P O ETILT 
 CHAP-B GDKS 
 
 <TKe Lost SKipmate 
 
 by 
 
 THEODORE GOODRIDGE ROBERTS 
 
O F THIS edition of THE LOST 
 SHIPMATE, by Theodore Good- 
 ridge Roberts, two hundred and fifty 
 copies have been printed. This Chap- 
 book is a product of The Ryerson Press, 
 Toronto, Canada. 
 
 Copies of this Chap-book may be 
 secured from The Ryerson Press, 
 Toronto, and from Macrae Smith Com- 
 pany, Philadelphia, U.S.A. 
 
 Copyright, Canada , I92S 
 by The Ryerson Press 
 
 PS8535 02428L67 1926 McLenna 
 j Roberts, Theodore Goodridqe. 
 i pmate 
 
 Y82P/Rd* 71781318 
 
Tke Lost Shipmate 
 
 By Theodore Good ridge Roberts 
 
 THE LOST SHIPMATE 
 
 S OMEWHERE he failed me, somewhere he slipt away — 
 Youth, in his ignorant faith and his bright array. 
 
 The tides go out and the flooding tides come in, 
 
 And still the old years pass and the new begin — 
 
 But Youth? — 
 
 Somewhere we lost each other, last year or yesterday. 
 
 Somewhere he failed me. , . . Down at the harbor-side 
 I waited for him a little where the anchored argosies ride. 
 
 I thought he came, Twas the dawn- wind blowing free! 
 
 I thought he came. Twas but the shadow of me! 
 
 And Youth? — 
 
 Somewhere he turned and left me, about the turn of the tide. 
 
 Perhaps I shall find him. It may be he waits for me, 
 
 Sipping those wines we knew, beside some tropic sea. 
 
 The tides still serve, and I am out and away 
 To search the spicy harbors of yesterday 
 For Youth, 
 
 Where the lamps of the town are yellow behind the lamps of the 
 quay. 
 
 One 
 
 
Somewhere he left me, some time he turned away — 
 
 Youth, of the careless heart and the bright array. 
 
 Was it in Bados? God! I would pay to know. 
 
 Or was it on Spanish Hill, where the roses blow? 
 
 Shall I hear his laughter to-morrow in painted Olivio? 
 
 Somewhere I failed him, somewhere I let him depart — 
 
 Youth, who could only sleep for the morn s fresh start. . . . 
 
 The tides slipt out, the tides washed out and in, 
 
 And far and oft were we lured by the capstan s din . . . 
 
 Dear Youth, 
 
 Shall I find you south of the Gulf?— or are you dead in my 
 heart? 
 
 * * * 
 
 FIDDLER’S GREEN 
 
 *’At a place called Fiddler’s Green, there do all honest Mariners take their pleasure 
 after death; and there are Admirals with their dear Ladies, and Captains of lost voyages 
 with the Sweethearts of their youth, and tarry-handed Sailormen singing in cottage gardens. ” 
 
 N EVER again shall we beat out to sea 
 
 In rain and mist and sleet like bitter tears, 
 
 And watch the harbour beacons fade, a-lee, 
 
 And people all the sea-room with our fears. 
 
 Our toil is done. No more, no more do we 
 Square the slow yards and stagger on the sea. 
 
 No more for us the white and windless day, 
 
 Undimmed, unshadowed, where the weed drifts by, 
 
 And leaden fish pass, rolling, at their play, 
 
 And changeless suns slide up a changeless sky. 
 
 Our watch is done; and never more shall we 
 Whistle the wind across an empty sea. 
 
 Cities we saw— white wall and glinting dome— 
 
 And palm-fringed islands dreaming on the blue. 
 
 To us more fair the kindly sights of home — 
 
 The climbing street, the window shining true. 
 
 Our voyage is done: And never more shall we 
 Reef the harsh topsails on a tossing sea. 
 
 Two 
 
Wonders we knew and beauty in far ports; 
 
 Laughter and peril round the swinging deep; 
 
 The wrath of God; the pomp of painted courts. . . . 
 The rocks sprang black !— And we awoke from sleep . 
 Our task is done, and never more shall we 
 Square the slow yards and stagger on the sea. 
 
 Here are the hearts we love, the lips we know, 
 
 The hands of seafarers who came before. 
 
