Chapter VII (1)

A great grey sea was running up the sky, Desolate birds flew past; their mewings came As that lone water's spiritual cry, Its forlorn voice, its essence, its soul's name. The ship limped in the water as if lame. Then in the forenoon watch to a great shout More sail was made, the reefs were shaken out.

A slant came from the south; the singers stood Clapped to the halliards, hauling to a tune, Old as the sea, a fillip to the blood. The upper topsail rose like a balloon. "So long, Cape Stiff. In Valparaiso soon," Said one to other, as the ship lay over, Making her course again--again a rover.

Slowly the sea went down as the wind fell. Clear rang the songs, "Hurrah! Cape Horn is bet!" The combless seas were lumping into swell; The leaking fo'c'sles were no longer wet. More sail was made; the watch on deck was set To cleaning up the ruin broken bare Below, aloft, about her, everywhere.

The Dauber, scrubbing out the roundhouse, found Old pantiles pulped among the mouldy gear, Washed underneath the bunks and long since drowned During the agony of the Cape Horn year. He sang in scrubbing, for he had done with fear-- Fronted the worst and looked it in the face; He had got manhood at the testing-place.

Singing he scrubbed, passing his watch below, Making the round-house fair; the Bosun watched, Bringing his knitting slowly to the toe. Sails stretched a mizen skysail which he patched; They thought the Dauber was a bad egg hatched. "Daubs," said the Bosun cheerly, "can you knit? I've made a Barney's bull of this last bit."

Then, while the Dauber counted, Bosun took Some marline from his pocket. "Here," he said, "You want to know square sennit? So fash. Look! Eight foxes take, and stop the ends with thread. I've known an engineer would give his head To know square sennit." As the Bose began, The Dauber felt promoted into man.

It was his warrant that he had not failed-- That the most hard part in his difficult climb Had not been past attainment; it was scaled: Safe footing showed above the slippery slime. He had emerged out of the iron time, And knew that he could compass his life's scheme; He had the power sufficient to his dream.

Then dinner came, and now the sky was blue. The ship was standing north, the Horn was rounded; She made a thundering as she weltered through. The mighty grey-backs glittered as she bounded. More sail was piled upon her; she was hounded North, while the wind came; like a stag she ran Over grey hills and hollows of seas wan.

She had a white bone in her mouth: she sped; Those in the round-house watched her as they ate Their meal of pork-fat fried with broken bread. "Good old!" they cried. "She's off; she's gathering gait!" Her track was whitening like a Lammas spate. "Good old!" they cried. "Oh, give her cloth! Hurray! For three weeks more to Valparaiso Bay!

"She smells old Vallipo," the Bosun cried. "We'll be inside the tier in three weeks more, Lying at double-moorings where they ride Off of the market, half a mile from shore, And bumboat pan, my sons, and figs galore, And girls in black mantillas fit to make a Poor seaman frantic when they dance the cueca."

Eight bells were made, the watch was changed, and now The Mate spoke to the Dauber: "This is better. We'll soon be getting mudhooks over the bow. She'll make her passage still if this'll let her. Oh, run, you drogher! dip your fo'c'sle wetter. Well, Dauber, this is better than Cape Horn. Them topsails made you wish you'd not been born."

"Yes, sir," the Dauber said. "Now," said the Mate, "We've got to smart her up. Them Cape Horn seas Have made her paint-work like a rusty grate. Oh, didn't them topsails make your fishhooks freeze? A topsail don't pay heed to 'Won't you, please?' Well, you have seen Cape Horn, my son; you've learned. You've dipped your hand and had your fingers burned. "And now you'll stow that folly, trying to paint.

You've had your lesson; you're a sailor now. You come on board a female ripe to faint. All sorts of slush you'd learned, the Lord knows how. Cape Horn has sent you wisdom over the bow If you've got sense to take it. You're a sailor. My God! before you were a woman's tailor.

"So throw your paints to blazes and have done. Words can't describe the silly things you did Sitting before your easel in the sun, With all your colours on the paint-box lid. I blushed for you ... and then the daubs you hid. My God! you'll have more sense now, eh? You've quit?" "No, sir." "You've not?" "No, sir." "God give you wit.

"I thought you'd come to wisdom." Thus they talked, While the great clipper took her bit and rushed Like a skin-glistening stallion not yet baulked, Till fire-bright water at her swing ports gushed; Poising and bowing down her fore-foot crushed Bubble on glittering bubble; on she went. The Dauber watched her, wondering what it meant.

To come, after long months, at rosy dawn, Into the placid blue of some great bay. Treading the quiet water like a fawn Ere yet the morning haze was blown away. A rose-flushed figure putting by the grey, And anchoring there before the city smoke Rose, or the church-bells rang, or men awoke.

And then, in the first light, to see grow clear That long-expected haven filled with strangers-- Alive with men and women; see and hear Its clattering market and its money-changers; And hear the surf beat, and be free from dangers, And watch the crinkled ocean blue with calm Drowsing beneath the Trade, beneath the palm.

Hungry for that he worked; the hour went by, And still the wind grew, still the clipper strode, And now a darkness hid the western sky, And sprays came flicking off at the wind's goad. She stumbled now, feeling her sail a load. The Mate gazed hard to windward, eyed his sail, And said the Horn was going to flick her tail.

Boldly he kept it on her till she staggered, But still the wind increased; it grew, it grew, Darkening the sky, making the water haggard; Full of small snow the mighty wester blew. "More fun for little fish-hooks," sighed the crew. They eyed the taut topgallants stiff like steel; A second hand was ordered to the wheel.

