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Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? They're no brought here without brave darin'; Buy my caller herrin', Hauled through wind and rain. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?
Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; Wives and mithers, maist despairin', Ca' them lives o' men. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?
When the creel o' herrin' passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads, and screw their faces. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?
Caller herrin's no got lightly:— Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow has set you a' a-singin' Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?"
Neebor wives! now tent my tellin': When the bonny fish ye're sellin', At ae word be, in ye're dealin'! Truth will stand, when a' thing's failin', Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?
Carolina Nairne [1766-1845]
HANNAH BINDING SHOES
Poor lone Hannah, Sitting at the window, binding shoes: Faded, wrinkled, Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. Bright-eyed beauty once was she, When the bloom was on the tree;— Spring and winter, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Not a neighbor Passing, nod or answer will refuse To her whisper, "Is there from the fishers any news?" Oh, her heart's adrift with one On an endless voyage gone;— Night and morning, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Fair young Hannah, Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes; Hale and clever, For a willing heart and hand he sues. May-day skies are all aglow, And the waves are laughing so! For her wedding Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.
May is passing; 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes: Hannah shudders, For the mild south-wester mischief brews. Round the rocks of Marblehead, Outward bound, a schooner sped; Silent, lonesome, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
'Tis November: Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, From Newfoundland Not a sail returning will she lose, Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen, Have you, have you heard of Ben?" Old with watching, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Twenty winters Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views. Twenty seasons:— Never one has brought her any news. Still her dim eyes silently Chase the white sails o'er the sea;— Hopeless, faithful, Hannah's at the window, binding shoes.
Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]
THE SAILOR A Romaic Ballad
Thou that hast a daughter For one to woo and wed, Give her to a husband With snow upon his head; Oh, give her to an old man, Though little joy it be, Before the best young sailor That sails upon the sea!
How luckless is the sailor When sick and like to die; He sees no tender mother, No sweetheart standing by. Only the captain speaks to him,— Stand up, stand up, young man, And steer the ship to haven, As none beside thee can.
Thou says't to me, "Stand, stand up"; I say to thee, take hold, Lift me a little from the deck, My hands and feet are cold. And let my head, I pray thee, With handkerchiefs be bound; There, take my love's gold handkerchief, And tie it tightly round.
Now bring the chart, the doleful chart; See, where these mountains meet— The clouds are thick around their head, The mists around their feet: Cast anchor here; 'tis deep and safe Within the rocky cleft; The little anchor on the right, The great one on the left.
And now to thee, O captain, Most earnestly I pray, That they may never bury me In church or cloister gray;— But on the windy sea-beach, At the ending of the land, All on the surly sea-beach, Deep down into the sand.
For there will come the sailors, Their voices I shall hear, And at casting of the anchor The yo-ho loud and clear; And at hauling of the anchor The yo-ho and the cheer,— Farewell, my love, for to thy bay I never more may steer!
William Allingham [1824-1889]
THE BURIAL OF THE DANE
Blue gulf all around us, Blue sky overhead— Muster all on the quarter, We must bury the dead!
It is but a Danish sailor, Rugged of front and form; A common son of the forecastle, Grizzled with sun and storm.
His name, and the strand he hailed from We know, and there's nothing more! But perhaps his mother is waiting In the lonely Island of Fohr.
Still, as he lay there dying, Reason drifting awreck, "'Tis my watch." he would mutter, "I must go upon deck!"
Aye, on deck, by the foremast! But watch and lookout are done; The Union Jack laid o'er him, How quiet he lies in the sun!
Slow the ponderous engine, Stay the hurrying shaft; Let the roll of the ocean Cradle our giant craft; Gather around the grating, Carry your messmate aft!
Stand in order, and listen To the holiest page of prayer! Let every foot be quiet, Every head be bare— The soft trade-wind is lifting A hundred locks of hair.
Our captain reads the service, (A little spray on his cheeks) The grand old words of burial, And the trust a true heart seeks:— "We therefore commit his body To the deep"—and, as he speaks,
Launched from the weather railing, Swift as the eye can mark, The ghastly, shotted hammock Plunges, away from the shark, Down, a thousand fathoms, Down into the dark!
A thousand summers and winters The stormy Gulf shall roll High o'er his canvas coffin; But, silence to doubt and dole:— There's a quiet harbor somewhere For the poor aweary soul.
Free the fettered engine, Speed the tireless shaft, Loose to'gallant and topsail, The breeze is fair abaft!
Blue sea all around us, Blue sky bright o'erhead— Every man to his duty, We have buried our dead!
Henry Howard Brownell [1820-1872]
TOM BOWLING
Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft; Faithful, below, he did his duty; But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call Life's crew together, The word to "pipe all hands." Thus Death, who Kings and Tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed; For, though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.
Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]
MESSMATES
Ha gave us all a good-by cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away. It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him And the great ships go by.
He's there alone with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles around; He's there alone with dumb things mocking him, And we're homeward bound. It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him And the great ships go by.
I wonder if the tramps come near enough, As they thrash to and fro, And the battleships' bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great ships go by.
Henry Newbolt [1862-
THE LAST BUCCANEER
Oh, England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Aves, beside the Spanish main.
There were forty craft in Aves that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Aves made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.
Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men and keelhaul them, and starve them to the bone.
Oh, the palms grew high in Aves, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Aves from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.
Oh, sweet it was in Aves to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.
But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King's ships sailed on Aves, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.
Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.
And now I'm old and going—I'm sure I can't tell where; One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Aves, to look at it once again.
Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]
THE LAST BUCCANEER
The winds were yelling, the waves were swelling, The sky was black and drear, When the crew with eyes of flame brought the ship without a name Alongside the last Buccaneer.
"Whence flies your sloop full sail before so fierce a gale, When all others drive bare on the seas? Say, come ye from the shore of the holy Salvador, Or the gulf of the rich Caribbees?"
"From a shore no search hath found, from a gull no line can sound, Without rudder or needle we steer; Above, below our bark dies the sea-fowl and the shark, As we fly by the last Buccaneer.
"To-night there shall be heard on the rocks of Cape de Verde A loud crash and a louder roar; And to-morrow shall the deep with a heavy moaning sweep The corpses and wreck to the shore."
The stately ship of Clyde securely now may ride In the breath of the citron shades; And Severn's towering mast securely now hies fast, Through the seas of the balmy Trades.
From St. Jago's wealthy port, from Havannah's royal fort, The seaman goes forth without fear; For since that stormy night not a mortal hath had sight Of the flag of the last Buccaneer.
Thomas Babington Macaulay [1800-1859]
THE LEADSMAN'S SONG
For England, when with favoring gale, Our gallant ship up Channel steered, And scudding, under easy sail, The high blue western lands appeared, To heave the lead the seaman sprang, And to the pilot cheerly sang, "By the deep—Nine."
And bearing up to gain the port, Some well-known object kept in view, An abbey tower, a ruined fort, A beacon to the vessel true; While oft the lead the seaman flung, And to the pilot cheerly sung, "By the mark—Seven."
And as the much-loved shore we near, With transport we behold the roof Where dwelt a friend or partner dear, Of faith and love and matchless proof. The lead once more the seaman flung, And to the watchful pilot sung, "Quarter less—Five."
Now to her berth the ship draws nigh, With slackened sail she feels the tide, Stand clear the cable is the cry, The anchor's gone, we safely ride. The watch is set, and through the night, We hear the seaman with delight Proclaim—"All's well."
Charles Dibdin [1745-1814]
HOMEWARD BOUND
Head the ship for England! Shake out every sail! Blithe leap the billows, Merry sings the gale. Captain, work the reckoning; How many knots a day?— Round the world and home again, That's the sailor's way!
We've traded with the Yankees, Brazilians and Chinese; We've laughed with dusky beauties In shade of tall palm-trees; Across the line and Gulf-Stream— Round by Table Bay— Everywhere and home again, That's the sailor's way!
Nightly stands the North Star Higher on our bow; Straight we run for England; Our thoughts are in it now. Jolly times with friends ashore, When we've drawn our pay!— All about and home again, That's the sailor's way!
Tom will to his parents, Jack will to his dear, Joe to wife and children, Bob to pipes and beer; Dicky to the dancing-room, To hear the fiddles play;— Round the world and home again, That's the sailor's way!
