt ward \nDislimns and disappears, and, opening out, \nShows brooks and forests, and the blue beyond \nOf mountains. \n\nSmall the pipe; but O! do thou, \nPeak-faced and suffering piper, blow therein \nThe dirge of heroes dead; and to these sick, \n\n122 \n\n\n\nTO W. E. HENLEY \n\nThese dying, sound the triumph over death. \nBehold ! each greatly breathes ; each tastes a joy \nUnknown before, in dying; for each knows \nA hero dies with him \xe2\x80\x94 though unfulfilled. \nYet conquering truly \xe2\x80\x94 and not dies in vain. \n\nSo is pain cheered, death comforted ; the house \nOf sorrow smiles to listen. Once again \xe2\x80\x94 \nO thou, Orpheus and Heracles, the bard \nAnd the deliverer, touch the stops again! \n\n\n\n\xc2\xabaj \n\n\n\nXVII \n\nHENRY JAMES \n\nWHO comes to-night ? We ope the doors in vain. \nWho comes ? My bursting walls, can you contain \nThe presences that now together throng \nYour narrow entry, as with flowers and song, \nAs with the air of life, the breath of talk ? \nLo, how these fair immaculate women walk \nBehind their jocund maker; and we see \nSlighted De Mauves, and that far different she, \nGrcsste, the trivial sphynx; and to our feast \nDaisy and Barb and Chancellor (she not least! ) \nWith all their silken, all their airy kin, \nDo like unbidden angels enter in. \nBut he, attended by these shining names, \nComes (best of all) himself \xe2\x80\x94 our welcome James. \n\n\n\n124 \n\n\n\nXVIII \n\nTHE MIRROR SPEAKS \n\nWHERE the bells peal far at sea \nCunning fingers fashioned me. \nThere on palace walls I hung \nWhile that Consuelo sung; \nBut I heard, though I listened well, \nNever a note, never a trill, \nNever a beat of the chiming bell. \nThere I hung and looked, and there \nIn my grey face, faces fair \nShone from under shining hair. \nWell I saw the poising head, \nBut the lips moved and nothing said; \nAnd when lights were in the hall, \nSilent moved the dancers all. \n\nSo awhile I glowed, and then \nFell on dusty days and men ; \nLong I slumbered packed in straw. \nLong I none but dealers saw; \nTill before my silent eye \nOne that sees came passing by. \n125 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nNow with an outlandish grace, \nTo the sparkling fire I face \nIn the blue room at Skerry vore; \nWhere I wait until the door \nOpen, and the Prince of Men, \nHenry James, shall come again. \n\n\n\n1 20 \n\n\n\nXIX \n\nKATHARINE \n\nWE see you as we see a face \nThat trembles in a forest place \nUpon the mirror of a pool \nForever quiet, clear and cool; \nAnd in the wayward glass, appears \nTo hover between smiles and tears, \nElfin and human, airy and true, \nAnd backed by the reflected blue. \n\n\n\n137 \n\n\n\nXX \n\nTO F J. S. \n\nI READ, dear friend, in your dear face \nYour life\'s tale told with perfect grace; \nThe river of your life, I trace \nUp the sun-chequered, devious bed \nTo the far-distant fountain-head. \n\nNot one quick beat of your warm heart. \nNor thought that came to you apart, \nPleasure nor pity, love nor pain \nNor sorrow, has gone by in vain; \n\nBut as some lone, wood-wandering child \nBrings home with him at evening mild \nThe thorns and flowers of all the wild. \nFrom your whole life, O fair and true \nYour flowers and thorns you bring with you! \n\n\n\n128 \n\n\n\n^ XXI \n\nREQUIEM \n\nUNDER the wide and starry sky, \nDig the grave and let me lie. \nGlad did 1 live and gladly die, \nAnd I laid me down with a will. \n\nThis be the verse you grave for me: \nHere be lies ivbere he longed to be, \nHome is the sailor, home from sea. \nAnd the hunter home from the hill. \n\n\n\ntag \n\n\n\nXXII \n\nTHE CELESTIAL SURGEON \n\nIF I have faltered more or less \nIn my great task of happiness; \nIf I have moved among my race \nAnd shou\'n no glorious morning face; \nIf beams from happy human eyes \nHave moved me not; if morning skies, \nBooks, and my food, and summer rain \nKnocked on my sullen heart in vain: \xe2\x80\x94 \nLord, thy most pointed pleasure take \nAnd stab my spirit broad awake; \nOr, Lord, if too obdurate I, \nChoose thou, before that spirit die, \nA piercing pain, a killing sin. \nAnd to my dead heart run them inl \n\n\n\n130 \n\n\n\nXXIII \n\nOUR LADY OF THE SNOWS \n\nOUT of the sun, out of the blast, \nOut of the world, alone I passed \nAcross the moor and through the wood \nTo where the monastery stood. \nThere neither lute nor breathing fife, \nNor rumour of the world of life. \nNor confidences low and dear. \nShall strike the meditative ear. \nAloof, unhelpful, and unkind. \nThe prisoners of the iron mind. \nWhere nothing speaks except the bell \nThe unfraternal brothers dwell. \nPoor passionate men, still clothed afresh \nWith agonising folds of flesh ; \nWhom the clear eyes solicit still \nTo some bold output of the will, \nWhile fairy Fancy far before \nAnd musing Memory-Hold-the-door \nNow to heroic death invite \nAnd now uncurtain fresh delight: \nO, little boots it thus to dwell \nOn the remote unneighboured hilFI \n\xc2\xab3i \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nO to be up and doing, O \nUnfearing and unshamed to go \nIn all the uproar and the press \nAbout my human business! \nMy undissuaded heart I hear \nWhisper courage in my ear. \nWith voiceless calls, the ancient earth \nSummons me to a daily birth. \nThou, O my love, ye, O my friends \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe gist of life, the end of ends \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo laugh, to love, to live, to die, \nYe call me by the ear and eye! \n\nForth from the casemate, on the plain \nWhere honour has the world to gain, \nPour forth and bravely do your part, \nO knights of the unshielded heart! \nForth and forever forward! \xe2\x80\x94 out \nFrom prudent turret and redoubt. \nAnd in the mellay charge amain, \nTo fall but yet to rise again ! \nCaptive ? ah, still, to honour bright, \nA captive soldier of the right! \nOr free and fighting, good with ill ? \nUnconquering but unconquered still! \n\nAnd ye, O brethren, what if God, \nWhen from Heav\'n\'s top he spies abroad, \nAnd sees on this tormented stage \nThe noble war of mankind rage : \nWhat if his vivifying eye, \nO monks, should pass your corner by ? \n132 \n\n\n\nOUR LADY OF THE SNOWS \n\nFor Still the Lord is Lord of might; \nIn deeds, in deeds, he takes delight; \nThe plough, the spear, the laden barks, \nThe field, the founded city, marks; \nHe marks the smiler of the streets, \nThe singer upon garden seats ; \nHe sees the climber in the rocks; \nTo him, the shepherd folds his flocks. \nFor those he loves that underprop \nWith daily virtues Heaven\'s top. \nAnd bear the falling sky with ease, \nUnfrowning caryatides. \nThose he approves that ply the trade, \nThat rock the child, that wed the maid. \nThat with weak virtues, weaker hands. \nSow gladness on the peopled lands. \nAnd still with laughter, song and shout. \nSpin the great wheel of earth about. \n\nBut ye? \xe2\x80\x94 O ye who linger still \nHere in your fortress on the hill, \nWith placid face, with tranquil breath, \nThe unsought volunteers of death. \nOur cheerful General on high \nWith careless looks may pass you by. \n\n\n\n\'33 \n\n\n\nXXIV \n\nNOT yet, my soul, these friendly fields desert, \nWhere thou with grass, and rivers, and the breeze \nAnd the bright face of day, thy dalliance hadst; \nWhere to thine ear first sang the enraptured birds; \nWhere love and thou that lasting bargain made. \nThe ship rides trimmed, and from the eternal shore \nThou hearest airy voices ; but not yet \nDepart, my soul, not yet awhile depart. \n\nFreedom is far, rest far. Thou art with life \nToo closely woven, nerve with nerve intwined; \nService still craving service, love for love. \nLove for dear love, still suppliant with tears. \nAlas, not yet thy human task is done! \nA bond at birth is forged ; a debt doth lie \nImmortal on mortality. It grows \xe2\x80\x94 \nBy vast rebound it grows, unceasing growth; \nGift upon gift, alms upon alms, upreared. \nFrom man, from God, from nature, till the soul \nAt that so huge indulgence stands amazed. \n\nLeave not, my soul, the unfoughten field, nor leave \nThy debts dishonoured, nor thy place desert \nWithout due service rendered. For thy life, \nUp, spirit, and defend that fort of clay, \n\n\'34 \n\n\n\nNOT YET, MY SOUL \n\nThy body, now beleaguered ; whether soon \nOr late she fall ; whether to-day thy friends \nBewail thee dead, or, after years, a man \nGrown old in honour and the friend of peace. \nContend, my soul, for moments and for hours; \nEach is with service pregnant; each reclaimed \nIs as a kingdom conquered, where to reign. \nAs when a captain rallies to the fight \nHis scattered legions, and beats ruin back, \nHe, on the field, encamps, well pleased in mind. \nYet surely him shall fortune overtake. \nHim smite in turn, headlong his ensigns drive; \nAnd that dear land, now safe, to-morrow fall. \nBut he, unthinking, in the present good \nSolely delights, and all the camps rejoice. \n\n\n\n135 \n\n\n\nXXV \n\nIT is not yours, O mother, to complain, \nNot, mother, yours to weep, \nThough nevermore your son again \nShall to your bosom creep, \nThough nevermore again you watch your baby \nsleep. \n\nThough in the greener paths of earth, \n\nMother and child, no more \nWe wander; and no more the birth \n\nOf me whom once you bore. \n\nSeems still the brave reward that once it seemed of \nyore; \n\nThough as all passes, day and night, \n\nThe seasons and the years, \nFrom you, O mother, this delight, \n\nThis also disappears \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSome profit yet survives of all your pangs and tears. \n\nThe child, the seed, the grain of corn. \n\nThe acorn on the hill. \nEach for some separate end is born \nIn season fit, and still \n\nEach must in strength arise to work the almighty \nwill. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 36 \n\n\n\nIT IS NOT YOURS \n\nSo from the hearth the children flee, \n\nBy that almighty hand \nAusterely led ; so one by sea \n\nGoes forth, and one by land; \n\nNor aught of all man\'s sons escapes from that \ncommand. \n\nSo from the sally each obeys \n\nThe unseen almighty nod; \nSo till the ending all their ways \n\nBlindfolded loth have trod: \n\nNor knew their task at all, but were the tools of God. \n\nAnd as the fervent smith of yore \n\nBeat out the glowing blade. \nNor wielded in the front of war \n\nThe weapons that he made, \n\nBut in the tower at home still plied his ringing trade; \n\nSo like a sword the son shall roam \n\nOn nobler missions sent; \nAnd as the smith remained at home \n\nIn peaceful turret pent, \n\nSo sits the while at home the mother well content \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab37 \n\n\n\nXXVI \n\n\n\nTHE SICK CHILD \n\n\n\nChild. \n\n\n\nO MOTHER, lay your hand on my browl \nO mother, mother, where am I now ? \nWhy is the room so gaunt and great ? \nWhy am I lying awake so late ? \n\n\n\nMother. Fear not at all : the night is still. \n\nNothing is here that means you ill \xe2\x80\x94 \nNothing but lamps the whole town through. \nAnd never a child awake but you. \n\nChild. Mother, mother, speak low in my ear, \n\nSome of the things are so great and near. \n\nSome are so small and far away, \n\nI have a fear that 1 cannot say. \n\nWhat have I done, and what do I fear. \n\nAnd why are you crying, mother dear? \n\nMother. Out in the city, sounds begin ; \n\nThank the kind God, the carts come in! \nAn hour or two more and God is so kind. \nThe day shall be blue in the window-blind, \nThen shall my child go sweetly asleep. \nAnd dream of the birds and the hills of sheep. \n\n\n\n138 \n\n\n\nXXVII \n\nIN MEMORIAM F. A. S. \n\nYET, O Stricken heart, remember, O remember \nHow of human days he lived the better part. \nApril came to bloom and never dim December \nBreathed its killing chills upon the head or heart. \n\nDoomed to know not Winter, only Spring, a being \nTrod the flowery April blithely for awhile. \n\nTook his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing. \nCame and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile. \n\nCame and stayed and went, and now when all is finished^ \nYou alone have crossed the melancholy stream, \n\nYours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished \nUndecaying gladness, undeparted dream. \n\nAll that life contains of torture, toil, and treason. \nShame, dishonour, death, to him were but a name. \n\nHere, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season \nAnd ere the day of sorrow departed as he came. \n\nDavos, i88i. \n\n\n\n1^ \n\n\n\nXXVIII \n\nTO MY FATHER \n\nPEACE and her huge invasion to these shores \nPuts daily home; innumerable sails \nDawn on the far horizon and draw near; \nInnumerable loves, uncounted hopes \nTo our wild coasts, not darkling now, approach i \nNot now obscure, since thou and thine are there, \nAnd bright on the lone isle, the foundered reef, \nThe long, resounding foreland, Pharos stands. \n\nThese are thy works, O father, these thy crown; \nWhether on high the air be pure, they shine \nAlong the yellowing sunset, and all night \nAmong the unnumbered stars of God they shine; \nOr whether fogs arise and far and wide \nThe low sea-level drown \xe2\x80\x94 each finds a tongue \nAnd all night long the tolling bell resounds: \nSo shine, so toll, till night be overpast, \nTill the stars vanish, till the sun return. \nAnd in the haven rides the fleet secure. \n\nIn the first hour, the seaman in his skiff \nMoves through the unmoving bay, to where the town \nIts earliest smoke into the air upbreathes \n\n140 \n\n\n\nTO MY FATHER \n\nAnd the rough hazels climb along the beach. \nTo the tugg\'d oar the distant echo speaks. \nThe ship lies resting, where by reef and roost \nThou and thy lights have led her like a child. \n\nThis hast thou done, and I \xe2\x80\x94 can I be base? \n\nI must arise, O father, and to port \n\nSome lost, complaining seaman pilot home- \n\n\n\nut \n\n\n\nXXIX \n\n\n\nIN THE STATES \n\n\n\nWITH half a heart I wander here \nAs from an age gone by \nA brother \xe2\x80\x94 yet though young in years, \nAn elder brother, I. \n\nYou speak another tongue than mine, \nThough both were English born. \n\nI towards the night of time decline \nYou mount into the morn. \n\nYouth shall grow great and strong and free, \n\nBut age must still decay : \nTo-morrow for the States \xe2\x80\x94 for me, \n\nEngland and Yesterday. \n\n\n\nSan Francisco. \n\n\n\nua \n\n\n\nXXX \n\nA PORTRAIT \n\nI AM a kind of farthing dip, \nUnfriendly to the nose and eyes; \nA blue-behinded ape, I skip \nUpon the trees of Paradise. \n\nAt mankind\'s feast, I take my place \nIn solemn, sanctimonious state, \n\nAnd have the air of saying grace \nWhile I defile the dinner plate. \n\nI am "the smiler with the knife," \nThe battener upon garbage, I \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDear Heaven, with such a rancid life. \nWere it not better far to die ? \n\nYet still, about the human pale, \nI love to scamper, love to race, \n\nTo swing by my irreverent tail \nAll over the most holy place; \n\nAnd when at length, some golden day. \nThe unfailing sportsman, aiming at, \n\nShall bag, me \xe2\x80\x94 all the world shall say: \nThank God, and there\'s an end of that! \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa243 \n\n\n\nXXXI \n\nSING clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still, \nSing truer or no longer sing! \nNo more the voice of melancholy Jacques \nTo wake a weeping echo in the hill; \nBut as the boy, the pirate of the spring, \nFrom the green elm a living linnet takes, \nOne natural verse recapture \xe2\x80\x94 then be still. \n\n\n\n144 \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nXXXII \n\nA CAMP* \n\nTHE bed was made, the room was fit, \nBy punctual eve the stars were lit; \nThe air was still, the water ran, \nNo need was there for maid or man, \nWhen we put up, my ass and I, \nAt God\'s green caravanserai. \n\n1 From Travels with a Donkey. \n\n\n\n145 \n\n\n\nXXXIII \n\nTHE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS* \n\n\n\nw \n\n\n\nE travelled in the print of olden wars. \nYet all the land was green, \nAnd love we found, and peace, \nWhere fire and war had been. \n\n\n\nThey pass and smile, the children of the sword \nNo more the sword they wield; \nAnd O, how deep the corn \nAlong the battlefield ! , \n\n1 From Travels with a Dorik^. \n\n\n\n146 \n\n\n\nXXXIV \n\nSKERRYVORE \n\nFOR love of lovely words, and for the sake \nOf those, my kinsmen and my countrymen, \nWho early and late in the v^\'indy ocean toiled \nTo plant a star for seamen, where was then \nThe surfy haunt of seals and cormorants; \nI, on the lintel of this cot, inscribe \nThe name of a strong tower. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xbb47 \n\n\n\nXXXV \n\nskerryvore: the parallel \n\nHERE all is sunny, and when the truant gull \nSkims the green level of the lawn, his wing \nDispetals roses ; here the house is framed \nOf kneaded brick and the plumed mountain pine, \nSuch clay as artists f^ishion and such wood \nAs the tree-climbing urchin breaks. But there \nEternal granite hewn from the living isle \nAnd dowelled with brute iron, rears a tower \nThat from its wet foundation to its crown \nOf glittering glass, stands, in the sweep of winds, \nImmovable, immortal, eminent. \n\n\n\nu8 \n\n\n\nXXXVI \n\n]\\/f y house, I say. But hark to the sunny doves \nIVl That make my roof the arena of their loves, \nThat gyre about the gable all day long \nAnd fill the chimneys with their murmurous song: \nOur home, they say; and mine, the cat declares \nAnd spreads his golden fleece upon the chairs; \nAnd mine the dog, and rises stiff with wrath \nIf any alien foot profane the path. \nSo, too, the buck that trimmed my terraces, \nOur whilom gardener, called the garden his; \nWho now, deposed, surveys my plain abode \nAnd his late kingdom, only from the road. \n\n\n\n149 \n\n\n\nXXXVII \n\nMY body which my dungeon is, \nAnd yet my parks and palaces:\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhich is so great that there I go \nAll the day long to and fro, \nAnd when the night begins to fall \nThrow down my bed and sleep, while all \nThe building hums with wakefulness \xe2\x80\x94 \nEven as a child of savages \nWhen evening takes her on her way, \n(She having roamed a summer\'s day \nAlong the mountain-sides and scalp) \nSleeps in an antre of that alp: \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhich is so broad and high that there, \nAs in the topless fields of air. \nMy fancy soars like to a kite \nAnd faints in the blue infinite: \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhich is so strong, my strongest throes \nAnd the rough world\'s besieging blows \nNot break it, and so weak withal. \nDeath ebbs and flows in its loose wall \nAs the green sea in fishers\' nets. \nAnd tops its topmost parapets : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhich is so wholly mine that I \n150 \n\n\n\nCan wield its whole artillery, \nAnd mine so little, that my soul \nDwells in perpetual control, \nAnd I but think and speak and do \nAs my dead fathers move me to : \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIf this born body of my bones \nThe beggared soul so barely owns, \nWhat money passed from hand to hand, \nWhat creeping custom of the land, \nWhat deed of author or assign, \nCan make a house a thing of mine ? \n\n\n\nf5i \n\n\n\nXXXVIII \n\nSAY not of me that weakly I declined \nThe labours of my sires> and fled the sea, \nThe towers we founded and the lamps we lit, \nTo play at home with paper like a child. \nBut rather say : In the afternoon of time \nA strenuous family dusted from its hands \nThe sand of granite, and beholding far \nAlong the sounding coast its pyramids \nAnd tall memorials catch the dying sun. \nSmiled well content, and to this childish task \nAround the fire addressed its evening hours. \n\n\n\n:i?3 \n\n\n\n\nBOOK H \nIN SCOTS \n\n\n\nTABLE OF COMMON SCOTTISH VOWEL SOUNDS. \n\n\n\nae \nai \n\na \n\n\n\n. \\ = open A as in rare. \n\n\n\nA- \n\nw ; \n\n\n\nau > = AW as in law. \n\n\n\naw . \n\nea = open E as in mere, but this with exceptions, as heather = heather, \nwean = wain, lear = laii. \n\n\n\nee ^ \n\n\'\' [ \nle ) \n\n\n\nopen E as in mere. \n\n\n\noa = open O as in more. \n\nou = doubled O as in poor, \n\now = OW as in bower. \n\nu = doubled O as in poor. \n\nui or u before R (say roughly) open A as in rare. \n\nui or ii before any other consonant = (say roughly) close I as in grin. \n\ny = open 1 as in kite. \n\ni = pretty nearly what you please, much as in English. Heaven guide \nthe reader through that labyrinth! But in Scots it dodges usually \nfrom the short I, as in grin, to the open E, as in mere. Find and \nblind, 1 may remark, are pronounced to rhyme with the preterite \nof grin. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa254 \n\n\n\nTHE MAKER TO POSTERITY \n\nFAR \'yont amang the years to be \nWhen a\' we think, an\' a\' we see, \nAn\' a\' we luve, \'s been dung ajee \nBy time\'s rouch shouther, \nAn\' what was richt and wrang for me \nLies mangled throu\'ther, \n\nIt\'s possible \xe2\x80\x94 it\'s hardly mair \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat some ane, ripin\' after lear \xe2\x80\x94 \nSome auld professor or young heir, \n\nIf still there\'s either \xe2\x80\x94 \nMay find an\' read me, an\' be sair \n\nPerplexed, puir brither! \n\n" IVbat tongue does your auld bookie speak ? \n\nHe\'ll spier; an\' 1, his mou to steik: \n" No bein\' fit to write in Greek, \nI wrote in Lallan, \nDear to my heart as the peat reek, \nAuld as Tantallon. \n\n" Few spak it then, an\' noo there\'s nane. \nMy puir auld sangs lie a\' their lane, \n\n>55 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nTheir sense, that aince was braw an \' plain. \n\nTint a\'thegether. \nLike ntnes upon a standin\' stane \n\nAmang the heather. \n\n" But think not you the brae to speel; \nYou, tae, maun chow the bitter peel; \nFor a\' your tear, for a\' your skeel. \n\nYe\' re nane sae hicky; \nAn\' things are mebbe waur than weel \nFor you, my biickie. \n\n"The hale concern {baith hens an\' eggs, \nBaith books an\' writers, stars an\' clegs) \nNoo stachers upon lowsent legs. \n\nAn\' wears awa\' ; \nThe tack o\' mankind, near the dregs, \n\nRins unco law. \n\n" Your hook, that in some braw new tongue^ \nYe wrote or prentit, preached or sung. \nWill still be just a bairn, an \'young \n\nIn fame an \' years. \nWhan the hale planet\'s guts are dung \n\nAbout your ears ; \n\n"An you, sair gruppin\' to a spar \nOr whammled wi\' some blee:(in\' star, \nCryin\' to ken whaur deilye are, \n\nHame, France, or Flanders \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhang sindry like a railway car \nAn\' file in danders." \n156 \n\n\n\nII \n\nILLE TERRARUM \n\nFRAE nirly, nippin\', Eas\'lan\' breeze, \nFrae Norlan\' snaw, an\' haar o\' seas, \nWeel happit in your gairden trees, \n\nA bonny bit, \nAtween the muckle Pentland\'s knees, \nSecure ye sit. \n\nBeeches an\' aiks entwine their theek, \nAn\' firs, a stench, auld-farrant clique. \nA\' simmer day, your chimleys reek, \n\nCouthy and bien ; \nAn\' here an\' there your windies keek \n\nAmang the green. \n\nA pickle plats an\' paths an\' posies, \nA wheen auld gillyflowers an\' roses : \nA ring o\' wa\'s the hale encloses \n\nFrae sheep or men ; \nAn\' there the auld housie beeks an\' doses, \n\nA\' by her lane. \n\nThe gairdner crooks his weary back \nA\' day in the pitaty-track, \n\'57 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nOr mebbe stops awhile to crack \n\nWi\' Jane the cook, \nOr at some buss, worm-eaten-black, \n\nTo gie a look. \n\nFrae the high hills the curlew ca\'s; \nThe sheep gang baaing by the wa\'s; \nOr whiles a clan o\' roosty craws \n\nCangle thegether; \nThe wild bees seek the gairden raws, \n\nWeariet wi\' heather. \n\nOr in the gloamin\' douce an\' gray \nThe sweet-throat mavis tunes her lay; \nThe herd comes linkin\' doun the brae; \n\nAn\' by degrees \nThe muckle siller mune maks way \n\nAmang the trees. \n\nHere aft hae 1, wi\' sober heart, \nFor meditation sat apairt, \nWhen orra loves or kittle art \n\nPerplexed my mind; \nHere socht a balm for ilka smart \n\nO\' humankind. \n\nHere aft, weel neukit by my lane, \nWi\' Horace, or perhaps Montaigne, \nThe mornin\' hours hae come an\' gane \n\nAbiine my held \xe2\x80\x94 \nI wadnae gi\'en a chucky-stane \n\nFor a\' I\'d read. \n158 \n\n\n\nILLE TERRARUM \n\nBut noo the auld city, street by street. \nAn\' winter fu\' o\' snaw an\' sleet, \nAwhile shut in my gangrel feet \n\nAn\' goavin\' mettle; \nNoo is the soopit ingle sweet, \n\nAn\' liltin\' kettle. \n\nAn\' noo the winter winds complain; \nCauld lies the glaur in ilka lane; \nOn draigled hizzie, tautit wean \n\nAn\' drucken lads, \nIn the mirk nicht, the winter rain \n\nDribbles an\' blads. \n\nWhan bugles frae the Castle rock, \nAn\' beaten drums wi\' dowie shock, \nWauken, at cauld-rife sax o\'clock, \n\nMy chitterin\' frame, \nI mind me on the kintry cock, \n\nThe kintry hame. \n\nI mind me on yon bonny bield; \nAn\' Fancy traivels far afield \nTo gaither a\' that gairdens yield \n\nO\' sun an\' Simmer: \nTo hearten up a dowie chield, \n\nFancy\'s the limmerl \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab59 \n\n\n\nIll \n\n\n\nWHEN aince Aprile has fairly coma. \nAn\' birds may bigg in winter\'s lum. \nAn pleisure\'s spreid for a\' and some \n\nO\' whatna state, \nLove, wi\' her auld recruitin\' drum, \nThan taks the gate. \n\nThe heart plays dunt wi\' main an\' micht; \nThe lasses\' een are a\' sae bricht, \nTheir dresses are sae braw an\' ticht, \n\nThe bonny birdies! \xe2\x80\x94 \nPuir winter virtue at the sicht \n\nGangs heels ower hurdles. \n\nAn\' aye as love frae land to land \nTirls the drum wi\' eident hand, \nA\' men collect at her command, \n\nToun-bred or land\'art. \nAn\' follow in a denty band \n\nHer gaucy standart. \n\nAn\' I, wha sang o\' rain an\' snaw. \nAn\' weary winter weel awa\', \nNoo busk me in a jacket braw^ \n\nAn\' tak my place \nr the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw, \n\nWi\' smilin\' face. \n\n\n\n160 \n\n\n\nIV \n\nA MILE an\' a BITTOCK \n\nA MILE an\' a bittock, a mile or twa, \nAbune the burn, ayont the law, \nDavie an\' Donal\' an\' Cherlie an\' a\'. \nAn\' the mune was shinin\' clearly! \n\nAne went hame wi\' the ither, an\' then \nThe ither v/ent hame wi\' the ither twa men, \nAn\' baith wad return him the service again, \nAn\' the mune was shinin\' clearly! \n\nThe clocks were chappin\' in house an\' ha*, \nEleeven, twal an\' ane an\' twa; \nAn\' the guidman\'s face was turnt to the wa\', \nAn\' the mune was shinin\' clearly! \n\nA wind got up frae affa the sea, \nIt blew the stars as dear\'s could be. \nIt blew in the een of a\' o\' the three. \nAn\' the mune was shinin\' clearly! \n\nNoo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head, \n\xe2\x80\xa2\'The best o\' frien\'s maun twine," he said; \n"I\'m weariet, an\' here I\'m awa\' to my bed.