The Captain eyed her aft, sucking his lip, Feeling the sail too much, but yet refraining From putting hobbles on the leaping ship, The glad sea-shattering stallion, halter-straining, Wing-musical, uproarious, and complaining; But, in a gust, he cocked his finger, so: "You'd better take them off, before they go."

All saw. They ran at once without the word "Lee-ay! Lee-ay!" Loud rang the clew-line cries; Sam in his bunk within the half-deck heard, Stirred in his sleep, and rubbed his drowsy eyes. "There go the lower to'gallants." Against the skies Rose the thin bellying strips of leaping sail. The Dauber was the first man over the rail.

Three to a mast they ran; it was a race. "God!" said the Mate; "that Dauber, he can go." He watched the runners with an upturned face Over the futtocks, struggling heel to toe, Up to the topmast cross-trees into the blow Where the three sails were leaping. "Dauber wins!" The yards were reached, and now the race begins.

Which three will furl their sail first and come down? Out to the yard-arm for the leech goes one, His hair blown flagwise from a hatless crown, His hands at work like fever to be done. Out of the gale a fiercer fury spun. The three sails leaped together, yanking high, Like talons darting up to clutch the sky.

The Dauber on the fore-topgallant yard Out at the weather yard-arm was the first To lay his hand upon the buntline-barred Topgallant yanking to the wester's burst; He craned to catch the leech; his comrades cursed; One at the buntlines, one with oaths observed, "The eye of the outer jib-stay isn't served."

"No," said the Dauber. "No," the man replied. They heaved, stowing the sail, not looking round, Panting, but full of life and eager-eyed; The gale roared at them with its iron sound. "That's you," the Dauber said. His gasket wound Swift round the yard, binding the sail in bands; There came a gust, the sail leaped from his hands,

So that he saw it high above him, grey, And there his mate was falling; quick he clutched An arm in oilskins swiftly snatched away. A voice said "Christ!" a quick shape stooped and touched, Chain struck his hands, ropes shot, the sky was smutched With vast black fires that ran, that fell, that furled, And then he saw the mast, the small snow hurled,

The fore-topgallant yard far, far aloft, And blankness settling on him and great pain; And snow beneath his fingers wet and soft, And topsail sheet-blocks shaking at the chain. He knew it was he who had fallen; then his brain Swirled in a circle while he watched the sky. Infinite multitudes of snow blew by.

"I thought it was Tom who fell," his brain's voice said. "Down on the bloody deck!" the Captain screamed. The multitudinous little snow-flakes sped. His pain was real enough, but all else seemed. Si with a bucket ran, the water gleamed Tilting upon him; others came, the Mate ... They knelt with eager eyes like things that wait

For other things to come. He saw them there. "It will go on," he murmured, watching Si. Colours and sounds seemed mixing in the air, The pain was stunning him, and the wind went by. "More water," said the Mate. "Here, Bosun, try. Ask if he's got a message. Hell, he's gone! Here, Dauber, paints." He said, "It will go on."

Not knowing his meaning rightly, but he spoke With the intenseness of a fading soul Whose share of Nature's fire turns to smoke, Whose hand on Nature's wheel loses control. The eager faces glowered red like coal. They glowed, the great storm glowed, the sails, the mast. "It will go on," he cried aloud, and passed.

Those from the yard came down to tell the tale. "He almost had me off," said Tom. "He slipped. There come one hell of a jump-like from the sail.... He clutched at me and almost had me pipped. He caught my 'ris'band, but the oilskin ripped.... It tore clean off. Look here. I was near gone. I made a grab to catch him; so did John.

"I caught his arm. My God! I was near done. He almost had me over; it was near. He hit the ropes and grabbed at every one." "Well," said the Mate, "we cannot leave him here. Run, Si, and get the half-deck table clear. We'll lay him there. Catch hold there, you, and you, He's dead, poor son; there's nothing more to do."

Night fell, and all night long the Dauber lay Covered upon the table; all night long The pitiless storm exulted at her prey, Huddling the waters with her icy thong. But to the covered shape she did no wrong. He lay beneath the sailcloth. Bell by bell The night wore through; the stars rose, the stars fell.

Blowing most pitiless cold out of clear sky The wind roared all night long; and all night through The green seas on the deck went washing by, Flooding the half-deck; bitter hard it blew. But little of it all the Dauber knew-- The sopping bunks, the floating chests, the wet, The darkness, and the misery, and the sweat.

He was off duty. So it blew all night, And when the watches changed the men would come Dripping within the door to strike a light And stare upon the Dauber lying dumb, And say, "He come a cruel thump, poor chum." Or, "He'd a-been a fine big man;" or, "He ... A smart young seaman he was getting to be."

Or, "Damn it all, it's what we've all to face! ... I knew another fellow one time ..." then Came a strange tale of death in a strange place Out on the sea, in ships, with wandering men. In many ways Death puts us into pen. The reefers came down tired and looked and slept. Below the skylight little dribbles crept

Along the painted woodwork, glistening, slow, Following the roll and dripping, never fast, But dripping on the quiet form below, Like passing time talking to time long past. And all night long "Ai, ai!" went the wind's blast, And creaming water swished below the pale, Unheeding body stretched beneath the sail.