William Allingham [1824-1889]
THE SIMPLE LIFE
THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.
William Butler Yeats [1865-
A WISH
Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue.
The village-church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.
Samuel Rogers [1763-1855]
ODE ON SOLITUDE
Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day;
Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mixed, sweet recreation, And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.
Alexander Pope [1688-1744]
"THRICE HAPPY HE"
Thrice happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own; Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan, Or the soft sobbings of the widowed dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! Or how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs perfumed which do the flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold! The world is full of horrors, falsehoods, slights; Woods' silent shades have only true delights.
William Drummond [1585-1649]
"UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE" From "As You Like It"
Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither: Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]
CORIDON'S SONG In "The Complete Angler"
Oh, the sweet contentment The countryman doth find. High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, That quiet contemplation Possesseth all my mind: Then care away, And wend along with me.
For courts are full of flattery, As hath too oft been tried; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, The city full of wantonness, And both are full of pride:
But oh, the honest countryman Speaks truly from his heart, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, His pride is in his tillage, His horses and his cart:
Our clothing is good sheepskins, Gray russet for our wives, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, Tis warmth and not gay clothing That doth prolong our lives:
The plowman, though he labor hard, Yet on the holiday, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, No emperor so merrily Does pass his time away:
To recompense our tillage The heavens afford us showers; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, And for our sweet refreshments The earth affords us bowers:
The cuckoo and the nightingale Full merrily do sing, High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, And with their pleasant roundelays Bid welcome to the spring:
This is not half the happiness The countryman enjoys; High trolollie lollie loe, High trolollie lee, Though others think they have as much Yet he that says so lies: Then come away, turn Countryman with me.
John Chalkhill [fl. 1648]
THE OLD SQUIRE
I like the hunting of the hare Better than that of the fox; I like the joyous morning air, And the crowing of the cocks.
I like the calm of the early fields, The ducks asleep by the lake, The quiet hour which nature yields Before mankind is awake.
I like the pheasants and feeding things Of the unsuspicious morn; I like the flap of the wood-pigeon's wings As she rises from the corn.
I like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush From the turnips as I pass by, And the partridge hiding her head in a bush, For her young ones cannot fly.
I like these things, and I like to ride, When all the world is in bed, To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide, And where the sun grows red.
The beagles at my horse-heels trot In silence after me; There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot, Old Slut and Margery,—
A score of names well used, and dear, The names my childhood knew; The horn with which I rouse their cheer, Is the horn my father blew.
I like the hunting of the hare Better than that of the fox; The new world still is all less fair Than the old world it mocks.
I covet not a wider range Than these dear manors give; I take my pleasures without change, And as I lived I live.
I leave my neighbors to their thought; My choice it is, and pride, On my own lands to find my sport, In my own fields to ride.
The hare herself no better loves The field where she was bred, Than I the habit of these groves, My own inherited.
I know my quarries every one, The meuse where she sits low; The road she chose to-day was run A hundred years ago.
The lags, the gills, the forest ways, The hedgerows one and all, These are the kingdoms of my chase, And bounded by my wall;
Nor has the world a better thing, Though one should search it round, Than thus to live one's own sole king, Upon one's own sole ground.
I like the hunting of the hare; It brings me, day by day, The memory of old days as fair, With dead men passed away.
To these, as homeward still I ply And pass the churchyard gate, Where all are laid as I must lie I stop and raise my hat.
I like the hunting of the hare; New sports I hold in scorn. I like to be as my fathers were, In the days ere I was born.
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt [1840-1922]
INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE
Beneath this stony roof reclined, I soothe to peace my pensive mind; And while, to shade my lowly cave, Embowering elms their umbrage wave; And while the maple dish is mine— The beechen cup, unstained with wine— I scorn the gay licentious crowd, Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.
Within my limits, lone and still, The blackbird pipes in artless trill; Fast by my couch, congenial guest, The wren has wove her mossy nest; From busy scenes and brighter skies, To lurk with innocence, she flies, Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.
At morn I take my customed round, To mark how buds yon shrubby mound, And every opening primrose count, That trimly paints my blooming mount; Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, That grace my gloomy solitude, I teach in winding wreaths to stray Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.
At eve, within yon studious nook, I ope my brass-embossed book, Portrayed with many a holy deed Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed; Then, as my taper waxes dim, Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn, And at the close, the gleams behold Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold.
While such pure joys my bliss create, Who but would smile at guilty state? Who but would wish his holy lot In calm oblivion's humble grot? Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff, and amice gray; And to the world's tumultuous stage Prefer the blameless hermitage?
Thomas Warton [1728-1790]
THE RETIREMENT
Farewell, thou busy world, and may We never meet again; Here I can eat and sleep and pray, And do more good in one short day Than he who his whole age outwears Upon the most conspicuous theaters, Where naught but vanity and vice appears.
Good God! how sweet are all things here! How beautiful the fields appear! How cleanly do we feed and lie! Lord! what good hours do we keep! How quietly we sleep! What peace, what unanimity! How innocent from the lewd fashion Is all our business, all our recreation!
O, how happy here's our leisure! O, how innocent our pleasure! O ye valleys! O ye mountains! O ye groves, and crystal fountains! How I love, at liberty, By turns to come and visit ye! Dear solitude, the soul's best friend, That man acquainted with himself dost make, And all his Maker's wonders to attend, With thee I here converse at will, And would be glad to do so still, For it is thou alone that keep'st the soul awake.
How calm and quiet a delight Is it, alone, To read and meditate and write, By none offended, and offending none! To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease; And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.
O my beloved nymph, fair Dove, Princess of rivers, how I love Upon thy flowery banks to lie, And view thy silver stream, When gilded by a Summer's beam! And in it all thy wanton fry Playing at liberty, And, with my angle, upon them The all of treachery I ever learned industriously to try!
Such streams Rome's yellow Tiber cannot show, The Iberian Tagus, or Ligurian Po; The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine, Are puddle-water, all, compared with thine; And Loire's pure streams yet too polluted are With thine, much purer, to compare; The rapid Garonne and the winding Seine Are both too mean, Beloved Dove, with thee To vie priority; Nay, Tame and Isis, when conjoined, submit, And lay their trophies at thy silver feet.
O my beloved rocks, that rise To awe the earth and brave the skies! From some aspiring mountain's crown How dearly do I love, Giddy with pleasure to look down; And from the vales to view the noble heights above; O my beloved caves! from dog-star's heat, And all anxieties, my safe retreat; What safety, privacy, what true delight, In the artificial light Your gloomy entrails make, Have I taken, do I take! How oft, when grief has made me fly, To hide me from society E'en of my dearest friends, have I, In your recesses' friendly shade, All my sorrows open laid, And my most secret woes intrusted to your privacy!
Lord! would men let me alone, What an over-happy one Should I think myself to be— Might I in this desert place, (Which most men in discourse disgrace) Live but undisturbed and free! Here, in this despised recess, Would I, maugre Winter's cold, And the Summer's worst excess, Try to live out to sixty full years old, And, all the while, Without an envious eye On any thriving under Fortune's smile, Contented live, and then contented die.
Charles Cotton [1630-1687]
THE COUNTRY FAITH
Here in the country's heart, Where the grass is green, Life is the same sweet life As it e'er hath been.
Trust in a God still lives, And the bell at morn Floats with a thought of God O'er the rising corn.
God comes down in the rain, And the crop grows tall— This is the country faith And best of all!
Norman Gale [1862-
TRULY GREAT
My walls outside must have some flowers, My walls within must have some books; A house that's small; a garden large, And in it leafy nooks:
A little gold that's sure each week; That comes not from my living kind, But from a dead man in his grave, Who cannot change his mind:
A lovely wife, and gentle too; Contented that no eyes but mine Can see her many charms, nor voice To call her beauty fine:
Where she would in that stone cage live, A self made prisoner, with me; While many a wild bird sang around, On gate, on bush, on tree.
And she sometimes to answer them, In her far sweeter voice than all; Till birds, that loved to look on leaves, Will doat on a stone wall.
With this small house, this garden large, This little gold, this lovely mate, With health in body, peace at heart— Show me a man more great.
