A Midsummer Holiday and Other Poems Part 4

Be night's dark word as the word of a wizard, Be the word of dawn as a G.o.d's glad word, Like heads of the spirits of darkness visored That see not for ever, nor ever have heard, These basnets, plumed as for fight or plumeless, Crowned of the storm and by storm discrowned, Keep ward of the lists where the dead lie tombless And the tale of them is not found.

Nor eye may number nor hand may reckon The t.i.thes that are taken of life by the dark, Or the ways of the path, if doom's hand beckon, For the soul to fare as a helmless bark-- Fare forth on a way that no sign showeth, Nor aught of its goal or of aught between, A path for her flight which no fowl knoweth, Which the vulture's eye hath not seen.

Here still, though the wave and the wind seem lovers Lulled half asleep by their own soft words, A dream as of death in the sun's light hovers, And a sign in the motions and cries of the birds.

Dark auguries and keen from the sweet sea-swallows Strike noon with a sense as of midnight's breath, And the wing that flees and the wing that follows Are as types of the wings of death.

For here, when the night roars round, and under The white sea lightens and leaps like fire, Acclaimed of storm and applauded in thunder, Sits death on the throne of his crowned desire.

Yea, hardly the hand of the G.o.d might fas.h.i.+on A seat more strong for his strength to take, For the might of his heart and the pride of his pa.s.sion To rejoice in the wars they make.

When the heart in him brightens with blitheness of battle And the depth of its thirst is fulfilled with strife, And his ear with the ravage of bolts that rattle, And the soul of death with the pride of life, Till the darkness is loud with his dark thanksgiving And wind and cloud are as chords of his hymn, There is nought save death in the deep night living And the whole night wors.h.i.+ps him.

Heaven's height bows down to him, signed with his token, And the sea's depth, moved as a heart that yearns, Heaves up to him, strong as a heart half broken, A heart that breaks in a prayer that burns Of cloud is the shrine of his wors.h.i.+p moulded, But the altar therein is of sea-shaped stone, Whereon, with the strength of his wide wings folded, Sits death in the dark, alone.

He hears the word of his servant spoken, The word that the wind his servant saith, Storm writes on the front of the night his token, That the skies may seem to bow down to death But the clouds that stoop and the storms that minister Serve but as thralls that fulfil their tasks; And his seal is not set save here on the sinister Crests reared of the crownless casques.

Nor flame nor plume of the storm that crowned them Gilds or quickens their stark black strength.

Life lightens and murmurs and laughs right round them, At peace with the noon's whole breadth and length, At one with the heart of the soft-souled heaven, At one with the life of the kind wild land: But its touch may unbrace not the strengths of the seven Casques hewn of the storm-wind's hand.

No touch may loosen the black braced helmlets For the wild elves' heads of the wild waves wrought.

As flowers on the sea are her small green realmlets, Like heavens made out of a child's heart's thought; But these as thorns of her desolate places, Strong fangs that fasten and hold lives fast: And the vizors are framed as for formless faces That a dark dream sees go past.

Of fear and of fate are the frontlets fas.h.i.+oned, And the heads behind them are dire and dumb.

When the heart of the darkness is scarce impa.s.sioned, Thrilled scarce with sense of the wrath to come, They bear the sign from of old engraven, Though peace be round them and strife seem far, That here is none but the night-wind's haven, With death for the harbour bar.

Of the iron of doom are the casquets carven, That never the rivets thereof should burst.

When the heart of the darkness is hunger-starven, And the throats of the gulfs are agape for thirst, And stars are as flowers that the wind bids wither, And dawn is as hope struck dead by fear, The rage of the ravenous night sets. .h.i.ther, And the crown of her work is here.

All sh.o.r.es about and afar lie lonely, But lonelier are these than the heart of grief, These loose-linked rivets of rock, whence only Strange life scarce gleams from the sheer main reef, With a blind wan face in the wild wan morning, With a live lit flame on its brows by night, That the lost may lose not its word's mute warning And the blind by its grace have sight.

Here, walled in with the wide waste water, Grew the grace of a girl's lone life, The sea's and the sea-wind's foster-daughter, And peace was hers in the main mid strife.

For her were the rocks clothed round with thunder, And the crests of them carved by the storm-smith's craft: For her was the mid storm rent in sunder As with pa.s.sion that wailed and laughed.

For her the sunrise kindled and scattered The red rose-leaflets of countless cloud: For her the blasts of the springtide shattered The strengths reluctant of waves back-bowed.

For her would winds in the mid sky levy Bright wars that hardly the night bade cease At noon, when sleep on the sea lies heavy, For her would the sun make peace.