At dawn they sewed him up, and at eight bells They bore him to the gangway, wading deep, Through the green-clutching, white-toothed water-hells That flung his carriers over in their sweep. They laid an old red ensign on the heap, And all hands stood bare-headed, stooping, swaying, Washed by the sea while the old man was praying

Out of a borrowed prayer-book. At a sign They twitched the ensign back and tipped the grating A creamier bubbling broke the bubbling brine. The muffled figure tilted to the weighting; It dwindled slowly down, slowly gyrating. Some craned to see; it dimmed, it disappeared; The last green milky bubble blinked and cleared.

"Mister, shake out your reefs," the Captain called. "Out topsail reefs!" the Mate cried; then all hands Hurried, the great sails shook, and all hands hauled, Singing that desolate song of lonely lands, Of how a lover came in dripping bands, Green with the wet and cold, to tell his lover That Death was in the sea, and all was over.

Fair came the falling wind; a seaman said The Dauber was a Jonah; once again The clipper held her course, showing red lead, Shattering the sea-tops into golden rain. The waves bowed down before her like blown grain; Onwards she thundered, on; her voyage was short, Before the tier's bells rang her into port.

Cheerly they rang her in, those beating bells, The new-come beauty stately from the sea, Whitening the blue heave of the drowsy swells, Treading the bubbles down. With three times three They cheered her moving beauty in, and she Came to her berth so noble, so superb; Swayed like a queen, and answered to the curb.

Then in the sunset's flush they went aloft, And unbent sails in that most lovely hour, When the light gentles and the wind is soft, And beauty in the heart breaks like a flower. Working aloft they saw the mountain tower, Snow to the peak; they heard the launch-men shout; And bright along the bay the lights came out.

And then the night fell dark, and all night long The pointed mountain pointed at the stars, Frozen, alert, austere; the eagle's song Screamed from her desolate screes and splintered scars. On her intense crags where the air is sparse The stars looked down; their many golden eyes Watched her and burned, burned out, and came to rise.

Silent the finger of the summit stood, Icy in pure, thin air, glittering with snows. Then the sun's coming turned the peak to blood, And in the rest-house the muleteers arose. And all day long, where only the eagle goes, Stones, loosened by the sun, fall; the stones falling Fill empty gorge on gorge with echoes calling.

EXPLANATIONS OF SOME OF THE SEA
TERMS USED IN THE POEM

Backstays. Wire ropes which support the masts against lateral and after strains.

Barney's bull. A figure in marine proverb. A jewel in marine repartee.

Bells. Two bells (one forward, one aft) which are struck every half-hour in a certain manner to mark the passage of the watches.

Bitts. Strong wooden structures (built round each mast) upon which running rigging is secured.

Block. A sheaved pulley.

Boatswain. A supernumerary or idler, generally attached to the mate's watch, and holding considerable authority over the crew.

Bouilli tin. Any tin that contains, or has contained, preserved meat.

Bows. The forward extremity of a ship.

Brace-blocks. Pulleys through which the braces travel.

Braces. Ropes by which the yards are inclined forward or aft.

Bumboat pan. Soft bread sold by the bumboat man, a kind of sea costermonger who trades with ships in port.

Bunt. Those cloths of a square sail which are nearest to the mast when the sail is set. The central portion of a furled square sail. The human abdomen (figuratively).

Buntlines. Ropes which help to confine square sails to the yards in the operation of furling.

Chocks. Wooden stands on which the boats rest.

Cleats. Iron or wooden contrivances to which ropes may be secured.

Clew-lines. Ropes by which the lower corners of square sails are lifted.

Clews. The lower corners of square sails.

Clipper. A title of honour given to ships of more than usual speed and beauty.

Coaming. The raised rim of a hatchway; a barrier at a doorway to keep water from entering.

Courses. The large square sails set upon the lower yards of sailing ships. The mizen course is called the "crojick."

Cringled. Fitted with iron rings or cringles, many of which are let into sails or sail-roping for various purposes.

Crojick (or cross-jack). A square sail set upon the lower yard of the mizen mast.

Dungarees. Thin blue or khaki-coloured overalls made from cocoanut fibre.

Fairleads. Rings of wood or iron by means of which running rigging is led in any direction.

Fife-rails. Strong wooden shelves fitted with iron pins, to which ropes may be secured.

Fish-hooks. _I.e._, fingers.

Foot-ropes. Ropes on which men stand when working aloft.

Fo'c'sle. The cabin or cabins in which the men are berthed. It is usually an iron deck-house divided through the middle into two compartments for the two watches, and fitted with wooden bunks. Sometimes it is even fitted with lockers and an iron water-tank.

Foxes. Strands, yarns, or arrangements of yarns of rope.

Freeing-ports. Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards to free the decks of water.

Frap. To wrap round with rope.

Futtock-shrouds. Iron bars to which the topmast rigging is secured. As they project outward and upward from the masts they are difficult to clamber over.

Galley. The ship's kitchen.

Gantline (girtline). A rope used for the sending of sails up and down from aloft.

Gaskets. Ropes by which the sails are secured in furling.

Half-deck. A cabin or apartment in which the apprentices are berthed. Its situation is usually the ship's waist; but it is sometimes further aft, and occasionally it is under the poop or even right forward under the top-gallant fo'c'sle.

Halliards. Ropes by which sails are hoisted.

Harness-room. An office or room from which the salt meat is issued, and in which it is sometimes stored.

Hawse. The bows or forward end of a ship.

Head. The forward part of a ship. That upper edge of a square sail which is attached to the yard.

House-flag. The special flag of the firm to which a ship belongs.

Idlers. The members of the round-house mess, generally consisting of the carpenter, cook, sailmaker, boatswain, painter, etc., are known as the idlers.