\'* \nAn\' the mune was shinin\' clearly! \n\ni6i \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nTwa o\' them walkin\' an\' crackin\' their lane. \nThe mornin\' licht cam gray an\' plain, \nAn\' the birds they yammert on stick an\' stane. \nAn\' the mune was shinin\' clearly! \n\nO years ayont, O years awa*, \nMy lads, ye\'ll mind whate\'er befa\' \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy lads, ye\'ll mind on the bield o\' the law, \nWhen the miine was shinin\' clearly 1 \n\n\n\n162 \n\n\n\nA LOWDEN SABBATH MORN \n\nTHE clinkum-clank o\' Sabbath bells \nNoo to the hoastin\' rookery swells, \nNoo faintin\' laigh in shady dells, \n\nSounds far an\' near, \nAn\' through the simmer kintry tells \nIts tale o\' cheer. \n\nAn\' noo, to that melodious play, \nA\' deidly awn the quiet sway \xe2\x80\x94 \nA\' ken their solemn holiday. \n\nBestial an\' human, \nThe singin\' lintie on the brae, \n\nThe restin\' plou\'man. \n\nHe, mair than a\' the lave o\' men, \nHis week completit joys to ken; \nHalf-dressed, he daunders out an\' in, \n\nPerplext wi\' leisure; \nAn\' his raxt limbs he\'ll rax again \n\nWi\' painfu\' pleesure. \n\nThe steerin\' mither Strang afit \nNoo shoos the bairnies but a bit; \n163 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nNoo cries them ben, their Sinday shiiit \n\nTo scart upon them, \nOr sweeties in their pouch to pit, \n\nWi\' biessin\'s on them. \n\nThe lasses, clean frae tap to taes, \nAre busked in crunklin\' underclaes; \nThe gartened hose, the weel-filled stays, \n\nThe nakit shift, \nA\' bleached on bonny greens for days, \n\nAn\' white\'s the drift. \n\nAn\' noo to face the kirkward mile: \nThe guidman\'s hat o\' dacent style, \nThe blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle \n\nAs white\'s the miller: \nA waefu\' peety tae, to spile \n\nThe warth o\' siller. \n\nOur Marg\'et, aye sae keen to crack \nDouce-stappin\' in the stoury track \nHer emeralt goun a\' kiltit back \n\nFrae snawy coats, \nWhite-ankled, leads the kirkward pack \n\nWi\' Dauvit Groats. \n\nA\' thocht ahint, in runkled breeks, \nA\' spiled wi\' lyin\' by for weeks. \nThe guidman follows closs, an\' cleiks \n\nThe sonsie missis; \nHis sarious face at aince bespeaks \n\nThe day that this is. \n164 \n\n\n\nA LOWDEN SABBATH MORN \n\nAnd aye an\' while we nearer draw \nTo whaur the kirkton lies alaw, \nMair neebours, comin\' saft an\' slaw \n\nFrae here an\' there, \nThe thicker thrang the gate an\' caw \n\nThe stour in air. \n\nBut hark ! the bells frae nearer clang ; \nTo rowst the slaw, their sides they bang; \nAn\' see! black coats a\'ready thrang \n\nThe green kirkyaird ; \nAnd at the yett, the chestnuts spang \n\nThat brocht the laird. \n\nThe solemn elders at the plate \nStand drinkin\' deep the pride o\' state: \nThe practised hands as gash an\' great \n\nAs Lords o\' Session ; \nThe later named, a wee thing blate \n\nIn their expression. \n\nThe prentit stanes that mark the deid, \nWi\' lengthened lip, the sarious read; \nSyne wag a moraleesin\' heid, \n\nAn\' then an\' there \nTheir hirplin\' practice an\' their creed \n\nTry hard to square. \n\nIt\'s here our Merren lang has lain, \nA wee bewast the table-stane ; \nAn\' yon\'s the grave o\' Sandy Blane; \nAn\' further ower, \n165 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nThe mither\'s brithers, dacent men! \nLie a\' the fower. \n\nHere the guidman sail bide awce \nTo dwall amang the deid; to see \nAuld faces clear in fancy\'s e\'e; \n\nBelike to hear \nAuld voices fa\'in saft an\' slee \n\nOn fancy\'s ear. \n\nThus, on the day o\' solemn things, \nThe bell that in the steeple swings \nTo fauld a scaittered faim\'ly rings \n\nIts walcome screed; \nAn\' just a wee thing nearer brings \n\nThe quick an\' deid. \n\nBut noo the bell is ringin\' in; \nTo tak their places, folk begin; \nThe minister himsel\' will shune \n\nBe up the gate, \nFilled fu\' wi\' clavers about sin \n\nAn\' man\'s estate. \n\nThe tunes are up \xe2\x80\x94 French, to be shure, \nThe faithfu\' French, an\' twa-three mair; \nThe auld prezentor, hoastin\' sair, \n\nWales out the portions. \nAn\' yirks the tune into the air \n\nWi\' queer contortions. \n\nFollows the prayer, the readin\' next, \nAn\' than the fisslin\' for the text \xe2\x80\x94 \n1 66 \n\n\n\nA LOWDEN SABBATH MORN \n\nThe twa-three last to find it, vext \n\nBut kind o\' proud; \nAn\' than the peppermints are raxed, \n\nAn\' southernwood. \n\nFor noo\'s the time whan pows are seen \nNid-noddin\' lii<e a mandareen; \nWhen tenty mithers stap a preen \n\nIn sleepin\' weans; \nAn\' nearly half the parochine \n\nForget their pains. \n\nThere\'s just a waukrif twa or three: \nThrawn commentautors sweer to \'gree, \nWeans glowrin\' at the bumlin\' bee \n\nOn windie-glasses, \nOr lads that tak a keek a-glee \n\nAt sonsie lasses. \n\nHimsel\', meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks \nAn\' bobs belaw the soundin\'-box, \nThe treesures of his words unlocks \n\nWi\' prodigality, \nAn\' deals some unco dingin\' knocks \n\nTo infidality. \n\nWi\' sappy unction, hoo he burkes \n\nThe hopes o\' men that trust in works, \n\nExpounds the fau\'ts o\' ither kirks. \n\nAn\' shaws the best o\' them \n\nNo muckle better than mere Turks, \n\nWhen a\'s confessed o\' them. \n167 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nBethankit! what a bonny creed! \n\nWhat mair would ony Christian need? \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe braw words rumm\'le ower his heid, \n\nNor steer the sleeper; \nAnd in their restin\' graves, the deid \n\nSleep aye the deeper. \n\nNote. \xe2\x80\x94 It maybe guessed by some that I had a certain parish in my \neye, and this makes it proper I should add a word of disclamation, in \nmy time there have been two ministers in that parish. Of the first I \nhave a special reason to speak well, even had there been any to think \nill. The second 1 have often met in private and long (in the due phrase) \n" sat under" in his church, and neither here nor there have I heard an \nunkind or ugly word upon his lips. The preacher of the text had thus \nno original in that particular parish; but when I was a boy, he might \nhave been observed in many others; he was then (like the schoolmas- \nter) abroad; and by recent advices, it would seem he has not yet \nentirely disappeared. \n\n\n\n168 \n\n\n\nVI \n\nTHE SPAEWIFE \n\n01 wad like to ken \xe2\x80\x94 to the beggar-wife says I \xe2\x80\x94 \n^ Why chops are guid to brander and nane sae guid \nto fry. \nAn\' siller, that\'s sae braw to keep, is brawer still to gi\'e. \n\xe2\x80\x94 It\'s gey an\' easy spierin\' , says the beggar-wife to me. \n\nO, I wad like to ken \xe2\x80\x94 to the beggar-wife says I \xe2\x80\x94 \nHoo a\' things come to be whaur we find them when we \n\ntry. \nThe lasses in their claes an\' the fishes in the sea. \n\xe2\x80\x94 It\'s gey an\' easy spierin\' , says the beggar-wife to me. \n\nO, I wad like to ken \xe2\x80\x94 to the beggar-wife says I \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhy lads are a\' to sell an\' lasses a\' to buy; \n\nAn\' naebody for dacency but barely twa or three. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 It\'s gey an\' easy spierin\' , says the beggar-wife to me. \n\nO, I wad like to ken \xe2\x80\x94 to the beggar- wife says I \xe2\x80\x94 \nGin death\'s as shure to men as killin\' is to kye. \nWhy God has filled the yearth sae fu\' o\' tasty things to \npree. \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Ws gey an\' easy spierin\', says the beggar-wife to me. \n\n169 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\n\n\nO, I wad like to ken \xe2\x80\x94 to the beggar-wife says I \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe reason o\' the cause an\' the wherefore o\' the why, \nWi\' mony anither riddle brings the tear into my e\'e. \n\xe2\x80\x94 If s gey an\' easy spienn\\ says the beggar-wife to me. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab ]o \n\n\n\nVII \n\nTHE BLAST \xe2\x80\x94 1 875 \n\nIT\'S rainin\'. Weet\'s the gairden sod, \nWeet the lang roads whaur gangrels plod \xe2\x96\xa0 \nA maist unceevil thing o\' God \n\nIn mid July \xe2\x80\x94 \nIf ye\'ll just curse the sneckdraw, dod! \nAn\' sae wull I! \n\nHe\'s a braw place in Heev\'n, ye ken, \nAn\' lea\'s us puir, forjaskit men \nClamjamfried in the but and ben \n\nHe ca\'s the earth \xe2\x80\x94 \nA wee bit inconvenient den \n\nNo muckle worth; \n\nAn\' whiles, at orra times, keeks out, \nSees what puir mankind are about; \nAn\' if He can, I\'ve little doubt. \n\nUpsets their plans; \nHe hates a\' mankind, brainch and root. \n\nAnd a\' that\'s man\'s. \n\nAn\' whiles, whan they tak heart again, \nAn\' life i\' the sun looks braw an\' plain, \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nDoun comes a jaw o\' droukin\' rain \nUpon their honours \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGod sends a spate outower the plain, \nOr mebbe thun\'ers. \n\nLord safe us, life\'s an unco thing! \nSimmer an\' Winter, Yule an\' Spring, \nThe damned, dour-heartit seasons bring \n\nA feck o\' trouble. \nI wadnae try\'t to be a king \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo, nor for double. \n\nBut since we\'re in it, willy-nilly, \n\nWe maun be watchfu\', wise an\' skilly, \n\nAn\' no mind ony ither billy. \n\nLassie nor God. \nBut drink \xe2\x80\x94 that\'s my best counsel till \'er \n\nSae tak the nod. \n\n\n\n172 \n\n\n\nVIII \n\nTHE COUNTERBLAST \xe2\x80\x94 1 886 \n\nMY bonny man, the warld, it\'s true, \nWas made for neither me nor you; \nIt\'s just a place to warstle through, \n\nAs Job confessed o\'t; \nAnd aye the best that we\'ll can do \nIs mak the best o\'t. \n\nThere\'s rowth o\' wrang, I\'m free to say: \nThe simmer brunt, tne winter blae, \nThe face of earth a\' fyled wi\' clay \n\nAn\' dour wi\' chuckles, \nAn\' life a rough an\' land\'art play \n\nFor country buckles. \n\nAn\' food\'s anither name for clart; \nAn\' beasts an\' brambles bite an\' scart; \nAn\' what would we be like, my heart! \n\nIf bared o\' claethin\' ? \n\xe2\x80\x94 Aweel, I cannae mend your cart: \n\nIt\'s that or naethin\'. \n\nA feck o\' folk frae first to last \n\nHave through this queer experience passed; \n\nI7\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nTwa-three, I ken, just damn an\' blast \n\nThe hale transaction ; \nBut twa-three ithers, east an\' wast, \n\nFand satisfaction. \n\nWhaur braid the briery muirs expand, \n\nA waefii\' an\' a weary land. \n\nThe bumblebees, a gowden band, \n\nAre blithely hingin\' ; \nAn\' there the canty wanderer fand \n\nThe laverock singin\'. \n\nTrout in the burn grow great as herrn; \nThe simple sheep can find their fair\'n\'; \nThe wind blaws clean about the cairn \n\nWi\' caller air; \nThe muircock an\' the barefit bairn \n\nAre happy there. \n\nSic-like the howes o\' life to some: \n\nGreen loans whaur they ne\'er fash their thumb, \n\nBut mark the muckle winds that come, \n\nSoopin\' an\' cool, \nOr hear the powrin\' burnie drum \n\nIn the shilfa\'s pool. \n\nThe evil wi\' the guid they tak; \nThey ca\' a gray thing gray, no black; \nTo a steigh brae, a stubborn back \n\nAddressin\' daily; \nAn\' up the rude, unbieldy track \n\nO\' life, gang gaily. \n\xe2\x80\xa274 \n\n\n\nTHE COUNTERBLAST\xe2\x80\x94 1886 \n\nWhat you would like\'s a palace ha\', \nOr Sinday parlour dink an\' braw \nWi\' a\' things ordered in a raw \n\nBy denty leddies. \nWeel, than, ye cannae hae\'t : that\'s a* \n\nThat to be said is. \n\nAn\' since at life ye\'ve ta\'en the grue, \nAn\' winnae blithely hirsle through, \nYe\'ve fund the very thing to do \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat\'s to drink speerit; \nAn\' shiine we\'ll hear the last o\' you \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn\' blithe to hear it! \n\nThe shoon ye coft, the life ye lead, \nIthers will heir when aince ye\'re deid; \nThey\'ll heir your tasteless bite o\' breid, \n\nAn\' find it sappy; \nThey\'ll to your dulefu\' house succeed, \n\nAn\' there be happy. \n\nAs whan a glum an\' fractious wean \nHas sat an\' sullened by his lane \nTill, wi\' a rowstin\' skelp, he\'s taen \n\nAn\' shoo\'d to bed \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe ither bairns a\' fa\' to play\'n\'. \n\nAs gleg\'s a gled. \n\n\n\n\'75 \n\n\n\nIX \n\nTHE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL \n\nIT\'S Strange that God should fash to frame \nThe yearth and lift sae hie, \nAn\' clean forget to explain the same \nTo a gentleman like me. \n\nThey gutsy, donnered ither folk, \n\nTheir weird they weel may dree; \nBut why present a pig in a poke \n\nTo a gentleman like me ? \n\nThey ither folk their parritch eat \n\nAn\' sup their sugared tea; \nBut the mind is no to be wyled wi\' meat \n\nWi\' a gentleman like me. \n\nThey ither folk, they court their joes \n\nAt gloamin\' on the lea; \nBut they\'re made of a commoner clay, I suppose, \n\nThan a gentleman like me. \n\nThey ither folk, for richt or wrang, \n\nThey suffer, bleed, or dee; \nBut a\' thir things are an emp\'y sang \n\nTo a gentleman like me. \n176 \n\n\n\n*l \n\n\n\nTHE COUNTERBLAST IRONICAL \n\nIt\'s a different thing that I demand, \nTho\' humble as can be \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA statement fair in my Maker\'s hand \nTo a gentleman like me: \n\nA clear account writ fair an\' broad, \nAn\' a plain apologie; \nOr the deevil a ceevil word to God \nFrom a gentleman like me. \n\n\n\n*77 \n\n\n\nX \n\nTHEIR LAUREATE TO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB \n\nDEAR Thamson class, whaure\'er I gang \nIt aye comes ower me wi\' a spang: \n" Lordsake ! they Thamson lads \xe2\x80\x94 (deil hang \nOr else Lord mend them) ! \xe2\x80\x94 \nAn \' that wanchancy annual sang \nI ne\'er can send them! " \n\nStraucht, at the name, a trusty tyke, \nMy conscience girrs ahint the dyke; \nStraucht on my hinderlands I fyke \n\nTo find a rhyme t\' ye; \nPleased \xe2\x80\x94 although mebbe no pleased-like \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo gie my time t\' ye. \n\n"Weel," an\' says you, wi\' heavin\' breist, \n" Sae far, sae guid, hut what\'s the neist? \nYearly we gaither to the feast, \n\nA\' hopefu men \xe2\x80\x94 \nYearly we shelloch \' Hang the beast \xe2\x80\x94 \nNae sang again ! \' " \n\nMy lads, an\' what am I to say ? \nYe shiirely ken the Muse\'s way: \n178 \n\n\n\nTO AN ACADEMY CLASS DINNER CLUB \n\nYestreen, as gleg\'s a tyke \xe2\x80\x94 the day, \nThrawn like a cuddy: \n\nHer conduc\', that to her\'s a play, \nDeith to a body. \n\nAft whan I sat an\' made my mane. \nAft whan I laboured burd-alane, \nFishin\' for rhymes an\' findin\' nane. \n\nOr nane were fit for ye \xe2\x80\x94 \nYe judged me cauld\'s a chucky stane \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo car\'n\' a bit for ye! \n\nBut saw ye ne\'er some pingein\' bairn \n\nAs weak as a pitaty-par\'n\' \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLess used wi\' guidin\' horse-shoe airn \n\nThan steerin\' crowdie \xe2\x80\x94 \nPacked aflF his lane, by moss an\' cairn, \n\nTo ca\' the howdie. \n\nWae\'s me, for the puir callant than! \nHe wambles like a poke o\' bran. \nAn\' the lowse rein, as hard\'s he can, \n\nPu\'s, trem\'lin\' handit; \nTill, blaff! upon his hinderlan\' \n\nBehauld him landit. \n\nSic-like \xe2\x80\x94 I awn the weary fac\' \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhan on my muse the gate I tak, \nAn\' see her gleed e\'e raxin\' back \n\nTo keek ahint her; \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo me, the brig o\' Heev\'n gangs black \n\nAs blackest winter. \n\xe2\x96\xa079 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\n" Lordsakef we\'re aff/\' thinks I, " but whaur } \nOn what abhorred an \' whinny scaur. \nOr whammled in what sea o\' glaur. \n\nWin she desert me ? \nAn\' will she just disgrace ? or waur \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWill she no hurt me ? " \n\nKittle the quaere! But at least \n\nThe day I\'ve backed the fashious beast, \n\nWhile she, wi\' mony a spang an\' reist, \n\nFlang heels ower bonnet; \nAn\' a\' triumphant \xe2\x80\x94 for your feast, \n\nHae! there\'s your sonnet! \n\n\n\n189 \n\n\n\nXI \n\nEMBRO HIE KIRK \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2*T^HE Lord Himsel\' in former days \n\nI Waled out the proper tilnes for praise \nAn\' named the proper kind o\' claes \n\nFor folk to preach in : \nPreceese and in the chief o\' ways \nImportant teachin\'. \n\nHe ordered a\' things late and air\' ; \nHe ordered folk to stand at prayer. \n(Although I cannae just mind where \n\nHe gave the warnin\'.) \nAn\' pit pomatum on their hair \n\nOn Sabbath mornin\'. \n\nThe hale o\' life by His commands \nWas ordered to a body\'s hands; \nBut see! this corpus Juris stands \n\nBy a\' forgotten ; \nAn\' God\'s religion in a\' lands \n\nIs deid an\' rotten. \n\nWhile thus the lave o\' mankind\'s lost, \nO\' Scotland still God maks His boast \xe2\x80\x94 \n\ni8i \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nPuir Scotland, on whase barren coast \n\nA score or twa \nAuld wives wi\' mutches an\' a hoast \n\nStill keep His law. \n\nIn Scotland, a wheen canty, plain, \nDouce, kintry-leevin\' folk retain \nThe Truth \xe2\x80\x94 or did so aince \xe2\x80\x94 alane \n\nOf a\' men leevin\'; \nAn\' noo just twa o\' them remain \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nJust Begg an\' Niven. \n\nFor noo, unfaithfu\' to the Lord \nAuld Scotland joins the rebel horde; \nHer human hymn-books on the board \n\nShe noo displays : \nAn\' Embro Hie Kirk\'s been restored \n\nIn popish ways. \n\nO punctum femporis for action \nTo a\' o\' the reformin\' faction, \nIf yet, by ony act or paction, \n\nThocht, word, or sermon. \nThis dark an\' damnable transaction \n\nMicht yet determine! \n\nFor see \xe2\x80\x94 as Doctor Begg explains \xe2\x80\x94 \nHoo easy \'t\'s dune! a pickle weans, \nWha in the Hie Street gaither stanes \n\nBy his instruction. \nThe uncovenantit, pentit panes \n\nDing to destruction. \n182 \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nEMBRO HIE KIRK \n\nUp, Niven, or ower late \xe2\x80\x94 an\' dash \nLaigh in the glaur that carnal hash ; \nLet spires and pews wi\' gran\' stramash \n\nThegether fa\' ; \nThe rumlin\' kist o\' whustles smash \n\nIn pieces sma\'. \n\nNoo choose ye out a waie hammer; \nAbout the knottit buttress clam\'er; \nAlang the steep roof stoyt an\' stammer, \n\nA gate mis-chancy; \nOn the aul\' spire, the bells\' hie cha\'mer, \n\nDance your bit dancie. \n\nDing, devel, dunt, destroy, an\' ruin, \nWi\' carnal stanes the square bestrewin\'. \nTill your loud chaps frae Kyle to Fruin, \n\nFrae Hell to Heeven, \nTell the guid wark that baith are doin\' \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBaith Begg an\' Niven. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nXII \n\nTHE SCOTSMAN\'S RETURN FROM ABROAD \nIn a letter from Mr. Thomson to Mr. Johnstone \n\nIN mony a foreign pairt I\'ve been, \nAn\' mony an unco ferlie seen, \nSince, Mr. Johnstone, you and 1 \nLast walkit upon Cocklerye. \nWi\' gleg, observant een, I pass\'t \nBy sea an\' land, through East an\' Wast, \nAnd still in ilka age an\' station \nSaw naething but abomination. \nIn thir uncovenantit lands \nThe gangrel Scot uplifts his hands \n\nAt lack of a\' sectarian fush\'n. \nAn\' cauld religious destitution. \nHe rins, puir man, frae place to place, \nTries a\' their graceless means o\' grace. \nPreacher on preacher, kirk on kirk \xe2\x80\x94 \nThis yin a stot an\' thon a stirk \xe2\x80\x94 \nA bletherin\' clan, no warth a preen, \nAs bad as Smith of Aiberdeen! \n\nAt last, across the weary faem, \nFrae far, outlandish pairts I came. \n184 \n\n\n\nt \n\n\n\nTHE SCOTSMAN\'S RETURN FROM ABROAD \n\nOn ilka side o\' me I fand \nFresh tokens o\' my native land. \nWi\' whatna joy I hailed them a\' \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe hilltaps standin\' raw by raw, \nThe public house, the Hielan\' birks, \nAnd a\' the bonny U. P. kirks! \nBut maistly thee, the bluid o\' Scots, \nFrae Maidenkirk to John o\' Grots, \nThe king o\' drinks, as I conceive it, \nTalisker, Isla, or Glenlivet! \n\nFor after years wi\' a pockmantie \n\nFrae Zanzibar to Alicante, \n\nIn mony a fash and sair affliction \n\nI gie\'t as my sincere conviction \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf a\' their foreign tricks an\' pliskies, \n\nI maist abominate their whiskies. \n\nNae doot, themsels, they ken it weel. \n\nAn\' wi\' a hash o\' leemon peel, \n\nAnd ice an\' siccan filth, they ettle \n\nThe stawsome kind o\' goo to settle; \n\nSic wersh apothecary\'s broos wi\' \n\nAs Scotsmen scorn to fyle their moo\'s wi\'. \n\nAn\', man, I was a blithe hame-comer \nWhan first I syndit out my rummer. \nYe should hae seen me then, wi\' care \nThe less important pairts prepare; \nSyne, weel contentit wi\' it a\', \nPour in the speerits wi\' a jaw! \nI didnae drink, I didnae speak, \xe2\x80\x94 \nI only snowkit up the reek. \n183 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nI was sae pleased therin to paidle, \nI sat an\' plowtered wi\' my ladle. \n\nAn\' blithe was I, the morrow\'s morn, \nTo daunder through the stookit corn, \nAnd after a\' my strange mishanters. \nSit doun amang my ain dissenters. \nAn\', man, it was a joy to me \nThe pu\'pit an\' the pews to see, \nThe pennies dirlin\' in the plate. \nThe elders lookin\' on in state; \nAn\' \'mang the first, as it befell, \nWha should I see, sir, but yoursel\'I \n\nI was, and I will no deny it, \n\nAt the first gliff a hantle tryit \n\nTo see yoursel\' in sic a station \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt seemed a doubtfu\' dispensation. \n\nThe feelin\' was a mere digression; \n\nFor shune 1 understood the session, \n\nAn\' mindin\' Aiken an\' M\'Neil, \n\nI wondered they had diine sae weel. \n\nI saw 1 had mysel\' to blame; \n\nFor had I but remained at hame, \n\nAiblins \xe2\x80\x94 though no ava\' deservin\' \'t \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey micht hae named your humble servant. \n\nThe kirk was filled, the door was steeked; \nUp to the pu\'pit ance I keeked; \nI was mair pleased than I can tell \xe2\x80\x94 \nIt was the minister himsel\'l \n\n1 86 \n\n\n\nTHE SCOTSMAN\'S RETURN FROM ABROAD \n\nProud, proud was I to see his face, \n\nAfter sae lang awa\' frae grace. \n\nPleased as I was, I\'m no denyin\' \n\nSome maitters were not edifyin\' ; \n\nFor first I fand \xe2\x80\x94 an\' here was news ! \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMere hymn-books cockin\' in the pews \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA humanised abomination, \n\nUnfit for ony congregation. \n\nSyne, while I still was on the tenter, \n\nI scunnered at the new prezentor; \n\nI thocht him gesterin\' an\' cauld \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA sair declension frae the auld. \n\nSyne, as though a\' the faith was wreckit, \n\nThe prayer was not what I\'d exspeckit. \n\nHimsel\', as it appeared to me. \n\nWas no the man he iised to be. \n\nBut just as I was growin\' vext \n\nHe waled a maist judeecious text. \n\nAn\', launchin\' into his prelections, \n\nSwoopt, wi\' a skirl, on a\' defections. \n\nwhat a gale was on my speerit \nTo hear the p\'ints o\' doctrine clearit, \nAnd a\' the horrors o\' damnation \nSet furth wi\' faithfu\' ministration! \nNae shauchlin\' testimony here \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe were a\' damned, an\' that was clear. \n\n1 owned, wi\' gratitude an\' wonder, \nHe was a pleisure to sit under. \n\n\n\n187 \n\n\n\nXIII \n\nLATE in the nicht in bed I lay, \nThe winds were at their weary play, \nAn\' tirlin\' wa\'s an\' skirlin\' wae \n\nThrough Heev\'n they battered ; \xe2\x80\x94 \nOn-ding o\' hail, on-blaff o\' spray, \nThe tempest blattered. \n\nThe masoned house it dinled through; \nIt dung the ship, it cowped the coo\'; \nThe rankit aiks it overthrew, \n\nHad braved a\' weathers; \nThe Strang sea-gleds it took an blew \n\nAwa\' like feathers. \n\nThe thrawes o\' fear on a\' were shed, \nAn\' the hair rose, an\' slumber fled. \nAn\' lichts were lit an\' prayers were said \n\nThrough a\' the kintry; \nAn\' the cauld terror clum in bed \n\nWi\' a\' an\' sindry. \n\nTo hear in the pit-mirk on hie \nThe brangled collieshangie flie. \nThe warl\', they thocht, wi\' land an\' sea, \n\nItsel\' wad cowpit; \nAn\' for auld airn, the smashed debris \n\nBy God be rowpit. \n188 \n\n\n\nLATE IN THE NICHT \n\nMeanwhile frae far Aldebaran, \n\nTo folks wi\' talescopes in han\', \n\nO\' ships that cowpit, winds that ran, \n\nNae sign was seen, \nBut the wee warl\' in sunshine span \n\nAs bricht\'s a preen. \n\nI, tae, by God\'s especial grace, \nDwall denty in a bieldy place, \nWi\' hosened