William H. Davies [1870-
EARLY MORNING AT BARGIS
Clear air and grassy lea, Stream-song and cattle-bell— Dear man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell!
To live our days apart From green things and wide skies, And let the wistful heart Be cut and crushed with lies!
Bright peaks!—And suddenly Light floods the placid dell, The grass-tops brush my knee: A good crop it will be, So all is well! O man, what fools are we In prison-walls to dwell!
Hermann Hagedorn [1882-
THE CUP
The cup I sing is a cup of gold Many and many a century old, Sculptured fair, and over-filled With wine of a generous vintage, spilled In crystal currents and foaming tides All round its luminous, pictured sides. Old Time enameled and embossed This ancient cup at an infinite cost. Its frame he wrought of metal that run Red from the furnace of the sun. Ages on ages slowly rolled Before the glowing mass was cold, And still he toiled at the antique mold,— Turning it fast in his fashioning hand, Tracing circle, layer, and band, Carving figures quaint and strange, Pursuing, through many a wondrous change, The symmetry of a plan divine. At last he poured the lustrous wine, Crowned high the radiant wave with light, And held aloft the goblet bright, Half in shadow, and wreathed in mist Of purple, amber, and amethyst.
This is the goblet from whose brink All creatures that have life must drink: Foemen and lovers, haughty lord, And sallow beggar with lips abhorred. The new-born infant, ere it gain The mother's breast, this wine must drain. The oak with its subtle juice is fed, The rose drinks till her cheeks are red, And the dimpled, dainty violet sips The limpid stream with loving lips. It holds the blood of sun and star, And all pure essences that are: No fruit so high on the heavenly vine, Whose golden hanging clusters shine On the far-off shadowy midnight hills, But some sweet influence it distils That slideth down the silvery rills. Here Wisdom drowned her dangerous thought, The early gods their secrets brought; Beauty, in quivering lines of light, Ripples before the ravished sight: And the unseen mystic spheres combine To charm the cup and drug the wine.
All day I drink of the wine, and deep In its stainless waves my senses steep; All night my peaceful soul lies drowned In hollows of the cup profound; Again each morn I clamber up The emerald crater of the cup, On massive knobs of jasper stand And view the azure ring expand: I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim In the wine that o'erruns the jeweled rim:— Edges of chrysolite emerge, Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge: My thrilled, uncovered front I lave, My eager senses kiss the wave, And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore That kindles the bosom's secret core, And the fire that maddens the poet's brain With wild sweet ardor and heavenly pain.
John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]
A STRIP OF BLUE
I do not own an inch of land, But all I see is mine,— The orchards and the mowing-fields, The lawns and gardens fine. The winds my tax-collectors are, They bring me tithes divine,— Wild scents and subtle essences, A tribute rare and free; And, more magnificent than all, My window keeps for me A glimpse of blue immensity,— A little strip of sea.
Richer am I than he who owns Great fleets and argosies; I have a share in every ship Won by the inland breeze To loiter on yon airy road Above the apple-trees. I freight them with my untold dreams; Each bears my own picked crew; And nobler cargoes wait for them Than ever India knew,— My ships that sail into the East Across that outlet blue.
Sometimes they seem like living shapes, The people of the sky,— Guests in white raiment coming down From Heaven, which is close by; I call them by familiar names, As one by one draws nigh, So white, so light, so spirit-like, From violet mists they bloom! The aching wastes of the unknown Are half reclaimed from gloom, Since on life's hospitable sea All souls find sailing-room.
The ocean grows a weariness With nothing else in sight; Its east and west, its north and south, Spread out from morn to night; We miss the warm, caressing shore, Its brooding shade and light. A part is greater than the whole; By hints are mysteries told. The fringes of eternity,— God's sweeping garment-fold, In that bright shred of glittering sea, I reach out for, and hold.
The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, Float in upon the mist; The waves are broken precious stones,— Sapphire and amethyst, Washed from celestial basement walls By suns unsetting kissed. Out through the utmost gates of space, Past where the gray stars drift, To the widening Infinite, my soul Glides on, a vessel swift; Yet loses not her anchorage In yonder azure rift.
Here sit I, as a little child: The threshold of God's door Is that clear band of chrysoprase; Now the vast temple floor, The blinding glory of the dome I bow my head before: Thy universe, O God, is home, In height or depth, to me; Yet here upon thy footstool green Content am I to be; Glad, when is opened unto my need Some sea-like glimpse of thee.
Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]
AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD To Hasten Him Into The Country
Come, spur away! I have no patience for a longer stay, But must go down And leave the chargeable noise of this great town: I will the country see, Where old simplicity, Though hid in gray, Doth look more gay Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad. Farewell, you city wits, that are Almost at civil war— 'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.
More of my days I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise; Or to make sport For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court. Then, worthy Stafford, say, How shall we spend the day? With what delights Shorten the nights? When from this tumult we are got secure, Where mirth with all her freedom goes, Yet shall no finger lose; Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?
There from the tree We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry; And every day Go see the wholesome country girls make hay, Whose brown hath lovelier grace Than any painted face That I do know Hyde Park can show: Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet (Though some of them in greater state Might court my love with plate) The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.
But think upon Some other pleasures: these to me are none. Why do I prate Of women, that are things against my fate! I never mean to wed That torture to my bed: My Muse is she My love shall be. Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone And that great bugbear, grisly Death, Shall take this idle breath, If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.
Of this no more! We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store. No fruit shall 'scape Our palates, from the damson to the grape. Then, full, we'll seek a shade, And hear what music's made; How Philomel Her tale doth tell, And how the other birds do fill the choir; The thrush and blackbird lend their throats, Warbling melodious notes; We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.
Ours is the sky, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly: Nor will we spare To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare; But let our hounds run loose In any ground they'll choose; The buck shall fall, The stag, and all. Our pleasures must from their own warrants be, For to my Muse, if not to me, I'm sure all game is free: Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.
And when we mean To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then, And drink by stealth A cup or two to noble Barkley's health, I'll take my pipe and try The Phrygian melody; Which he that hears, Lets through his ears A madness to distemper all the brain: Then I another pipe will take And Done music make, To civilize with graver notes our wits again.
Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]
"THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN"
The midges dance aboon the burn; The dews begin to fa'; The paitricks doun the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang Rings through the briery shaw, While, flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.
Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains To charm the lingering day; While weary yeldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell; The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell.— Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me.
Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]
THE PLOW
Above yon somber swell of land Thou seest the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue.
The air is cold above the woods; All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods The blackbird holds a colloquy.
Over the broad hill creeps a beam, Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; And now ascends the nostril-steam Of stalwart horses come to plow.
Ye rigid plowmen, bear in mind Your labor is for future hours! Advance—spare not—nor look behind— Plow deep and straight with all your powers.
Richard Hengist Horne [1803-1884]
THE USEFUL PLOW
A country life is sweet! In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! In every field of wheat, The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow; So that I say, no courtier may Compare with them who clothe in gray, And follow the useful plow.
They rise with the morning lark, And labor till almost dark, Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep While every pleasant park Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing On each green, tender bough. With what content and merriment Their days are spent, whose minds are bent To follow the, useful plow.
Unknown
"TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT"
To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,—and eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by, E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.
John Keats [1795-1821]
THE QUIET LIFE
What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice, And fortune's fate not fearing Sing sweet in summer morning?
Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful It is to kneel and wait On favorite, presumptuous, Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.
All day their flocks each tendeth; At night, they take their rest; More quiet than who sendeth His ship unto the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty; But getting, very dainty.
For lawyers and their pleading, They 'steem it not a straw; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law: Whence conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly.
O happy who thus liveth! Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold. Though poor and plain his diet Yet merry it is, and quiet.
William Byrd [1538?-1623]
THE WISH
Well then, I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; The very honey of all earthly joy Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy; And they, methinks, deserve my pity Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings Of this great hive, the city!
Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave, May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And since Love ne'er will from me flee,— A mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian-angels are, Only beloved, and loving me!
O fountains! when in you shall I Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy? O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade? Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood! Here's wealthy Nature's treasury, Where all the riches lie, that she Has coined and stamped for good.
Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetched metaphors appear; Here naught but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And naught but echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither.