Jack (or jackstay). An iron bar (fitted along all yards in sailing ships) to which the head of a square sail is secured when bent.

Kites. Light upper sails.

Leeches. The outer edges of square sails. In furling some square sails the leech is dragged inwards till it lies level with the head upon the surface of the yard. This is done by the first man who gets upon the yard, beginning at the weather side.

Logship. A contrivance by which a ship's speed is measured.

Lower topsail. The second sail from the deck on square rigged masts. It is a very strong, important sail.

Marline. Tarry line or coarse string made of rope-yarns twisted together.

Mate. The First or Chief Mate is generally called the Mate.

Mizen-topmast-head. The summit of the second of the three or four spars which make the complete mizen-mast.

Mudhooks. Anchors.

Pins. Iron or wooden bars to which running rigging is secured.

Pointing. A kind of neat plait with which ropes are sometimes ended off or decorated.

Poop-break. The forward end of the after superstructure.

Ratlines. The rope steps placed across the shrouds to enable the seamen to go aloft.

Reefers. Apprentices.

Reef-points. Ropes by which the area of some sails may be reduced in the operation of reefing. Reef-points are securely fixed to the sails fitted with them, and when not in use their ends patter continually upon the canvas with a gentle drumming noise.

Reel. A part of the machinery used with a logship.

Round-house. A cabin (of all shapes except round) in which the idlers are berthed.

Royals. Light upper square sails; the fourth, fifth, or sixth sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.

Sail-room. A large room or compartment in which the ship's sails are stored.

"Sails." The sailmaker is meant.

Scuttle-butt. A cask containing fresh water.

Shackles. Rope handles for a sea-chest.

Sheet-blocks. Iron blocks, by means of which sails are sheeted home. In any violent wind they beat upon the mast with great rapidity and force.

Sheets. Ropes or chains which extend the lower corners of square sails in the operation of sheeting home.

Shifting suits (of sails). The operation of removing a ship's sails, and replacing them with others.

Shrouds. Wire ropes of great strength, which support lateral strains on masts.

Shroud-screws. Iron contrivances by which shrouds are hove taut.

Sidelights. A sailing ship carries two of these between sunset and sunrise: one green, to starboard; one red, to port.

Sights. Observations to help in the finding of a ship's position.

Skid. A wooden contrivance on which ship's boats rest.

Skysails. The uppermost square sails; the fifth, sixth, or seventh sails from the deck according to the mast's rig.

Slatting. The noise made by sails flogging in the wind.

Slush. Grease, melted fat.

South-wester. A kind of oilskin hat. A gale from the south-west.

Spit brown. To chew tobacco.

Square sennit. A cunning plait which makes a four-square bar.

Staysails. Fore and aft sails set upon the stays between the masts.

Stow. To furl.

Strop (the, putting on). A strop is a grument or rope ring. The two players kneel down facing each other, the strop is placed over their heads, and the men then try to pull each other over by the strength of their neck-muscles.

Swing ports. Iron doors in the ship's side which open outwards to free the decks from water.

Tackle (pronounced "taykel"). Blocks, ropes, pulleys, etc.

Take a caulk. To sleep upon the deck.

Topsails. The second and third sails from the deck on the masts of a modern square-rigged ship are known as the lower and upper topsails.

Trucks. The summits of the masts.

Upper topsail. The third square sail from the deck on the masts of square-rigged ships.

Yards. The steel or wooden spars (placed across masts) from which square sails are set.

BIOGRAPHY

When I am buried, all my thoughts and acts Will be reduced to lists of dates and facts, And long before this wandering flesh is rotten The dates which made me will be all forgotten; And none will know the gleam there used to be About the feast days freshly kept by me, But men will call the golden hour of bliss "About this time," or "shortly after this."

Men do not heed the rungs by which men climb Those glittering steps, those milestones upon Time, Those tombstones of dead selves, those hours of birth, Those moments of the soul in years of earth They mark the height achieved, the main result, The power of freedom in the perished cult, The power of boredom in the dead man's deeds, Not the bright moments of the sprinkled seeds.

By many waters and on many ways I have known golden instants and bright days; The day on which, beneath an arching sail, I saw the Cordilleras and gave hail; The summer day on which in heart's delight I saw the Swansea Mumbles bursting white, The glittering day when all the waves wore flags And the ship _Wanderer_ came with sails in rags; That curlew-calling time in Irish dusk When life became more splendid than its husk, When the rent chapel on the brae at Slains Shone with a doorway opening beyond brains; The dawn when, with a brace-block's creaking cry, Out of the mist a little barque slipped by, Spilling the mist with changing gleams of red, Then gone, with one raised hand and one turned head; The howling evening when the spindrift's mists Broke to display the four Evangelists, Snow-capped, divinely granite, lashed by breakers, Wind-beaten bones of long since buried acres; The night alone near water when I heard All the sea's spirit spoken by a bird; The English dusk when I beheld once more (With eyes so changed) the ship, the citied shore, The lines of masts, the streets so cheerly trod (In happier seasons) and gave thanks to God. All had their beauty, then bright moments' gift, Their something caught from Time, the ever-swift.

All of those gleams were golden; but life's hands Have given more constant gifts in changing lands, And when I count those gifts, I think them such As no man's bounty could have bettered much: The gift of country life, near hills and woods Where happy waters sing in solitudes, The gift of being near ships, of seeing each day A city of ships with great ships under weigh, The great street paved with water, filled with shipping, And all the world's flags flying and seagulls dipping.