 The eyes that wept for me a night ago 
 Are laughing now that we shall part no more. 
 
 All grief is done; and never more shall we 
 Make sail at dawning for the luring sea. 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE DYING PIRATE’S PRAYER 
 
 " Fetch aft the rum , Darby!” Captain Flint . (R.L.S.) 
 
 O UT FROM the rottin’ barnacles and the harbor stench; 
 
 Out from the rusty ringbolts adown the weedy stairs; 
 
 Out from the roadstead green and the milky inshore blue, 
 
 Let me go! — it’s all I ask of You! — 
 
 Out and away, out and through 
 
 To the whisper of bursting bubbles across the deepsea blue. 
 
 Let me clear for sea. Let me go aboard 
 Any old craft that pumps will float clear of soundin’s, Lord- 
 Clear of the festered harbor and through the hole in the reef— 
 Out on an offshore breeze, clear o’ the milky blue, 
 
 To the slosh of cloven waters and the lift of the outer blue. 
 Hear this sinner’s prayer, Lord! He’d do the same for you! 
 
 I’ll take all that’s due me in the way of Hell — 
 
 But, Lord, to leave me strangle of this here inshore smell! 
 
 Me that was bred a seaman, whatever else beside. 
 
 Sink me like a seaman, through and down and through 
 Fathoms o’ blue water, down in the deepsea blue, 
 
 Out of sight and sound and scent of inshore gear and crew — 
 Out of sight of every port a seaman ever knew. 
 
 Three 
 
There lays the careenage, white as curds in the sun; 
 
 White as Devon curds. . . . God, the deeds I ve done 
 
 Since the day I went a-fishin’ and boarded the Sea Rover! 
 
 Fetch aft the rum. Darby! Lay aft an’ ease me over! 
 
 Aye, the damn careenage! Sink it, God of wrath! 
 
 Hark’e, God of mercy, to a sick man’s prayer! 
 
 Let me clear for sea. Any old craft will do. 
 
 Drive me out on an offshore breeze to the jumpin deepsea blue; 
 Then sink me clear o’ soundin s, Lord! I d do the same for You. 
 
 Fetch aft the rum, Darby ! . . . Lay aft and raise my nead 
 
 And pity a poor seaman bilged ashore in bed 
 
 With faces crowdin’ round — mostly a long time dead. 
 
 * * * 
 
 IN NEPTUNE'S CITY 
 
 O FF VINCENT, eighty fathoms deep, f . 
 
 With roofs of coral and pale shell, lies Neptune s city, 
 Wherein sleep the weary sailors, wherein dwell 
 The Weavers of the deepsea spell. 
 
 Fair sisters, you have lured him far— 
 
 But at the last, Death shared the prize! 
 
 From guiding light and steadfast star your singing turned his 
 
 eager eyes. ... .... 
 
 Now wake him with your witcheries! 
 
 Cradle his head upon that breast, foam-tender and like pearls 
 
 Perchance he follows some old quest along the windings of his 
 dream 
 
 By ferny track and inland stream? 
 
 Perchance this mortal is not made as you are? 
 
 Take your harp of shell, all gold-embossed and gem inlaid, 
 
 And strike the strings, and break the spell. 
 
 Strike the sweet strings. Sing him awake. . . . 
 
 Strike the loud strings until they break! 
 
 Four 
 
WITH LIFE 
 
 D EAR, we must up and out. Life will not wait 
 Like village beau beside your garden gate. 
 
 Dear, the world calls; and Love, who knows the way, 
 Bids us join hands before the fuller day. 
 
 Together, Dear, from morning on to noon, 
 
 How gaily Life will pipe his gladdest tune! 
 
 Together, Dear, from noon to creeping night, 
 
 How kindly Life will lift his surest light! 
 
 Dear, we must up and out, and hand in hand 
 Try the glad vintage of the farthest land. 
 
 The world is wide and the bright seas are wide 
 And isles of magic gleam along the tide 
 
 And ancient marvels are forever new 
 Where the foam-lilies blossom on the blue; 
 
 And Life calls to us. Morning-crowned, elate, 
 
 He’ll bide no longer at your garden gate. 
 
 V * V 
 
 THE LOVER 
 
 N EVER had inland garden seemed 
 So still, so drugged with dew; 
 
 Never had green trees sung so sweet 
 Beneath the empty blue, 
 
 “As when he came, so gay, so sad, 
 
 And won the heart of me 
 
 With those quick moods of his, like shades 
 
 Cloud-blown upon the sea. 
 
