PIETY
A quiet garment for eternal wear, Designed above frail fashion's mortal dress, Worked with a web of faith, a woof of prayer, Coloured with love and fair with gentleness.
BLUE SKY
(From the French of Marcel Doran).
O! weary waste of shoreless blue Where weary wing may never rest! O! awful brightness burning through The barrier of the gate of rest! My spirit longs to reach the strand Of sorrow-soothing shadowland.
But what can this poor spirit wear To hide the naked wounds, pain-kissed Beneath the searching, ceaseless glare Of cloudless burning amethyst? Where can the sad grey spirit fly The unrelenting agony?
O! for some shadow-haunted stream Where tired eyes might fall asleep, And in the peace of darkling dream See Sorrow's pageant homeward creep, Feel angel hands with white caress Soothe eyelids dark with heaviness!
O! for some minster where the balm Of cooling touch my wounds might heal; Where always dwells a Sabbath calm, Made sweeter by the solemn peal Of bells, that trembling fill the air With noble notes of perfect prayer!
SHADOWS
Shadows, the pale grey wings of night, Sweep over the sky, And low in the west the lingering light Wanes—like a sigh From the fervent heart of the day Passing away: Then afar Shineth a star.
Shadows, the pale grey wings of Death, Sweep over my heart; And far in the dark a voice calleth, "Come ye, depart." There lingers no light from the day Passing away, But afar Shineth a Star!
WHEN I WAS A LAD
When I was a lad in Petherick I often lay me down And built a beautiful city And called it London Town. I filled its streets with heroes Beautiful strong and wise, Men who were kings and princes, Women with kindly eyes. I spent the gold of the charlock For paving the city street; I saw bright flags awaving Over the billowing wheat; And loud in the brown bee's buzzing I heard the far-off hum Of the mart and the busy merchants, And the wharves where the big ships come. When I was a lad in Petherick I often lay me down, And built this wonderful city, And called it London Town.
* * * * Now I'm a man in London— Golden dreams I had Of a golden city of London Long since when I was a lad. Here on the long grey pavement I seek that city still But there isn't much gold in Fleet Street, Or glamour on Ludgate Hill. For the hurrying men look haggard, And the women have weary eyes, And the voices of pale-faced children Mingle in fretful cries.
There's gold in the field of charlock, There's gold on the billowing wheat, And the bee sucks golden honey In lanes where the flowers are sweet. And small ships sail in the distance To a golden bourne in the west, And the gentle peace of twilight Is the purest gold of rest.
* * * * Dreams of the man in London! Useless dreams and sad, Of the far-off village of Petherick And the far-off Cornish lad.
A CALL
Let us go out to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing; Let us go out where the ancient hills mother the rivers that run to the sea; Let us go out where the wind wanders, tuning amid the trees swaying, Let us go out to the wider world where the thoughts of men are free.
There on the hills the eye may see the changeless Beauty changing On sun-splashed grass and wavering corn, verdant valley and rolling down, Clouds steal up from a far-off tryst, like Titans into battalions ranging, And the splendid Sun-god marching on to crown the world with a golden crown.
Here in the City the voices are hoarse. Here is calling and crying, Lust and longing for pride of place, vanity, pomp, and the strain of strife; Here in the City sobs arise from the battered hosts of the falling and dying, Who know not Peace, nor the End of Peace; who know not Life, nor the End of Life.
Let us away from the webbed town-tangle, where monstrous Mammon is reigning Over the small cheap souls of slaves, sudden to cringe and swift to serve; Let us go out from the clanging Gates, the squalour of strife and the sordid straining, Let us go out by the open road with feet that falter not nor swerve.
Come! and away to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing! Hark to the Voice of a splendid Peace calling from hill and river and sea! Come! and away to the old Earth Mother, giver of gifts without the praying, There, in the hills Her throne is set, and the thoughts of men are free.
THE RETURN
I must go down to the little grey port that watches the western sea, And wander again in the winding street that climbs the windy hill, There I shall find in a jasmined porch a door set wide for me, There I shall have my will.
For a little window looks out by day on a blue unsleeping tide, Where brown-sailed boats sweep up and down for the harvest of the deep; And nightly beacons a twinkling light to wanderers scattered wide, And guides them home to sleep.
And the flowing tide comes flooding in and chants around the quay A roaring song from the Ocean's heart of the lands that are fair and far; And the ebbing tide goes sobbing out, murmuring wistfully Over the harbour bar.
There I shall stand among men who are strong with the strength of the wind and the wave, And hold simple talk with men who are wise with the wisdom of sky and sea; There I shall find in a patient endurance the sure-set faith of the brave, There shall my heart be free.