feet, wi\' shaven face, \n\nWi\' dacent mainners: \nA grand example to the race \n\nO\' tautit sinners! \n\nThe wind may blaw, the heathen rage, \nThe deil may start on the rampage; \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe sick in bed, the thief in cage \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat\'s a\' to me ? \nCosh in my house, a sober sage, \n\nI sit an\' see. \n\nAn\' whiles the bluid spangs to my bree. \nTo lie sae saft, to live sae free, \nWhile better men maun do an\' die \n\nIn unco places. \n" Whaur\'s God? " I cry, an\' " IVhae is me \n\nTo hae sic graces ? \' \' \n\nI mind the fecht the sailors keep. \nBut fire or can\'le. rest or sleep, \n189 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nIn darkness an\' the muckle deep; \n\nAn\' mind beside \nThe herd that on the hills o\' sheep \n\nHas wandered wide. \nI mind me on the hoastin\' weans \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe penny joes on causey stanes \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe auld folk wi\' the crazy banes, \n\nBaith auld an\' puir, \nThat aye maun thole the winds an\' rains. \n\nAn\' labour sair. \n\nAn\' whiles I\'m kind o\' pleased a blink, \nAn\' kind o\' fleyed forby, to think, \nFor a\' my rowth o\' meat an\' drink \n\nAn\' waste o\' crumb, \nI\'ll mebbe have to thole wi\' skink \n\nIn Kingdom Come. \n\nFor God whan jowes the Judgment bell, \nWi\' His ain Hand, His Leevin\' Sel\', \nSail ryve the guid (as Prophets tell) \n\nFrae them that had it; \nAnd in the reamin\' pat o\' Hell, \n\nThe rich be scaddit. \n\nO Lord, if this indeed be sae. \nLet daw that sair an\' happy day! \nAgain\' the warl\', grawn auld an\' gray, \n\nUp wi\' your aixe! \nAnd let the puir enjoy their play \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI\'ll thole my paiks. \n\n\n\n190 \n\n\n\nXIV \n\nMY conscience! \n\nOF a\' the ills that flesh can fear, \nThe loss o\' frien\'s, the lack o\' gear, \nA yowlin\' tyke, a glandered mear, \n\nA lassie\'s nonsense \xe2\x80\x94 \nThere\'s just ae thing I cannae bear, \nAn\' that\'s my conscience. \n\nWhan day (an\' a\' excuse) has gane. \nAn\' wark is dune, and duty\'s plain. \nAn\' to my chalmer a\' my lane \n\nI creep apairt, \nMy conscience! hoo the yammerin\' pain \n\nStends to my heart ! \n\nA\' day wi\' various ends in view \nThe hairsts o\' time I had to pu\', \nAn\' made a hash wad staw a soo. \n\nLet be a man! \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy conscience! whan my ban\'s were fu\', \n\nWhaur were ye then ? \n\nAn\' there were a\' the lures o\' life, \nThere pleesure skirlin\' on the fife. \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nThere anger, wi\' the hotchin\' knife \n\nGround shairp in Hell \xe2\x80\x94 \nMy conscience! \xe2\x80\x94 you that\'s like a wifel \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhaur was yoursel\' ? \n\nI ken it fine: just waitin\' here, \n\nTo gar the evil waur appear, \n\nTo clart the guid, confuse the clear, \n\nMisca\' the great, \nMy conscience! an\' to raise a steer \n\nWhen a\'s ower late. \n\nSic-like, some tyke grawn auld and blind, \nWhan thieves brok\' through the gear to p\'ind \nHas lain his dozened length an\' grinned \n\nAt the disaster; \nAn\' the morn\'s mornin\', wud\'s the wind, \n\nYokes on his master. \n\n\n\nr^a \n\n\n\nXV \n\nTO DOCTOR JOHN BROWN \n\n(IVhan the dear doSlor, dear to a\', \nIVas still amang us here belaw, \nI set my pipes his praise to blaw \n\niVi\' a\' my ipeerit; \nBut noo, Dear Do\xc2\xa3tor ! he\'s awa\'. \n\nAn\' ne\'er can hear it.) \n\nBY Lyne and Tyne, by Thames and Tees \nBy a\' the various river-Dee\'s, \nIn Mars and Manors \'yont the seas \n\nOr here at hame, \nWhaure\'er there\'s kindly folk to please, \nThey ken your name. \n\nThey ken your name, they ken your tyke, \nThey ken the honey from your byke; \nBut mebbe after a\' your fyke, \n\n(The truth to tell) \nIt\'s just your honest Rab they like, \n\nAn\' no yoursel\'. \n\nAs at the gowflf, some canny play\'r \nShould tee a common ba\' wi\' care \xe2\x80\x94 \n^9i \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nShould flourish and deleaver fair \nHis souple shintie \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn\' the ba\' rise into the air, \nA leevin\' lintie: \n\nSae in the game we writers play, \nThere comes to some a bonny day, \nWhen a dear ferlie shall repay \n\nTheir years o\' strife, \nAn\' like you Rab, their things o\' clay, \n\nSpreid wings o\' life. \n\nYe scarce deserved it, I\'m afraid \xe2\x80\x94 \nYou that had never learned the trade, \nBut just some idle mornin\' strayed \n\nInto the schule. \nAn\' picked the fiddle up an\' played \n\nLike Neil himsel\'. \n\nYour e\'e was gleg, your fingers dink; \nYe didnae fash yoursel\' to think. \nBut wove, as fast as puss can link. \n\nYour denty wab: \xe2\x80\x94 \nYe stapped your pen into the ink. \n\nAn\' there was Rab! \n\nSinsyne, whaure\'er your fortune lay \nBy dowie den, by canty brae, \nSimmer an\' winter, nicht an\' day, \n\nRab was aye wi\' ye; \nAn\' a\' the folk on a\' the way \n\nWere blithe to see ye. \n194 \n\n\n\nTO DR. JOHN BROWN \n\nO sir, the gods are kind indeed, \nAn\' hauld ye for an iionoured heid, \nThat for a wee bit clarkit screed \n\nSae weel reward ye, \nAn\' lend \xe2\x80\x94 puir Rabbie bein\' deid \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis ghaist to guard ye. \n\nFor though, whaure\'er yoursel\' may be, \nWe\'ve just to turn an\' glisk a wee, \nAn\' Rab at heel we\'re shiire to see \n\nWi\' gladsome caper: \nThe bogle of a bogle, he \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA ghaist o\' paper! \n\nAnd as the auld-farrand hero sees \n\nIn Hell a bogle Hercules, \n\nPit there the lesser deid to please, \n\nWhile he himsel\' \nDwalls wi\' the muckle gods at ease \n\nFar raised frae hell : \n\nSae the true Rabbie far has gane \n\nOn kindlier business o\' his ain \n\nWi\' aulder frien\'s ; an\' his breist-bane \n\nAn\' stumpie tailie, \nHe birstles at a new hearth stane \n\nBy James and Ailie. \n\n\n\n195 \n\n\n\nXVI \n\nIT\'S an owercome sooth for age an\' youth \nAnd it brooks wi\' nae denial, \nThat the dearest friends are the auldest friends \nAnd the young are just on trial. \n\nThere\'s a rival bauld wi\' young an\' auld \n\nAnd it\'s him that has bereft me; \nFor the surest friends are the auldest friends \n\nAnd the maist o\' mines hae left me. \n\nThere are kind hearts still, for friends to fill \nAnd fools to take and break them ; \n\nBut the nearest friends are the auldest friends \nAnd the grave\'s the place to seek them. \n\n\n\n196 \n\n\n\nBOOK III \n\nBEING \n\nSONGS OF TRAVEL AND OTHER VERSES \n\nIVritten principally in the South Seas, 1888-1894 \n\n\n\nCopyright 1895, by \n\nONaRLES dCRIBNBR\'s SONS. \n\n\n\nTHE VAGABOND \n(7b an air of Schubert) \n\nGIVE to me the life I love. \nLet the lave go by me, \nGive the jolly heaven above \nAnd the byway nigh me. \nBed in the bush with stars to see. \n\nBread I dip in the river \xe2\x80\x94 \nThere\'s the life for a man like me. \nThere\'s the life for ever. \n\nLet the blow fall soon or late, \n\nLet what will be o\'er me; \nGive the face of earth around \n\nAnd the road before me. \nWealth I seek not, hope nor love. \n\nNor a friend to know me ; \nAll I seek the heaven above \n\nAnd the road below me. \n\nOr let autumn fall on me \n\nWhere afield I linger. \nSilencing the bird on tree. \n\nBiting the blue finger: \n199 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nWhite as meal the frosty field \xe2\x80\x94 \nWarm the fireside haven \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNot to autumn will I yield. \nNot to winter even! \n\nLet the blow fall soon or late. \n\nLet what will be o\'er me; \nGive the face of earth around. \n\nAnd the road before me. \nWealth 1 ask not, hope nor love. \n\nNor a friend to know me. \nAll 1 ask the heaven above. \n\nAnd the road below me. \n\n\n\n200 \n\n\n\nII \n\nYOUTH AND LOVE \xe2\x80\x94 I \n\nONCE only by the garden gate \nOur lips we joined and parted. \nI must fulfil an empty fate \nAnd travel the uncharted. \n\nHail and farewell ! I must arise, \nLeave here the fatted cattle. \n\nAnd paint on foreign lands and skies \nMy Odyssey of battle. \n\nThe untented Kosmos my abode, \n\nI pass, a wilful stranger: \nMy mistress still the open road \n\nAnd the bright eyes of danger. \n\nCome ill or well, the cross, the crown. \nThe rainbow or the thunder, \n\nI fling my soul and body down \nFor God to plough them under. \n\n\n\naoi \n\n\n\nIll \n\nYOUTH AND LOVE \xe2\x80\x94 II \n\nTO the heart of youth the world is a highwayside \nPassing for ever, he fares ; and on either hand, \nDeep in the gardens golden pavilions hide. \n\nNestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land \nCall him with lighted lamp in the eventide. \n\nThick as the stars at night when the moon is down, \nPleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate \n\nFares; and but waves a hand as he passes on. \nCries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate, \n\nSings but a boyish stave and his face is gone. \n\n\n\n202 \n\n\n\nIV \n\nTHE UNFORGOTTEN \xe2\x80\x94 I \n\nIN dreams, unhappy, I behold you stand \nAs heretofore : \nThe unremembered tokens in your hand \nAvail no more. \n\nNo more the morning glow, no more the grace, \n\nEnshrines, endears. \nCold beats the light of time upon your face \n\nAnd shows your tears. \n\nHe came, he went. Perchance you wept a while \n\nAnd then forgot. \nAh me! but he that left you with a smile \n\nForgets you not. \n\n\n\n20J \n\n\n\nTHE UNFORGOTTEN \xe2\x80\x94 II \n\nSHE rested by the Broken Brook \nShe drank of Weary Well, \nShe moved beyond my lingering look. \nAh, whither none can tell! \n\nShe came, she went. In other lands. \n\nPerchance in fairer skies, \nHer hands shall cling with other hands. \n\nHer eyes to other eyes. \n\nShe vanished. In the sounding town. \n\nWill she remember too ? \nWill she recall the eyes of brown \n\nAs I recall the blue ? \n\n\n\n204 \n\n\n\n1 \n\n\n\nVI \n\n" HE infinite shining heavens \nRose and I saw in the night \n\n\n\nUncountable angel stars \nShowering sorrow and light. \n\nI saw them distant as heaven, \nDumb and shining and dead, \n\nAnd the idle stars of the night \nWere dearer to me than bread. \n\nNight after night in my sorrow \nThe stars stood over the sea. \n\nTill lo! I looked in the dusk \nAnd a star had come down to me. \n\n\n\n305 \n\n\n\nVII \n\nMADRIGAL \n\nPLAIN as the glistering planets shine \nWhen winds have cleaned the skies. \nHer love appeared, appealed for mine \nAnd wantoned in her eyes. \n\nClear as the shining tapers burned \n\nOn Cytherea\'s shrine, \nThose brimming, lustrous beauties turned, \n\nAnd called and conquered mine. \n\nThe beacon-lamp that Hero lit \n\nNo fairer shone on sea. \nNo plainlier summoned will and wit. \n\nThan hers encouraged me. \n\nI thrilled to feel her influence near, \n\nI struck my flag at sight. \nHer starry silence smote my ear \n\nLike sudden drums at night. \n\nI ran as, at the cannon\'s roar, \nThe troops the ramparts man \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs in the holy house of yore \nThe willing Eli ran. \n206 \n\n\n\nMADRIGAL \n\n\n\nHere, lady, lo! that servant stands \nYou picked from passing men, \n\nAnd should you need nor heart nor hands \nHe bows and goes again. \n\n\n\n207 \n\n\n\nVIII \n\nTo you, let snow and roses \nAnd golden locks belong. \nThese are the world\'s enslavers. \nLet these delight the throng. \nFor her of duskier lustre \n\nWhose favour still I wear, \nThe snow be in her kirtle, \nThe rose be in her hair! \n\nThe hue of highland rivers \n\nCareering, full and cool, \nFrom sable on to golden. \n\nFrom rapid on to pool \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nThe hue of heather-honey, \n\nThe hue of honey-bees. \nShall tinge her golden shoulder, \n\nShall gild her tawny knees. \n\n\n\naoL \n\n\n\nIX \n\nLET BEAUTY AWAKE \n\nLET Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams, \nji Beauty awake from rest ! \n\nLet Beauty awake \nFor Beauty\'s sake \nIn the hour when the birds awake in the brake \nAnd the stars are bright in the westl \n\nLet Beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day, \n\nAwake in the crimson eve! \n\nIn the day\'s dusk end \n\nV\'^hen the shades ascend, \nLet her wake to the kiss of a tender friend \n\nTo render again and receive! \n\n\n\n209 \n\n\n\nI KNOW not how it is with you \xe2\x80\x94 \n/ love the first and last, \nThe whole field of the present view, \nThe whole flow of the past. \n\nOne tittle of the things that are, \nNor you should change nor I \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOne pebble in our path \xe2\x80\x94 one star \nIn all our heaven of sky. \n\nOur lives, and every day and hour, \n\nOne symphony appear: \nOne road, one garden \xe2\x80\x94 every flower \n\nAnd every bramble dear. \n\n\n\n2IO \n\n\n\nXI \n\nI WILL make you brooches and toys for your delight \nOf bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. \nI will make a palace fit for you and me \nOf green days in forests and blue days at sea. \n\nI will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, \nWhere white flows the river and bright blows the \n\nbroom, \nAnd you shall wash your linen and keep your body white \nIn rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. \n\nAnd this shall be for music when no one else is near. \nThe fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! \nThat only I remember, that only you admire, \nOf the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. \n\n\n\n211 \n\n\n\nXII \n\nWE HAVE LOVED OF YORE \n(To an air of DiabtlU) \n\nBERRIED brake and reedy island, \nHeaven below, and only heaven above, \nThrough the sky\'s inverted azure \nSoftly swam the boat that bore our love. \nBright were your eyes as the day; \nBright ran the stream, \nBright hung the sky above. \nDays of April, airs of Eden, \n\nHow the glory died through golden hours, \nAnd the shining moon arising \n\nHow the boat drew homeward filled with flowers! \nBright were your eyes in the night: \nWe have lived, my love \xe2\x80\x94 \nO, we have loved, my love. \n\nFrost has bound our flowing river. \n\nSnow has whitened all our island brake, \nAnd beside the winter fagot \nJoan and Darby doze and dream and wake. \nStill, in the river of dreams \nSwims the boat of love \xe2\x80\x94 \nHark! chimes the falling oar ! \n\n212 \n\n\n\nWE HAVE LOVED OF YORE \n\nAnd again in winter evens \n\nWhen on firelight dreaming fancy feeds, \nIn those ears of aged lovers \n\nLove\'s own river warbles in the reeds. \nLove still the past, O, my love ! \nWe have lived of yore, \nO, we have loved of yore. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xbb\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x96\xa0\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\nT\' \n\n\n\nXIII \n\nDITTY \n(To an air from Bach) \n\n^HE cock shall crow \n\nIn the morning grey, \nThe bugles blow \n\nAt the break of day : \nThe cock shall sing and the merry bugles ring, \nAnd all the little brown birds sing upon the spray. \n\nThe thorn shall blow \n\nIn the month of May, \nAnd my love shall go \n\nIn her holiday array: \nBut I shall lie in the kirkyard nigh \nWhile all the little brown birds sing upon the spray. \n\n\n\n214 \n\n\n\nXIV \n\nMATER TRIUMPHANS \n\nSON of my woman\'s body, you go, to the drum and \nfife, \nTo taste the colour of love and the other side of life \xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom out of the dainty the rude, the strong from out of \n\nthe frail. \nEternally through the ages from the female comes the \nmale. \n\nThe ten fingers and toes, and the shell-like nail on each. \nThe eyes blind as gems and the tongue attempting \n\nspeech ; \nImpotent hands in my bosom, and yet they shall wield \n\nthe sword! \nDrugged with slumber and milk, you wait the day of the \n\nLord. \n\nInfant bridegroom, uncrowned king, unanointed priest. \nSoldier, lover, explorer, I see you nozzle the breast. \nYou that grope in my bosom shall load the ladies with \n\nrings, \nYou, that came forth through the doors, shall burst the \n\ndoors of Kings. \n\n\n\n215 \n\n\n\nXV \n\nBRIGHT is the ring of words \nWiien the right man rings them, \nFair the fall of songs \n\nWhen the singer sings them. \nStill they are carolled and said \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOn wings they are carried \xe2\x80\x94 \nAfter the singer is dead \nAnd the maker buried. \n\nLow as the singer lies \n\nIn the field of heather, \nSongs of his fashion bring \n\nThe swains together. \nAnd when the west is red \n\nWith the sunset embers. \nThe lover lingers and sings \n\nAnd the maid remembers. \n\n\n\n216 \n\n\n\nXVI \n\nIN the highlands, in the country places, \nWhere the old plain men have rosy faces, \nAnd the young fair maidens \nQuiet eyes; \n\nWhere essential silence cheers and blesses. \nAnd for ever in the hill-recesses \nHer more lovely music \nBroods and dies. \n\nO to mount again where erst I haunted; \n\nWhere the old red hills are bird-enchanted, \n\nAnd the low green meadows \n\nBright with sward; \n\nAnd when even dies, the million-tinted. \n\nAnd the night has come, and planets glinted, \n\nLo! the valley hollow, \n\nLamp-bestarred. \n\nO to dream, O to awake and wander \n\nThere, and with delight to take and render, \n\nThrough the trance of silence. \n\nQuiet breath ; \n\nLo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, \n\nOnly the mightier movement sounds and passes; \n\nOnly winds and rivers, \n\nLife and death. \n\n\n\n217 \n\n\n\nXVII \n\nWANDERING WILLIE \n\nHOME no more home to me, whither must I wander? \nHunger my driver, I go where I must. \nCold blows the winter wind over hill and heather; \nThick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust. \nLoved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree. \n\nThe true word of welcome was spoken in the door\xe2\x80\x94 \nDear days of old, with the faces in the firelight, \nKind folks of old, you come again no more. \n\nHome was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces, \n\nHome was home then, my dear, happy for the child. \nFire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland; \n\nSong, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild. \nNow, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland. \n\nLone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold. \nLone let it stand, now the friends are all departed, \n\nThe kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place \nof old. \n\nSpring shall come, come again, calling up the moor-fowl, \nSpring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and \nflowers ; \n\n218 \n\n\n\nWANDERING WILLIE \n\nRed shall the heather bloom over hill and valley, \nSoft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours; \n\nFair the day shine as it shone on my childhood \xe2\x80\x94 \nFair shine the day on the house with open door; \n\nBirds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney \xe2\x80\x94 \nBut I go forever and come again no more. \n\n\n\n319 \n\n\n\nXVIII \n\nTO DR. HAKE \n(On receiving a copy of verses) \n\nIN the beloved hour that ushers day, \nIn the pure dew, under the breaking grey, \nOne bird, ere yet the woodland quires awake. \nWith brief reveille summons all the brake: \nChirp, chirp, it goes; nor waits an answer long; \nAnd that small signal fills the grove with song. \n\nThus on my pipe I breathed a strain or two; \n\nIt scarce was music, but \'twas all I knew. \n\nIt was not music, for I lacked the art, \n\nYet what but frozen music filled my heart ? \n\nChirp, chirp, I went, nor hoped a nobler strain ; \n\nBut Heaven decreed I should not pipe in vain, \n\nFor, lo ! not far from there, in secret dale, \n\nAll silent, sat an ancient nightingale. \n\nMy sparrow notes he heard; thereat awoke; \n\nAnd with a tide of song his silence broke. \n\n\n\n220 \n\n\n\nXIX \n\nTO \n\nI KNEW thee strong and quiet like the hills; \nI knew thee apt to pity, brave to endure: \nIn peace or war a Roman full equipt. \nAnd just I knew thee, like the fabled kings \nWho by the loud sea-shore gave judgment forth, \nFrom dawn to eve, bearded and few of words. \nWhat, what, was I to honour thee ? A child, \nA youth in ardour but a child in strength. \nWho after virtue\'s golden chariot-wheels \nRuns ever panting, nor attains the goal. \nSo thought I, and was sorrowful at heart. \n\nSince then my steps have visited that flood \nAlong whose shore the numerous footfalls cease. \nThe voices and the tears of life expire. \nThither the prints go down, the hero\'s way \nTrod large upon the sand, the trembling maid\'s: \nNimrod that wound his trumpet in the wood. \nAnd the poor, dreaming child, hunter of flowers, \nThat here his hunting closes with the great: \nSo one and all go down, nor aught returns. \n\nFor thee, for us, the sacred river waits ; \n\nFor me. the unworthy, thee, the perfect friend. \n\n221 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nThere Blame desists, there his unfaltering dogs \nHe from the chase recalls, and homeward rides; \nYet Praise and Love pass over and go in. \nSo when, beside that margin, I discard \nMy more than mortal weakness, and with thee \nThrough that still land unfearing I advance: \nIf then at all we keep the touch of joy \nThou shalt rejoice to find me altered \xe2\x80\x94 I, \nO Felix, to behold thee still unchanged. \n\n\n\n22* \n\n\n\nXX \n\n\n\nTHE morning drum-call on my eager ear \nThrills unforgotten yet; the morning dew \nLies yet undried along my field of noon. \nBut now I pause at whiles in what I do, \nAnd count the bell, and tremble lest I hear \n\n(My work untrimmed) the sunset gun too soon. \n\n\n\n3J-? \n\n\n\nXXI \n\n\n\nI HAVE trod the upward and the downward slope; \nI have endured and done in days before; \nI have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope; \nAnd I have lived and loved, and closed the door. \n\n\n\n224 \n\n\n\nXXII \n\nHE hears with gladdened heart the thunder \nPeal, and loves the falling dew; \nHe knows the earth above and under \xe2\x80\x94 \nSits and is content to view. \n\nHe sits beside the dying ember, \nGod for hope and man for friend, \n\nContent to see, glad to remember, \nExpectant of the certain end. \n\n\n\n32$ \n\n\n\nXXIII \n\nTHE LOST OCCASION \n\nFAREWELL, fair day and fading light! \nThe clay-born here, with westward sight, \nMarks the huge sun now downward soar. \nFarewell. We twain shall meet no more. \n\nFarewell. I watch with bursting sigh \nMy late contemned occasion die. \nI linger useless in my tent: \nFarewell, fair day, so foully spent! \n\nFarewell, fair day. If any God \nAt all consider this poor clod, \nHe who the fair occasion sent \nPrepared and placed the impediment. \n\nLet him diviner vengeance take \xe2\x80\x94 \nGive me to sleep, give me to wake \nGirded and shod, and bid me play \nThe hero in the coming day! \n\n\n\nZi6 \n\n\n\nXXIV \n\nIF THIS WERE FAITH \n\nGOD, if this were enough, \nThat I see things bare to the buff \nAnd up to the buttocks in mire; \nThat I ask nor hope nor hire, \nNut in the husk, \nNor dawn beyond the dusk. \nNor life beyond death : \nGod, if this were faith ? \n\nHaving felt thy wind in my face \nSpit sorrow and disgrace, \nHaving seen thine evil doom \nIn Golgotha and Khartoum, \nAnd the brutes, the work of thine hands. \nFill with injustice lands \nAnd stain with blood the sea: \nIf still in my veins the glee \nOf the black night and the sun \nAnd the lost battle, run : \nIf, an adept. \n\nThe iniquitous lists I still accept \nWith joy, and joy to endure and be withstood, \nAnd still to battle and perish for a dream of good; \nGod, if that were enough ? \n\n227 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nIf to feel, in the ink of tiie slough, \n\nAnd the sink of the mire, \n\nVeins of glory and fire \n\nRun through and transpierce and transpire, \n\nAnd a secret purpose of glory in every part, \n\nAnd the answering glory of battle fill my heart; \n\nTo thrill with the joy of girded men \n\nTo go on forever and fail and go on again. \n\nAnd be mauled to the earth and arise, \n\nAnd contend for the shade of a word and a thing \n\nnot seen with the eyes : \nWith the half of a broken hope for a pillow at \n\nnight \nThat somehow the right is the right \nAnd the smooth shall bloom from the rough; \nLord, if that were enough ? \n\n\n\n328 \n\n\n\nXXV \n\nMY WIFE \n\nTRUSTY, dusky, vivid, true, \nWith eyes of gold and bramble-dew, \nSteel-true and blade-straight. \nThe great artificer \nMade my mate. \n\nHonour, anger, valour, fire; \nA love that life could never tire, \n||:, \' Death quench or evil stir. \n\nThe mighty master \nGave to her. \n\nTeacher, tender, comrade, wife, \nA fellow-farer true through life. \n\nHeart-whole and soul-free \nThe august father \n\nGave to me. \n\n\n\n229 \n\n\n\nXXVI \n\nWINTER \n\nIN rigorous hours, when down the iron lane \nThe redbreast looks in vain \nFor hips and haws, \nLo, shining flowers upon my window-pane \nThe silver pencil of the winter draws. \n\nWhen all the snowy hill \n\nAnd the bare woods are still; \n\nWhen snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, \n\nAnd all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, \nLo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMore fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire ! \n\n\n\nSaranac Lake. \n\n\n\n;^30 \n\n\n\nXXVII \n\nTHE stormy evening closes now in vain, \nLoud wails the wind and beats the driving rain, \nWhile here in sheltered house \n\nWith fire-ypainted walls, \nI hear the wind abroad, \nI hark the calling squalls \xe2\x80\x94 \n"Blow, blow," I cry, "you burst your cheeks in vain! \nBlow, blow," I cry, "my love is home again!" \n\nYon ship you chase perchance but yesternight \nBore still the precious freight of my delight, \nThat here in sheltered house \nWith fire-ypainted