‘'Such fairy islands he had seen 
 Between the blue and grey! 
 
 His low-voiced ballads dimmed my eyes, 
 And lured my heart away. 
 
 “He spoke of gale and anchorage; 
 
 Of cities far and fair; 
 
 Of roses over crumbling walls 
 Beyond the clanging square. 
 
 “He spoke of comradeship; of men 
 Red-blooded and clear-eyed, 
 
 Who feared no risk of war, or chance, 
 
 Or continent, or tide. 
 
 “He spoke of brave adventurings, 
 
 And of those nameless quests 
 
 Which lead men down to death, or home 
 
 With stars upon their breasts. 
 
 “He spoke of love. Ah, tenderly 
 He told his dreams of love — 
 
 Dreams the sea-winds had brought to him 
 When stars were white above. 
 
 ***** 
 
 “Never has inland garden seemed 
 So still, so warm, so sweet, 
 
 Since he went through the little gate 
 And down the glaring street. 
 
 “What counted all his ringing vows — 
 
 So false, so fine, so brave? 
 
 I gave him all my heart. Dear God, 
 What bitterness he gave!” 
 
 Below the blue, beneath the weed, 
 
 In those strange ways and dim, 
 
 Death holds him with a dream of Her — 
 Doubt brings no pang to him. 
 
QUEEN OF MY YOUTH 
 
 S WEET maids and matrons fair, 
 Pause here in your bright array, 
 On your joyous way. 
 
 Here is a small white stone. 
 
 Here is a mound o’ergrown 
 With grasses seeded and blown. 
 
 Under this sod, 
 
 Under this grass like rust, 
 
 They laid what is now nothing — 
 Dust to dust! 
 
 But what you are 
 And all that you hope you are 
 And more than you’ll ever be — 
 Sunshine and shine of star, 
 
 Allure of moonrise and sea, 
 
 Glamor of Youth and Spring, 
 Sweet sadness of dawn, 
 
 Bitter joyance of music 
 Played for laughter and kisses — 
 Were laid here, dreams to dust, 
 And are gone. 
 
 Beauty, longing, desire, 
 
 Wonder and tenderness, 
 
 Heat and cold, frost and fire — 
 
 All these were laid 
 Here in a green shade 
 When the race was run 
 And the game played. 
 
 What was her name? I knew it. 
 Poets rhymed it. Men bled 
 For a word that she did not say 
 And a word that was said. 
 
 Horses were ridden for her 
 ’Til they staggered and fell. 
 
 Wine enough to drown Hell 
 Was pledged to her. 
 
Her name? Poets rhymed it 
 And lovers wrote it in blood. 
 
 (I was a poet then, with a trick of the word. 
 
 I was a lover then, with a trick of the sword.) 
 
 Here she rests, Queen of my youth, 
 
 All her darts of enchantment hurled — 
 
 Dust to dust. And I pledge her again 
 Toast of the World! 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE MAID 
 
 T HUNDER of riotous hoofs over the quaking sod; 
 
 Clash of reeking squadrons, steel-capped and iron-shod; 
 The White Maid and the white horse and the flapping banner 
 of God! 
 
 Black hearts riding for hire and red hearts riding for fame; 
 
 The maid who rides for France and the king who rides for shame; 
 Gentlemen, fools and a saint riding in Christ’s high name! 
 
 “Dust to dust” it is written. . . . Wind-scattered are lance 
 
 and bow. 
 
 Dust is the Cross of Saint George and dust the banner of snow. 
 Dust are the bones of the king and dust the shafts of the foe. 
 
 Forgotten, the young knight’s valour. Forgotten, the captain’s 
 skill. 
 
 Forgiven, the fear and the hate and the mailed hands raised to 
 kill. 
 
 Blown dust are the shields that crashed and the arrows that 
 cried so shrill. 
 
 A story from some old book, that battle of Long Ago. . . . 
 
 A dream of echoes and ghosts and dust forever a-blow: 
 
 Shadows, the poor French King and the might of his English 
 foe: 
 
 Shadows, the charging knights and the archers standing arow: 
 But a flame in my heart and my eyes, the Maid with the banner 
 of snow! 
 