Yet when I am dust my penman may not know Those water-trampling ships which made me glow, But think my wonder mad and fail to find Their glory, even dimly, from my mind, And yet they made me: not alone the ships But men hard-palmed from tallying-on to whips, The two close friends of nearly twenty years, Sea-followers both, sea-wrestlers and sea-peers, Whose feet with mine wore many a bolt-head bright Treading the decks beneath the riding light. Yet death will make that warmth of friendship cold And who'll know what one said and what one told Our hearts' communion and the broken spells When the loud call blew at the strike of bells? No one, I know, yet let me be believed A soul entirely known is life achieved.

Years blank with hardship never speak a word Live in the soul to make the being stirred, Towns can be prisons where the spirit dulls Away from mates and ocean-wandering hulls, Away from all bright water and great hills And sheep-walks where the curlews cry their fills, Away in towns, where eyes have nought to see But dead museums and miles of misery And floating life unrooted from man's need And miles of fish-hooks baited to catch greed And life made wretched out of human ken And miles of shopping women served by men. So, if the penman sums my London days Let him but say that there were holy ways, Dull Bloomsbury streets of dull brick mansions old With stinking doors where women stood to scold And drunken waits at Christmas with their horn Droning the news, in snow, that Christ was born; And windy gas lamps and the wet roads shining And that old carol of the midnight whining, And that old room (above the noisy slum) Where there was wine and fire and talk with some Under strange pictures of the wakened soul To whom this earth was but a burnt-out coal.

O Time, bring back those midnights and those friends, Those glittering moments that a spirit lends That all may be imagined from the flash The cloud-hid god-game through the lightning gash Those hours of stricken sparks from which men took Light to send out to men in song or book. Those friends who heard St. Pancras' bells strike two Yet stayed until the barber's cockerel crew. Talking of noble styles, the Frenchman's best, The thought beyond great poets not expressed, The glory of mood where human frailty failed, The forts of human light not yet assailed, Till the dim room had mind and seemed to brood Binding our wills to mental brotherhood, Till we became a college, and each night Was discipline and manhood and delight, Till our farewells and winding down the stairs At each grey dawn had meaning that Time spares, That we, so linked, should roam the whole world round Teaching the ways our brooding minds had found Making that room our Chapter, our one mind Where all that this world soiled should be refined.

Often at night I tread those streets again And see the alley glimmering in the rain, Yet now I miss that sign of earlier tramps A house with shadows of plane-boughs under lamps, The secret house where once a beggar stood Trembling and blind to show his woe for food. And now I miss that friend who used to walk Home to my lodgings with me, deep in talk, Wearing the last of night out in still streets Trodden by us and policemen on their beats And cats, but else deserted; now I miss That lively mind and guttural laugh of his And that strange way he had of making gleam, Like something real, the art we used to dream.

London has been my prison; but my books Hills and great waters, labouring men and brooks, Ships and deep friendships and remembered days Which even now set all my mind ablaze As that June day when, in the red bricks' chinks I saw the old Roman ruins white with pinks And felt the hillside haunted even then By not dead memory of the Roman men. And felt the hillside thronged by souls unseen Who knew the interest in me and were keen That man alive should understand man dead So many centuries since the blood was shed. And quickened with strange hush because this comer Sensed a strange soul alive behind the summer. That other day on Ercall when the stones Were sunbleached white, like long unburied bones, While the bees droned and all the air was sweet From honey buried underneath my feet, Honey of purple heather and white clover Sealed in its gummy bags till summer's over. Then other days by water, by bright sea, Clear as clean glass and my bright friend with me, The cove clean bottomed where we saw the brown Red spotted plaice go skimming six feet down And saw the long fronds waving, white with shells, Waving, unfolding, drooping, to the swells; That sadder day when we beheld the great And terrible beauty of a Lammas spate Roaring white-mouthed in all the great cliff's gaps Headlong, tree-tumbling fury of collapse, While drenching clouds drove by and every sense Was water roaring or rushing or in offence, And mountain sheep stood huddled and blown gaps gleamed Where torn white hair of torrents shook and streamed. That sadder day when we beheld again A spate going down in sunshine after rain, When the blue reach of water leaping bright Was one long ripple and clatter, flecked with white. And that far day, that never blotted page When youth was bright like flowers about old age Fair generations bringing thanks for life To that old kindly man and trembling wife After their sixty years: Time never made A better beauty since the Earth was laid Than that thanksgiving given to grey hair For the great gift of life which brought them there.

Days of endeavour have been good: the days Racing in cutters for the comrade's praise, The day they led my cutter at the turn Yet could not keep the lead and dropped astern, The moment in the spurt when both boats' oars Dipped in each other's wash and throats grew hoarse And teeth ground into teeth and both strokes quickened Lashing the sea, and gasps came, and hearts sickened And coxswains damned us, dancing, banking stroke, To put our weights on, though our hearts were broke And both boats seemed to stick and sea seemed glue, The tide a mill race we were struggling through And every quick recover gave us squints Of them still there, and oar tossed water-glints And cheering came, our friends, our foemen cheering, A long, wild, rallying murmur on the hearing-- "Port Fore!" and "Starboard Fore!" "Port Fore." "Port Fore." "Up with her, Starboard," and at that each oar Lightened, though arms were bursting, and eyes shut And the oak stretchers grunted in the strut And the curse quickened from the cox, our bows Crashed, and drove talking water, we made vows Chastity vows and temperance; in our pain We numbered things we'd never eat again If we could only win; then came the yell "Starboard," "Port Fore," and then a beaten bell Rung as for fire to cheer us. "Now." Oars bent Soul took the looms now body's bolt was spent, "Damn it, come on now," "On now," "On now," "Starboard."