Peace rose crowned with the dawn on golden Lit leagues of triumph that flamed and smiled: Peace lay lulled in the moon-beholden Warm darkness making the world's heart mild For all the wide waves' troubles and treasons, One word only her soul's ear heard Speak from stormless and storm-rent seasons, And nought save peace was the word.

All her life waxed large with the light of it, All her heart fed full on the sound: Spirit and sense were exalted in sight of it, Compa.s.sed and girdled and clothed with it round.

Sense was none but a strong still rapture, Spirit was none but a joy sublime, Of strength to curb and of craft to capture The craft and the strength of Time.

Time lay bound as in painless prison There, closed in with a strait small s.p.a.ce.

Never thereon as a strange light risen Change had unveiled for her grief's far face Three white walls flung out from the bas.e.m.e.nt Girt the width of the world whereon Gazing at night from her flame-lit cas.e.m.e.nt She saw where the dark sea shone.

Hardly the breadth of a few brief paces, Hardly the length of a strong man's stride, The small court flower lit with children's faces Scarce held scope for a bud to hide.

Yet here was a man's brood reared and hidden Between the rocks and the towers and the foam, Where peril and pity and peace were bidden As guests to the same sure home.

Here would pity keep watch for peril, And surety comfort his heart with peace.

No flower save one, where the reefs lie sterile, Gave of the seed of its heart's increase.

Pity and surety and peace most lowly Were the root and the stem and the bloom of the flower: And the light and the breath of the buds kept holy That maid's else blossomless bower.

With never a leaf but the seaweed's tangle, Never a bird's but the seamew's note, It heard all round it the strong storms wrangle, Watched far past it the waste wrecks float.

But her soul was stilled by the sky's endurance, And her heart made glad with the sea's content; And her faith waxed more in the sun's a.s.surance For the winds that came and went.

Sweetness was brought for her forth of the bitter Sea's strength, and light of the deep sea's dark, From where green lawns on Alderney glitter To the bastioned crags of the steeps of Sark.

These she knew from afar beholden, And marvelled haply what life would be On moors that sunset and dawn leave golden, In dells that smile on the sea.

And forth she fared as a stout-souled rover, For a brief blithe raid on the bounding brine: And light winds ferried her light bark over To the lone soft island of fair-limbed kine.

But the league-long length of its wild green border, And the small bright streets of serene St. Anne, Perplexed her sense with a strange disorder At sight of the works of man.

The world was here, and the world's confusion, And the dust of the wheels of revolving life, Pain, labour, change, and the fierce illusion Of strife more vain than the sea's old strife.

And her heart within her was vexed, and dizzy The sense of her soul as a wheel that whirled: She might not endure for a s.p.a.ce that busy Loud coil of the troublous world.

Too full, she said, was the world of trouble, Too dense with noise of contentious things, And shews less bright than the blithe foam's bubble As home she fared on the smooth wind's wings.

For joy grows loftier in air more lonely, Where only the sea's brood fain would be; Where only the heart may receive in it only The love of the heart of the sea.

_A BALLAD OF SARK._

High beyond the granite portal arched across Like the gateway of some G.o.dlike giant's hold Sweep and swell the billowy b.r.e.a.s.t.s of moor and moss East and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the lark Fill with joy the rapturous island, as an ark Full of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree.

None would dream that grief even here may disembark On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Rocks emblazoned like the mid s.h.i.+eld's royal boss Take the sun with all their blossom broad and bold.

None would dream that all this moorland's glow and gloss Could be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold Even in eyes that opened here, and here behold Now no sun relume from hope's belated spark Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners hark Though the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee, While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded bark On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs toss On the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled.

Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter loss Raise the bride-song through the graveyard on the wold Where the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould, Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk, Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark, Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie, Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of Sark On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark, Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark, Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee.

Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark, On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

_NINE YEARS OLD._

FEBRUARY 4, 1883.

I.

Lord of light, whose s.h.i.+ne no hands destroy, G.o.d of song, whose hymn no tongue refuses, Now, though spring far hence be cold and coy, Bid the golden mouths of all the Muses Ring forth gold of strains without alloy, Till the ninefold rapture that suffuses Heaven with song bid earth exult for joy, Since the child whose head this dawn bedews is Sweet as once thy violet-cradled boy.

II.

Even as he lay lapped about with flowers, Lies the life now nine years old before us Lapped about with love in all its hours; Hailed of many loves that chant in chorus Loud or low from lush or leafless bowers, Some from hearts exultant born sonorous, Some scarce louder-voiced than soft-tongued showers Two months hence, when spring's light wings poised o'er us High shall hover, and her heart be ours.