walls. \nNow hears the wind abroad. \nNow harks the calling squalls. \n"Blow, blow," I cry, "in vain you rouse the sea, \nMy rescued sailor shares the fire with me! " \n\n\n\n231 \n\n\n\nXXVIII \n\nTO AN ISLAND PRINCESS \n\nSINCE long ago, a child at home, \nI read and longed to rise and roam. \nWhere\'er I went, whate\'er I willed. \nOne promised land my fancy filled. \nHence the long roads my home I made; \nTossed much in ships: have often laid \nBelow the uncurtained sky my head, \nRain-deluged and wind-buffeted: \nAnd many a thousand hills I crossed \nAnd corners turned \xe2\x80\x94 Love\'s labour lost, \nTill, Lady, to your isle of sun \nI came, not hoping; and, like one \nSnatched out of blindness, rubbed my eyes. \nAnd hailed my promised land with cries. \n\nYes, Lady, here I was at last ; \nHere found I all I had forecast: \nThe long roll of the sapphire sea \nThat keeps the land\'s virginity; \nThe stalwart giants of the wood \nLaden with toys and flowers and food; \nThe precious forest pouring out \nTo compass the whole town about; \n232 \n\n\n\nTO AN ISLAND PRINCESS \n\nThe town itself with streets of lawn, \nLoved of the moon, blessed by the dawn, \nWhere the brown children all the day \nKeep up a ceaseless noise of play, \nPlay in the sun, play in the rain, \nNor ever quarrel or complain; \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd late at night, in the woods of fruit, \nHark! do you hear the passing flute? \n\n. I threw one look to either hand. \nAnd knew I was in Fairyland. \nAnd yet one point of being so, \nI lacked. For, Lady (as you know). \nWhoever by his might of hand \nWon entrance into Fairyland, \nFound always with admiring eyes \nA Fairy princess kind and wise. \n\nIt was not long I waited ; soon \nUpon my threshold, in broad noon, \nFair and helpful, wise and good, \nThe Fairy Princess Moe stood. \n\nTantira, Tahiti, Nov. 5, 1888. \n\n\n\n233 \n\n\n\nXXIX \n\nTO KALAKAUA \n(IVith the gift of a pearl) \n\nTHE Silver Ship, my King \xe2\x80\x94 that was her name \nIn the bright islands whence your fathers came- \nThe Silver Ship, at rest from winds and tides, \nBelow your palace in your harbour rides: \nAnd the seafarers, sitting safe on shore, \nLike eager merchants count their treasures o\'er. \nOne gift they fmd, one strange and lovely thing, \nNow doubly precious since it pleased a king. \n\nThe right, my liege, is ancient as the lyre \nFor bards to give to kings what kings admire. \n\'Tis mine to offer for Apollo\'s sake; \nAnd since the gift is fitting, yours to take. \nTo golden hands the golden pearl I bring: \nThe ocean jewel to the island king. \n\nHonolulu, Feb. 3, 1889. \n\n\n\n234 \n\n\n\nXXX \n\nTO PRINCESS KAIULANI \n\nFORTH from her land to mine she goes, \nThe island maid, the island rose, \nLight of heart and bright of face : \nThe daughter of a double race. \nHer islands here, in Southern sun, \n\xe2\x80\xa2 Shall mourn their Kaiulani gone. \nAnd I, in her dear banyan shade, \nLook vainly for my little maid. \n\nBut our Scots islands far away \nShall glitter with unwonted day, \nAnd cast for once their tempests by \nTo smile in Kaiulani\'s eye. \n\nHonolulu. \n\nWritten in April to Kaiulani in the April of her age; and at Waikiki, \nwithin easy walk of Kaiulani\'s banyan! When she comes to my land \nand her father\'s, and the rain beats upon the window (as I fear it will), \nlet her look at this page; it will be like a weed gathered and pressed at \nhome; and she will remember her own islands, and the shadow of the \nmighty tree; and she will hear the peacocks screaming in the dusk and \nthe wind blowing in the palms; and she will think of her father sitting \nthere alone. \xe2\x80\x94 R. L. S. \n\n\n\n235 \n\n\n\nXXXI \n\n\n\nTO MOTHER MARYANNE \n\n\n\nTO see the infinite pity of this place, \nThe mangled limb, the devastated face, \nThe innocent sufferer smiling at the rod \xe2\x80\x94 \nA fool were tempted to deny his God. \nHe sees, he shrinks. But if he gaze again, \nLo, beauty springing from the breast of painl \nHe marks the sisters on the mournful shores; \nAnd even a fool is silent and adores. \n\nGuest House, Kalawao, Molokai. \n\n\n\n236 \n\n\n\nXXXII \n\nIN MEMORIAM, E. H. \n\nI KNEW a silver head was bright beyond compare, \nI knew a queen of toil with a crown of silver hair. \nGarland of valour and sorrow, of beauty and renown, \nLife, that honours the brave, crowned her himself with \nthe crown. \n\nThe beauties of youth are frail, but this was a jewel of \n\nage. \nLife, that delights in the brave, gave it himself for a gage. \nFair was the crown to behold, and beauty its poorest \n\npart \xe2\x80\x94 \nAt once the scar of the wound and the order pinned on \n\nthe heart. \n\nThe beauties of man are frail, and the silver lies in the \n\ndust, \nAnd the queen that we call to mind sleeps with the \n\nbrave and the just; \nSleeps with the weary at length ; but honoured and ever \n\nfair, \nShines in the eye of the mind the crown of the silver \n\nhair. \n\nHonolulu. \n\n\n\n237 \n\n\n\nXXXIII \n\nTO MY WIFE \n(/i Fragment) \n\nLONG must elapse ere you behold again \n-/ Green forest frame the entry of the lane \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe wild lane with the bramble and the briar, \nThe year-old cart-tracks perfect in the mire, \nThe wayside smoke, perchance, the dwarfish huts, \nAnd ramblers\' donkey drinking from the ruts: \xe2\x80\x94 \nLong ere you trace how deviously it leads. \nBack from man\'s chimneys and the bleating meads \nTo the woodland shadow, to the silvan hush. \nWhen but the brooklet chuckles in the brush \xe2\x80\x94 \nBack from the sun and bustle of the vale \nTo where the great voice of the nightingale \nFills all the forest like a single room. \nAnd all the banks smell of the golden broom; \nSo wander on until the eve descends. \nAnd back returning to your firelit friends. \nYou see the rosy sun, despoiled of light. \nHung, caught in thickets, like a schoolboy\'s kite. \n\nHere from the sea the unfruitful sun shall rise, \nBathe the bare deck and blind the unshielded eyes; \n\n238 \n\n\n\nTO MY WIFE \n\nThe allotted hours aloft shall wheel in vain \nAnd in the unpregnant ocean plunge again. \nAssault of squalls that mock the watchful guard. \nAnd pluck the husting canvas from the yard, \nAnd senseless clamour of the calm, at night \nMust mar your slumbers. By the plunging light. \nIn beetle-haunted, most unwomanly bower \nOf the wild-swerving cabin, hour by hour . . . \n\nSchooner Equator. \n\n\n\n2?<i \n\n\n\nXXXIV \n\nTO THE MUSE \n\nRESIGN the rhapsody, the dream, \nTo men of larger reach ; \nBe ours the quest of a plain theme, \nThe piety of speech. \n\nAs monkish scribes from morning break \n\nToiled till the close of light, \nNor thought a day too long to make \n\nOne line or letter bright: \n\nWe also with an ardent mind, \nTime, wealth, and fame forgot, \n\nOur glory in our patience find \nAnd skim, and skim the pot: \n\nTill last, when round the house we hear \n\nThe evensong of birds, \nOne corner of blue heaven appear \n\nIn our clear well of words. \n\nLeave, leave it then, muse of my heart! \n\nSans finish and sans frame. \nLeave unadorned by needless art \n\nThe picture as it came. \n\n\n\nApemama. \n\n\n\n240 \n\n\n\nXXXV \n\nTO MY OLD FAMILIARS \n\nDO you remember \xe2\x80\x94 can we e\'er forget? \xe2\x80\x94 \nHow, in the coiled perplexities of youth, \nIn our wild climate, in our scowling town. \nWe gloomed and shivered, sorrowed, sobbed and feared ? \nThe belching winter wind, the missile rain, \nThe rare and welcome silence of the snows. \nThe laggard morn, the haggard day, the night, \nThe grimy spell of the nocturnal town. \nDo you remember? \xe2\x80\x94 Ah, could one forget! \n\nAs when the fevered sick that all night long \nListed the wind intone, and hear at last \nThe ever-welcome voice of chanticleer \nSing in the bitter hour before the dawn, \xe2\x80\x94 \nWith sudden ardour, these desire the day : \nSo sang in the gloom of youth the bird of hope; \nSo we, exulting, hearkened and desired. \nFor lo ! as in the palace porch of life \nWe huddled with chimeras, from within \xe2\x80\x94 \nHow sweet to hear! \xe2\x80\x94 the music swelled and fell, \nAnd through the breach of the revolving doors \nWhat dreams of splendour blinded us and fled! \n\n241 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nI have since then contended and rejoiced ; \n\nAmid the glories of the house of life \n\nProfoundly entered, and the shrine beheld: \n\nYet when the lamp from my expiring eyes \n\nShall dwindle and recede, the voice of love \n\nFall insignificant on my closing ears, \n\nWhat sound shall come but the old cry of the wind \n\nIn our inclement city? what return \n\nBut the image of the emptiness of youth, \n\nFilled with the sound of footsteps and that voice \n\nOf discontent and rapture and despair? \n\nSo, as in darkness, from the magic lamp, \n\nThe momentary pictures gleam and fade \n\nAnd perish, and the night resurges \xe2\x80\x94 these \n\nShall I remember, and then all forget. \n\nApemama, \n\n\n\n242 \n\n\n\nXXXVI \n\nTHE tropics vanish, and meseems that I, \nFrom Halkerside, from topmost Allermuir, \nOr steep Caerketton, dreaming gaze again. \nFar set in fields and woods, the town I see \nSpring gallant from the shallows of her smoke, \nCragged, spired, and turreted, her virgin fort \nBeflagged. About, on seaward-drooping hills. \nNew folds of city glitter. Last, the Forth \nWheels ample waters set with sacred isles. \nAnd populous Fife smokes with a score of towns. \n\nThere, on the sunny frontage of a hill, \n\nHard by the house of kings, repose the dead. \n\nMy dead, the ready and the strong of word. \n\nTheir works, the salt-encrusted, still survive; \n\nThe sea bombards their founded towers; the night \n\nThrills pierced with their strong lamps. The artificers, \n\nOne after one, here in this grated cell. \n\nWhere the rain erases and the rust consumes. \n\nFell upon lasting silence. Continents \n\nAnd continental oceans intervene; \n\nA sea uncharted, on a lampless isle, \n\n243 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nEnvirons and confines their wandering child \nIn vain. The voice of generations dead \nSummons me, sitting distant, to arise. \nMy numerous footsteps nimbly to retrace. \nAnd all mutation over, stretch me down \nIn that denoted city of the dead. \n\n\n\nApemama. \n\n\n\n244 \n\n\n\nXXXVII \n\nTO s. c. \n\nI HEARD the pulse of the besieging sea \nThrob far away all night. I heard the wind \nFly crying and convulse tumultuous palms. \nI rose and strolled. The isle was all bright sand, \nAnd flailing fans and shadows of the palm; \nThe heaven all moon and wind and the blind vault; \nThe keenest planet slain, for Venus slept. \n\nThe king, my neighbour, with his host of wives, \nSlept in the precinct of the palisade; \nWhere single, in the wind, under the moon. \nAmong the slumbering cabins, blazed a fire, \nSole street-lamp and the only sentinel. \n\nTo other lands and nights my fancy turned \xe2\x80\x94 \nTo London first, and chiefly to your house. \nThe many-pillared and the well-beloved. \nThere yearning fancy lighted ; there again \nIn the upper room I lay, and heard far off \nThe unsleeping city murmur like a shell; \nThe muffled tramp of the Museum guard \nOnce more went by me; I beheld again \nLamps vainly brighten the dispeopled street; \nAgain I longed for the returning morn. \nThe awaking traffic, the bestirring birds, \n\n245 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nThe consentaneous trill of tiny song \nThat weaves round monumental cornices \nA passing charm of beauty. Most of all, \nFor your light foot I wearied, and youf knock \nThat was the glad reveille of my day. \n\nLo, now, when to your task in the great house \nAt morning through the portico you pass, \nOne moment glance, where by the pillared wall \nFar-voyaging island gods, begrimed with smoke, \nSit now unworshipped, the rude monument \nOf faiths forgot and races undivined: \nSit now disconsolate, remembering well \nThe priest, the victim, and the songful crowd, \nThe blaze of the blue noon, and that huge voice \nIncessant, of the breakers on the shore. \nAs far as these from their ancestral shrine, \nSo far, so foreign, your divided friends \nWander, estranged in body, not in mind. \n\nApemama. \n\n\n\n246 \n\n\n\nXXXVIII \n\nTHE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA. \n\nAt my departure from the island of Apemama, for which you will \nlook in vain in most atlases, the King and I agreed, since we both set \nup to be in the poetical way, that we should celebrate our separation \nin verse. Whether or not his Majesty has been true to his bargain, the \nlaggard posts of the Pacific may perhaps inform me in six months, per- \nhaps not before a year. The following lines represent my part of the \ncontract, and it is hoped, by their pictures of strange manners, they \nmay entertain a civilised audience. Nothing throughout has been in- \nvented or exaggerated; the lady herein referred to as the author\'s muse \nhas confined herself to stringing into rhyme facts or legends that I saw \nor heard during two months\' residence upon the island. \xe2\x80\x94 R. L. S. \n\nENVOI \n\nZET US, who part like brothers, part like bards; \n*\' And you in your tongue and measure, I in mine. \nOur now division duly solenutise. \nUnlike the strains, and yet the theme is one : \nThe strains unlike, and how unlike their fate! \nYou to the blinding palace-yard shall call \nThe prefect of the singers, and to him. \nListening devout, your valedictory verse \nDeliver; he, his attribute fulfilled. \nTo the island chorus hand your measures on, \n\n247 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nWed now with harmony : so them, at last, \nNight after night, in the open hall of dance. \nShall thirty matted men, to the clapped hand. \nIntone and bray and bark. Unfortunate ! \nPaper and print alone shall honour mine. \n\nTHE SONG \n\nLet now the King his ear arouse \n\nAnd toss the bosky ringlets from his brows, \n\nThe while, our bond to implement, \n\nMy muse relates and praises his descent. \n\n\n\nBride of the shark, her valour first I sing \nWho on the lone seas quickened of a King. \nShe, from the shore and puny homes of men, \nBeyond the climber\'s sea-discerning ken, \nSwam, led by omens; and devoid of fear, \nBeheld her monstrous paramour draw near. \nShe gazed ; all round her to the heavenly pale. \nThe simple sea was void of isle or sail \xe2\x80\x94 \nSole overhead the unsparing sun was reared \xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen the deepbubbled and the brute appeared. \nBut she, secure in the decrees of fate. \nMade strong her bosom and received the mate. \nAnd men declare, from that marine embrace \nConceived the virtues of a stronger race. \n\nti \n\nHer stern descendant next I praise, \nSurvivor of a thousand frays: \xe2\x80\x94 \n248 \n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA \n\nIn the hall of tongues who ruled the throng; \nLed and was trusted by the strong; \nAnd when spears were in the wood, \nLike a tower of vantage stood : \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x96\xa0 \nWhom, not till seventy years had sped, \nUnscarred of breast, erect of head, \nStill light of step, still bright of look, \nThe hunter. Death, had overtook. \n\nIll \n\nHis sons, the brothers twain, I sing, \nOf whom the elder reigned a King, \nNo Childeric he, yet much declined \nFrom his rude sire\'s imperious mind, \nUntil his day came when he died, \nHe lived, he reigned, he versified. \nBut chiefly him I celebrate \nThat was the pillar of the state. \nRuled, wise of word and bold of mien, \nThe peaceful and the warlike scene; \nAnd played alike the leader\'s part \nIn lawful and unlawful art. \nHis soldiers with emboldened ears \nHeard him laugh among the spears. \nHe could deduce from age to age \nThe web of island parentage; \nBest lay the rhyme, best lead the dance, \nFor any festal circumstance : \nAnd fitly fashion oar and boat, \nA palace or an armour coat. \nNone more availed than he to raise \nThe strong, suffumigating blaze \n249 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nOr knot the wizard leaf : none more, \nUpon the untrodden windward shore \nOf the isle, beside the beating main. \nTo cure the sickly and constrain, \nWith muttered words and waving rods. \nThe gibbering and the whistling gods. \nBut he, though thus with hand and head \nHe ruled, commanded, charmed, and led, \nAnd thus in virtue and in might \nTowered to contemporary sight \xe2\x80\x94 \nStill in fraternal faith and love. \nRemained below to reach above, \nGave and obeyed the apt command. \nPilot and vassal of the land. \n\nIV \n\nMy Tembinok, from men like these \nInherited his palaces, \nHis right to rule, his powers of mind, \nHis cocoa-islands sea-enshrined. \nStern bearer of the sword and whip, \nA master passed in mastership, \nHe learned, without the spur of need, \nTo write, to cipher, and to read ; \nFrom all that touch on his prone shore \nAugments his treasury of lore, \nEager in age as erst in youth \nTo catch an art, to learn a truth, \nTo paint on the internal page \nA clearer picture of the age. \nHis age, you say ? But ah, not so! \nIn his lone isle of long ago, \n250 \n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE OF TEMBINOKA \n\nA royal Lady of Shalott, \n\nSea-sundered, he beholds it not; \n\nHe only hears it far away. \n\nThe stress of equatorial day \n\nHe suffers ; he records the while \n\nThe vapid annals of the isle; \n\nSlaves bring him praise of his renown, \n\nOr cackle of the palm-tree town ; \n\nThe rarer ship and the rare boat, \n\nHe marks; and only hears remote. \n\nWhere thrones and fortunes rise and reel. \n\nThe thunder of the turning wheel. \n\n\n\nFor the unexpected tears he shed \n\nAt my departing, may his lion head \n\nNot whiten, his revolving years \n\nNo fresh occasion minister of tears; \n\nAt book or cards, at work or sport, \n\nHim may the breeze across the palace court \n\nFor ever fan ; and swelling near \n\nFor ever the loud song divert his ear. \n\nSchooner Equator, at Sea. \n\n\n\n251 \n\n\n\nXXXIX \n\nTHE WOODMAN \n\nIN all the grove, nor stream nor bird \nNor aught beside my blows was heard, \nAnd the woods wore their noonday dress \xe2\x80\x94 \nThe glory of their silentness. \nFrom the island summit to the seas, \nTrees mounted, and trees drooped, and trees \nGroped upward in the gaps. The green \nInarboured talus and ravine \nBy fathoms. By the multitude \nThe rugged columns of the wood \nAnd bunches of the branches stood: \nThick as a mob, deep as a sea, \nAnd silent as eternity. \n\nWith lowered axe, with backward head. \nLate from this scene my labourer fled, \nAnd with a ravelled tale to tell, \nReturned. Some denizen of hell, \nDead man or disinvested god, \nHad close behind him peered and trod, \nAnd triumphed when he turned to flee. \nHow different fell the lines with me! \nWhose eye explored the dim arcade \nImpatient of the uncoming shade \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n2^2 \n\n\n\nTHE WOODMAN \n\nShy elf, or dryad pale and cold, \nOr mystic lingerer from of old: \nVainly. The fair and stately things, \nImpassive as departed kings, \nAll still in the wood\'s stillness stood. \nAnd dumb. The rooted multitude \nNodded and brooded, bloomed and dreamed, \nUnmeaning, undivined. It seemed \n^No other art, no hope, they knew, \nThan clutch the earth and seek the blue. \n\nMid vegetable king and priest \nAnd stripling, I (the only beast) \nWas at the beast\'s work, killing; hewed \nThe stubborn roots across, bestrewed \nThe glebe with the dislustred leaves, \nAnd bid the saplings fall in sheaves; \nBursting across the tangled math \nA ruin that 1 called a path, \nA Golgotha that, later on. \nWhen rains had watered, and suns shone. \nAnd seeds enriched the place, should bear \nAnd be called garden. Here and there, \nI spied and plucked by the green hair \nA foe more resolute to live, \nThe toothed and killing sensitive. \nHe, semi-conscious, fled the attack; \nHe shrank and tucked his branches back; \nAnd straining by his anchor strand, \nCaptured and scratched the rooting hand. \nI saw him crouch, I felt him bite ; \nAnd straight my eyes were touched with sight \n\n253 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nI saw the wood for what it was: \nThe lost and the victorious cause, \nThe deadly battle pitched in line, \nSaw silent weapons cross and shine: \nSilent defeat, silent assault, \nA battle and a burial vault. \n\nThick round me in the teeming mud \n\nBriar and fern strove to the blood. \n\nThe hooked liana in his gin \n\nNoosed his reluctant neighbours in: \n\nThere the green murderer throve and spread. \n\nUpon his smothering victims fed. \n\nAnd wantoned on his climbing coil. \n\nContending roots fought for the soil \n\nLike frightened demons: with despair \n\nCompeting branches pushed for air. \n\nGreen conquerors from overhead \n\nBestrode the bodies of their dead: \n\nThe Caesars of the silvan field. \n\nUnused to fail, foredoomed to yield: \n\nFor in the groins of branches, lol \n\nThe cancers of the orchid grow. \n\nSilent as in the listed ring \nTwo chartered wrestlers strain and cling. \nDumb as by yellow Hooghly\'s side \nThe suffocating captives died : \nSo hushed the woodland warfare goes \nUnceasing; and the silent foes \nGrapple and smother, strain and clasp \nWithout a cry, without a gasp. \n\n254 \n\n\n\nTHE WOODMAN \n\nHere also sound thy fans, O God, \nHere too thy banners move abroad: \nForest and city, sea and shore. \nAnd the whole earth, thy threshing-floor! \nThe drums of war, the drums of peace. \nRoll through our cities without cease, \nAnd all the iron halls of life \nRing with the unremitting strife. \n\n\n\nThe common lot we scarce perceive. \nCrowds perish, we nor mark nor grieve: \nThe bugle calls \xe2\x80\x94 we mourn a few! j \nWhat corporal\'s guard at Waterloo ? \nWhat scanty hundreds more or less \nIn the man-devouring Wilderness ? \nWhat handful bled on Delhi ridge ? \n\xe2\x80\x94 See, rather, London, on thy bridge \nThe pale battalions trample by. \nResolved to slay, resigned to die. \nCount, rather, all the maimed and dead \nIn the unbrotherly war of bread. \nSee, rather, under sultrier skies \nWhat vegetable Londons rise. \nAnd teem, and suffer without sound. \nOr in your tranquil garden ground. \nContented, in the falling gloom, \nSaunter and see the roses bloom. \nThat these might live, what thousands died I \nAll day the cruel hoe was plied ; \nThe ambulance barrow rolled all day; \nYour wife, the tender, kind, and gay, \n\naS5 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nDonned her long gauntlets, caught the spud \nAnd bathed in vegetable blood ; \nAnd the long massacre now at end, \nSee! where the lazy coils ascend, \nSee, where the bonfire sputters red \nAt even, for the innocent dead. \n\nWhy prate of peace ? when, warriors all. \n\nWe clank in harness into hall. \n\nAnd ever bare upon the board \n\nLies the necessary sword. \n\nIn the green field or quiet street, \n\nBesieged we sleep, beleaguered eat. \n\nLabour by day and wake o\' nights. \n\nIn war with rival appetites. \n\nThe rose on roses feeds ; the lark \n\nOn larks. The sedentary clerk \n\nAll morning with a diligent pen \n\nMurders the babes of other men; \n\nAnd like the beasts of wood and park, \n\nProtects his whelps, defends his den. \n\nUnshamed the narrow aim I hold; \nI feed my sheep, patrol my fold ; \nBreathe war on wolves and rival flocks, \nA pious outlaw on the rocks \nOf God and morning; and when time \nShall bow, or rivals break me, climb \nWhere no undubbed civilian dares. \nIn my war harness, the loud stairs \nOf honour; and my conqueror \nHail me a warrior fallen in war. \n\nVailima \n\n256 \n\n\n\nXL \n\nTROPIC RAIN \n\nAS the single pang of the blow, when the metal is \n/v mingled well, \nRings and lives and resounds in all the bounds of the \n\nbell: \nSo the thunder above spoke with a single tongue, \nSo in the heart of the mountain the sound of it rumbled \n\nand clung. \n\nSudden the thunder was drowned \xe2\x80\x94 quenched was the \n\nlevin light . . . \nAnd the angel-spirit of rain laughed out loud in the \n\nnight. \n\nf Loud as the maddened river raves in the cloven glen, \nI Angel of rain ! you laughed and leaped on the roofs of \n\nmen; \nAnd the sleepers sprang in their beds, and joyed and \n\nfeared as you fell. \nYou struck, and my cabin quailed ; the roof of it roared \n\nlike a bell. \nYou spoke, and at once the mountain shouted and shook \n\nwith brooks. \nYou ceased, and the day returned, rosy, with virgin \n\nlooks. \n\n257 \n\n\n\nUNDERWOODS \n\nAnd methought that beauty and terror are only one, nof \ntwo; \n\nAnd the world has room for love, and death, and thun- \nder, and dew; \n\nAnd all the sinews of hell slumber in summer air; \n\nAnd the face of God is a rock, but the face of the rock \nis fair. \n\nBeneficent streams of tears flow at the finger of pain; \n\nAnd out of the cloud that smites, beneficent rivers of \nrain. \n\nVailima. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 XLI \n\nAN END OF TRAVEL \n\nIET now your soul in this substantial world \n^ Some anchor strike. Be here the body moored; \nThis spectacle immutably from now \nThe picture in your eye; and when time strikes, \nAnd the green scene goes on the instant blind, \nThe ultimate helpers, where your horse to-day \nConveyed you dreaming, bear your body dead. \n\nVailima. \n\n\n\n*59 \n\n\n\nXLII \n\nWE uncommiserate pass into the night \nFrom the loud banquet, and departing leave \nA tremor in men\'s memories, faint and sweet \nAnd frail as music. Features of our face. \nThe tones of the voice, the touch of the loved hand, \nPerish and vanish, one by one, from earth : \nMeanwhile, in the hall of song, the multitude \nApplauds the new performer. One, perchance. \nOne ultimate survivor lingers on, \nAnd smiles, and to his ancient heart recalls \nThe long forgotten. Ere the morrow die. \nHe too, returning, through the curtain comes, \nAnd the new age forgets us and goes on. \n\n\n\n\'ih^i \n\n\n\nXLIII \n\nTHE LAST SIGHT \n\nONCE more I saw him. In the lofty room, \nWhere oft with lights and company his tongue \nWas trump to honest laughter, sate attired \nA something in his likeness. \xe2\x80\x94 "Look!" said one. \nUnkindly kind, " look up, it is your boy ! " \nAnd the dread changeling gazed on me in vain. \n\n\n\n261 \n\n\n\nXLIV \n\nSING me a song of a lad that is gone, \nSay, could that lad be I ? \nMerry of soul he sailed on a day \nOver the sea to Skye. \n\nMull was astern, Rum on the port. \n\nEgg on the starboard bow; \nGlory of youth glowed in his soul: \n\nWhere is that glory now ? \n\nSing me a song of a lad that is gone. \n\nSay, could that lad be I ? \nMerry of soul he sailed on a day \n\nOver the sea to Skye. \n\nGive me again all that was there. \nGive me the sun that shone! \n\nGive me the eyes, give me the soul. \nGive me the lad that\'s gone! \n\nSing me a song of a lad that is gone. \n\nSay, could that lad be I ? \nMerry of soul he sailed on a day \n\nOver the sea to Skye. \n262 \n\n\n\nSING ME A SONG \n\n\n\nBillow and breeze, islands and seas, \nMountains of rain and sun, \n\nAll that was good, all that was fair. \nAll that was me is gone. \n\n\n\n16^ \n\n\n\nXLV \n\nTO S. R. CROCKETT \n(In Reply to a Dedication) \n\nBLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain \nare flying, \nBlows the wind on the moors to-day and now. \nWhere about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are \n\ncrying, ||||| \n\nMy heart remembers how! \'\xe2\x84\xa2\'" \n\nGrey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, \nStanding stones on the vacant wine-red moor, \n\nHills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished \nraces. \nAnd winds, austere and pure: \n\nBe it granted me to behold you again in dying, \n\nHills of home! and to hear again the call; \nHear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees \ncrying. \n\nAnd hear no more at all. \n\nVaiuma. \n\n\n\n364 \n\n\n\nXLVI \n\nEVENSONG \n\nTHE embers of the day are red \nBeyond the murky hill. \nThe kitchen smokes: the bed \nIn the darkling house is spread: \nThe great sky darkens overhead, \nAnd the great woods are shrill. \nSo far have I been led, \nLord, by Thy v^ill: \nSo far I have followed, Lord, and wondered still \n\nThe breeze from the embalmed land \nBlows sudden toward the shore, \nAnd claps my cottage door. \n1 hear the signal, Lord \xe2\x80\x94 I understand. \nThe night at Thy command \nComes. I will eat and sleep and will not ques- \ntion more. \n\n\n\nVailima. \n\n\n\n265 \n\n\n\nPOEMS POSTHUMOUSLY PUBLISHED \n\n\n\nA MARTIAL ELEGY FOR SOME LEAD SOLDIERS \n\n\n\nFOR certain soldiers lately dead \nOur reverent dirge shall here be said. \nThem, when their martial leader called, \nNo dread preparative appalled ; \nBut leaden-hearted, leaden-heeled, \nI marked them steadfast in the field. \nDeath grimly sided with the foe. \nAnd smote each leaden hero low. \nProudly they perished, one by one: \nThe dread Pea-cannon\'s work was done! \nO not for them the tears we shed. \nConsigned to their congenial lead ; \nBut while unmoved their sleep they take, \nWe mourn for their dear Captain\'s sake. \nFor their dear Captain, who shall smart \nBoth in his pocket and his heart, \nWho saw his heroes shed their gore \nAnd lacked a shilling to buy more! \n\n\n\n269 \n\n\n\nVERSES WRITTEN IN 1872 \n\n\n\nTHOUGH he that ever kind and true, \nKept stoutly step by step with you \nYour whole long gusty lifetime through \n\nBe gone awhile before, \nBe now a moment gone before, \nYet, doubt not, soon the seasons shall restore \nYour friend to you. \n\nHe has but turned a corner \xe2\x80\x94 still \nHe pushes on with right good will. \nThro\' mire and marsh, by heugh and hill \n\nThat self-same arduous way, \xe2\x80\x94 \nThat self-same upland hopeful way, \n\xe2\x96\xa0That you and he through many a doubtful day \n\nAttempted still. \n\n\n\nHe is not dead, this friend \xe2\x80\x94 not dead \nBut in the path we mortals tread, \nGot some few, trifling steps ahead, \n\nAnd nearer to the end. \nSo that you, too, once past the bend. \nShall meet again, as face to face this friend \n\nYou fancy dead. \n270 \n\n\n\nVERSES WRITTEN IN 1 872 \n\nPush gayly on, strong heart ! The while \nYou travel forward mile by mile, \nHe loiters with a backward smile \n\nTill you can overtake. \nAnd strains his eyes, to search his wake \nOr, whistling, as he sees you through the brake, \n\nWaits on a stile / \n\n\n\n271 \n\n\n\nTO H. C. BUNNER \n\nYOU know the way to Arcady \nWhere 1 was born; \nYou have been there, and fain \nWould there return. \nSome that go thither bring with them \nRed rose or jewelled diadem \nAs secrets of the secret king : \nI, only what a child would bring. \nYet I do think my song is true; \nFor this is how the children do ; \nThis is the tune to which\'they go \nIn sunny pastures high and low ; \nThe treble pipes not otherwise \nSing daily under sunny skies \nIn Arcady the dear ; \nAnd you who have been there before, \nAnd love that country evermore, \nMay not disdain to hear. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0flHr I \n\n\n\n272 \n\n\n\nFROM WISHING-LAND \n\n\n\nDEAR Lady, tapping at your door, \nSome little verses stand, \nAnd beg on this auspicious day \nTo come and kiss your hand. \n\nTheir syllables all counted right \nTheir rhymes each in its place. \n\nLike birthday children, at the door \nThey wait to see your face. \n\nRise, lady, rise and let them in ; \n\nFresh from the fairy shore. \nThey bring you things you wish to have, \n\nEach in its pinafore. \n\nFor they have been to Wishing-land \n\nThis morning in the dew, \nAnd all your dearest wishes bring \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAll granted \xe2\x80\x94 home to you. \n\nWhat these may be, they would not tell, \nAnd could not if they would ; \n\nThey take the packets sealed to you \nAs trusty servants should. \n273 \n\n\n\nFROM WISHING-LAND \n\nBut there was one that looked like love, \nAnd one that smelt like health, \n\nAnd one that had a jingling sound \xe2\x80\x94 \nI fancy it might be wealth. \n\nAh, well, they are but wishes still ; \n\nBut, lady dear, for you \nI know that all you wish is kind, \n\nI pray it all come true. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n274 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\n\n\nTO ORI A ORI. \n\nOri, my brother in the island mode. \n\nIn every tongue and meaning much my friend. \n\nThis story of your country and your clan. \n\nIn your loved house, your too much honoured guest, \n\nI made in English. Take it, being dene ; \n\nAnd let me sign it with the name you gave. \n\nTeriiteka. \n\n\n\nII \n\n\n\nTHE SOMG OF RAHERO: \n\nA LEGEND OF TAHITI \n\n\xc2\xab I. THE SLAYING OF TAMATEA \n\nIT fell in the days of old, as the men of Taiarapu tell, \nA youth went forth to the fishing, and fortune fa- \nvoured him well. \nTamatea his name: gullible, simple, and kind. \nComely of countenance, nimble of body, empty of mind, \nHis mother ruled him and loved him beyond the wont \n\nof a wife. \nServing the lad for eyes and living herself in his life. \n\nAlone from the sea and the fishing came Tamatea the \n\nfair, \nUrging his boat to the beach, and the mother awaited \n\nhim there, \n\xe2\x80\x94 "Long may you live! " said she. "Your fishing has \n\nsped to a wish. \nAnd now let us choose for the king the fairest of all lo \n\nyour fish. \nFor fear inhabits the palace and grudging grows in the \n\nland. \nMarked is the sluggardly foot and marked the niggardly \n\nhand, \n\n279 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nThe hours and the miles are counted, the tributes num- \nbered and weighed, \n\nAnd woe to him that comes short, and woe to him that \ndelayed!" \n\nSo spoke on the beach the mother, and counselled the \nwiser thing. \n\nFor Rahero stirred in the country and secretly mined the \nking. \n\nNor were the signals wanting of how the leaven \nwrought, \n\nIn the cords of obedience loosed and the tributes grudg- \ningly brought. \n\nAnd when last to the temple of Oro the boat with the \nvictim sped, \n20 And the priest uncovered the basket and looked on the \nface of the dead. \n\nTrembling fell upon all at sight of an ominous thing, \n\nFor there was the aito^ dead, and he of the house of the \nking. \n\n\n\nSo spake on the beach the mother, matter worthy of \n\nnote, \nAnd wattled a basket well, and chose a fish from the \n\nboat; \nAnd Tamatea the pliable shouldered the basket and went. \nAnd travelled, and sang as he travelled, a lad that was \n\nwell content. \nStill the way of his going was round by the roaring \n\ncoast. \nWhere the ring of the reef is broke and the trades run \n\nriot the most. \n\n280 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nOn his left, with smoke as of battle, the billows battered \n\nthe land; \nUnscalable, turretted mountains rose on the inner hand. 30 \nAnd cape, and village, and river, and vale, and moun- \ntain above, \nEach had a name in the land for men to remember and \n\nlove; \nAnd never the name of a place, but lo! a song in its \n\npraise: \nAncient and unforgotten, songs of the earlier days. \nThat the elders taught to the young, and at night, in \n\nthe full of the moon. \nGarlanded boys and maidens sang together in tune. \nTamatea the placable went with a lingering foot; \nHe sang as loud as a bird, he whistled hoarse as a flute; \nHe broiled in the sun, he breathed in the grateful shadow \n\nof trees. \nIn the icy stream of the rivers he waded over the knees; 40 \nAnd still in his empty mind crowded, a thousand-fold. \nThe deeds of the strong and the songs of the cunning \n\nheroes of old. \n\nAnd now was he come to a place Taiarapu honoured \n\nthe most, \nWhere a silent valley of woods debouched on the noisy \n\ncoast. \nSpewing a level river. There was a haunt of Pai.^ \nThere, in his potent youth, when his parents drove him \n\nto die, \nHonoura lived like a beast, lacking the lamp and the fire, \nWashed by the rains of the trade and clotting his hair \n\nin the mire; \n\n281 \n\n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nAnd there, so mighty his hands, he bent the tree to his \n\nfoot \xe2\x80\x94 \n50 So keen the spur of his hunger, he plucked it naked of \n\nfruit. \nThere, as she pondered the clouds for the shadow of \n\ncoming ills, \nAhupu, the woman of song, walked on high on the \n\nhills. \n\nOf these was Rahero sprung, a man of a godly race ; \nAnd inherited cunning of spirit and beauty of body and \n\nface. \nOf yore in his youth, as an aito, Rahero wandered the \n\nland. \nDelighting maids with his tongue, smiting men with his \n\nhand. \nFamous he was in his youth ; but before the midst of \n\nhis life \nPaused, and fashioned a song of farewell to glory and \n\nstrife. \n\nHouse of mine (it went), house upon the sea, \n60 Belov\'d of all my fathers, more belov\'d by me! \nVale of the strong Honour a, deep ravine of Pai, \nAgain in your woody summits I hear the trade-wind cry. \n\nHome of mine, in your walls, strong sounds the sea. \n\nOf all sounds on earth, dearest sound to me. \n\nI have heard the applause of men, I have heard it arise \n\nand die : \nSweeter now in my house I hear the trade-wind cry. \n\n282 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nThese were the words of his singing, other the thought \n\nof his heart; \nFor secret desire of glory vexed him, dwelling apart. \nLazy and crafty he was, and loved to lie in the sun, \nAnd loved the cackle of talk and the true word uttered 70 \n\nin fun ; \nLazy he was, his roof was ragged, his table was lean, \nAnd the fish swam safe in his sea, and he gathered the \n\nnear,and the green. \nHe sat in his house and laughed, but he loathed the \n\nking of the land, \nAnd he uttered the grudging word under the covering \n\nhand. \nTreason spread from his door; and he looked for a day \n\nto come, \nA day of the crowding people, a day of the summoning \n\ndrum, \nWhen the vote should be taken, the king be driven \n\nforth in disgrace, \nAnd Rahero, the laughing and lazy, sit and rule in his \n\nplace. \nHere Tamatea came, and beheld the house on the \n\nbrook; \nAnd Rahero was there by the way and covered an oven 80 \n\nto cook.3 \nNaked he was to the loins, but the tattoo covered the \n\nlack. \nAnd the sun and the shadow of palms dappled his mus- \ncular back. \nSwiftly he lifted his head at the fall of the coming feet, \nAnd the water sprang in his mouth with a sudden de- \nsire of meat; \n\n283 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nFor he marked the basket carried, covered from flies \n\nand the sun;* \nAnd Rahero buried his fire, but the meat in his house \n\nwas done. \n\nForth he stepped ; and took, and delayed the boy, by the \n\nhand; \nAnd vaunted the joys of meat and the ancient ways of \n\nthe land : \n\xe2\x80\x94 "Our sires of old in Taiarapu, they that created the \n\nrace, \n90 Ate ever with eager hand, nor regarded season or place, \nAte in the boat at the oar, on the way afoot; and at night \nArose in the midst of dreams to rummage the house for \n\na bite. \nIt is good for the youth in his turn to follow the way of \n\nthe sire; \nAnd behold how fitting the time! for here do I cover \n\nmy fire." \n\xe2\x80\x94 "I see the fire for the cooking but never the meat to \n\ncook," \nSaid Tamatea. \xe2\x80\x94 "Tut!" said Rahero. "Here in the \n\nbrook \nAnd there in the tumbling sea, the fishes are thick as flies. \nHungry like healthy men, and like pigs for savour and \n\nsize: \nCrayfish crowding the river, sea-fish thronging the sea." \n100 \xe2\x80\x94 "Well it may be," says the other, "and yet be noth- \ning to me. \nFain would I eat, but alas ! I have needful matter in hand, \nSince I carry my tribute of fish to the jealous king of \n\nthe land." \n\n284 \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nNow at the word a light sprang in Rahero\'s eyes. \n\n"I will gain me a dinner," thought he, "and lend the \n\nking a surprise." \nAnd he took the lad by the arm, as they stood by the \n\nside of the track, \nAnd smiled, and rallied, and flattered, and pushed him \n\nforward and back. \nIt was "You that sing like a bird, I never have heard \n\nyou sing," \nAnd "The lads when I was a lad were none so feared \n\nof a king. \nAnd of what account is an hour, when the heart is \n\nempty of guile ? \nBut come, and sit in the house and laugh with the r.o \n\nwomen awhile; \nAnd I will but drop my hook, and behold! the dinner \n\nmade." \n\n\n\nSo Tamatea the pliable hung up his fish in the shade \nOn a tree by the side of the way; and Rahero carried \n\nhim in, \nSmiling as smiles the fowler when flutters the bird to \n\nthe gin, \nAnd chose him a shining hook,^ and viewed it with \n\nsedulous eye. \nAnd breathed and burnished it well on the brawn of \n\nhis naked thigh. \nAnd set a mat for the gull, and bade him be merry and \n\nbide. \nLike a man concerned for his guest, and the fishing, and \n\nnothing beside. \n\n28s \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nNow when Rahero was forth, he paused and heark- \nened, and heard \n120 The gull jest in the house and the women laugh at his \nword; \n\nAnd stealthily crossed to the side of the way, to the shady \nplace \n\nWhere the basket hung on a mango ; and craft transfig- \nured his face. \n\nDeftly he opened the basket, and took of the fat of the \nfish, \n\nThe cut of kings and chieftains, enough for a goodly dish. \n\nThis he wrapped in a leaf, set on the fire to cook \n\nAnd buried ; and next the marred remains of the tribute \nhe took. \n\nAnd doubled and packed them well, and covered the \nbasket close \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 "There is a buffet, my king," quoth he, "and a nau- \nseous dose! " \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd hung the basket again in the shade, in a cloud of \nflies \n130 \xe2\x80\x94 "And there is a sauce to your dinner, king of the \ncrafty eyes!" \n\n\n\nSoon as the oven was open, the fish smelt excellent \n\ngood. \nIn the shade, by the house of Rahero, down they sat to \n\ntheir food, \nAnd cleared the leaves \xc2\xae in silence, or uttered a jeat and \n\nlaughed, \nAnd raising the cocoanut bowls, buried their faces and \n\nquaffed. \n\n286 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nBut chiefly in silence they ate; and soon as the meal \n\nwas done, \nRahero feigned to remember and measured the hour by \n\nthe sun, \nAnd "Tamatea," quoth he, "it is time to be jogging, \n\nmy lad." \n\nSo Tamatea arose, doing ever the thing he was bade, \nAnd carelessly shouldered the basket, and kindly saluted \n\nhis host; \nAnd again the way of his going was round by the roar- 140 \n\ning coast. \nLong he went; and at length was aware of a pleasant \n\ngreen, \nAnd the stems and shadows of palms, and roofs of \n\nlodges between. \nThere sate, in the door of his palace, the king on a kingly \n\nseat, \nAnd aitos stood armed around, and the yottowas \' sat \n\nat his feet. \nBut fear was a worm in his heart : fear darted his eyes ; \nAnd he probed men\'s faces for treasons and pondered \n\ntheir speech for lies. \nTo him came Tamatea, the basket slung in his hand, \nAnd paid him the due obeisance standing as vassals \n\nstand. \nIn silence hearkened the king, and closed the eyes in \n\nhis face. \nHarbouring odious thoughts and the baseless fears of 150 \n\nthe base; \nIn silence accepted the gift and sent the giver away. \nSo Tamatea departed, turning his back on the day. \n\n287 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nAnd lo! as the king sat brooding, a rumor rose in the \n\ncrowd; \nThe yottowas nudged and whispered, the commons \n\nmurmured aloud; \nTittering fell upon all at sight of the impudent thing, \nAt the sight of a gift unroyal flung in the face of a \n\nking. \nAnd the face of the king turned white and red with \n\nanger and shame \nIn their midst; and the heart in his body was water and \n\nthen was flame; \nTill of a sudden, turning, he gripped an aito hard, \ni6o A youth that stood with his omare,^ one of the daily \n\nguard. \nAnd spat in his ear a command, and pointed and uttered \n\na name, \nAnd hid in the shade of the house his impotent anger \n\nand shame. \n\nNow Tamatea the fool was far on the homeward way, \nThe rising night in his face, behind him the dying \n\nday. \nRahero saw him go by, and the heart of Rahero was \n\nglad. \nDevising shame to the king and nowise harm to the lad ; \nAnd all that dwelt by the way saw and saluted him \n\nwell. \nFor he had the face of a friend and the news of the town \n\nto tell; \nAnd pleased with the notice of folk, and pleased that his \n\njourney was done, \n170 Tamatea drew homeward, turning his back to the sun. \n\n288 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nAnd now was the hour of the bath in Taiarapu ; far and \n\nnear \nThe lovely laughter of bathers rose and delighted his \n\near. \nNight massed in the valleys; the sun on the mountain \n\ncoast \nStruck, end-long; and above the clouds embattled their \n\nhost, \nAnd glowed and gloomed on the heights; and the heads \n\nof the palms were gems. \nAnd far to the rising eve extended the shade of theif \n\nstems; \nAnd the shadow of Tamatea hovered already at home. \n\nAnd sudden the sound of one coming and running light \n\nas the foam \nStruck on his ear; and he turned, and lo! a man on his \n\ntrack, \nGirded and armed with an omare, following hard at his i8o \n\nback. \nAt a bound the man was upon him; \xe2\x80\x94 and, or ever a \n\nword was said, \nThe loaded end of the 6mare fell and laid him dead. \n\n\n\n11. THE VENGING OF TAMATEA \n\nThus was Rahero\'s treason; thus and no further it sped: \nThe king sat safe in his place and a kindly fool was dead. \n\nBut the mother of Tamatea arose with death in her eyes. \nAll night long, and the next, Taiarapu rang with her \n\ncries. \n\n289 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n\n\nAs when a babe in the wood turns with a chill of doubt \nAnd perceives nor home, nor friends, for the trees have \n\nclosed her about, \nThe mountain rings and her breast is torn with the \n\nvoice of despair: \n190 So the lion-like woman idly wearied the air \n\nFor awhile, and pierced men\'s hearing in vain, and \n\nwounded their hearts. \nBut as when the weather changes at sea, in dangerous \n\nparts. \nAnd sudden the hurricane wrack unrolls up the front of \n\nthe sky, \nAt once the ship lies idle, the sails hang silent on high, \nThe breath of the wind that blew is blown out like the \n\nflame of a lamp, \nAnd the silent armies of death draw near with inaudible \n\ntramp: \nSo sudden, the voice of her weeping ceased; in silence \n\nshe rose \nAnd passed from the house of her sorrow, a woman \n\nclothed with repose. \nCarrying death in her breast and sharpening death with \n\nher hand. \n\n200 Hither she went and thither in all the coasts of the land. \nThey tell that she feared not to slumber alone, in the \n\ndead of night. \nIn accursed places; beheld, unblenched, the ribbon of \n\nlight 9 \nSpin from temple to temple; guided the perilous skiff. \nAbhorred not the paths of the mountain and trod the \n\nverge of the cliff ; \n\n200 \n\n\n\n1 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nFrom end to end of the island, thought not the distance \n\nlong, \nBut forth from king to king carried the tale of her wrong. \nTo king after king, as they sat in the palace door, she \n\ncame, \nClaiming kinship, declaiming verses, naming her name \nAnd the names of all of her fathers; and still, with a \n\nheart on the rack. \nJested to capture a hearing and laughed when they jested 210 \n\nback: \nSo would deceive them awhile, and change and return \n\nin a breath, \nAnd on all the men of Vaiau imprecate instant death ; \nAnd tempt her kings \xe2\x80\x94 for Vaiau was a rich and pros- \nperous land. \nAnd flatter \xe2\x80\x94 for who would attempt it but warriors \n\nmighty of hand ? \nAnd change in a breath again and rise in a strain of song, \nInvoking the beaten drums, beholding the fall of the \n\nstrong, \nCalling the fowls of the air to come and feast on the dead. \nAnd they held the chin in silence, and heard her, and \n\nshook the head; \nFor they knew the men of Taiarapu famous in battle \n\nand feast. \nMarvellous eaters and smiters: the men of Vaiau not 220 \n\nleast. \n\nTo the land of the Namunu-ura,i<\' to Paea, at length she \n\ncame. \nTo men who were foes to the Tevas and hated their \n\nrace and name. \n\n2QJ \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nThere was she well received, and spoke with Hiopa \n\nthe king," \nAnd Hiopa listened, and weighed, and wisely considered \n\nthe thing. \n"Here in the back of the isle we dwell in a sheltered \n\nplace," \nQuoth he to the woman, "in quiet, a weak and peace- \nable race. \nBut far in the teeth of the wind lofty Taiarapu lies; \nStrong blows the wind of the trade on its seaward face, \n\nand cries \nAloud in the top of arduous mountains, and utters its \n\nsong \n230 In green continuous forests. Strong is the wind, and \n\nstrong \nAnd fruitful and hardy the race, famous in battle and \n\nfeast, \nMarvellous eaters and smiters: the men of Vaiau not \n\nleast. \nNow hearken to me, my daughter, and hear a word of \n\nthe wise: \nHow a strength goes linked with a weakness, two by \n\ntwo, like the eyes. \nThey can wield the omare well and cast the javelin far; \nYet are they greedy and weak as the swine and the \n\nchildren are. \nPlant we, then, here at Paea, a garden of excellent \n\nfruits ; \nPlant we bananas and kava and taro, the king of roots; \nLet the pigs in Paea be tapu^^ ^Lud no man fish for a \n\nyear; \n240 And of all the meat in Tahiti gather we threefold here. \n\n292 \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nSo shall the fame of our plenty fill the island, and so, \nAt last, on the tongue of rumor, go where we wish it \n\nto go. \nThen shall the pigs of Taiarapu raise their snouts in the \n\nair; \nBut we sit quiet and wait, as the fowler sits by the \n\nsnare. \nAnd tranquilly fold our hands, till the pigs come nosing \n\nthe food : \nBut meanwhile build us a house of Trotea, the stubborn \n\nwood. \nBind it with incombustible thongs, set a roof to the \n\nroom. \nToo strong for the hands of a man to dissever or fire to \n\nconsume; \nAnd there, when the pigs come trotting, there shall the \n\nfeast be spread. \nThere shall the eye of the morn enlighten the feasters 25a \n\ndead. \nSo be it done; for I have a heart that pities your \n\nstate. \nAnd Nateva and Namunu-ura are fire and water for \n\nhate." \n\nAll was done as he said, and the gardens prospered; \n\nand now \nThe fame of their plenty went out, and word of it came \n\nto Vaiau. \nFor the men of Namunu-ura sailed, to the windward \n\nfar, \nLay in the offmg by south where the. towns of the \n\nTevas are, \n\n293 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nAnd cast overboard of their plenty; and lo! at the Te- \n\nvas\' feet \nThe surf on all of the beaches tumbled treasures of meat. \nIn the salt of the sea, a harvest tossed with the refluent \n\nfoam; \n260 And the children gleaned it in playing, and ate and car- \nried it home; \nAnd the elders stared and debated, and wondered and \n\npassed the jest. \nBut whenever a guest came by eagerly questioned the \n\nguest ; \nAnd little by little, from one to another, the word went \n\nround: \n" In all the borders of Paea the victual rots on the ground, \nAnd swine are plenty as rats. .And now, when they \n\nfare to the sea. \nThe men of the Namunu-ura glean from under the tree \nAnd load the canoe to the gunwale with all that is \n\ntoothsome to eat; \nAnd all day long on the sea the jaws are crushing the \n\nmeat. \nThe steersman eats at the helm, the rowers munch at \n\nthe oar, \n270 And at length, when their bellies are full, overboard with \n\nthe store!" \nNow was the word made true, and soon as the bait \n\nwas bare, \nAH the pigs of Taiarapu raised their snouts in the air. \nSongs were recited, and kinship was counted, and tales \n\nwere told \nHow war had severed of late but peace had cemented \n\nof old \n\n294 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nThe clans of the island. "To war," said they, "now \n\nset we an end, \nAnd hie to the Namunu-ura even as a friend to a friend." \n\nSo judged, and a day was named; and soon as the \n\nmorning broke, \nCanoes were thrust in the sea and the houses emptied \n\nof folk. \nStrong blew the wind of the south, the wind that gath- \n\ner$ the clan ; \nAlong all the line of the reef the clamorous surges ran; 280 \nAnd the clouds were piled on the top of the island moun- \ntain-high, \nA mountain throned on a mountain. The fleet of canoes \n\nswept by \nIn the midst, on the green lagoon, with a crew released \n\nfrom care, \nSailing an even water, breathing a summer air. \nCheered by a cloudless sun ; and ever to left and right. \nBursting surge on the reef, drenching storms on the \n\nheight. \nSo the folk of Vaiau sailed and were glad all day, \nCoasting the palm-tree cape and crossing the populous \n\nbay \nBy all the towns of the Tevas; and still as they bowled \n\nalong, \nBoat would answer to boat with jest and laughter and 290 \n\nsong. \nAnd the people of all the towns trooped to the sides of \n\nthe sea \nAnd gazed from under the hand or sprang aloft on the \n\ntree, \n\n295 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nHailing and cheering. Time failed them for more to do", \nThe holiday village careened to the wind, and was gone \n\nfrom view \nSwift as a passing bird; and ever\' as onward it bore, \nLike the cry of the passing bird, bequeathed its song to \n\nthe shore \xe2\x80\x94 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nDesirable laughter of maids and the cry of delight of the \n\nchild. \nAnd the gazer, left behind, stared at the wake and \n\nsmiled. \n\nBy all the towns of the Tevas they went, and Papara \nlast, \n300 The home of the chief, the place of muster in war; and \npassed \n\nThe march of the lands of the clan, to the lands of an \nalien folk. \n\nAnd there, from the dusk of the shoreside palms, a col- \numn of smoke \n\nMounted and wavered and died in the gold of the setting \nsun, \n\n"Paea!" they cried. "It is Paea." And so was the \nvoyage done. \n\nIn the early fall of the night, Hiopa came to the shore. \nAnd beheld and counted the comers, and lo, they were \n\nforty score: \nThe pelting feet of the babes that ran already and played. \nThe clean-lipped smile of the boy, the slender breasts \n\nof the maid. \nAnd mighty limbs of women, stalwart mothers of men. \n?io The sires stood forth unabashed; but a little back from \n\nhis ken \n\n296 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nClustered the scarcely nubile, the lads and maids, in a ring, \nFain of each other, afraid of themselves, aware of the king \nAnd aping behaviour, but clinging together with hands \n\nand eyes. \nWith looks that were kind like kisses, and laughter \n\ntender as sighs. \nThere, too, the grandsire stood, raising his silver crest. \nAnd the impotent hands of a suckling groped in his \n\nbarren breast. \nThe childhood of love, the pair well married, the inno- \ncent brood; \nThe tale of the generations repeated and ever renewed \xe2\x80\x94 \nHiopa beheld them together, all the ages of man, \nAnd a moment shook in his purpose. 