How happy here should I And one dear She live, and embracing die! She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear: Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here.
Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY
"Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?—that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake And thus I made reply:
"The eye—it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will.
"Nor less I dream that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking?
"—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my time away."
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
THE TABLES TURNED An Evening Scene On The Same Subject
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening luster mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]
SIMPLE NATURE
Be it not mine to steal the cultured flower From any garden of the rich and great, Nor seek with care, through many a weary hour, Some novel form of wonder to create. Enough for me the leafy woods to rove, And gather simple cups of morning dew, Or, in the fields and meadows that I love, Find beauty in their bells of every hue. Thus round my cottage floats a fragrant air, And though the rustic plot be humbly laid, Yet, like the lilies gladly growing there, I have not toiled, but take what God has made. My Lord Ambition passed, and smiled in scorn; I plucked a rose, and, lo! it had no thorn.
George John Romanes [1848-1894]
"I FEAR NO POWER A WOMAN WIELDS"
I fear no power a woman wields While I can have the woods and fields, With comradeship alone of gun, Gray marsh-wastes and the burning sun.
For aye the heart's most poignant pain Will wear away 'neath hail and rain, And rush of winds through branches bare With something still to do and dare,—
The lonely watch beside the shore, The wild-fowl's cry, the sweep of oar, The paths of virgin sky to scan Untrod, and so uncursed by man.
Gramercy, for thy haunting face, Thy charm of voice and lissome grace, I fear no power a woman wields While I can have the woods and fields.
Ernest McGaffey [1861-
A RUNNABLE STAG
When the pods went pop on the broom, green broom And apples began to be golden-skinned, We harbored a stag in the Priory coomb, And we feathered his trail up-wind, up-wind, We feathered his trail up-wind— A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag, a kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, A stag, a runnable stag.
Then the huntsman's horn rang yap, yap, yap, And "Forwards" we heard the harborer shout; But 'twas only a brocket that broke a gap In the beechen underwood, driven out, From the underwood antlered out By warrant and might of the stag, the stag, The runnable stag, whose lordly mind Was bent on sleep, though beamed and tined He stood, a runnable stag.
So we tufted the covert till afternoon With Tinkerman's Pup and Bell-of-the-North; And hunters were sulky and hounds out of tune Before we tufted the right stag forth, Before we tufted him forth, The stag of warrant, the wily stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop, Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The royal and runnable stag.
It was Bell-of-the-North and Tinkerman's Pup That stuck to the scent till the copse was drawn. "Tally ho! tally ho!" and the hunt was up, The tufters whipped and the pack laid on, The resolute pack laid on, And the stag of warrant away at last, The runnable stag, the same, the same, His hoofs on fire, his horns like flame, A stag, a runnable stag.
"Let your gelding be: if you check or chide He stumbles at once and you're out of the hunt; For three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, On hunters accustomed to bear the brunt, Accustomed to bear the brunt, Are after the runnable stag, the stag, The runnable stag with his kingly crop Brow, bay and tray and three on top, The right, the runnable stag."
By perilous paths in coomb and dell, The heather, the rocks, and the river-bed, The pace grew hot, for the scent lay well, And a runnable stag goes right ahead, The quarry went right ahead— Ahead, ahead, and fast and far; His antlered crest, his cloven hoof, Brow, bay and tray and three aloof, The stag, the runnable stag.
For a matter of twenty miles and more, By the densest hedge and the highest wall, Through herds of bullocks he baffled the lore Of harborer, huntsman, hounds and all, Of harborer, hounds and all— The stag of warrant, the wily stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, He ran, and he never was caught alive, This stag, this runnable stag.
When he turned at bay in the leafy gloom, In the emerald gloom where the brook ran deep, He heard in the distance the rollers boom, And he saw in a vision of peaceful sleep, In a wonderful vision of sleep, A stag of warrant, a stag, a stag, A runnable stag in a jewelled bed, Under the sheltering ocean dead, A stag, a runnable stag.
So a fateful hope lit up his eye, And he opened his nostrils wide again, And he tossed his branching antlers high As he headed the hunt down the Charloch glen, As he raced down the echoing glen— For five miles more, the stag, the stag, For twenty miles, and five and five, Not to be caught now, dead or alive, The stag, the runnable stag.
Three hundred gentlemen, able to ride, Three hundred horses as gallant and free, Beheld him escape on the evening tide, Far out till he sank in the Severn Sea, Till he sank in the depths of the sea— The stag, the buoyant stag, the stag That slept at last in a jewelled bed Under the sheltering ocean spread, The stag, the runnable stag.
John Davidson [1857-1909]
HUNTING-SONG From "King Arthur"
Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle: Tarantara! With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill!
Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle: Tarantara! And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison, When we come home again.
Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle: Tarantara! He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air.
But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! (Bugle: Tarantara! For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt's up, and away!
Richard Hovey [1864-1900]
"A-HUNTING WE WILL GO" From "Don Quixote in England"
The dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn; The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn. And a-hunting we will go.
The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay; "My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; You cannot hunt to-day." Yet a-hunting we will go.
Away they fly to 'scape the rout, Their steeds they soundly switch; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out, And some thrown in the ditch. Yet a-hunting we will go.
Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, And sweeps across the vale; And when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tail. Then a-hunting we will go.
Fond Echo seems to like the sport, And join the jovial cry; The woods, the hills, the sound retort, And music fills the sky, When a-hunting we do go.
At last his strength to faintness worn, Poor Reynard ceases flight; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night. And a-drinking we do go.
Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare then for the chase; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace, When a-hunting we do go.
Henry Fielding [1707-1754]
THE ANGLER'S INVITATION
Come when the leaf comes, angle with me, Come when the bee hums over the lea, Come with the wild flowers— Come with the wild showers— Come when the singing bird calleth for thee!
Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie, Where the gray trout glide silently by, Or in some still place Over the hill face Hurrying onward, drop the light fly.
Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speed To our own loved walls down on the mead, There, by the bright hearth, Holding our night mirth, We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed.
Thomas Tod Stoddart [1810-1880]
THE ANGLER'S WISH From "The Complete Angler"
I in these flowery mends would be, These crystal streams should solace me; To whose harmonious bubbling noise I, with my angle, would rejoice, Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love;
Or, on that bank, feel the west-wind Breathe health and plenty; please my mind, To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers; Here, hear my Kenna sing a song: There, see a blackbird feed her young,
Or a laverock build her nest; Here, give my weary spirits rest, And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love: Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice;
Or, with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawford brook; There sit by him, and eat my meat; There see the sun both rise and set; There bid good morning to next day; There meditate my time away; And angle on; and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave.
Izaak Walton [1593-1683]
THE ANGLER In "The Complete Angler"
O the gallant fisher's life, It is the best of any! 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife, And 'tis beloved by many; Other joys Are but toys; Only this Lawful is; For our skill Breeds no ill, But content and pleasure.
In a morning, up we rise, Ere Aurora's peeping; Drink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping; Then we go To and fro, With our knacks At our backs, To such streams As the Thames, If we have the leisure.
When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation, Where, in a brook, With a hook,— Or a lake,— Fish we take; There we sit, For a bit, Till we fish entangle.
We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too; None do here Use to swear: Oaths do fray Fish away; We sit still, Watch our quill: Fishers must not wrangle.
If the sun's excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter; Where, in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase, Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging; We are still contented.
Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath; Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented.
John Chalkhill [fl. 1648]
WANDERLUST
TO JANE: THE INVITATION
Best and Brightest, come away! Fairer far than this fair day, Which, like thee, to those in sorrow, Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow To the rough year just awake In its cradle on the brake. The brightest hour of unborn Spring Through the winter wandering, Found, it seems, the halcyon morn To hoar February born; Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, It kissed the forehead of the earth, And smiled upon the silent sea, And bade the frozen streams be free, And waked to music all their fountains, And breathed upon the frozen mountains, And like a prophetess of May Strewed flowers upon the barren way, Making the wintry world appear Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
Away, away, from men and towns, To the wild wood and the downs— To the silent wilderness Where the soul need not repress Its music, lest it should not find An echo in another's mind, While the touch of Nature's art Harmonizes heart to heart.