"Port Fore." "Up with her, Port"; each cutter harboured Ten eye-shut painsick stragglers, "Heave, oh, heave," Catcalls waked echoes like a shrieking sheave. "Heave," and I saw a back, then two. "Port Fore." "Starboard." "Come on." I saw the midship oar And knew we had done them. "Port Fore." "Starboard." "Now." I saw bright water spurting at their bow Their cox' full face an instant. They were done. The watchers' cheering almost drowned the gun. We had hardly strength to toss our oars; our cry Cheering the losing cutter was a sigh. Other bright days of action have seemed great: Wild days in a pampero off the Plate; Good swimming days, at Hog Back or the Coves Which the young gannet and the corbie loves; Surf-swimming between rollers, catching breath Between the advancing grave and breaking death, Then shooting up into the sunbright smooth To watch the advancing roller bare her tooth, And days of labour also, loading, hauling; Long days at winch or capstan, heaving, pawling; The days with oxen, dragging stone from blasting, And dusty days in mills, and hot days masting.

Trucking on dust-dry deckings smooth like ice, And hunts in mighty wool-racks after mice; Mornings with buckwheat when the fields did blanch With White Leghorns come from the chicken ranch. Days near the spring upon the sunburnt hill, Plying the maul or gripping tight the drill. Delights of work most real, delights that change The headache life of towns to rapture strange Not known by townsmen, nor imagined; health That puts new glory upon mental wealth And makes the poor man rich. But that ends, too, Health with its thoughts of life; and that bright view That sunny landscape from life's peak, that glory, And all a glad man's comments on life's story And thoughts of marvellous towns and living men And what pens tell and all beyond the pen End, and are summed in words so truly dead They raise no image of the heart and head, The life, the man alive, the friend we knew, The mind ours argued with or listened to, None; but are dead, and all life's keenness, all, Is dead as print before the funeral, Even deader after, when the dates are sought, And cold minds disagree with what we thought. This many pictured world of many passions Wears out the nations as a woman fashions, And what life is is much to very few, Men being so strange, so mad, and what men do So good to watch or share; but when men count Those hours of life that were a bursting fount, Sparkling the dusty heart with living springs, There seems a world, beyond our earthly things, Gated by golden moments, each bright time Opening to show the city white like lime, High towered and many peopled. This made sure, Work that obscures those moments seems impure, Making our not-returning time of breath Dull with the ritual and records of death, That frost of fact by which our wisdom gives Correctly stated death to all that lives.

Best trust the happy moments. What they gave Makes man less fearful of the certain grave, And gives his work compassion and new eyes. The days that make us happy make us wise.

SHIPS

I cannot tell their wonder nor make known Magic that once thrilled through me to the bone, But all men praise some beauty, tell some tale, Vent a high mood which makes the rest seem pale, Pour their heart's blood to flourish one green leaf, Follow some Helen for her gift of grief, And fail in what they mean, whate'er they do: You should have seen, man cannot tell to you The beauty of the ships of that my city.

That beauty now is spoiled by the sea's pity; For one may haunt the pier a score of times, Hearing St. Nicholas bells ring out the chimes, Yet never see those proud ones swaying home With mainyards backed and bows a cream of foam, Those bows so lovely-curving, cut so fine, Those coulters of the many-bubbled brine, As once, long since, when all the docks were filled With that sea-beauty man has ceased to build.

Yet, though their splendour may have ceased to be, Each played her sovereign part in making me; Now I return my thanks with heart and lips For the great queenliness of all those ships.

And first the first bright memory, still so clear, An autumn evening in a golden year, When in the last lit moments before dark The _Chepica_, a steel-grey lovely barque, Came to an anchor near us on the flood, Her trucks aloft in sun-glow red as blood.

Then come so many ships that I could fill Three docks with their fair hulls remembered still, Each with her special memory's special grace, Riding the sea, making the waves give place To delicate high beauty; man's best strength, Noble in every line in all their length. _Ailsa_, _Genista_, ships, with long jibbooms, The _Wanderer_ with great beauty and strange dooms, _Liverpool_ (mightiest then) superb, sublime, The _California_ huge, as slow as time. The _Copley_ swift, the perfect _J. T. North_, The loveliest barque my city has sent forth, Dainty _John Lockett_ well remembered yet, The splendid _Argus_ with her skysail set, Stalwart _Drumcliff_, white-blocked, majestic _Sierras_, Divine bright ships, the water's standard-bearers; _Melpomene_, _Euphrosyne_, and their sweet Sea-troubling sisters of the Fernie fleet; _Corunna_ (in whom my friend died) and the old Long since loved _Esmeralda_ long since sold. _Centurion_ passed in Rio, _Glaucus_ spoken, _Aladdin_ burnt, the _Bidston_ water-broken, _Yola,_ in whom my friend sailed, _Dawpool_ trim, Fierce-bowed _Egeria_ plunging to the swim, _Stanmore_ wide-sterned, sweet _Cupica_, tall _Bard_, Queen in all harbours with her moon sail yard.

Though I tell many, there must still be others, McVickar Marshall's ships and Fernie Brothers', _Lochs_, _Counties_, _Shires_, _Drums_, the countless lines Whose house-flags all were once familiar signs At high main-trucks on Mersey's windy ways When sunlight made the wind-white water blaze. Their names bring back old mornings, when the docks Shone with their house-flags and their painted blocks, Their raking masts below the Custom House And all the marvellous beauty of their bows.