32G \n\nBut these were the foes of his clan, \nAnd he trod upon pity, and came, and civilly greeted \n\nthe king. \nAnd gravely entreated Rahero; and for all that could \n\nfight or sing. \nAnd claimed a name in the land, had fitting phrases of \n\npraise; \nBut with all who were well-descended he spoke of the \n\nancient days. \nAnd " \'Tis true," said he, "that in Paea the victual rots \n\non the ground; \nBut, friends, your number is many; and pigs must be \n\nhunted and found. \nAnd the lads troop to the mountains to bring the feis \n\ndown, \nAnd around the bowls of the kava cluster the maids of \n\nthe town. \n\n297 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n330 So, for to-night, sleep here; but king, common, and \n\npriest \nTo-morrow, in order due, shall sit with me in the \n\nfeast." \nSleepless the live-long night, Hiopa\'s followers toiled. \nThe pigs screamed and were slaughtered; the spars of \n\nthe guest-house Oiled, \nThe leaves spread on the floor. In many a mountain \n\nglen \nThe moon drew shadows of trees on the naked bodies \n\nof men \nPlucking and bearing fruits ; and in all the bounds of the \n\ntown \nRed glowed the cocoanut fires, and were buried and \n\ntrodden down. \nThus did seven of the yottowas toil with their tale of \n\nthe clan. \nBut the eighth wrought with his lads, hid from the \n\nsight of man. \n340 In the deeps of the woods they laboured, piling the fuel \n\nhigh \nIn fagots, the load of a man, fuel seasoned and dry, \nThirsty to seize upon fire and apt to blurt into flame. \n\nAnd now was the day of the feast. The forests, as \nmorning came. \n\nTossed in the wind, and the peaks quaked in the blaze \nof the day \n\nAnd the cocoanuts showered on the ground, rebound- \ning and rolling away: \n\nA glorious morn for a feast, a famous wind for a fire. \n\nTo the hall of feasting Hiopa led them, mother and sire \n\n298 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nAnd maid and babe in a tale, the whole of the holiday \n\nthrong. \nSmiling they came, garlanded green, not dreaming of \n\nwrong; \nAnd for every three, a pig, tenderly cooked in the 350 \n\nground. \nWaited ; and fei, the staff of life, heaped in a mound \nFor each where he sat; \xe2\x80\x94 for each, bananas roasted and \n\nraw \nPiled with a bountiful hand, as for horses hay and straw \nAre stacked in a stable; and fish, the food of desire,^^ \nAnd plentiful vessels of sauce, and breadfruit gilt in the \n\nfire; \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd kava was common as water. Feasts have there \n\nbeen ere now. \nAnd many, but never a feast like that of the folk of Vaiau. \n\nAll day long they ate with the resolute greed of brutes, \nAnd turned from the pigs to the fish, and again from \n\nthe fish to the fruits, \nAnd emptied the vessels of sauce, and drank of the kava 360 \n\ndeep; \nTill the young lay stupid as stones, and the strongest \n\nnodded to sleep. \nSleep that was mighty as death and blind as a moonless \n\nnight \nTethered them hand and foot; and their souls were \n\ndrowned, and the light \nWas cloaked from their eyes. Senseless together, the \n\nold and the young. \nThe fighter deadly to smite and the prater cunning of \n\ntongue, \n\n299 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nThe woman wedded and fruitful, inured to the pangs \n\nof birth, \nAnd the maid that knew not of kisses, blindly sprawled \n\non the earth. \n\nFrom the hall Hiopa the king and his chiefs came stealth- \nily forth. \n\nAlready the sun hung low and enlightened the peaks of \nthe north ; \n370 But the wind was stubborn to die and blew as it blows \nat morn. \n\nShowering the nuts in the dusk, and e\'en as a banner is \ntorn. \n\nHigh on the peaks of the island, shattered the moun- \ntain cloud. \n\nAnd now at once, at a signal, a silent, emulous crowd \n\nSet hands to the work of death, hurrying to and fro. \n\nLike ants, to furnish the fagots, building them broad \nand low. \n\nAnd piling them high and higher around the walls of \nthe hall. \n\nSilence persisted within, for sleep lay heavy on all. \n\nBut the mother of Tamatea stood at Hiopa\'s side. \n\nAnd shook for terror and joy like a girl that is a bride. \n380 Night fell on the toilers, and first Hiopa the wise \n\nMade the round of the house, visiting all with his eyes; \n\nAnd all was piled to the eaves, and fuel blockaded the \ndoor; \n\nAnd within, in the house beleaguered, slumbered the \nforty score. \n\nThen was an aito dispatched and came with fire in his \nhand, \n\n300 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nAnd Hiopa took it. \xe2\x80\x94 " Within," said he, "is the life of \n\na land; \nAnd behold! I breathe on the coal, I breathe on the dales \n\nof the east, \nAnd silence falls on forest and shore ; the voice of the feast \nIs quenched, and the smoke of cooking; the rooftree \n\ndecays and falls \nOn the empty lodge, and the winds subvert deserted \n\nwalls." \n\nTherewithal, to the fuel, he laid the glowing coal; 3Q0 \n\nAnd the redness ran in the mass and burrowed within \nlike a mole. \n\nAnd copious smoke was conceived. But, as when a \ndam is to burst. \n\nThe water lips it and crosses in silver trickles at first. \n\nAnd then, of a sudden, whelms and bears it away forth- \nright : \n\nSo now, in a moment, the flame sprang and towered in \nthe night, \n\nAnd wrestled and roared in the wind, and high over \nhouse and tree, \n\nStood, like a streaming torch, enlightening land and sea. \n\nBut the mother of Tamatea threw her arms abroad, \n"Pyre of my son," she shouted, "debited vengeance \n\nof God, \nLate, late, I behold you, yet I behold you at last, 400 \n\nAnd glory, beholding! For now are the days of my \n\nagony past, \nThe lust that famished my soul now eats and drinks its \n\ndesire, \nAnd they that encompassed my son shrivel alive in the fire. \n\n301 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nTenfold precious the vengeance that comes after linger- \ning years ! \n\nYe quenched the voice of my singer? \xe2\x80\x94 hark, in your \ndying ears, \n\nThe song of the conflagration! Ye left me a widow \nalone ? \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Behold, the whole of your race consumes, sinew and \nbone \n\nAnd torturing flesh together: man, mother, and maid \n\nHeaped in a common shambles; and already, borne by \nthe trade, \nJio The smoke of your dissolution darkens the stars of \nnight." \n\nThus she spoke, and her stature grew in the people\'s \nsight. \n\nIII. RAHERO \n\nRahero was there in the hall asleep: beside him his \n\nwife. \nComely, a mirthful woman, one that delighted in life; \nAnd a girl that was ripe for marriage, shy and sly as a \n\nmouse; \nAnd a boy, a climber of trees : all the hopes of his house. \nUnwary, with open hands, he slept in the midst of his \n\nfolk. \nAnd dreamed that he heard a voice crying without, and \n\nawoke. \nLeaping blindly afoot like one from a dream that he fears. \nA hellish glow and clouds were about him; \xe2\x80\x94 it roared \n\nin his ears \n\n302 \n\n\n\nII \n\n\n\ni \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nLike the sound of the cataract fall that plunges sudden 420 \n\nand steep; \nAnd Rahero swayed as he stood, and his reason was \n\nstill asleep. \nNow the flame struck hard on the house, wind-wielded, \n\na fracturing blow, \nAnd the end of the roof was burst and fell on the sleepers \n\nbelow; \nAnd the lofty hall, and the feast, and the prostrate bodies \n\nof folk, \nShone red in his eyes a moment, and then were swal- \nlowed of smoke. \nIn the mind of Rahero clearness came; and he opened \n\nhis throat; \nAnd as when a squall comes sudden, the straining sail \n\nof a boat \nThunders aloud and bursts, so thundered the voice of \n\nthe man. \n\xe2\x80\x94 " The wind and the rain ! " he shouted, the mustering \n\nword of the clan,i* \nAnd "up! "and "to arms, menofVaiau!" But silence 430 \n\nreplied. \nOr only the voice of the gusts of the fire, and nothing \n\nbeside. \n\nRahero stooped and groped. He handled his womankind, \n\nBut the fumes of the fire and the kava had quenched the \nlife of their mind, \n\nAnd they lay like pillars prone; and his hand encoun- \ntered the boy. \n\nAnd there sprang in the gloom of his soul a sudden \nlightning of joy. \n\n303 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n"Him can I save!" he thought, "if I were speedy \nenough." ^ \n\nAnd he loosened the cloth from his loins, and swaddled \nthe child in the stuff; \n\nAnd about the strength of his neck he knotted the burden \nwell. \n\n\n\nThere where the roof had fallen, it roared like the mouth \n\nof hell. \n440 Thither Rahero went, stumbling on senseless folk. \n\nAnd grappled a post of the house, and began to climb in \n\nthe \xc2\xa7jTioke : \nThe last alive of Vaiau: and the son borne by the sire. \nThe post glowed in the grain with ulcers of eating fire. \nAnd the fire bit to the blood and mangled his hands and \n\nthighs; \nAnd the fumes sang in his head like wine and stung in \n\nhis eyes; \nAnd still he climbed, and came to the top, the place of \n\nproof. \nAnd thrust a hand through the flame, and clambered \n\nalive on the roof \nBut even as he did so, the wind, in a garment of flames \n\nand pain. \nWrapped him from head to heel; and the waistcloth \n\nparted in twain ; \n450 And the living fruit of his loins dropped in the fire below. \n\nAbout theblazing feast-house clustered the eyes of the foe, \n\nWatching, hand upon weapon, lest ever a soul should \n\nflee. \nShading the brow from the glare, straining the neck to see. \n\n304 \n\n\n\nI \nI \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nOnly, to leeward, the flames in the wind swept far and \n\nwide. \nAnd the forest sputtered on fire; and there might no \n\nman abide. \nThither Rahero crept, and dropped from the burning \n\neaves, \nAnd crouching low to the ground, in a treble covert of \n\nleaves \nAnd fire and volleying smoke, ran for the life of his soul \nUnseen; and behind him under a furnace of ardent coal, \nCairned with a wonder of flame, and blotting the night 460 \n\nwith smoke. \nBlazed and were smelted together the bones of all his folk. \n\nHe fled unguided at first; but hearing the breakers roar, \nThitherward shaped his way, and came at length to the \n\nshore. \nSound-limbed he was : dry-eyed ; but smarted in every \n\npart; \nAnd the mighty cage of his ribs heaved on his straining \n\nheart \nWith sorrow and rage. And "Fools! " he cried, " fools \n\nof Vaiau, \nHeads of swine \xe2\x80\x94 gluttons \xe2\x80\x94 Alas! and where are they \n\nnow? \nThose that I played with, those that nursed me, those \n\nthat I nursed ? \nGod, and 1 outliving them ! I, the least and the worst \xe2\x80\x94 \n1, that thought myself crafty, snared by this herd of 470 \n\nswine. \nIn the tortures of hell and desolate, stripped of all that \n\nwas mine: \n\n305 \n\n\n\nt \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nAH ! \xe2\x80\x94 my friends and my fathers \xe2\x80\x94 the silver heads of \n\nyore \nThat trooped to the council, the children that ran to the \n\nopen door \nCrying with innocent voices and clasping a father\'s \n\nknees! \nAnd mine, my wife \xe2\x80\x94 my daughter \xe2\x80\x94 my sturdy climber \n\nof trees. \nAh, never to climb again ! " \n\nThus in the dusk of the night, \n(For clouds rolled in the sky and the moon was swal- \nlowed from sight,) \nPacing and gnawing his fists, Rahero raged by the \nshore. \n480 Vengeance: that must be his. But much was to do be- \nfore; \nAnd first a single life to be snatched from a deadly place, \nA life, the root of revenge, surviving plant of the race: \nAnd next the race to be raised anew, and the lands of \n\nthe clan \nRepeopled. So Rahero designed, a prudent man \nEven in wrath, and turned for the means of revenge and \n\nescape: \nA boat to be seized by stealth, a wife to be taken by rape. \n\nStill was the dark lagoon ; beyond on the coral wall, \nHe saw the breakers shine, he heard them bellow and \n\nfall. \nAlone, on the top of the reef, a man with a flaming \nbrand \n490 Walked, gazing and pausing, a fish-spear poised in his \nhand. \n\n306 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nThe foam boiled to his calf when the mightier breakers \n\ncame, \nAnd the torch shed in the wind scattering tufts of \n\nflame. \nAfar on the dark lagoon a canoe lay idly at wait: \nA figure dimly guiding it: surely the fisherman\'s \n\nmate. \nRahero saw and he smiled. He straightened his mighty \n\nthews: \nNaked, with never a weapon, and covered with scorch \n\nand bruise, \nHe straightened his arms, he filled the void of his body \n\nwith breath. \nAnd, strong as the wind in his manhood, doomed the \n\nfisher to death. \n\n\n\nSilent he entered the water, and silently swam, and \n\ncame \nThere where the fisher walked, holding on high the 500 \n\nflame. \nLoud on the pier of the reef volleyed the breach of the \n\nsea; \nAnd hard at the back of the man, Rahero crept to his \n\nknee \nOn the coral, and suddenly sprang and seized him, the \n\nelder hand \nClutching the joint of his throat, the other snatching the \n\nbrand \nEre it had time to fall, and holding it steady and high. \nStrong was the fisher, brave, and swift of mind and of \n\neye \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n307 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nStrongly he threw in the clutch ; but Rahero resisted the \n\nstrain, \nAnd jerked, and the spine of life snapped with a crack \n\nin twain, \nAnd the man came slack in his hands and tumbled a \n\nlump at his feet. \n\n510 One moment: and there, on the reef, where the breakers \n\nwhitened and beat, \nRahero was standing alone, glowing and scorched and \n\nbare, \nA victor unknown of any, raising the torch in the air. \nBut once he drank of his breath, and instantly set him \n\nto fish \nLike a man intent upon supper at home and a savoury \n\ndish. \nFor what should the woman have seen ? A man with \n\na torch \xe2\x80\x94 and then \nA moment\'s blur of the eyes \xe2\x80\x94 and a man with a torch \n\nagain. \nAnd the torch had scarcely been shaken. " Ah, surely, " \n\nRahero said, \n"She will deem it a trick of the eyes, a fancy born in \n\nthe head ; J \n\nBut time must be given the fool to nourish a fool\'s belief." \n520 So for a while, a sedulous fisher, he walked the reef, \nPausing at times and gazing, striking at times with the \n\nspear: A \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 Lastly, uttered the call; and even as the boat drew \n\nnear. \nLike a man that was done with its use, tossed the torch \n\nin the sea. \n\n308 \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nLightly he leaped on the boat beside the woman; and \n\nshe \nLightly addressed him, and yielded the paddle and place \n\nto sit; \nFor now the torch was extinguished the night was \n\nblack as the pit. \nRahero set him to row, never a word he spoke, \nAnd the boat sang in the water urged by his vigorous \n\nstroke, \n\xe2\x80\x94 "What ails you?" the woman asked, "and why \n\ndid you drop the brand ? \nWe have only to kindle another as soon as we come to 530 \n\nland." \nNever a word Rahero replied, but urged the canoe. \nAnd a chill fell on the woman. \xe2\x80\x94 "Atta! speak! is it \n\nyou? \nSpeak! Why are you silent? Why do you bend \n\naside ? \nWherefore steer to the seaward ?" thus she panted and \n\ncried. \nNever a word from the oarsman, toiling there in the \n\ndark; \nBut right for a gate of the reef he silently headed the \n\nbark, \nAnd wielding the single paddle with passionate sweep \n\non sweep. \nDrove her, the little fitted, forth on the open deep. \n\nAnd fear, there where she sat, froze the woman to \n\nstone : \nNot fear of the crazy boat and the weltering deep 540 \n\nalone; \n\n309 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nBut a keener fear of the night, the dark, and the ghost- \nly hour, \n\nAnd the thing that drove the canoe with more than a \nmortal\'s power \n\nAnd more than a mortal\'s boldness. For much she knew \nof the dead A \n\nThat haunt and fish upon reefs, toiling, like men, for \nbread. \n\nAnd traffic with human fishers, or slay them and take \ntheir ware. \n\nTill the hour when the star of the dead ^^ goes down, \nand the morning air \n\nBlows, and the cocks are singing on shore. And sure- \nly she knew \n\nThe speechless thing at her side belonged to the grave.^^ \n\nIt blew \nAll night from the south; all night, Rahero contended \n\nand kept \n550 The prow to the cresting sea; and, silent as though she \n\nslept, \nThe woman huddled and quaked. And now was the \n\npeep of day. \nHigh and long on their left the mountainous island lay; \nAnd over the peaks of Taiarapu arrows of sunlight \n\nstruck. \nOn shore the birds were beginning to sing: the ghost- \nly ruck \nOf the buried had long ago returned to the covered \n\ngrave ; \nAnd here on the sea, the woman, waxing suddenly \n\nbrave, \n\n310 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nTurned her swiftly about and looked in the face of the \n\nman. \nAnd sure he was none that she knew, none of her \n\ncountry or clan : \nA stranger, mother-naked, and marred with the marks \n\nof fire, \nBut comely and great of stature, a man to obey and ad- 560 \n\nmire. \n\nAnd Rahero regarded her also, fixed, with a frowning \n\nface. \nJudging the woman\'s fitness to mother a warlike race. \nBroad of shoulder, ample of girdle, long in the thigh, \nDeep of bosom she was, and bravely supported his eye. \n\n"Woman," said he, "last night the men of yourfolk \xe2\x80\x94 \nMan, woman, and maid, smothered my race in smoke. \nIt was done like cowards; and I, a mighty man of my \n\nhands. \nEscaped, a single life; and now to the empty lands \nAnd smokeless hearths of my people, sail, with your- \nself, alone. \nBefore your mother was born, the die of to-day was c-yo \n\nthrown \nAnd you selected: \xe2\x80\x94 your husband, vainly striving, to \n\nfall \nBroken between these hands: \xe2\x80\x94 yourself to be severed \n\nfrom all, \nThe places, the people, you love \xe2\x80\x94 home, kindred, and \n\nclan \xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd to dwell in a desert and bear the babes of a kinless \n\nman." \n\n311 \n\n\n\nNOTES TO THE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nIntroduction. \xe2\x80\x94 This tale, of which I have not consciously changed \na single feature, I received from tradition. It is highly popular through \nall the country of the eight Tevas, the clan to which Rahero belonged; \nand particularly in Taiarapu, the windward peninsula of Tahiti, where \nhe lived. I have heard from end to end two versions; and as many as \nfive different persons have helped me with details. There seems no \nreason why the tale should not be true. \n\nNote I, verse 22. "The aito," quasi champion, or brave. One \nskilled in the use of some weapon, who wandered the country chal- \nlenging distinguished rivals and taking part in local quarrels. It was \nin the natural course of his advancement to be at last employed by a \nchief, or king; and it would then be a part of his duties to purvey the \nvictim for sacrifice. One of the doomed families was indicated; the \naito took his weapon and went forth alone; a little behind him bearers \nfollowed with the sacrificial basket. Sometimes the victim showed \nfight, sometimes prevailed; more often, without doubt, he fell. But \nwhatever body was found, the bearers indifferently took up. \n\nNote 2, verses 45, etseq. "Pat," " Honour a," and " Ahupu." \nLegendary persons of Tahiti, all natives of Taiarapu. Of the two first, \nI have collected singular although imperfect legends, which I hope soon \nto lay before the public in another place. Of Ahupu, except in snatches \nof song, little memory appears to linger. She dwelt at least about \nTepari, \xe2\x80\x94 "the sea-cliffs," \xe2\x80\x94 the eastern fastness of the isle; walked \nbypaths known only to herself upon the mountains; was courted by \ndangerous suitors who came swimming from adjacent islands, and de- \nfended and rescued (as I gather) by the loyalty of native fish. My \nanxiety to learn more of " Ahupu Vehine " became (during my stay in \nTaiarapu) a cause of some diversion to that mirthful people, the \ninhabitants. \n\n312 \n\n\n\nTHE SONG OF RAHERO \n\nNote 3, verse 80. " Covered an oven." The cooking fire is made \nin a hole in the ground, and is then buried. \n\nNote 4, verse 85. "Flies." This is perhaps an anachronism. Even \nspeaking of to-day in Tahiti, the phrase would have to be understood \nas referring mainly to mosquitoes, and these only in watered valleys \nwith close woods, such as I suppose to form the surroundings of \nRahero\'s homestead. Quarter of a mile away, where the air moves \nfreely, you shall look in vain for one. \n\nNote 5, verse 115. "Hook" of mother-of-pearl. Bright-hook \nfishing, and that with the spear, appear to be the favourite native \nmethods. " \n\nNote 6, verse 133. "Leaves," the plates of Tahiti. \n\nNote 7, verse 144. " Yottowas," so spelt for convenience of pro- \nnunciation, quasi Tacksmen in the Scottish Highlands. The organi- \nsation of eight sub-districts and eight yottowas to a division, which \nwas in use (until yesterday) among the Tevas, I have attributed with- \nout authority to the next clan: see verses 341-2. \n\nNote 8, verse 160. " Omare," pronounce as a dactyl. A loaded \nquarter-staff, one of the two favourite weapons of the Tahitian brave: \nthe javelin, or casting spear, was the other. \n\nNote 9, verse 202. " The ribbon of light." Still to be seen (and \nheard) spinning from one marae to another on Tahiti; or so I have \nit upon evidence that would rejoice the Psychical Society. \n\nNote 10, verse 221. " Ndmunu-ura." The complete name is \nNamunu-ura te aropa. Why it should be pronounced Namunu, dactyl- \nlically, I cannot see, but so I have always heard it. This was the clan \nimmediately beyond the Tevas on the south coast of the island. At \nthe date of the tale the clan organisation must have been very weak. \nThere is no particular mention of Tamatea\'s mother going to Papara, \nto the head chief of her own clan, which would appear her natural re- \ncourse. On the other