I leave this notice on my door For each accustomed visitor:— "I am gone into the fields To take what this sweet hour yields;— Reflection, you may come to-morrow, Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.— You with the unpaid bill, Despair,— You tiresome verse-reciter, Care,— I will pay you in the grave,— Death will listen to your stave. Expectation too, be off! To-day is for itself enough; Hope, in pity mock not Woe With smiles, nor follow where I go; Long having lived on thy sweet food, At length I find one moment's good Alter long pain—with all your love, This you never told me of."
Radiant Sister of the Day Awake! arise! and come away! To the wild woods and the plains, To the pools where winter rains Image all their roof of leaves, Where the pine its garland weaves Of sapless green, and ivy dun, Round sterns that never kiss the sun. Where the lawns and pastures be, And the sandhills of the sea;— Where the melting hoar-frost wets The daisy-star that never sets, And wind-flowers, and violets, Which yet join not scent to hue, Crown the pale year weak and new; When the night is left behind In the deep east, dun and blind, And the blue noon is over us, And the multitudinous Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal sun.
Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]
"MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS"
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,— My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,— My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
"AFAR IN THE DESERT"
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead: Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon; Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon; Attachments by fate or falsehood reft; Companions of early days lost or left— And my native land—whose magical name Thrills to the heart like electric flame; The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young, and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; All—all now forsaken—forgotten—foregone! And I—a lone exile remembered of none— My high aims abandoned,—my good acts undone— Aweary of all that is under the sun— With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man.
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife— The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear— The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear— And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh— Oh! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, With the death-fraught firelock in my hand— The only law of the Desert Land!
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. Away—away from the dwellings of men, By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen; By valleys remote where the oribi plays, Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, And the kudu and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine: Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill.
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively: And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.
Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. Away—away—in the wilderness vast Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan: A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; And the bitter melon, for food and drink, Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt-lake's brink; A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears, to refresh the aching eye; But the barren earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread—void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, "A still small voice" comes through the wild, Like a father consoling his fretful child, Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, Saying—Man is distant, but God is near!
Thomas Pringle [1789-1834]
SPRING SONG IN THE CITY
Who remains in London, In the streets with me, Now that Spring is blowing Warm winds from the sea; Now that trees grow green and tall, Now the sun shines mellow, And with moist primroses all English lanes are yellow?
Little barefoot maiden, Selling violets blue, Hast thou ever pictured Where the sweetlings grew? Oh, the warm wild woodland ways, Deep in dewy grasses, Where the wind-blown shadow strays, Scented as it passes!
Peddler breathing deeply, Toiling into town, With the dusty highway You are dusky brown; Hast thou seen by daisied leas, And by rivers flowing, Lilac-ringlets which the breeze Loosens lightly blowing?
Out of yonder wagon Pleasant hay-scents float, He who drives it carries A daisy in his coat: Oh, the English meadows, fair Far beyond all praises! Freckled orchids everywhere Mid the snow of daisies!
Now in busy silence Broods the nightingale, Choosing his love's dwelling In a dimpled dale; Round the leafy bower they raise Rose-trees wild are springing; Underneath, through the green haze, Bounds the brooklet singing.
And his love is silent As a bird can be, For the red buds only Fill the red rose-tree; Just as buds and blossoms blow He'll begin his tune, When all is green and roses glow Underneath the moon.
Nowhere in the valleys Will the wind be still, Everything is waving, Wagging at his will: Blows the milkmaid's kirtle clean With her hand pressed on it; Lightly o'er the hedge so green Blows the plowboy's bonnet.
Oh, to be a-roaming In an English dell! Every nook is wealthy, All the world looks well, Tinted soft the Heavens glow, Over Earth and Ocean, Waters flow, breezes blow, All is light and motion!
Robert Buchanan [1841-1901]
IN CITY STREETS
Yonder in the heather there's a bed for sleeping, Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet.
Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, Homeless in the City, poor among the poor!
London streets are gold—ah, give me leaves a-glinting 'Midst gray dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! London water's wine, poured out for all unstinting— God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run!
Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! Oh, my eye's an ache to see the brown burns flowing Through the peaty soil and tinkling heather-bells.
Ada Smith [18—
THE VAGABOND (To an Air of Schubert)
Give to me the life I love, Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see, Bread I dip in the river— There's the life for a man like me, There's the life for ever.
Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above And the road below me.
Or let autumn fall on me Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree, Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field— Warm the fireside haven— Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even!
Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around, And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above And the road below me.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
IN THE HIGHLANDS
In the highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses And for ever in the hill-recesses Her more lovely music Broods and dies.—
O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted, And the low green meadows Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarred!
O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath! Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only winds and rivers, Life and Death.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS
West wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. The sail is idle, the sailor too; O wind of the west, we wait for you! Blow, blow! I have wooed you so, But never a favor you bestow. You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen.
I stow the sail and unship the mast: I wooed you long, but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest: O drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep! By your mountains steep, Or down where the prairie grasses sweep, Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.
Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe! The reckless waves you must plunge into. Reel, reel, On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel.
We've raced the rapids; we're far ahead: The river slips through its silent bed. Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away.
And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings.
E. Pauline Johnson [1862-1913]
THE GIPSY TRAIL
The white moth to the closing vine, The bee to the opened clover, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over.
Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world, And back at the last to you.
Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, Out of the grime and the gray (Morning waits at the end of the world), Gipsy, come away!
The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp, The red crane to her reed, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad By the tie of a roving breed.
Morning waits at the end of the world Where winds unhaltered play, Nipping the flanks of their plunging ranks, Till the white sea-horses neigh.
The pied snake to the rifted rock, The buck to the stony plain, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, And both to the road again.
Both to the road again, again! Out on a clean sea-track— Follow the cross of the gipsy trail Over the world and back!
Follow the Romany patteran North where the blue bergs sail, And the bows are gray with the frozen spray, And the masts are shod with mail.
Follow the Romany patteran Sheer to the Austral Light, Where the besom of God is the wild south wind, Sweeping the sea-floors white.
Follow the Romany patteran West to the sinking sun, Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift, And the east and the west are one.
Follow the Romany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach In the hush of the Mahirn woods.
The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old.
The heart of a man to the heart of a maid— Light of my tents, be fleet! Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet!
Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]
WANDERLUST
Beyond the East the sunrise, beyond the West the sea, And East and West the wanderlust that will not let me be; It works in me like madness, dear, to bid me say good-by! For the seas call and the stars call, and oh, the call of the sky!
I know not where the white road runs, nor what the blue hills are, But man can have the sun for friend, and for his guide a star; And there's no end of voyaging when once the voice is heard, For the river calls and the road calls, and oh, the call of a bird!
Yonder the long horizon lies, and there by night and day The old ships draw to home again, the young ships sail away; And come I may, but go I must, and if men ask you why, You may put the blame on the stars and the sun and the white road and the sky!
Gerald Gould [1885-1936]
THE FOOTPATH WAY
The winding road lies white and bare, Heavy in dust that takes the glare; The thirsty hedgerows and parched grass Dream of a time when no road was.
Beyond, the fields are full in view, Heavy in herbage and in dew; The great-eyed kine browse thankfully; Come, take the footpath way with me!
This stile, where country lovers tryst, Where many a man and maid have kissed, Invites us sweetly, and the wood Beckons us to her solitude.
Leave men and lumbering wains behind, And dusty roads, all blank and blind; Come tread on velvet and on silk, Damasked with daisies, white as milk.
Those dryads of the wood, that some Call the wild hyacinths, now are come, And hold their revels in a night Of emerald flecked with candle-light.
The fountains of the meadows play, This is the wild bee's holiday; When summer-snows have sweetly dressed The pasture like a wedding-guest,
By fields of beans that shall eclipse The honey on the rose's lips, With woodruff and the new hay's breath, And wild thyme sweetest in her death,
Skirting the rich man's lawn and hall, The footpath way is free to all; For us his pinks and roses blow: Fling him thanksgiving ere we go!
By orchards yet in rosy veils, By hidden nests of nightingales, Through lonesome valleys where all day The rabbit people scurry and play,
The footpath sets her tender lure. This is the country for the poor; The high-road seeks the crowded sea; Come, take the footpath way with me!
Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]
A MAINE TRAIL
Come follow, heart upon your sleeve, The trail, a-teasing by, Past tasseled corn and fresh-mown hay, Trim barns and farm-house shy, Past hollyhocks and white well-sweep, Through pastures bare and wild, Oh come, let's fare to the heart-o'-the-wood With the faith of a little child.
Strike in by the gnarled way through the swamp Where late the laurel shone, An intimate close where you meet yourself And come unto your own, By bouldered brook to the hidden spring Where breath of ferns blows sweet And swift birds break the silence as Their shadows cross your feet.
Stout-hearted thrust through gold-green copse To garner the woodland glee; To weave a garment of warm delight, Of sunspun ecstasy; 'Twill shield you all winter from frosty eyes, 'Twill shield your heart from cold; Such greens!—how the Lord Himself loves green! Such sun!—how He loves the gold!
Then on till flaming fireweed Is quenched in forest deep; Tread soft! The sumptuous paven moss Is spread for Dryads sleep; And list ten thousand thousand spruce Lift up their voice to God— We can a little understand, Born of the self-same sod.
Oh come, the welcoming trees lead on, Their guests are we to-day; Shy violets smile, proud branches bow, Gay mushrooms mark the way; The silence is a courtesy, The well-bred calm of kings; Come haste! the hour sets its face Unto great Happenings.
Gertrude Huntington McGiffert [18-
AFOOT
Comes the lure of green things growing, Comes the call of waters flowing— And the wayfarer desire Moves and wakes and would be going.
Hark the migrant hosts of June Marching nearer noon by noon! Hark the gossip of the grasses Bivouacked beneath the moon!
Long the quest and far the ending When my wayfarer is wending— When desire is once afoot, Doom behind and dream attending!
In his ears the phantom chime Of incommunicable rhyme, He shall chase the fleeting camp-fires Of the Bedouins of Time.
Farer by uncharted ways, Dumb as death to plaint or praise, Unreturning he shall journey, Fellow to the nights and days;
Till upon the outer bar Stilled the moaning currents are, Till the flame achieves the zenith, Till the moth attains the star,
Till through laughter and through tears Fair the final peace appears, And about the watered pastures Sink to sleep the nomad years!
Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-
FROM ROMANY TO ROME
Upon the road to Romany It's stay, friend, stay! There's lots o' love and lots o' time To linger on the way; Poppies for the twilight, Roses for the noon, It's happy goes as lucky goes To Romany in June.
But on the road to Rome—oh, It's march, man, march! The dust is on the chariot wheels, The sere is on the larch, Helmets and javelins And bridles flecked with foam— The flowers are dead, the world's ahead Upon the road to Rome.
But on the road to Rome—ah, It's fight, man, fight! Footman and horseman Treading left and right, Camp-fires and watch-fires Ruddying the gloam— The fields are gray and worn away Along the road to Rome.
Upon the road to Romany It's sing, boys, sing! Though rag and pack be on our back We'll whistle to the King. Wine is in the sunshine, Madness in the moon, And de'il may care the road we fare To Romany in June.
Along the road to Rome, alas! The glorious dust is whirled, Strong hearts are fierce to see The City of the World; Yet footfall or bugle-call Or thunder as ye will, Upon the road to Romany The birds are calling still!
Wallace Irwin [1875-
THE TOIL OF THE TRAIL
What have I gained by the toil of the trail? I know and know well. I have found once again the lore I had lost In the loud city's hell.
I have broadened my hand to the cinch and the axe, I have laid my flesh to the rain; I was hunter and trailer and guide; I have touched the most primitive wildness again.
I have threaded the wild with the stealth of the deer, No eagle is freer than I; No mountain can thwart me, no torrent appall, I defy the stern sky. So long as I live these joys will remain, I have touched the most primitive wildness again.
Hamlin Garland [1860-
DO YOU FEAR THE WIND?
Do you fear the force of the wind, The slash of the rain? Go face them and fight them, Be savage again. Go hungry and cold like the wolf, Go wade like the crane: The palms of your hands will thicken, The skin of your cheek will tan, You'll grow ragged and weary and swarthy, But you'll walk like a man!
Hamlin Garland [1860-
THE KING'S HIGHWAY "El Camino Real"
All in the golden weather, forth let us ride to-day, You and I together, on the King's Highway, The blue skies above us, and below the shining sea; There's many a road to travel, but it's this road for me.
It's a long road and sunny, and the fairest in the world— There are peaks that rise above it in their snowy mantles curled, And it leads from the mountains through a hedge of chaparral, Down to the waters where the sea gulls call.
It's a long road and sunny, it's a long road and old, And the brown padres made it for the flocks of the fold; They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk that trod From the fields in the open to the shelter-house of God.
They made it for the sandals of the sinner-folk of old; Now the flocks they are scattered and death keeps the fold; But you and I together we will take the road to-day, With the breath in our nostrils, on the King's Highway.
We will take the road together through the morning's golden glow, And we'll dream of those who trod it in the mellowed long ago; We will stop at the Missions where the sleeping padres lay, And we'll bend a knee above them for their souls' sake to pray.
We'll ride through the valleys where the blossom's on the tree, Through the orchards and the meadows with the bird and the bee, And we'll take the rising hills where the manzanitas grow, Past the gray tails of waterfalls where blue violets blow.
Old Conquistadores, O brown priests and all, Give us your ghosts for company when night begins to fall; There's many a road to travel, but it's this road to-day, With the breath of God about us on the King's Highway.
John S. McGroarty [1862-
THE FORBIDDEN LURE
"Leave all and follow—follow!" Lure of the sun at dawn, Lure of a wind-paced hollow, Lure of the stars withdrawn; Lure of the brave old singing Brave perished minstrels knew; Of dreams like sea-fog clinging To boughs the night sifts through:
"Leave all and follow—follow!" The sun goes up the day; Flickering wing of swallow, Blossoms that blow away,— What would you, luring, luring, When I must bide at home? My heart will break her mooring And die in reef-flung foam!
Oh, I must never listen, Call not outside my door. Green leaves, you must not glisten Like water, any more. Oh, Beauty, wandering Beauty, Pass by; speak not. For see, By bed and board stands Duty To snatch my dreams from me!
Fannie Stearns Davis [1884-
THE WANDER-LOVERS
Down the world with Marna! That's the life for me! Wandering with the wandering wind, Vagabond and unconfined! Roving with the roving rain Its unboundaried domain! Kith and kin of wander-kind, Children of the sea!
Petrels of the sea-drift! Swallows of the lea! Arabs of the whole wide girth Of the wind-encircled earth! In all climes we pitch our tents, Cronies of the elements, With the secret lords of birth Intimate and free.
All the seaboard knows us From Fundy to the Keys; Every bend and every creek Of abundant Chesapeake; Ardise hills and Newport coves And the far-off orange groves, Where Floridian oceans break, Tropic tiger seas.
Down the world with Marna, Tarrying there and here! Just as much at home in Spain As in Tangier or Touraine! Shakespeare's Avon knows us well, And the crags of Neufchatel; And the ancient Nile is fain Of our coming near.
Down the world with Marna, Daughter of the air! Marna of the subtle grace, And the vision in her face! Moving in the measures trod By the angels before God! With her sky-blue eyes amaze And her sea-blue hair!
Marna with the trees' life In her veins a-stir! Marna of the aspen heart Where the sudden quivers start! Quick-responsive, subtle, wild! Artless as an artless child, Spite of all her reach of art! Oh, to roam with her!
Marna with the wind's will, Daughter of the sea! Marna of the quick disdain, Starting at the dream of stain! At a smile with love aglow, At a frown a statued woe, Standing pinnacled in pain Till a kiss sets free!
Down the world with Marna, Daughter of the fire! Marna of the deathless hope, Still alert to win new scope Where the wings of life may spread For a flight unhazarded! Dreaming of the speech to cope With the heart's desire!
Marna of the far quest After the divine! Striving ever for some goal Past the blunder-god's control! Dreaming of potential years When no day shall dawn in fears! That's the Marna of my soul, Wander-bride of mine!
Richard Hovey [1864-1900]
THE SEA GIPSY
I am fevered with the sunset, I am fretful with the bay, For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay.