LOVE AND THE YOUNG KNIGHT 
 
 S AID Love to the young knight, “I am the spur and the 
 prize. 
 
 I am the hand of thy ’squire and the light in thy lady’s eyes. 
 
 I am the force of thy arm, that is more than of sinew and bone. 
 I am the favour of Arthur smiling down from his throne. 
 
 I am the spirit of Christ, high and white as a star. 
 
 I am the crown of Mary, outlasting the helmets of war. 
 
 I am valour and peace, anger and gentleness. 
 
 I am the master of pride and servant of distress.” 
 
 Said Love to the young knight, “I am the humble task. 
 
 I am the high adventure behind the visored mask. 
 
 I am the fire of youth that cools not with the years. 
 
 I am the lord of passion and comforter of tears.” 
 
 * * * 
 
 SONG OF A LOST HEART 
 
 B ETWEEN the hill and the tide, 
 
 The cane-fields and the bay, 
 
 I lost my heart, and did not care — 
 
 And that was yesterday 
 In the pink-walled house 
 Between the hill and the tide 
 Where all day long the palms shake 
 And seas ride. 
 
 Between the fog and the fire, 
 
 Between the kiss and the play, 
 
 I lost my heart, and did not grieve — 
 
 And that was yesterday 
 
 In the grey-walled house 
 
 In veiled London town 
 
 Where all day long the hopeless shapes 
 
 Go up and down. 
 
 Between the wood and the shore, 
 
 The moss and the river clay, 
 
 I lost my heart, and did not fear — 
 
 And that was yesterday 
 
 Nine 
 
In the grey-roofed house 
 Between the wood and the stream 
 Where all day long the ancient fir 
 Whispers his dream. 
 
 You of the palms and the tide. 
 
 You of the ghost-grey town, 
 
 Y ou of the purple wood 
 Where winds creep up and down, 
 
 Find me my heart again 
 And give it to me once more 
 And let me lose it again 
 Between the road and your door — 
 Between the north and the south— 
 Between the wood and the tide . . . 
 
 My heart has slipt from my side again, 
 Back to your side. 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE HAMADRYAD 
 
 W AS IT the wind I heard starting the leaves athrill? 
 
 A wind in the golden birch, when the rest of the wood 
 was still. 
 
 Was it the wing of a bird, high up in that leafy place, 
 
 That gleamed so white to my eye, like the mask of a peering 
 face? 
 
 The round moon washed the forest an indescribable blue — 
 
 The blue of the unfound rose, the color of dreams come true — 
 And there in the elfin radiance, deep in the elfin land, 
 
 Drunk with the elfin hour, my fingers enclosed her hand. 
 
 She led me by the aisles of azure and floating ramparts of sleep 
 To a castle of hammered silver set in a magic keep. 
 
 She led me beyond remembrance of toil and failure and fame, 
 Back to the glory of youth and the longing that has no name. 
 
 Ten 
 
Was it the wind I heard, starting the leaves athrill? 
 
 A wind in the golden birch when the rest of the wood was still. 
 Was it a wing agleam, or her breast, in that leafy place, 
 
 When I opened my eyes to the dawn and felt the dew on my 
 face? 
 
 * * * 
 
 SPRING FLIGHT 
 
 I S IT the voice of the open waters 
 Calling the grey geese home from the South? 
 Do they hear the freshet under the willows 
 And the grinding logs at the river’s mouth? 
 
 How do they know the lakes are open? 
 
 Do they scent the maple buds bursting red? 
 Who has whispered them word of April? 
 Who has told them that Winter’s dead? 
 
 Strong wings athrill, 
 Brave hearts astir, 
 
 They come, and the stars 
 Are high and chill. 
 
 And the frosty air 
 
 Is alive, aware 
 
 Of the whisp’ring wings. 
 
 Sure, unafraid, 
 
 Swift, undismayed. 
 
 Where the North Light flings 
 His cloak, they fly 
 And honk and pass 
 Under the sky. 
 
 My heart flies too 
 Fearlessly forth 
 With that feathery crew 
 To the North. 
 
 Up and away — 
 
 As their wings aspire — 
 
 I sail to the land of my heart’s desire. 
 