hand, she seems to have visited various lesser \nchiefs among the Tevas, and these to have excused themselves solely on \nthe danger of the enterprise, The broad distinction here drawn \nbetween Nateva and Namunu-ura is therefore not impossibly ana- \nchronistic. \n\n313 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nNote II, verse 223. " Hiopa the king." Hiopa was really the \nname of the king (chief) of Vaiau; but 1 could never learn that of the \nking of Paea \xe2\x80\x94 pronounce to rhyme with the Indian ayab \xe2\x80\x94 and 1 gave \nthe name where it was most needed. This note must appear otiose \nindeed to readers who have never heard of either of these two gentle- \nmen; and perhaps there is only one person in the world capable at \nonce of reading my verses and spying the inaccuracy. For him, for \nMr. Tati Salmon, hereditary high chief of the Tevas, the note is solely \nwritten : a small attention from a clansman to his chief \n\nNote 12, verse 239. "Let the pigs be tapu." It is impossible to \nexplain tapu in a note; we have it as an English word, taboo. \nSuffice it, that a thing which was tapu must not be touched, nor a \nplace that was tapu visited. \n\nNote 13, verse 354. "Fish, the food of desire." There is a special \nword in the Tahitian language to signify hungering after fish. I may \nremark that here is one of my chief difficulties about the whole story. \nHow did king, commons, women, and all come to eat together at this \nfeast? But it troubled none of my numerous authorities; so there \nmust certainly be some natural explanation. \n\nNote 14, verse 429. " The mustering word of the clan." \n\nTeva te ua, \nTeva te matai ! \nTeva the wind, \nTeva the rain ! \n\nNote 15, verse 546. Note 16, verse 548. " The star of the dead." \nVenus as a morning star. I have collected much curious evidence \nas to this belief The dead retain their taste for a fish diet, enter \ninto copartnery with living fishers, and haunt the reef and the la- \ngoon. The conclusion attributed to the nameless lady of the legend \nwould be reached to-day, under the like circumstances, by ninety per \ncent, of Polynesians; and here I probably understate by one-tenth. \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\n314 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\nMARQUESAN MANNERS \n\nI. THE priest\'s vigil \n\nIN all the land of the tribe was neither fish nor fruit, \nAnd the deepest pit of popoi stood empty to the \n\nfoot.i \nThe clans upon the left and the clans upon the right \nNow oiled their carven maces and scoured their daggers \n\nbright ; \nThey gat them to the thicket, to the deepest of the shade, \nAnd lay with sleepless eyes in the deadly ambuscade. \nAnd oft in the starry even the song of mourning rose, \nWhat time the oven smoked in the country of their foes; \nFor oft to loving hearts, and waiting ears and sight. \nThe lads that went to forage returned not with the 10 \n\nnight. \nNow first the children sickened, and then the women \n\npaled, \nAnd the great arms of the warrior no more for war \n\navailed. \nHushed was the deep drum, discarded was the dance; \nAnd those that met the priest now glanced at him \n\naskance. \n\n317 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nThe priest was a man of years, his eyes were ruby-red,^ \nHe neither feared the dark nor the terrors of the dead, \nHe knew the songs of races, the names of ancient date; i \nAnd the beard upon his bosom would have bought the \n\nchiefs estate. \nHe dwelt in a high-built lodge, hard by the roaring \n\nshore, \' \n\n20 Raised on a noble terrace and with tikis ^ at the door. \nWithin it was full of riches, for he served his nation j \n\nwell, \nAnd full of the sound of breakers, like the hollow of a shell. ! \nFor weeks he let them perish, gave never a helping sign, ij \nBut sat on his oiled platform to commune with the \n\ndivine, \nBut sat on his high terrace, with the tikis by his side. \nAnd stared on the blue ocean, like a parrot, ruby-eyed. \n\nDawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the mountain \n\nheight: \nOut on the round of the sea the gems of the morning \n\nlight, \nUp from the round of the sea the streamers of the sun ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n30 But down in the depths of the valley the day was not \n\nbegun. \nIn the blue of the woody twilight burned red the cocoa- \nhusk, \nAnd the women and men of the clan went forth to \n\nbathe in the dusk. \nA word that began to go round, a word, a whisper, a \n\nstart : \nHope that leaped in the bosom, fear that knocked on \n\nthe heart: \n\n318 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\n"See, the priest is not risen \xe2\x80\x94 look, for his door is fast! \n" He is going to name the victims; he is going to help \nus at last." \n\nThrice rose the sun to noon ; and ever, like one of the \n\ndead, \nThe priest lay still in his house with the roar of the sea \n\nin his head; \nThere was never a foot on the floor, there was never a \n\nwhisper of speech; \nOnly the leering tikis stared on the blinding beach. 40 \nAgain were the mountains fired, again the morning \n\nbroke; \nAnd all the houses lay still, but the house of the priest \n\nawoke. \nClose in their covering roofs lay and trembled the \n\nclan. \nBut the aged, red-eyed priest ran forth like a lunatic \n\nman ; \nAnd the village panted to see him in the jewels of death \n\nagain, \nIn the silver beards of the old and the hair of women \n\nslain. \nFrenzy shook in his limbs, frenzy shone in his eyes, \nAnd still and again as he ran, the valley rang with his \n\ncries. \nAll day long in the land, by cliff and thicket and den. \nHe ran his lunatic rounds, and howled for the flesh of 50 \n\nmen; \nAll day long he ate not, nor ever drank of the brook; \nAnd all day long in their houses the people listened and \n\nshook \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n319 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nAll day long in their houses they listened with bated \n\nbreath, \nAnd never a soul went forth, for the sight of the priest \n\nwas death. \n\nThree were the days of his running, as the gods ap- \npointed of yore, \nTwo the nights of his sleeping alone in the place of gore : \nThe drunken slumber of frenzy twice he drank to the lees. \nOn the sacred stones of the High-place under the sacred \n\ntrees ; \nWith a lamp at his ashen head he lay in the place of the \n\nfeast, \n60 And the sacred leaves of the banyan rustled around the \n\npriest. \nLast, when the stated even fell upon terrace and tree. \nAnd the shade of the lofty island lay leagues away to sea, \nAnd all the valleys of verdure were heavy with manna \n\nand musk, \nThe wreck of the red-eyed priest came gasping home \n\nin the dusk. \nHe reeled across the village, he staggered along the shore, \nAnd between the leering tikis crept groping through his \n\ndoor. \n\nThere went a stir through the lodges, the voice of speech \n\nawoke; \nOnce more from the builded platforms arose the evening \n\nsmoke. \nAnd those who were mighty in war, and those renowned \nfor an art \nyo Sat in their stated seats and talked of the morrow apart. \n\n320 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\n\n\nII. THE LOVERS \n\n\n\nHark! away in the woods \xe2\x80\x94 for the ears of love are \n\nsharp \xe2\x80\x94 \nStealthily, quietly touched, the note of the one-stringed \n\nharp.* \nIn the lighted house of her father, why should Taheia \n\nstart ? \nTaheia heavy of hair, Taheia tender of heart, \nTaheia the well-descended, a bountiful dealer in love. \nNimble of foot like the deer, and kind of eye like the dove ? \nSly and shy as a cat, with never a change of face, \nTaheia slips to the door, like one that would breathe a \n\nspace; \nSaunters and pauses, and looks at the stars, and lists to \n\nthe seas; \nThen sudden and swift as a cat, she plunges under the 80 \n\ntrees. \nSwift as a cat she runs, with her garment gathered high, \nLeaping, nimble of foot, running, certain of eye; \nAnd ever to guide her way over the smooth and the \n\nsharp, \nEver nearer and nearer the note of the one-stringed harp ; \nTill at length, in a glade of the wood, with a naked \n\nmountain above. \nThe sound of the harp thrown down, and she in the \n\narms of her love. \n"Rua," \xe2\x80\x94 "Taheia," they cry \xe2\x80\x94 "my heart, my soul, \n\nand my eyes," \nAnd clasp and sunder and kiss, with lovely laughter and \n\nsighs, \n\n321 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n"Rua!"\xe2\x80\x94 "Taheia, my love," \xe2\x80\x94 " Rua, star of m}; \nnight, \n90 Clasp me, hold me, and love me, single spring of de- Aj \nlight." \'\' \n\nAnd Rua folded her close, he folded her near and long. \nThe living knit to the living, and sang the lover\'s song: \n\n\n\nNight, night it is, night upon the palms. \nNight, night it is, the land wind 1ms blown. \nStarry, starry night, over deep and height; \nLave, love in the valley, love all alone. \n\n\n\n"Taheia, heavy of hair, a foolish thing have we done, \nTo bind what gods have sundered unkindly into one. \nWhy should a lowly lover have touched Taheia\'s skirt, \n100 Taheia the well-descended, and Rua child of the dirt?" \n\xe2\x80\x94 "On high with the haka-ikis my father sits in state. \nTen times fifty kinsmen salute him in the gate; \nRound all his martial body, and in bands across his face, \nThe marks of the tattooer proclaim his lofty place. \nI too, in the hands of the cunning, in the sacred cabin \n\nof palm, ^ \nHave shrunk like the mimosa, and bleated like the lamb; \nRound half my tender body, that none shall clasp but \n\nyou. \nFor a crest and a fair adornment go dainty lines of blue. \nLove, love, beloved Rua, love levels all degrees, \n1 10 And the well-tattooed Taheia clings panting to youi \n\nknees." \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 " Taheia, song of the morning, how long is the long- \n\nest love ? \nA cry, a clasp of the hands, a star that falls from above! \nEver at morn in the blue, and at night when all is black \nEver it skulks and trembles with the hunter, Death, on \n\nits track. \nHear me, Taheia, death ! For to-morrow the priest shall \n\nawake. \nAnd the names be named of the victims to bleed for the \n\nnation\'s sake; \nAnd first of the numbered many that shall be slain ere \n\nnoon, \nRua the child of the dirt, Rua the kinless loon. \nFor him shall the drum be beat, for him be raised the \n\nsong. \nFor him to the sacred High-place the chaunting people 120 \n\nthrong, \nFor him the oven smoke as for a speechless beast. \nAnd the sire of my Taheia come greedy to the feast," \n\n\xe2\x80\x94 " Rua, be silent, spare me. Taheia closes her ears. \nPity my yearning heart, pity my girlish years ! \n\nFlee from the cruel hands, flee from the knife and coal, \nLie hid in the deeps of the woods, Rua, sire of my soul ! " \n\n" Whither to flee, Taheia, whither in all of the land ? \nThe fires of the bloody kitchen are kindled on every \n\nhand; \nOn every hand in the isle a hungry whetting of teeth, \nEyes in the trees above, arms in the brush beneath. 130 \nPatience to lie in wait, cunning to follow the sleuth, \nAbroad the foes I have fought, and at home the friends \n\nof my youth." \n\n323 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n" Love, love, beloved Rua, love has a clearer eye. \nHence from the arms of love you go not forth to die. \nThere, where the broken mountain drops sheer into the \n\nglen, \nThereshallyoufindahold from the boldest hunter of men; \nThere, in the deep recess, where the sun falls only at \n\nnoon, \nAnd only once in the night enters the light of the moon, \nNor ever a sound but of birds, or the rain when it falls \n\nwith a shout; \n140 For death and the fear of death beleaguer the valley about. \nTapu it is, but the gods will surely pardon despair; \nTapu, but what of that ? If Rua can only dare. \nTapu and tapu and tapu, I know they are every one \n\nright; \nBut the god of every tapu is not always quick to smite. \nLie secret there, my Rua, in the arms of awful gods, \nSleep in the shade of the trees on the couch of the kindly \n\nsods. \nSleep and dream of Taheia, Taheia will wake for you; \nAnd whenever the land wind blows and the woods are \n\nheavy with dew. \nAlone through the horror of night,\xc2\xae with food for the \nsoul of her love, \n150 Taheia the undissuaded will hurry true as the dove." \n\n"Taheia, the pit of the night crawls with treacherous \n\nthings. \nSpirits of ultimate air and the evil souls of things; \nThe souls of the dead, the stranglers, that perch in the \n\ntrees of the wood. \nWaiters for all things human, haters of evil and good." \n\n324 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\n"Rua, behold me, kiss me, look in my eyes and read; \nAre these the eyes of a maid that would leave her lover \n\nin need ? \nBrave in the eye of day, my father ruled in the fight; \nThe child of his loins, Taheia, will play the man in the \n\nnight." \n\nSo it was spoken, and so agreed, and Taheia arose \n\nAnd smiled in the stars and was gone, swift as the swal- i6o \n\nlow goes ; \nAnd Rua stood on the hill, and sighed, and followed her \n\nflight, \nAnd there were the lodges below, each with its door \n\nalight; \nFrom folk that sat on the terrace and drew out the even \n\nlong \nSudden Growings of laughter, monotonous drone of \n\nsong; \nThe quiet passage of souls over his head in the trees ; \' \nAnd from all around the haven the crumbling thunder \n\nof seas. \n"Farewell, my home," said Rua. "Farewell, O quiet \n\nseat! \nTo-morrow in all your valleys the drum of death shall \n\nbeat." \n\n\n\nIII. THE FEAST \n\nDawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the naked peak. \nAnd all the village was stirring, for now was the priest 170 \nto speak. \n\n325 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nForth on his terrace he came, and sat with the chief in \n\ntalk; \nHis lips were blackened with fever, his cheeks were \n\nwhiter than chalk; \nFever clutched at his hands, fever nodded his head, \nBut, quiet and steady and cruel, his eyes shone ruby- \nred. \nIn the earliest rays of the sun the chief rose up content; \nBraves were summoned, and drummers; messengers \n\ncame and went; \nBraves ran to their lodges, weapons were snatched from \n\nthe wall; \nThe commons herded together, and fear was over them \n\nall. \nFestival dresses they wore, but the tongue was dry in \n\ntheir mouth, \n180 And the blinking eyes in their faces skirted from north \n\nto south. \n\n\n\nNow to the sacred enclosure gathered the greatest and \n\nleast, \nAnd from under the shade of the Banyan arose the \n\nvoice of the feast, \nThe frenzied roll of the drum, and a swift, monotonous \n\nsong. \nHigher the sun swam up; the trade wind level and \n\nstrong \nAwoke in the tops of the palms and rattled the fans \n\naloud. \nAnd over the garlanded heads and shining robes of the \n\ncrowd \n\n326 \n\n\n\nI \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\nTossed the spiders of shadow, scattered the jewels of \n\nsun. \nForty the tale of the drums, and the forty throbbed like \n\none; \nA thousand hearts in the crowd, and the even chorus of \n\nsong, \nSwift as the feet of a runner, trampled a thousand strong. 19- \nAnd the old men leered at the ovens and licked their \n\nlips for the food ; \nAnd the women stared at the lads, and laughed and \n\nlooked to the wood. \nAs when the sweltering baker, at night, when the city \n\nis dead, \nAlone in the trough of labour treads and fashions the \n\nbread; \nSo in the heat, and the reek, and the touch of woman \n\nand man. \nThe naked spirit of evil kneaded the hearts of the clan. \n\nNow cold was at many a heart, and shaking in many a \nseat; \n\nFor there were the empty baskets, but who was to fur- \nnish the meat ? \n\nFor here was the nation assembled, and there were the \novens anigh. \n\nAnd out of a thousand singers nine were numbered to 200 \ndie. \n\nTill, of a sudden, a shock, a mace in the air, a yell. \n\nAnd, struck in the edge of the crowd, the first of the \nvictims fell.^ \n\nTerror and horrible glee divided the shrinking clan, \n\nTerror of what was to follow, glee for a diet of man. \n\n327 \n\n\n\nII \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nFrenzy hurried the chaunt, frenzy rattled the drums ; \nThe nobles, high on the terrace, greedily mouthed their \n\nthumbs; \nAnd once and again and again, in the ignorant crowd \n\nbelow, \nOnce and again and again descended the murderous \n\nblow. \nNow smoked the oven, and now, with the cutting lip \n\nof a shell, \n210 A butcher of ninety winters jointed the bodies well. \nUnto the carven lodge, silent, in order due, \nThe grandees of the nation one after one withdrew; \nAnd a line of laden bearers brought to the terrace foot, \nOn poles across their shoulders, the last reserve of fruit \nThe victims bled for the nobles in the old appointed \n\nway; \nThe fruit was spread for the commons, for all should eal \n\nto-day. \n\nAnd now was the kava brewed, and now the cocca ran, \nNow was the hour of the dance for child and woman \n\nand man; \nAnd mirth was in every heart, and a garland on every \n\nhead, \n220 And all was well with the living and well with the eight \n\nwho were dead. \nOnly the chiefs and the priest talked and consulted \n\nawhile: \n"To-morrow," they said, and "To-morrow," and \n\nnodded and seemed to smile: \n"Rua the child of dirt, the creature of common clay, \n" Rua must die to-morrow, since Rua is gone to-day." \n\n?28 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\nOut of the groves of the valley, v^here clear the black- \nbirds sang, \nSheer from the trees of the valley the face of the moun \n\ntain sprang; \nSheer and bare it rose, unscalable barricade. \nBeaten and blown against by the generous draught of \n\nthe trade. \nDawn on its fluted brow painted rainbow light. \nClose on its pinnacled crown trembled the stars at 230 \n\nnight. \nHere and there in a cleft clustered contorted trees, \nOr the silver beard of a stream hung and swung in the \n\nbreeze. \nHigh overhead, with a cry, the torrents leaped for the \n\nmain, \nAnd silently sprinkled below in thin perennial rain. \nDark in the staring noon, dark was Rua\'s ravine. \nDamp and cold was the air, and the face of the cliffs was \n\ngreen. \nHere, in the rocky pit, accursed already of old. \nOn a stone in the midst of a river, Rua sat and was cold. \n\n"Valley of mid-day shadows, valley of silent falls," \nRua sang, and his voice went hollow about the walls, 240 \n"Valley of shadow and rock, a doleful prison to me. \nWhat is the life you can give to a child of the sun and \nthe sea ? " \n\nAnd Rua arose and came to the open mouth of the \n\nglen. \nWhence he beheld the woods, and the sea, and houses \n\nof men. \n\n329 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nWide blew the riotous trade, and smelt in his nostrils \n\ngood; \nIt bowed the boats on the bay, and tore and divided \n\nthe wood; \nIt smote and sundered the groves as Moses smote with \n\nthe rod, \nAnd the streamers of all the trees blew like banners \n\nabroad ; \nAnd ever and on, in a lull, the trade wind brought him \n\nalong \n250 A far-off patter of drums and a far-off whisper of song. \n\n\n\nSwift as the swallow\'s wings, the diligent hands on the \n\ndrum \nFluttered and hurried and throbbed. "Ah, woe that I \n\nhear you come," \nRua cried in his grief, " a sorrowful sound to me. \nMounting far and faint from the resonant shore of the \n\nsea! \nWoe in the song! for the grave breathes in the singen>\' \n\nbreath. \nAnd I hear in the tramp of the drums the beat of the \n\nheart of death. \nHome of my youth! no more, through all the length of \n\nthe years, \nNo more to the place of the echoes of early laughter and \n\ntears. \nNo more shall Rua return; no more as the evening \n\nends, \n260 To crowded eyes of welcome, to the reaching hands of \n\nfriends." \n\n?10 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\nAll day long from the High-place the drums and the \nsinging came, \n\nAnd the even fell, and the sun went down, a wheel of \nflame; \n\nAnd night came gleaning the shadows and hushing the \nsounds of the wood; \n\nAnd silence slept on all, where Rua sorrowed and \nstood. \n\nBut still from the shore of the bay the sound of the fes- \ntival rang, \n\nAnd still the crowd in the High-place danced and shout- \ned and sang. \n\nNow over all the isle terror was breathed abroad \n\nOf shadowy hands from the trees and shadowy snares \n\nin the sod; \nAnd before the nostrils of night, the shuddering hunter \n\nof men \nHurried, with beard on shoulder, back to his lighted 270 \n\nden. \n" Taheia, here to my side ! " \xe2\x80\x94 " Rua, my Rua, you ! " \nAnd cold from the clutch of terror, cold with the damp \n\nof the dew, \nTaheia, heavy of hair, leaped through the dark to his \n\narms; \nTaheia leaped to his clasp, and was folded in from \n\nalarms. \n\n**Rua, beloved, here, see what your love has brought; \nComing \xe2\x80\x94 alas! returning \xe2\x80\x94 swift as the shuttle of \nthought; \n\n331 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n\n\nReturning, alas! for to-night, with the beaten drum \nand the voice, \xc2\xab \n\nIn the shine of many torches must the sleepless clan re- 1 \njoice ; \xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nAnd Taheia the well-descended, the daughter of chief \n\nand priest, \n280 Taheia must sit in her place in the crowded bench of \n\nthe feast." \nSo it was spoken ; and she, girding her garment high. \nFled and was swallowed of woods, swift as the sight \n\nof an eye. \n\nNight over isle and sea rolled her curtain of stars. \nThen a trouble awoke in the air, the east was banded \nwith bars; \n\nDawn as yellow as sulphur leaped on the mountain \nheight; \n\nDawn, in the deepest glen, fell a wonder of light; \n\nHigh and clear stood the palms in the eye of the bright- \nening east, \n\nAnd lo! from the sides of the sea the broken sound of \nthe feast ! \n\nAs, when in days of summer, through open windows, \n\nthe fly \n290 Swift as a breeze and loud as a trump goes by. \n\nBut when frosts in the field have pinched the wintering \n\nmouse. \n\nBlindly noses and buzzes and hums in the firelit \n\nhouse: \nSo the sound of the feast gallantly trampled at night, \nSo it staggered and drooped, and droned in the morn- \ning light. \n\n332 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\n\n\nIV. THE RAID \n\n\n\nIt chanced that as Rua sat in the valley of silent falls, \nHe heard a calling of doves from high on the cliffy \n\nwalls. \nFire had fashioned of yore, and time had broken, the \n\nrocks ; \nThere were rooting crannies for trees and nesting-places \n\nfor flocks; \nAnd he\xc2\xabaw on the top of the cliffs, looking up from the \n\npit of the shade, \nA flicker of wings and sunshine, and trees that swung 300 \n\nin the trade. \n"The trees swing in the trade," quoth Rua, doubtful \n\nof words, \n"And the sun stares from the sky, but what should \n\ntrouble the birds ? " \nUp from the shade he gazed, where high the parapet \n\nshone, \nAnd he was aware of a ledge and of things that moved \n\nthereon. \n"What manner of things are these? Are they spirits \n\nabroad by day ? \nOr the foes of my clan that are come, bringing death by \n\na perilous way ? " \n\n\n\nThe valley was gouged like a vessel, and round like \n\nthe vessel\'s lip. \nWith a cape of the side of the hill thrust forth like the \n\nbows of a ship. \n\n333 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nOn the top of the face of the cape a volley of sun struck \n\nfair, \n^10 And the cape overhung like a chin a gulph of sunless \n\nair. \n"Silence, heart! What is that? \xe2\x80\x94 that, that flickered \n\nand shone. \nInto the sun for an instant, and in an instant gone? \nWas it a warrior\'s plume, a warrior\'s girdle of hair? \nSwung in the loop of a rope, is he making a bridge of \n\nthe air ? " \n\nOnce and again Rua saw, in the trenchant edge of the \n\nsky, \nThe giddy conjuring done. And then, in the blink of \n\nan eye, \nA scream caught in with the breath, a whirling packet \n\nof limbs, \nA lump that dived in the gulf, more swift than a dol- \nphin swims; \nAnd there was the lump at his feet, and eyes were alive \n\nin the lump. \n320 Sick was the soul of Rua, ambushed close in a clump; \nSick of soul he drew near, making his courage stout; \nAnd he looked in the face of the thing, and the life of \n\nthe thing went out. \nAnd he gazed on the tattooed limbs, and, behold, he \n\nknew the man: \nHoka, a chief of the Vais, the truculent foe of his clan : \nHoka a moment since that stepped in the loop of the \n\nrope. \nFilled with the lust of war, and alive with courage and \n\nhope. \n\n334 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\nAgain to the giddy cornice Rua lifted his eyes, \n\nAnd again beheld men passing in the armpit of the \n\nskies. \n" Foes of my race! " cried Rua, "the mouth of Rua is \n\ntrue: \nNever a shark in the deep is nobler of soul than you. 330 \nThere was never a nobler foray, never a bolder plan; \nNever a dizzier path was trod by the children of man ; \nAnd Rua, your evil-dealer through all the days of his \n\nyears, \nCounts 4t honour to hate you, honour to fall by your \n\nspears." \nAnd Rua straightened his back. "O Vais, a scheme \n\nfor a scheme! " \nCried Rua and turned and descended the turbulent stair \n\nof the stream, \nLeaping from rock to rock as the water-wagtail at home \nFlits through resonant valleys and skims by boulder and \n\nfoam. \nAnd Rua burst from the glen and leaped on the shore \n\nof the brook. \nAnd straight for the roofs of the clan his vigorous way 340 \n\nhe took. \nSwift were the heels of his flight, and loud behind as he \n\nwent \nRattled the leaping stones on the line of his long descent. \nAnd ever he thought as he ran, and caught at