There's a schooner in the offing, With her topsails shot with fire, And my heart has gone aboard her For the Islands of Desire.
I must forth again to-morrow! With the sunset I must be Hull down on the trail of rapture In the wonder of the Sea.
Richard Hovey [1864-1900]
A VAGABOND SONG
There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood— Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.
The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
There is something in October sets the gipsy blood astir; We must rise and-follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name.
Bliss Carman [1861-1929]
SPRING SONG
Make me over, Mother April, When the sap beings to stir! When thy flowery hand delivers All the mountain-prisoned rivers, And thy great heart beats and quivers To revive the days that were, Make me over, Mother April, When the sap begins to stir!
Take my dust and all my dreaming, Count my heart-beats one by one, Send them where the winters perish; Then some golden noon recherish And restore them in the sun, Flower and scent and dust and dreaming, With their heart-beats every one!
Set me in the urge and tide-drift Of the streaming hosts a-wing! Breast of scarlet, throat of yellow, Raucous challenge, wooings mellow— Every migrant is my fellow, Making northward with the spring. Loose me in the urge and tide-drift Of the streaming hosts a-wing!
Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle, In the valleys come again; Fife of frog and call of tree-toad, All my brothers, five or three-toed, With their revel no more vetoed, Making music in the rain; Shrilling pipe or fluting whistle, In the valleys come again.
Make me of thy seed to-morrow, When the sap begins to stir! Tawny light-foot, sleepy bruin, Bright-eyes in the orchard ruin, Gnarl the good life goes askew in, Whiskey-jack, or tanager,— Make me anything to-morrow, When the sap begins to stir!
Make me even (How do I know?) Like my friend the gargoyle there; It may be the heart within him Swells that doltish hands should pin him Fixed forever in mid-air. Make me even sport for swallows, Like the soaring gargoyle there!
Give me the old clue to follow, Through the labyrinth of night! Clod of clay with heart of fire, Things that burrow and aspire, With the vanishing desire, For the perishing delight,— Only the old clue to follow, Through the labyrinth of night!
Make me over, Mother April, When the sap begins to stir! Fashion me from swamp or meadow, Garden plot or ferny shadow, Hyacinth or humble burr! Make me over, Mother April, When the sap begins to stir!
Let me hear the far, low summons, When the silver winds return; Rills that run and streams that stammer, Goldenwing with his loud hammer, Icy brooks that brawl and clamor, Where the Indian willows burn; Let me hearken to the calling, When the silver winds return,
Till recurring and recurring, Long since wandered and come back, Like a whim of Grieg's or Gounod's, This same self, bird, bud, or Bluenose, Some day I may capture (Who knows?) Just the one last joy I lack, Waking to the far new summons, When the old spring winds come back.
For I have no choice of being, When the sap begins to climb,— Strong insistence, sweet intrusion, Vasts and verges of illusion,— So I win, to time's confusion, The one perfect pearl of time, Joy and joy and joy forever, Till the sap forgets to climb!
Make me over in the morning From the rag-bag of the world! Scraps of dream and duds of daring, Home-brought stuff from far sea-faring, Faded colors once so flaring, Shreds of banners long since furled! Hues of ash and glints of glory, In the rag-bag of the world!
Let me taste the old immortal Indolence of life once more; Not recalling nor foreseeing, Let the great slow joys of being Well my heart through as of yore! Let me taste the old immortal Indolence of life once more!
Give me the old drink for rapture, The delirium to drain, All my fellows drank in plenty At the Three Score Inns and Twenty From the mountains to the main! Give me the old drink for rapture, The delirium to drain!
Only make me over, April, When the sap begins to stir! Make me man or make me woman, Make me oaf or ape or human, Cup of flower or cone of fir; Make me anything but neuter When the sap begins to stir!
Bliss Carman [1861-1929]
THE MENDICANTS
We are as mendicants who wait Along the roadside in the sun. Tatters of yesterday and shreds Of morrow clothe us every one.
And some are dotards, who believe And glory in the days of old; While some are dreamers, harping still Upon an unknown age of gold.
Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds, As lavish Time comes down the way And tosses in the suppliant hat One great new-minted gold To-day.
Ungrateful heart and grudging thanks, His beggar's wisdom only sees Housing and bread and beer enough; He knows no other things than these.
O foolish ones, put by your care! Where wants are many, joys are few; And at the wilding springs of peace, God keeps an open house for you.
But that some Fortunatus' gift Is lying there within his hand, More costly than a pot of pearls, His dullness does not understand.
And so his creature heart is filled; His shrunken self goes starved away. Let him wear brand-new garments still, Who has a threadbare soul, I say.
But there be others, happier few, The vagabondish sons of God, Who know the by-ways and the flowers, And care not how the world may plod.
They idle down the traffic lands, And loiter through the woods with spring; To them the glory of the earth Is but to hear a bluebird sing.
They too receive each one his Day; But their wise heart knows many things Beyond the sating of desire, Above the dignity of kings.
One I remember kept his coin, And laughing flipped it in the air; But when two strolling pipe-players Came by, he tossed it to the pair.
Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart Danced to their wild outlandish bars; Then supperless he laid him down That night, and slept beneath the stars.
Bliss Carman [1861-1929]
THE JOYS OF THE ROAD
Now the joys of the road are chiefly these: A crimson touch on the hard-wood trees;
A vagrant's morning wide and blue, In early fall, when the wind walks, too;
A shadowy highway cool and brown Alluring up and enticing down
From rippled water to dappled swamp, From purple glory to scarlet pomp;
The outward eye, the quiet will, And the striding heart from hill to hill;
The tempter apple over the fence; The cobweb bloom on the yellow quince;
The palish asters along the wood,— A lyric touch of the solitude;
An open hand, an easy shoe, And a hope to make the day go through,—
Another to sleep with, and a third To wake me up at the voice of a bird;
The resonant far-listening morn, And the hoarse whisper of the corn;
The crickets mourning their comrades lost, In the night's retreat from the gathering frost;
(Or is it their slogan, plaintive and shrill, As they beat on their corselets, valiant still?)
A hunger fit for the kings of the sea, And a loaf of bread for Dickon and me;
A thirst like that of the Thirsty Sword, And a jug of cider on the board;
An idle noon, a bubbling spring, The sea in the pine-tops murmuring;
A scrap of gossip at the ferry; A comrade neither glum nor merry,
Asking nothing, revealing naught, But minting his words from a fund of thought.
A keeper of silence eloquent, Needy, yet royally well content,
Of the mettled breed, yet abhorring strife, And full of the mellow juice of life,
A taster of wine, with an eye for a maid Never too bold, and never afraid,
Never heart-whole, never heart-sick, (These are the things I worship in Dick)
No fidget and no reformer, just A calm observer of ought and must,
A lover of books, but a reader of man, No cynic and no charlatan,
Who never defers and never demands, But, smiling, takes the world in his hands,—
Seeing it good as when God first saw And gave it the weight of his will for law.
And O the joy that is never won, But follows and follows the journeying sun,
By marsh and tide, by meadow and stream, A will-o'-the-wind, a light-o'-dream,
Delusion afar, delight anear, From morrow to morrow, from year to year,
A jack-o'-lantern, a fairy fire, A dare, a bliss, and a desire!
The racy smell of the forest loam, When the stealthy, sad-heart leaves go home;
(O leaves, O leaves, I am one with you, Of the mould and the sun and the wind and the dew!)
The broad gold wake of the afternoon; The silent fleck of the cold new moon;
The sound of the hollow sea's release From stormy tumult to starry peace;
With only another league to wend; And two brown arms at the journey's end!
These are the joys of the open road— For him who travels without a load.
Bliss Carman [1861-1929]
THE SONG OF THE FOREST RANGER
Oh, to feel the fresh breeze blowing From lone ridges yet untrod! Oh, to see the far peak growing Whiter as it climbs to God!
Where the silver streamlet rushes I would follow—follow on Till I heard the happy thrushes Piping lyrics to the dawn.
I would hear the wild rejoicing Of the wind-blown cedar tree, Hear the sturdy hemlock voicing Ancient epics of the sea.
Forest aisles would I be winding, Out beyond the gates of Care; And, in dim cathedrals, finding Silence at the shrine of Prayer.