Familiar steamers, too, majestic steamers, Shearing Atlantic roller-tops to streamers, _Umbria_, _Etruria_, noble, still at sea, The grandest, then, that man had brought to be. _Majestic_, _City of Paris_, _City of Rome_, Forever jealous racers, out and home. The _Alfred Holt's_ blue smoke-stacks down the stream, The fair _Loanda_ with her bows a-cream. Booth liners, Anchor liners, Red Star liners, The marks and styles of countless ship-designers, The _Magdalena_, _Puno_, _Potosi_, Lost _Cotopaxi_, all well known to me.

These splendid ships, each with her grace, her glory, Her memory of old song or comrade's story, Still in my mind the image of life's need, Beauty in hardest action, beauty indeed. "They built great ships and sailed them" sounds most brave Whatever arts we have or fail to have; I touch my country's mind, I come to grips With half her purpose, thinking of these ships That art untouched by softness, all that line Drawn ringing hard to stand the test of brine, That nobleness and grandeur, all that beauty Born of a manly life and bitter duty, That splendour of fine bows which yet could stand The shock of rollers never checked by land. That art of masts, sail crowded, fit to break, Yet stayed to strength and backstayed into rake, The life demanded by that art, the keen Eye-puckered, hard-case seamen, silent, lean,-- They are grander things than all the art of towns, Their tests are tempests and the sea that drowns, They are my country's line, her great art done By strong brains labouring on the thought unwon, They mark our passage as a race of men, Earth will not see such ships as those again.

TRUTH

Man with his burning soul Has but an hour of breath To build a ship of Truth In which his soul may sail, Sail on the sea of death. For death takes toll Of beauty, courage, youth, Of all but Truth.

Life's city ways are dark, Men mutter by; the wells Of the great waters moan. O death, O sea, O tide, The waters moan like bells. No light, no mark, The soul goes out alone On seas unknown.

Stripped of all purple robes, Stripped of all golden lies, I will not be afraid. Truth will preserve through death; Perhaps the stars will rise, The stars like globes. The ship my striving made May see night fade.

THEY CLOSED HER EYES

FROM THE SPANISH OF DON GUSTAVO A. BECQUER.

They closed her eyes, They were still open; They hid her face With a white linen, And, some sobbing, Others in silence, From the sad bedroom All came away.

The night-light in a dish Burned on the floor, It flung on the wall The bed's shadow, And in that shadow One saw sometimes Drawn in sharp line The body's shape.

The day awakened At its first whiteness With its thousand noises; The town awoke Before that contrast Of life and strangeness, Of light and darkness. I thought a moment _My God, how lonely_ _The dead are!_

From the house, shoulder-high To church they bore her, And in a chapel They left her bier. There they surrounded Her pale body With yellow candles And black stuffs.

At the last stroke Of the ringing for the souls An old crone finished Her last prayers. She crossed the narrow nave; The doors moaned, And the holy place Remained deserted.

From a clock one heard The measured ticking, And from some candles The guttering. All things there Were so grim and sad, So dark and rigid, That I thought a moment, _My God, how lonely_ _The dead are!_

From the high belfry The tongue of iron Clanged, giving out His sad farewell. Crape on their clothes, Her friends and kindred Passed in a row, Making procession.

In the last vault, Dark and narrow, The pickaxe opened A niche at one end; There they laid her down. Soon they bricked the place up, And with a gesture Bade grief farewell.

Pickaxe on shoulder The grave-digger, Singing between his teeth, Passed out of sight. The night came down; It was all silent, Lost in the shadows I thought a moment. _My God, how lonely_ _The dead are!_

In the long nights Of bitter winter, When the wind makes The rafters creak, When the violent rain Lashes the windows, Lonely, I remember That poor girl.

There falls the rain With its noise eternal. There the north wind Fights with the rain. Stretched in the hollow Of the damp bricks Perhaps her bones Freeze with the cold.

Does the dust return to dust? Does the soul fly to heaven? Is all vile matter, Rottenness, filthiness? I know not. But There is something--something That I cannot explain, Something that gives us Loathing, terror, To leave the dead So alone, so wretched.

THE HARP

FROM THE SPANISH OF DON GUSTAVO A. BECQUER

In a dark corner of the room, Perhaps forgotten by its owner, Silent and dim with dust, I saw the harp.

How many musics slumbered in its strings, As the bird sleeps in the branches, Waiting the snowy hand That could awaken them.

Ah me, I thought, how many, many times Genius thus slumbers in a human soul, Waiting, as Lazarus waited, for a voice To bid him "Rise and walk."

SONNET

FROM THE SPANISH OF DON FRANCISCO DE QUEVEDO

I saw the ramparts of my native land, One time so strong, now dropping in decay, Their strength destroyed by this new age's way That has worn out and rotted what was grand. I went into the fields: there I could see The sun drink up the waters newly thawed, And on the hills the moaning cattle pawed; Their miseries robbed the day of light for me.

I went into my house: I saw how spotted, Decaying things made that old home their prize. My withered walking-staff had come to bend; I felt the age had won; my sword was rotted, And there was nothing on which I set my eyes That was not a reminder of the end.

SONNET ON THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF ANTONIO DE FERREIRO

That blessed sunlight that once showed to me My way to heaven more plain more certainly, And with her bright beam banished utterly All trace of mortal sorrow far from me, Has gone from me, has left her prison sad, And I am blind and alone and gone astray, Like a lost pilgrim in a desert way Wanting the blessed guide that once he had.