his gasp- \ning breath, \n"O the fool of a Rua, Rua that runs to his death! \nBut the right is the right," thought Rua, and ran like the \n\nwind on the foam, \n"The right is the right for ever, and home for ever home. \n\n335 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nFor what though the oven smoke? And what though \n\nI die ere morn ? \nThere was I nourished and tended, and there was Taheia \n\nborn." \nNoon was high on the High-place, the second noon of \n\nthe feast; \n^50 And heat and shameful slumber weighed on people and \n\npriest; \nAnd the heart drudged slow in bodies heavy with mon- \nstrous meals; \nAnd the senseless limbs were scattered abroad hke \n\nspokes of wheels; \nAnd crapulous women sat and stared at the stones \n\nanigh \nWith a bestial droop of the lip and a swinish rheum in \n\nthe eye. \nAs about the dome of the bees in the time for the drones \n\nto fall, \nThe dead and the maimed are scattered, and lie, and \n\nstagger, and crawl ; \nSo on the grades of the terrace, in the ardent eye of the \n\nday. \nThe half-awake and the sleepers clustered and crawled \n\nand lay ; \nAnd loud as the dome of the bees, in the time of a \n\nswarming horde, \n360 A horror of many insects hung in the air and roared. \n\nRua looked and wondered; he said to himself in his \n\nheart: \n" Poor are the pleasures of life, and death is the better \n\npart." \n\n336 \n\n\n\nTHE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\nBut lo! on the higher benches a cluster of tranquil folk \nSat by themselves, nor raised their serious eyes, nor \n\nspoke: \nWomen with robes unruffled and garlands duly ar- \nranged. \nGazing far from the feast with faces of people estranged ; \nAnd quiet amongst the quiet, and fairer than all the fair, \nTaheia, the well-descended, Taheia, heavy of hair. \nAnd the soul of Rua awoke, courage enlightened his \n\neyes, \nAnd he uttered a summoning shout and called on the y]0 \n\nclan to rise. \nOver against him at once, in the spotted shade of the \n\ntrees. \nOwlish and blinking creatures scrambled to hands and \n\nknees; \nOn the grades of the sacred terrace, the driveller woke \n\nto fear. \nAnd the hand of the ham-drooped warrior brandished \n\na wavering spear. \nAnd Rua folded his arms, and scorn discovered his teeth ; \nAbove the war-crowd gibbered, and Rua stood smiling \n\nbeneath. \nThick, like leaves in the autumn, faint, like April sleet. \nMissiles from tremulous hands quivered around his feet; \nAnd Taheia leaped from her place; and the priest, the \n\nruby-eyed. \nRan to the front of the terrace, and brandished his arms, 380 \n\nand cried: \n" Hold, O fools, he brings tidings! " and "Hold, \'tis the \n\nlove of my heart!" \nTill lo! in front of the terrace, Rua pierced with a dart. \n\n337 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nTaheia cherished his head, and the aged priest stood by, \n\nAnd gazed with eyes of ruby at Rua\'s darkening eye. \n\n"Taheia, here is the end, I die a death for a man. \n\nI have given the life of my soul to save an unsavable \nclan! \n\nSee them, the drooping of hams! behold me the blink- \ning crew: \n\nFifty spears they cast, and one of fifty true! \n\nAnd you, O priest, the foreteller, foretell for yourself if \nyou can, \n^90 Foretell the hour of the day when the Vais shall burst \non your clan! \n\nBy the head of the tapu cleft, with death and fire in their \nhand, \n\nThick and silent like ants, the warriors swarm in the \nland." \n\nAnd they tell that when next the sun had climbed to \n\nthe noonday skies, \nIt shone on the smoke of feasting in the country of the \n\nVais. \n\n\n\nNOTES TO THE FEAST OF FAMINE \n\nIn this ballad I have strung together some of the more striking par- \nticularities of the Marquesas. It rests upon no authority; it is in no \nsense, like " Rahero," a native story; but a patchwork of details of man- \nners and the impressions of a traveller, it may seem strange, when \nthe scene is laid upon these profligate islands, to make the story hinge \non love. But love is not less known in the Marquesas than elsewhere; \nnor is there any cause of suicide more common in the islands. \n\nNote I , verse 2. " Pit of Popoi." Where the bread fruit was stored \nfor preservation. \n\nNote 2, verse 15. "Ruby-red." The priest\'s eyes were probably \nred from the abuse of Kava. His beard (verse 18) is said to be worth \nan estate; for the beards of old men are the favourite head adornment \nof the Marquesans, as the hair of women formed their most costly \ngirdle. The former, among this generally beardless and short-lived \npeople, fetch to-day considerable sums. \n\nNote ?, verse 20. " Tikis." The tiki is an ugly image hewn out \nof wood or stone. \n\nNote 4, verse 76. "The one-stringed harp." Usually employed \nfor serenades. \n\nNote 5, verse 109. " The sacred cabin of palm." Which, how- \never, no woman could approach. I do not know where women were \ntattooed; probably in the common house, or in the bush, for a woman \nwas a creature of small account. I must guard the reader against sup- \nposing Taheia was at all disfigured; the art of the Marquesan tattooer \nis extreme; and she would appear to be clothed in a web of lace, in- \nimitably delicate, exquisite in pattern, and of a bluish hue that at once \ncontrasts and harmonises with the warm pigment of the native skin. \nIt would be hard to find a woman more becomingly adorned than " a \nwell tattooed " Marquesan. \n\n\n\nBALLAD \n\nNote 6, verse 155. \'\' The horror of ight." The Polynesian fear \nof ghosts and of the dark has been air ady referred to. Their life is \nbeleaguered by the dead. \n\nNote 7, verse 171. " The quiet pas age of souls." So, I am told, \nthe natives explain the sound of a little wind passing overhead unfelt. \n\nNote 8, verse 208. " The first of the viSiims fell." Without \ndoubt, this vi\'hole scene is untrue to fact. The victims were disposed \nof privately and some time before. And indeed I am far from claiming \nthe credit of any high degree of accuracy for this ballad. Even in a \ntime of famine, it is probable that Marquesan life went far more gaily \nthan is here represented. But the melancholy of to-day lies on the \nwriter\'s mind. \n\n\n\nTICONDEROGA \n\n\n\nTICONDEROGA: \n\nA LEGEND OF THE WEST HIGHLANDS \n\n\n\nTHIS is the tale of the man \nWho heard a word in the night \nIn the land of the heathery hills, \n\nIn the days of the feud and the fight. \nBy the sides of the rainy sea, \n\nWhere never a stranger came. \nOn the awful lips of the dead, \n\nHe heard the outlandish name. \nIt sang in his sleeping ears, \n\nIt hummed in his waking head: lo \n\nThe name \xe2\x80\x94 Ticonderoga, \n\nThe utterance of the dead. \n\nI. THE SAYING OF THE NAME \n\nOn the loch-sides of Appin, \n\nWhen the mist blew from the sea, \nA Stewart stood with a Cameron : \n\nAn angry man was he. \n\n343 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n\n\n20 \n\n\n\n30 \n\n\n\n40 \n\n\n\nThe blood beat in his ears, \n\nThe blood ran hot to his head, \nThe mist blew from the sea. \n\nAnd there was the Cameron dead. \n"O, what have I done to my friend, \n\nO, what have I done to mysel\'. \nThat he should be cold and dead. \n\nAnd I in the danger of all ? \nNothing but danger about me, \n\nDanger behind and before. \nDeath at wait in the heather \n\nIn Appin and Mamore, \nHate at all of the ferries \n\nAnd death at each of the fords, \nCamerons priming gunlocks \n\nAnd Camerons sharpening swords." \n\nBut this was a man of counsel, \n\nThis was a man of a score, \nThere dwelt no pawkier Stewart \n\nIn Appin or Mamore. \nHe looked on the blowing mist. \n\nHe looked on the awful dead. \nAnd there came a smile on his face \n\nAnd there slipped a thought in his head. \n\nOut over cairn and moss, \n\nOut over scrog and scaur, \' \n\nHe ran as runs the clansman \n\nThat bears the cross of war. \nHis heart beat in his body. \n\nHis hair clove to his face, \nWhen he came at last in the gloaming \n\n344 \n\n\n\nTICONDEROGA \n\nTo the dead man\'s brother\'s place. \nThe east was white with the moon, \n\nThe west with the sun was red, 50 \n\nAnd there, in the house-doorway, \n\nStood the brother of the dead. \n\n"I have slain a man to my danger, \n\nI have slain a man to my death. \nI put my soul in your hands," \n\nThe panting Stewart saith. \n"I lay it bare in your hands, \n\nFor I know your hands are leal; \nAnd be you my targe and bulwark \n\nFrom the bullet and the steel." 60 \n\nThen up and spoke the Cameron, \n\nAnd gave him his hand again: \n"There shall never a man in Scotland \n\nSet faith in me in vain ; \nAnd whatever man you have slaughtered, \n\nOf whatever name or line. \nBy my sword and yonder mountain, \n\nI make your quarrel mine. ^ \nI bid you in to my fireside, \n\nI share with you house and hall; 70 \n\nIt stands upon my honour \n\nTo see you safe from all." \n\nIt fell in the time of midnight. \n\nWhen the fox barked in the den \nAnd the plaids were over the faces \n\nIn all the houses of men, \n345 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nThat as the living Cameron \nLay sleepless on his bed, \nOut of the night and the other world, \n80 Came in to him the dead. \n\n" My blood is on the heather, \n\nMy bones are on the hill; \nThere is joy in the home of ravens \n\nThat the young shall eat their fill. \nMy blood is poured in the dust, \n\nMy soul is spilled in the air; \nAnd the man that has undone me \n\nSleeps in my brother\'s care." \n\n*\' I\'m wae for your death, my brother, \nQQ But if all of my house were dead, \n\nI couldnae withdraw the plighted hand. \nNor break the word once said." \n\n"O, what shall I say to our father, \n\nIn the place to which I fare ? \nO, what shall I say to our mother. \n\nWho greets to see me there ? \nAnd to all the kindly Camerons \n\nThat have lived and died long-syne \xe2\x80\x94 \nIs this the word you send them, \n\nFause-hearted brother mine ? " \n\n\n\n100 \n\n\n\n"It\'s neither fear nor duty, \n\nIt\'s neither quick nor dead \nShall gar me withdraw the plighted hand. \n\nOr break the word once said." \n346 \n\n\n\nTICONDEROGA \n\nThrice in the time of midnight, \n\nWhen the fox barked in the den, \nAnd the plaids were over the faces \n\nIn all the houses of men, \nThrice as the living Cameron \n\nLay sleepless on his bed, i lO \n\nOut of the night and the other world \n\nCame in to him the dead. \nAnd cried to him for vengeance \n\nOn the man that laid him low; \nAnd thrice the living Cameron \n\nTold the dead Cameron, no. \n\n\n\n"Thrice have you seen me, brother, \n\nBut now shall see me no more. \nTill you meet your angry fathers \n\nUpon the farther shore. I20 \n\nThrice have 1 spoken, and now. \n\nBefore the cock be heard, \nI take my leave forever \n\nWith the naming of a word. \nIt shall sing in your sleeping ears. \n\nIt shall hum in your waking head. \nThe name \xe2\x80\x94 Ticonderoga, \n\nAnd the warning of the dead." \n\n\n\nNow when the night was over \n\nAnd the time of people\'s fears, 130 \n\nThe Cameron walked abroad. \n\nAnd the word was in his ears. \n\n347 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n\n\n*\'Many a name I know, \nBut never a name like this ; \n\nO, where shall I find a skilly man \nShall tell me what it is ? " \n\n\n\nWith many a man he counselled \n\nOf high and low degree, \nWith the herdsmen on the mountains \nlAo And the fishers of the sea. \n\nAnd he came and went unweary. \n\nAnd read the books of yore. \nAnd the runes that were written of old \n\nOn stones upon the moor. \nAnd many a name he was told, \n\nBut never the name of his fears \xe2\x80\x94 \nNever, in east or west. \n\nThe name that rang in his ears: \nNames of men and of clans, \n150 Names for the grass and the tree. \n\nFor the smallest tarn in the mountains, \n\nThe smallest reef in the sea: \nNames for the high and low. \n\nThe names of the craig and the flat; \nBut in all the land of Scotland, \n\nNever a name like that. \n\n\n\nn. THE SEEKING OF THE NAME \n\nAnd now there was speech in the south. \nAnd a man of the south that was wise, \n\n348 \n\n\n\nTICONDEROGA \n\nA periwig\'d lord of London,2 \n\nCalled on the clans to rise. i6o \n\nAnd the riders rode, and the summons \n\nCame to the western shore, \nTo the land of the sea and the heather. \n\nTo Appin and Mamore. \nIt called on all to gather \n\nFrom every scrog and scaur, \nThat loved their fathers\' tartan \n\nAnd the ancient game of war. \nAnd down the watery valley \n\nAnd up the windy hill, 170 \n\nOnce more, as in the olden, \n\nThe pipes were sounding shrill; \nAgain in highland sunshine \n\nThe naked steel was bright ; \nAnd the lads, once more in tartan, \n\nWent forth again to fight. \n\n\n\n" O, why should I dwell here \n\nWith a weird upon my life, \nWhen the clansmen shout for battle \n\nAnd the war-swords clash in strife? 180 \n\nI cannae joy at feast, \n\nI cannae sleep in bed, \nFor the wonder of the word \n\nAnd the warning of the dead. \nIt sings in my sleeping ears. \n\nIt hums in my waking head. \nThe name \xe2\x80\x94 Ticonderoga, \n\nThe utterance of the dead. \n\n349 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n\n\n190 \n\n\n\n200 \n\n\n\n210 \n\n\n\nThen up, and with the fighting men \n\nTo march away from here, \nTill the cry of the great war-pipe \n\nShall drown it in my earl " \n\nWhere flew King George\'s ensign \n\nThe plaided soldiers went: \nThey drew the sword in Germany, \n\nIn Flanders pitched the tent. \nThe bells of foreign cities \n\nRang far across the plain : \nThey passed the happy Rhine, \n\nThey drank the rapid Main. \nThrough Asiatic jungles \n\nThe Tartans filed their way, \nAnd the neighing of the war-pipes \n\nStruck terror in Cathay.^ \n" Many a name have I heard," he thought, \n\n" In all the tongues of men, \nFull many a name both here and there, \n\nFull many both now and then. \nWhen I was at home in my father\'s house \n\nIn the land of the naked knee. \nBetween the eagles that fly in the lift \n\nAnd the herrings that swim in the sea. \nAnd now that I am a captain-man \n\nWith a braw cockade in my hat \xe2\x80\x94 \nMany a name have I heard," he thought \n\n" But never a name like that." \n\n\n\n550 \n\n\n\nTICONDRROGA \n\n\n\n111. THE PLACE OF THE NAME \n\n\n\nThere fell a war in a woody place, \n\nLay far across the sea, \nA war of the march in the mirk midnight \n\nAnd the shot from behind the tree, -220 \n\nThe shaven head and the painted face. \n\nThe silent foot in the wood, \nIn a land of a strange, outlandish tongue \n\nThat was hard to be understood. \n\n\n\nIt fell about the gloaming \n\nThe general stood with his staff. \nHe stood and he looked east and west \n\nWith little mind to laugh. \n"Far have I been and much have I seen. \n\nAnd kent both gain and loss, 230 \n\nBut here we have woods on every hand \n\nAnd a kittle water to cross. \nFar have I been and much have I seen, \n\nBut never the beat of this ; \nAnd there\'s one must go down to that water- \nside \n\nTo see how deep it is." \n\n\n\nIt fell in the dusk of the night \n\nWhen unco things betide, \nThe skilly captain, the Cameron, \n\nWent down to that waterside. 240 \n\n351 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nCanny and soft the captain went; \n\nAnd a man of the woody land, \nWith the shaven head and the painted face, \n\nWent down at his right hand. \nIt fell in the quiet night, \n\nThere was never a sound to ken ; \nBut all of the woods to the right and the left \n\nLay filled with the painted men. \n\n*\'Far have I been and much have I seen, \n250 Both as a man and boy, \n\nBut never have I set forth a foot \nOn so perilous an employ." \n\nIt fell in the dusk of the night \n\nWhen unco things betide. \nThat he was aware of a captain-man \n\nDrew near to the waterside. \nHe was aware of his coming \n\nDown in the gloaming alone; \nAnd he looked in the face of the man \n260 And lo! the face was his own. \n\n"This is my weird," he said, \n\n"And now I ken the worst; \nFor many shall fall the morn, \n\nBut I shall fall with the first. \nO, you of the outland tongue. \n\nYou of the painted face, \nThis is the place of my death ; \n\nCan you tell me the name of the place ? * \n352 \n\n\n\nTICONDEROGA \n\n" Since the Frenchmen have been here \n\nThey have called it Sault-Marie; 270 \n\nBut that is a name for priests, \n\nAnd not for you and me. \nIt went by another word," \n\nQuoth he of the shaven head: , \n\n" It was called Ticonderoga \n\nIn the days of the great dead." \n\nAnd it fell on the morrow\'s morning. \n\nIn the fiercest of the fight, \nThat the Cameron bit the dust \n\nAs he foretold at night ; ^^ \n\nAnd far from the hills of heather, \n\nFar from the isles of the sea. \nHe sleeps in the place of the name \n\nAs it was doomed to be. \n\n\n\n353 \n\n\n\nNOTES TO TICONDEROGA \n\nIntroduction. \xe2\x80\x94 I first heard this legend of my own country from \nthat friend of men of letters, Mr. Alfred Nutt, " there in roaring Lon- \ndon\'s central stream "; and since the ballad first saw the light of day \nin Scribner\'s Magazine, Mr. Nutt and Lord Archibald Campbell have \nbeen in public controversy on the facts. Two clans, the Camerons \nand the Campbells, lay claim to this bracing story; and they do well: \nthe man who preferred his plighted troth to the commands and men- \naces of the dead is an ancestor worth disputing. But the Campbells \nmust rest content : they have the broad lands and the broad page of \nhistory; this appanage must be denied them; for between the name \nof Cameron and that of Campbell, the muse will never hesitate. \n\nNote I, verse 67. Mr. Nutt reminds me it was " by my sword and \nBen Cruachan " the Cameron swore. \n\nNote 2, verse 159. " A periwig\' d lord of London." The first \nPitt. \n\nNote 3, verse 204. " Cathay." There must be some omission in \nGeneral Stewart\'s charming " History of the Highland Regiments," a \nbook that might well be republished and continued; or it scarce \nappears how our friend could have got to China. \n\n\n\n354 \n\n\n\nHEATHER ALE \n\n\n\nHEATHER ALE \n\nA GALLOWAY LEGEND \n\n\n\nFROM the bonny bells of heather \nThey brewed a drink long-syne. \nWas sweeter far than honey. \n\nWas stronger far than wine. \nThey brewed it and they drank it, \n\nAnd lay in a blessed swound \nFor days and days together \nIn their dwellings underground. \n\nThere rose a king in Scotland, \n\nA fell man to his foes, lO \n\nHe smote the Picts in battle, \n\nHe hunted them like roes. \nOver miles of the red mountain \n\nHe hunted as they fled. \nAnd strewed the dwarfish bodies \n\nOf the dying and the dead. \n\nSummer came in the country. \n\nRed was the heather bell ; \nBut the manner of the brewing \n\nWas none alive to tell. 30 \n\n357 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nIn graves that were like children\'s \nOn many a mountain head, \n\nThe Brewsters of the Heather \nLay numbered with the dead. \n\nThe king in the red moorland \nRode on a summer\'s day; \n\nAnd the bees hummed, and the curlews \nCried beside the way. \n\nThe king rode, and was angry, \n90 Black was his brow and pale, \n\nTo rule in a land of heather \nAnd lack the Heather Ale. \n\nIt fortuned that his vassals. \nRiding free on the heath. \n\nCame on a stone that was fallen \nAnd vermin hid beneath. \n\nRudely plucked from their hiding, \nNever a word they spoke: \n\nA son and his aged father \xe2\x80\x94 \n40 Last of the dwarfish folk. \n\nThe king sat high on his charger, \n\nHe looked on the little men; \nAnd the dwarfish and swarthy couple \n\nLooked at the king again. \nDown by the shore he had them; \n\nAnd there on the giddy brink \xe2\x80\x94 \n" I will give you life, ye vermin, \n\nFor the secret of the drink." \n358 \n\n\n\nHEATHER ALE \n\nThere stood the son and father \n\nAnd they looked high and low; 50 \n\nThe heather was red around them, \n\nThe sea rumbled below. \nAnd up and spoke the father, \n\nShrill was his voice to hear: \n" I have a word in private, \n\nA word for the royal ear. \n\n" Life is dear to the aged, \n\nAnd honour a little thing; \nI would gladly sell the secret," \n\nQuoth the Pict to the king. 60 \n\nHis voice was small as a sparrow\'s. \n\nAnd shrill and wonderful clear: \n"I would gladly sell my secret. \n\nOnly my son I fear. \n\n"For life is a little matter, \n\nAnd death is nought to the young; \nAnd I dare not sell my honour \n\nUnder the eye of my son. \nTake him, O king, and bind him. \n\nAnd cast him far in the deep; \'Jo \n\nAnd it\'s I will tell the secret \n\nThat I have sworn to keep." \n\nThey took the son and bound him, \n\nNeck and heels in a thong, \nAnd a lad took him and swung him, \n\nAnd flung him far and strong, \n\n359 \n\n\n\n8o \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\n\n\nAnd the sea swallowed his body, \nLike that of a child of ten ; \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd there on the cliff stood the father. \nLast of the dwarfish men. \n\n\n\n"True was the word I told you: \n\nOnly my son I feared ; \nFor I doubt the sapling courage \n\nThat goes without the beard. \nBut now in vain is the torture. \n\nFire shall never avail: \nHere dies in my bosom \n\nThe secret of Heather Ale." \n\n\n\n?6o \n\n\n\n\xc2\xab NOTE TO HEATHER ALE \n\nAmong the curiosities of human nature, this legend claims a high \nplace. It is needless to remind the reader that the Picts were never ex- \nterminated, and form to this day a large proportion of the folk of \nScotland: occupying the eastern and the central parts, from the Firth of \nForth, or perhaps the Lammermoors, upon the south, to the Ord of \nCaithness on the north. That the blundering guess of a dull chronicler \nshould have inspired men with imaginary loathing for their own an- \ncestors is already strange: that it should have begotten this wild legend \nseems incredible. Is it possible the chronicler\'s error was merely nom- \ninal ? that what he told, and what the people proved themselves so \nready to receive, about the Picts, was true or partly true of some aTi\xc2\xab \nterior and perhaps Lappish savages, small of stature, black of hue, \ndwelling underground \xe2\x80\x94 possibly also the distillers of some forgotten \nspirit? See Mr. Campbell\'s Tales of the IVest Highlands. \n\n\n\n361 \n\n\n\nCHRISTMAS AT SEA \n\n\n\nCHRISTMAS AT SEA \n\nTHE sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked \nhand; \nThe decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce \n\ncould stand; \nThe wind was a nor\' wester, blowing squally off the sea ; \nAnd cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things \na-lee. \n\nThey heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; \nBut \'t was only with the peep of light we saw how ill \n\nwe lay. \nWe tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, \nAnd we gave her the maintops\'l, and stood by to go \n\nabout. \n\nAll day we tacked and tacked between the South Head \n\nand the North ; \nAll day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further lo \n\nforth ; \nAll day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, \nFor very life and nature we tacked from head to head. \n\n365 \n\n\n\nBALLADS \n\nWe gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide- \nrace roared; \n\nBut every tack we made we brought the North Head \nclose aboard : \n\nSo \'s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers \nrunning high, \n\nAnd the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against \nhis eye. \n\nThe frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean \nfoam ; \n\nThe good red fires were burning bright in every \'long- \nshore home; \n\nThe windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed \nout; \n20 And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went \nabout. \n\nThe bells upon the church were rung with a mighty \n\njovial cheer; \nFor it\'s just that I should tell you how (of all days in \n\nthe year) \nThis day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn, \nAnd the house above the coastguard\'s was the house \n\nwhere I was born. \n\nO well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, \nMy mother\'s silver spectacles, my father\'s silver hair; \nAnd well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, \nGo dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the \nshelves. \n\n366 \n\n\n\nCHRISTMAS AT SEA \n\nAnd well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was \nof me, \n\nOf the shadow on the household and the son that went 30 \nto sea ; \n\nAnd O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, \n\nTo be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christ- \nmas Day. \n\nThey lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. \n"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain \n\ncall. \n"By the Lord, she\'ll never stand it," our first mate, \n\nJackson, cried. \n. . . " It\'s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," \n\nhe replied. \n\nShe staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new \n\nand good. \nAnd the ship smelt up to windward just as though she \n\nunderstood. \nAs the winter\'s day was ending, in the entry of the \n\nnight, \nWe cleared the weary headland, and passed below the 40 \n\nlight. \n\nAnd they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board \n\nbut me. \nAs they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to \n\nsea; \nBut all that I could think of, in the darkness and the \n\ncold. \nWas just that I was leaving home and my folks were \n\ngrowing old. \n\n367 \n\n\n\n31^-7 7 \xc2\xabr \n\n\n\n\nDeacidified using the Bookkeeper process. \nNeutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide \nTreatment Date: May 2009 \n\nPreservationTechnologies \n\nA WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION \n\n111 Ttiomson Park Drive \nCranberry Township, PA 16066 \n(724) 779-2111 \n\n\n\nLIBRARY OF COMGRFSS \n\n\n\n\n014 546 910 7 \n\n\n\nm \n\n\n\nli. \xe2\x96\xa0\'\xe2\x96\xa0\')\' \n\n\n\n'