When the mystic night comes stealing Through my vast, green room afar, Never king had richer ceiling— Beaded bough and yellow star!
Ah, to list the sacred preaching Of the forest's faithful fir, With his strong arms upward reaching— Mighty, trustful worshipper!
Come and learn the joy of living! Come and you will understand How the sun his gold is giving With a great, impartial hand!
How the patient pine is climbing, Year by year to gain the sky; How the rill makes sweetest rhyming, Where the deepest shadows lie.
I am nearer the great Giver, Where His handiwork is crude; Friend am I of peak and river, Comrade of old Solitude.
Not for me the city's riot! Not for me the towers of Trade! I would seek the house of Quiet, That the Master Workman made!
Herbert Bashford [1871-1928]
A DROVER
To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford, Go my cattle and me.
I hear in the darkness Their slipping and breathing— I name them the bye-ways They're to pass without heeding;
Then, the wet, winding roads, Brown bogs with black water; And my thoughts on white ships And the King o' Spain's daughter.
O! farmer, strong farmer! You can spend at the fair; But your face you must turn To your crops and your care.
And soldiers—red soldiers! You've seen many lands; But you walk two by two, And by captain's commands.
O! the smell of the beasts, The wet wind in the morn; And the proud and hard earth Never broken for corn;
And the crowds at the fair, The herds loosened and blind, Loud words and dark faces And the wild blood behind.
(O! strong men; with your best I would strive breast to breast, I could quiet your herds With my words, with my words.)
I will bring you, my kine, Where there's grass to the knee; But you'll think of scant croppings Harsh with salt of the sea.
Padraic Colum [1881-
BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN
John-a-Dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum There they met with Low-lie-down.
Brave in shoes of Romany leather, Bodice blue and gypsy gown, And a cap of fur and feather, In the inn sat Low-lie-down.
Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly; Smiled into her eyes of brown: Clasped her waist and held her tightly, Laughing, "Love me, Low-lie-down!"
Then with many an oath and swagger, As a man of great renown, On the board he clapped his dagger, Called for sack and sat him down.
So a while they laughed together; Then he rose and with a frown Sighed, "While still 'tis pheasant weather, I must leave thee, Low-lie-down."
So away rode Harum-Scarum; With a song rode out of town; At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum Weeping tarried Low-lie-down.
Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters, In his pocket ne'er a crown, Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters! Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.
"Here's my hand: we'll roam together, Far away from thorp and town. Here's my heart,—for any weather,— And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.
"Some men call me dreamer, poet: Some men call me fool and clown— What I am but you shall know it, Only you, sweet Low-lie-down."
For a little while she pondered: Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!" Up and kissed him.... Forth they wandered, John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.
Madison Cawein [1865-1914]
THE GOOD INN From "The Inn of the Silver Moon."
What care if the day Be turned to gray, What care if the night come soon! We may choose the pace Who bow for grace At the Inn of the Silver Moon.
Ah, hurrying Sirs, Drive deep your spurs, For it's far to the steepled town— Where the wallet's weight Shall fix your state And buy for ye smile or frown. Through our tiles of green Do the stars between Laugh down from the skies of June, And there's naught to pay For a couch of hay At the Inn of the Silver Moon.
You laboring lout, Pull out, pull out, With a hand to the creaking tire, For it's many a mile By path and stile To the old wife crouched by the fire. But the door is wide In the hedgerow side, And we ask not bowl nor spoon Whose draught of must Makes soft the crust At the Inn of the Silver Moon.
Then, here's to the Inn Of the empty bin, To the Host of the trackless dune! And here's to the friend Of the journey's end At the Inn of the Silver Moon.
Herman Knickerbocker Viele [1856-1908]
NIGHT FOR ADVENTURES
Sometimes when fragrant summer dusk comes in with scent of rose and musk And scatters from their sable husk the stars like yellow grain, Oh, then the ancient longing comes that lures me like a roll of drums To follow where the cricket strums his banjo in the lane.
And when the August moon comes up and like a shallow, silver cup Pours out upon the fields and roads her amber-colored beams, A leafy whisper mounts and calls from out the forest's moss grown halls To leave the city's somber walls and take the road of dreams.
A call that bids me rise and strip, and, naked all from toe to lip, To wander where the dewdrops drip from off the silent trees, And where the hairy spiders spin their nets of silver, fragile-thin, And out to where the fields begin, like down upon the breeze.
Into a silver pool to plunge, and like a great trout wheel and lunge Among the lily-bonnets and the stars reflected there; With face upturned to lie afloat, with moonbeams rippling round my throat, And from the slimy grasses plait a chaplet for my hair.
Then, leaping from my rustic bath, to take some winding meadow-path: Across the fields of aftermath to run with flying feet, And feel the dewdrop-weighted grass that bends beneath me as I pass, Where solemn trees in shadowy mass beyond the highway meet.
And, plunging deep within the woods, among the leaf-hung solitudes Where scarce one timid star intrudes into the breathless gloom, Go leaping down some fern-hid way to scare the rabbits in their play, And see the owl, a fantom gray, drift by on silent plume.
To fling me down at length and rest upon some damp and mossy nest, And hear the choir of surpliced frogs strike up a bubbling tune; And watch, above the dreaming trees, Orion and the Hyades And all the stars, like golden bees, around the lily-moon.
Then who can say if I have gone a-gipsying from dusk till dawn In company with fay and faun, where firefly-lanterns gleam? And have I danced on cobwebs thin to Master Locust's mandolin— Or I have spent the night in bed, and was it all a dream?
Victor Starbuck [1887-
SONG From "The Way Of Perfect Love"
Something calls and whispers, along the city street, Through shrill cries of children and soft stir of feet, And makes my blood to quicken and makes my flesh to pine. The mountains are calling; the winds wake the pine.
Past the quivering poplars that tell of water near The long road is sleeping, the white road is clear. Yet scent and touch can summon, afar from brook and tree, The deep boom of surges, the gray waste of sea.
Sweet to dream and linger, in windless orchard close, On bright brows of ladies to garland the rose, But all the time are glowing, beyond this little world, The still light of planets and the star-swarms whirled.
Georgiana Goddard King [1871-
THE VOORTREKKER
The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire, He shall fulfill God's utmost will unknowing His desire; And he shall see old planets pass and alien stars arise, And give the gale his seaworn sail in shadow of new skies. Strong lust of gear shall drive him forth and hunger arm his hand To win his food from the desert rude, his foothold from the sand. His neighbors' smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest, He shall go forth till South is North, sullen and dispossessed. He shall desire loneliness, and his desire shall bring Hard on his heels a thousand wheels, a People, and a King; He shall come back in his own track, and by his scarce cooled camp; There shall he meet the roaring street, the derrick, and the stamp; There he shall blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand, Till on his last-won wilderness an Empire's outposts stand!
Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]
THE LONG TRAIL
There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, And the ricks stand gray to the sun, Singing: "Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, And your English summer's done." You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song—how long? how long? Pull out on the trail again!
Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We've seen the seasons through, And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new!
It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun, Or South to the blind Horn's hate; Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, Or West to the Golden Gate; Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales are true, And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll Of a black Bilbao tramp; With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, And a drunken Dago crew, And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, From Cadiz south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, Or the way of a man with a maid; But the sweetest way to me is a ship's upon the sea In the heel of the North-East Trade. Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, And the drum of the racing screw, As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new?
See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, And the fenders grind and heave, And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; It's "Gang-plank up and in," dear lass, It's "Hawsers warp her through!" And it's "All clear aft" on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're backing down on tile Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, And the sirens hoot their dread! When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep To the sob of the questing lead! It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, With the Gunfleet Sands in view, Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light That holds the hot sky tame, And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors Where the scared whale flukes in flame! Her plates are flaked by the sun, dear lass, And her ropes are taut with the dew, For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, And the shouting seas drive by, And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, And the Southern Cross rides high! Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue. They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, They're God's own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start— We're steaming all too slow, And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle Where the trumpet-orchids blow! You have heard the call of the off-shore wind And the voice of the deep-sea rain; You have heard the song—how long—how long? Pull out on the trail again!
The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, And the Deuce knows what we may do— But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, We're down, hull down, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new!
Rudyard Kipling [1865-1936]
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