 Elcoen 
 
With scent of alders and swollen waters 
 And the flooded bar at the river’s mouth 
 Spring, awake in our Nashwaak valley, 
 Calls her exiles home from the South. 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE DESOLATE CABIN 
 
 S WINGS the door at the wind’s will, 
 Grey-yellow the clearings swoon. 
 Over the stump-land washes 
 The voiceless afternoon. 
 
 Creaks the roof at the wind’s whim. 
 Noiseless the lean hares pass. 
 
 Red berries glow on the hummocks. 
 Shadows crouch in the grass. 
 
 Like mist at the rim of the wood 
 The breath of the forest waits. 
 Westward, the naked rampikes 
 Stand at the crimson gates. 
 
 * * * 
 
 RIVER MORNING 
 
 M IST along the river creeping down 
 
 With spinning clots of drift and blinks of foam. 
 Terns screaming out along the sandbars. 
 
 A heron flapping from his reedy home. 
 
 Breath of pennyroyal on the gravel. 
 
 Breath of wet willows down the shore. 
 
 Start of life around the bushy islands 
 And, at the East’s gold gate, a blue day more. 
 
THE BLUE HERON 
 
 I N A green place lanced through 
 With amber and gold and blue— 
 
 A place of water and weeds. 
 
 And roses pinker than dawn 
 And ranks of lush young reeds 
 And grasses straightly withdrawn 
 From graven ripples of sands, 
 
 The still blue heron stands. 
 
 Smoke-blue he is, and grey 
 As embers of yesterday. 
 
 Still he is as death; 
 
 Like stone or shadow of stone 
 Without a pulse or breath; 
 
 Motionless and alone 
 There 'midst the lily-stems — 
 
 But his eyes are alive like gems. 
 
 Still as a shadow; still 
 Grey feather and yellow bill; 
 
 Still as an image made 
 
 Of mist and smoke half hid 
 
 By windless sunshine and shade 
 
 Save when a yellow lid 
 
 Slides and is gone like a breath . . . 
 
 Death-still — and sudden as death! 
 
 * * * 
 
 THE LAST BILLET 
 
 S OME day I’ll come to that still place 
 And bid the old man smooth my bed. 
 No hurry of departure then. 
 
 No waking when the dawn is red. 
 
 The same kind trees will sing to me 
 Day after day, night after night. 
 
 The wind that wanders in the grass 
 Will bring no tidings of the fight. 
 
In that still hostelry of rest, 
 
 Where time is not and sleep is long, 
 
 I’ll clean forget the thing unwon 
 And pain of the unfinished song. 
 
 Night will not find me journeying 
 Where endless roads in dusk are set 
 On some fool’s errand down the world, 
 Hag-ridden by an old regret. 
 
 Some evening I shall turn aside 
 To that dark hostelry of rest 
 And at the threshold loose my spurs 
 And to the wind bequeath my quest. 
 

THE 
 
 RYERSON POETRY 
 CHAP-BOOKS 
 
 Lome Pierce — Editor 
 
 Q The Ryerson Press believes that lovers of poe- 
 try care more for poetry of high quality than for 
 costly bindings, 
 
 €][ Furthermore, we believe that the cause of 
 Canadian poetry can best be served by enabling 
 the author more frequently to reach his audience, 
 
 Cfl Finally, a chap-book necessitates careful discrimi- 
 nation by the poet, and hence the presentation of 
 small and choice selections, 
 
 «I ‘These chap-books will present significant little 
 offerings by our older and younger poets. 
 
 THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR. By Charles G. D. Roberts. 
 COMPANIONSHIP AND THE CROWD. By WM. F. Tenny. 
 FORFEIT AND OTHER POEMS, By Kathryn Mnnro , 
 THE EAR TRUMPET, By Annie C. Dalton , 
 
 A VALE IN LUXOR. By W. V. Newson. 
 
 Fifty cents. 
 
 A POOL OF STARS, By Lionel Stevenson, 
 
 SPRING IN SAVARY. By Alice Brewer. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE GIPSY. By Constance Davies* Woodrow. 
 THE LOST SHIPMATE. By Theodore Good ridge Roberts. 
 
 Sixty cents. 
 
 IN PREPARATION 
 
 WINDFALLS FOR CIDER By Raymond Knister . 
 
 SELECTED POEMS. By Canon Frederick, George Scott. 
 A BREATH OF THE WOODS. By Uhlan Leoeridge.