Behind the Arras Part 3

Wise and grave was the water face, A youth grown man in a little s.p.a.ce;

While the wayworn face by the river side Grew gentler-lipped and shadowy-eyed;

For he heard like a sea-horn summoning him That sound from the world's end vast and dim,

Where the river went wandering out so far Through a gate in the mountain left ajar,

The sea birds love and the land birds flee, The large bleak voice of the burly sea.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

_The Cruise of the Galleon_

This laboring vast, Tellurian Galleon, Riding at anchor off the orient sun, Had broken its cable, and stood out to s.p.a.ce.

FRANCIS THOMPSON.

Galleon, ahoy, ahoy!

Old earth riding off the sun, And straining at your cable as you ride On the tide, Battered laboring and vast, In the blast Of the hurricane that blows between the worlds, Ahoy!

'Morning, s.h.i.+pmates! 'Drift and chartless?

Laded deep and rolling hard?

Never guessed, outworn and heartless, There was land so close aboard?

Ice on every shroud and eyelet, Rocking in the windy trough?

No more panic; Man's your pilot; Turns the flood, and we are off!

At the story of disaster, From the continents of sleep, I am come to be your master And put out into the deep.

What tide current struck you hither, Beating up the storm of years?

Where are those who stood to weather These uncharted gulfs of tears?

Did your fellows all drive under In the maelstrom of the sun, While you only, for a wonder, Rode the wash you could not shun?

We'll crowd sail across the sea-line,-- Clear this harbor, reef and buoy, Bowling down an open bee-line For the lat.i.tudes of joy;

Till beyond the zones of sorrow, Past griefs haven in the night, Some large simpler world shall morrow This pale region's northern light.

Not a fear but all the sea-room, Wherein time is but a bay, Yet shall sparkle for our lee-room In the vast Altrurian day.

And the dauntless seaworn spirit Shall awake to know there are What dominions to inherit, Anch.o.r.ed off another star!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

_A Song Before Sailing_

"Cras ingens iterabimus aequor."

Wind of the dead men's feet, Blow down the empty street Of this old city by the sea With news for me!

Blow me beyond the grime And pestilence of time!

I am too sick at heart to war With failure any more.

Thy chill is in my bones; The moonlight on the stones Is pale, and palpable, and cold; I am as one grown old.

I call from room to room Through the deserted gloom; The echoes are all words I know, Lost in some long ago.

I prowl from door to door, And find no comrade more.

The wolfish fear that children feel Is snuffing at my heel.

I hear the hollow sound Of a great s.h.i.+p coming round, The thunder of tackle and the tread Of sailors overhead.

That stormy-blown hulloo Has orders for me, too.

I see thee, hand at mouth, and hark, My captain of the dark.

O wind of the great East, By whom we are released From this strange dusty port to sail Beyond our fellows' hail,

Under the stars that keep The entry of the deep, Thy somber voice brings up the sea's Forgotten melodies;

And I have no more need Of bread, or wine, or creed, Bound for the colonies of time Beyond the farthest prime.

Wind of the dead men's feet, Blow through the empty street!

The last adventurer am I, Then, world, good-by!

_In the Wings_

The play is Life; and this round earth, The narrow stage whereon We act before an audience Of actors dead and gone.

There is a figure in the wings That never goes away, And though I cannot see his face, I shudder while I play.

His shadow looms behind me here, Or capers at my side; And when I mouth my lines in dread, Those scornful lips deride.

Sometimes a hooting laugh breaks out, And startles me alone; While all my fellows, wondering At my stage-fright, play on.

I fear that when my Exit comes, I shall encounter there, Stronger than fate, or time, or love, And sterner than despair,

The Final Critic of the craft, As stage tradition tells; And yet--perhaps 'twill only be The jester with his bells.