IN THE BAY
The schooner swells its sails for the far-off seas, The steamer pounds proudly far away, But I'd sooner be ascudding in a ten-knot breeze In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.
The schooner sings the wind's song from Bristol to Brazil, The steamer knows the whole World's way, But I can see a cottage on a windy hill From my little lug and mizzen in the bay.
The schooner's up to hatches with her pig-iron, coal, and mud, The steamer, plugged with cargo, heaves away, But I can whiffle mackerel as through the waves I scud In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.
O! living in a schooner is like living in a tree, And a steamer's like a big hotel to-day, If I had my choice of sailing, I know I'd soonest be In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.
SEA-FOAM
The once-flashed beauty borne on a breaking wave Dies to a requiem sung on the sounding shore; Beyond all reach of mortal power to save In spray-crowned glory it passes for evermore.
Would that the heart could capture and hold and keep The glory of beauty, sped in a moment's space! Could fix for ever the splendour and strength and sweep Of the wind-wild wave, in its riotous rapturous race!
Brave brief hopes, are you not sped as the wave— Sped to a requiem sighed on a wreck-strewn shore? While memory murmurs in dreams that you once were brave, And sadness softly sighs that you are no more.
ECHOES
By the way of blowing roses, in the laughter-laden years, Happy lads and lightsome lasses tripped the song-sweet lanes with me; Gladness woke the hillside echoes in the sound of ringing cheers, Rapture rippled on the breezes sweeping from the rippled sea.
Happy lads have left the hillside for a bourne beyond the bay, Lightsome lasses know not laughter hid beneath enduring stone; Echoes of a strangled sorrow in the sea mist far away, Haunt the lanes where song is silent and the roses all are blown.
A BALLADE OF CORNWALL
Westward where the latest sunbeam lingers on the brow of night, Lies a land of old romance enshrined in amethystine sea, Where from cairn and cromlech come, to eyes illumed by subtle sight, Fays and pixies, sprites and gnomes, in pomp of faery pageantry. Shining forms of ghostly knights, and dream-like dames of chivalry Gleam among the gorse and furze, and pace the reedy valleys low, Moving through a magic mist amid the days of long ago— Knights and ladies living still in trusted legendary lore Lilt their lovelorn lays or speed their clamorous challenge to the foe In the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned rock-strewn shore.
Gauntly glooms Tintagel Castle from its frowning, dizzy height, Where the fair Iseult is crooning happy songs in thoughtless glee; Softly falls the creeping footstep, sudden flash the sparks of spite, Lifeless lies the love-led Tristram lowly at his lady's knee, Past the stress of wandering sorrow, past the philtred esctasy. Then there breaks the sound of slaughter, clanging blow on clanging blow, Clash of brand and crash of axe, while shrieks shrill up from deeps below, Where the sea's majestic music mixes with the mortal roar. Still the ghostly field engages, still the tides of battle flow In the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned rock-strewn shore.
Down the rugged slopes of Rough Tor ancient heroes armour dight, Charge across the bridge of slaughter where the mist hangs heavily. There the brand Excalibur goes flashing through the last dim fight Wielded by the stainless king who fighting falls his wierd to dree. Then across the mere there come a silent, shadowy, queenly, three, Golden crowned, who bear him off with bitter tears of quenchless woe Unto valleyed Avilon, where falls not rain, nor hail, nor snow, Nor the faith unfaithful brings a dolorous doom for ever-more. Still across the dream lit waters moves the stately shadow show In the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned rock-strewn shore.
ENVOI
Friend, these smiling buds of fancy you may gather as you go. Still the fairy bells are ringing in the evening's afterglow; Still the questing knights adventure over mountain, stream, and moor; All the ancient splendid beauty understanding hearts may know In the land where ceaseless surges smite the crag-crowned rock-strewn shore.
THE FISHERMAN'S PRAYER
Pray God, hear our prayer; Keep us in Thy calm of care; Lead us where the haul be good, So our fishing find us food; Give us strength our nets to haul And safe to harbour bring us all.
Pray God, Whose Son did know Fishermen and sea below, And Who calmed the tempest when Terror came to fishermen, Hear us when for help we call, And safe to harbour bring us all.
Pray God, Who made the sea, Hear the fishers' prayer to Thee. Steer us clear of shoal and reef, So our boat may bear no grief; Bear us up through storm and squall, And safe to harbour bring us all.
Pray God, Who shines afar Like a friendly pilot star, Help us set our course aright By Thy Holy Beacon Light, For the Port where live the blest, And in Thy Harbour give us rest.