Thus with a spirit bowed and mind a blur I trace the holy steps where she has gone, By valleys and by meadows and by mountains, And everywhere I catch a glimpse of her. She takes me by the hand and leads me on, And my eyes follow her, my eyes made fountains.

SONG

One sunny time in May When lambs were sporting, The sap ran in the spray And I went courting, And all the apple boughs Were bright with blossom, I picked an early rose For my love's bosom.

And then I met her friend, Down by the water, Who cried "She's met her end, That gray-eyed daughter; That voice of hers is stilled Her beauty broken." O me, my love is killed, My love unspoken.

She was too sweet, too dear, To die so cruel, O Death, why leave me here And take my jewel? Her voice went to the bone, So true, so ringing, And now I go alone, Winter or springing.

THE BALLAD OF SIR BORS

Would I could win some quiet and rest, and a little ease, In the cool grey hush of the dusk, in the dim green place of the trees, Where the birds are singing, singing, singing, crying aloud The song of the red, red rose that blossoms beyond the seas.

Would I could see it, the rose, when the light begins to fail, And a lone white star in the West is glimmering on the mail; The red, red passionate rose of the sacred blood of the Christ, In the shining chalice of God, the cup of the Holy Grail.

The dusk comes gathering grey, and the darkness dims the West, The oxen low to the byre, and all bells ring to rest; But I ride over the moors, for the dusk still bides and waits, That brims my soul with the glow of the rose that ends the Quest.

My horse is spavined and ribbed, and his bones come through his hide, My sword is rotten with rust, but I shake the reins and ride, For the bright white birds of God that nest in the rose have called, And never a township now is a town where I can bide.

It will happen at last, at dusk, as my horse limps down the fell, A star will glow like a note God strikes on a silver bell, And the bright white birds of God will carry my soul to Christ, And the sight of the Rose, the Rose, will pay for the years of hell.

SPANISH WATERS

Spanish waters, Spanish waters, you are ringing in my ears, Like a slow sweet piece of music from the grey forgotten years; Telling tales, and beating tunes, and bringing weary thoughts to me Of the sandy beach at Muertos, where I would that I could be.

There's a surf breaks on Los Muertos, and it never stops to roar, And it's there we came to anchor, and it's there we went ashore, Where the blue lagoon is silent amid snags of rotting trees, Dropping like the clothes of corpses cast up by the seas.

We anchored at Los Muertos when the dipping sun was red, We left her half-a-mile to sea, to west of Nigger Head; And before the mist was on the Cay, before the day was done, We were all ashore on Muertos with the gold that we had won.

We bore it through the marshes in a half-score battered chests, Sinking, in the sucking quagmires, to the sunburn on our breasts, Heaving over tree-trunks, gasping, damning at the flies and heat, Longing for a long drink, out of silver, in the ship's cool lazareet.

The moon came white and ghostly as we laid the treasure down, There was gear there'd make a beggarman as rich as Lima Town, Copper charms and silver trinkets from the chests of Spanish crews, Gold doubloons and double moydores, louis d'ors and portagues,

Clumsy yellow-metal earrings from the Indians of Brazil, Uncut emeralds out of Rio, bezoar stones from Guayaquil; Silver, in the crude and fashioned, pots of old Arica bronze, Jewels from the bones of Incas desecrated by the Dons.

We smoothed the place with mattocks, and we took and blazed the tree, Which marks yon where the gear is hid that none will ever see, And we laid aboard the ship again, and south away we steers, Through the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.

I'm the last alive that knows it. All the rest have gone their ways Killed, or died, or come to anchor in the old Mulatas Cays, And I go singing, fiddling, old and starved and in despair, And I know where all that gold is hid, if I were only there.

It's not the way to end it all. I'm old, and nearly blind, And an old man's past's a strange thing, for it never leaves his mind. And I see in dreams, awhiles, the beach, the sun's disc dipping red, And the tall ship, under topsails, swaying in past Nigger Head.

I'd be glad to step ashore there. Glad to take a pick and go To the lone blazed coco-palm tree in the place no others know, And lift the gold and silver that has mouldered there for years By the loud surf of Los Muertos which is beating in my ears.

CARGOES

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, With a cargo of ivory, And apes and peacocks, Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, With a cargo of diamonds, Emeralds, amethysts, Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack, Butting through the Channel in the mad March days, With a cargo of Tyne coal, Road-rails, pig-lead, Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

CAPTAIN STRATTON'S FANCY

Oh some are fond of red wine, and some are fond of white, And some are all for dancing by the pale moonlight; But rum alone's the tipple, and the heart's delight Of the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of Spanish wine, and some are fond of French, And some'll swallow tay and stuff fit only for a wench; But I'm for right Jamaica till I roll beneath the bench, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are for the lily, and some are for the rose, But I am for the sugar-cane that in Jamaica grows; For it's that that makes the bonny drink to warm my copper nose, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of fiddles, and a song well sung, And some are all for music for to lilt upon the tongue; But mouths were made for tankards, and for sucking at the bung, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are fond of dancing, and some are fond of dice, And some are all for red lips, and pretty lasses' eyes; But a right Jamaica puncheon is a finer prize To the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some that's good and godly ones they hold that it's a sin To troll the jolly bowl around, and let the dollars spin; But I'm for toleration and for drinking at an inn, Says the old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

Oh some are sad and wretched folk that go in silken suits, And there's a mort of wicked rogues that live in good reputes; So I'm for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots, Like an old bold mate of Henry Morgan.

AN OLD SONG RE-SUNG