The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 30

_Scorpio_--Self-Defense.

There's not a creature in the realm of night But has the wish to live, likewise the right: Don't tread upon the scorpion, or he'll fight.

_Sagittarius_--The Archer.

Life is an arrow, therefore you must know What mark to aim at, how to use the bow,-- Then draw it to the head and let it go!

_Capricornus_--The Goat.

The goat looks solemn, yet he likes to run, And leap the rocks, and gambol in the sun: The truly wise enjoy a little fun.

_Aquarius_--Water.

"Like water spilt upon the ground,"--alas, Our little lives flow swiftly on and pa.s.s; Yet may they bring rich harvests and green gra.s.s!

_Pisces_--The Fishes.

Last of the sacred signs, you bring to me A word of hope, a word of mystery,-- _We all are swimmers in G.o.d's mighty sea._

February 28, 1918.

PRO PATRIA

PATRIA

I would not even ask my heart to say If I could love another land as well As thee, my country, had I felt the spell Of Italy at birth, or learned to obey The charm of France, or England's mighty sway.

I would not be so much an infidel As once to dream, or fas.h.i.+on words to tell, What land could hold my heart from thee away.

For like a law of nature in my blood, America, I feel thy sovereignty, And woven through my soul thy vital sign.

My life is but a wave and thou the flood; I am a leaf and thou the mother-tree; Nor should I be at all, were I not thine.

June, 1904.

AMERICA

I love thine inland seas, Thy groves of giant trees, Thy rolling plains; Thy rivers' mighty sweep, Thy mystic canyons deep, Thy mountains wild and steep, All thy domains;

Thy silver Eastern strands, Thy Golden Gate that stands Wide to the West; Thy flowery Southland fair, Thy sweet and crystal air,-- O land beyond compare, Thee I love best!

March, 1906.

THE ANCESTRAL DWELLINGS

Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of royal splendour; They are simple enough to be great in their friendly dignity,-- Homes that were built by the brave beginners of a nation.

I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New England valleys, Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feathering over them: Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-fas.h.i.+oned roses, A fan-light above the door, and little square panes in the windows, The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and hickory ready for winter, The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with household relics,-- All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of self-reliance.

I love the weather-beaten, s.h.i.+ngled houses that front the ocean; They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is something indomitable about them: Their backs are bowed, and their sides are covered with lichens; Soft in their colour as gray pearls, they are full of a patient courage.

Facing the briny wind on a lonely sh.o.r.e they stand undaunted, While the thin blue pennant of smoke from the square-built chimney Tells of a haven for man, with room for a hearth and a cradle.

I love the stately southern mansions with their tall white columns, They look through avenues of trees, over fields where the cotton is growing; I can see the flutter of white frocks along their shady porches, Music and laughter float from the windows, the yards are full of hounds and horses.

Long since the riders have ridden away, yet the houses have not forgotten, They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open, For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient hospitality.

In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings, With their demure brick faces and immaculate marble doorsteps; And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and iron railings, (I can see their little bra.s.s k.n.o.bs s.h.i.+ning in the morning sunlight); And the solid self-contained houses of the descendants of the Puritans, Frowning on the street with their narrow doors and dormer-windows; And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston, Standing open sideways in their gardens of roses and magnolias.

Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are beautiful; For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have made the nation; The glory and strength of America come from her ancestral dwellings.

July, 1909.

HUDSON'S LAST VOYAGE

THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY

June 22, 1611

One sail in sight upon the lonely sea, And only one! For never s.h.i.+p but mine Has dared these waters. We were first, My men, to battle in between the bergs And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine; I name it! and that flying sail is mine!

And there, hull-down below that flying sail, The s.h.i.+p that staggers home is mine, mine, mine!

My s.h.i.+p _Discoverie_!

The sullen dogs Of mutineers, the b.i.t.c.hes' whelps that s.n.a.t.c.hed Their food and bit the hand that nourished them, Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene, I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch, And paid your debts, and kept you in my house, And brought you here to make a man of you!

You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man, Toothless and tremulous, how many times Have I employed you as a master's mate To give you bread? And you Abacuck p.r.i.c.kett, You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan, You knew the plot and silently agreed, Salving your conscience with a pious lie!

Yes, all of you--hounds, rebels, thieves! Bring back My s.h.i.+p!

Too late,--I rave,--they cannot hear My voice: and if they heard, a drunken laugh Would be their answer; for their minds have caught The fatal firmness of the fool's resolve, That looks like courage but is only fear.

They'll blunder on, and lose my s.h.i.+p, and drown; Or blunder home to England and be hanged.

Their skeletons will rattle in the chains Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs, While pa.s.sing mariners look up and say: "Those are the rotten bones of Hudson's men Who left their captain in the frozen North!"

O G.o.d of justice, why hast Thou ordained Plans of the wise and actions of the brave Dependent on the aid of fools and cowards?

Look,--there she goes,--her topsails in the sun Gleam from the ragged ocean edge, and drop Clean out of sight! So let the traitors go Clean out of mind! We'll think of braver things!

Come closer in the boat, my friends. John King, You take the tiller, keep her head nor'west.

You Philip Staffe, the only one who chose Freely to share our little shallop's fate, Rather than travel in the h.e.l.l-bound s.h.i.+p,-- Too good an English sailor to desert Your crippled comrades,--try to make them rest More easy on the thwarts. And John, my son, My little s.h.i.+pmate, come and lean your head Against my knee. Do you remember still The April morn in Ethelburga's church, Five years ago, when side by side we kneeled To take the sacrament with all our men, Before the _Hopewell_ left St. Catherine's docks On our first voyage? It was then I vowed My sailor-soul and yours to search the sea Until we found the water-path that leads From Europe into Asia.

I believe That G.o.d has poured the ocean round His world, Not to divide, but to unite the lands.

And all the English captains that have dared In little s.h.i.+ps to plough uncharted waves,-- Davis and Drake, Hawkins and Frobisher, Raleigh and Gilbert,--all the other names,-- Are written in the chivalry of G.o.d As men who served His purpose. I would claim A place among that knighthood of the sea; And I have earned it, though my quest should fail!

For, mark me well, the honour of our life Derives from this: to have a certain aim Before us always, which our will must seek Amid the peril of uncertain ways.

Then, though we miss the goal, our search is crowned With courage, and we find along our path A rich reward of unexpected things.

Press towards the aim: take fortune as it fares!

I know not why, but something in my heart Has always whispered, "Westward seek your goal!"

Three times they sent me east, but still I turned The bowsprit west, and felt among the floes Of ruttling ice along the Greenland coast, And down the rugged sh.o.r.e of Newfoundland, And past the rocky capes and wooded bays Where Gosnold sailed,--like one who feels his way With outstretched hand across a darkened room,-- I groped among the inlets and the isles, To find the pa.s.sage to the Land of Spice.

I have not found it yet,--but I have found Things worth the finding!