The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 31

Son, have you forgot Those mellow autumn days, two years ago, When first we sent our little s.h.i.+p _Half-Moon_,-- The flag of Holland floating at her peak,-- Across a sandy bar, and sounded in Among the channels, to a goodly bay Where all the navies of the world could ride?

A fertile island that the redmen called Manhattan, lay above the bay: the land Around was bountiful and friendly fair.

But never land was fair enough to hold The seaman from the calling of the sea.

And so we bore to westward of the isle, Along a mighty inlet, where the tide Was troubled by a downward-flowing flood That seemed to come from far away,--perhaps From some mysterious gulf of Tartary?

Inland we held our course; by palisades Of naked rock; by rolling hills adorned With forests rich in timber for great s.h.i.+ps; Through narrows where the mountains shut us in With frowning cliffs that seemed to bar the stream; And then through open reaches where the banks Sloped to the water gently, with their fields Of corn and lentils smiling in the sun.

Ten days we voyaged through that placid land, Until we came to shoals, and sent a boat Upstream to find,--what I already knew,-- We travelled on a river, not a strait.

But what a river! G.o.d has never poured A stream more royal through a land more rich.

Even now I see it flowing in my dream, While coming ages people it with men Of manhood equal to the river's pride.

I see the wigwams of the redmen changed To ample houses, and the tiny plots Of maize and green tobacco broadened out To prosperous farms, that spread o'er hill and dale The many-coloured mantle of their crops.

I see the terraced vineyard on the slope Where now the fox-grape loops its tangled vine, And cattle feeding where the red deer roam, And wild-bees gathered into busy hives To store the silver comb with golden sweet; And all the promised land begins to flow With milk and honey. Stately manors rise Along the banks, and castles top the hills, And little villages grow populous with trade, Until the river runs as proudly as the Rhine,-- The thread that links a hundred towns and towers!

Now looking deeper in my dream, I see A mighty city covering the isle They call Manhattan, equal in her state To all the older capitals of earth,-- The gateway city of a golden world,-- A city girt with masts, and crowned with spires, And swarming with a million busy men, While to her open door across the bay The s.h.i.+ps of all the nations flock like doves.

My name will be remembered there, the world Will say, "This river and this isle were found By Henry Hudson, on his way to seek The Northwest Pa.s.sage."

Yes, I seek it still,-- My great adventure and my guiding star!

For look ye, friends, our voyage is not done; We hold by hope as long as life endures!

Somewhere among these floating fields of ice, Somewhere along this westward widening bay, Somewhere beneath this luminous northern night, The channel opens to the Farthest East,-- I know it,--and some day a little s.h.i.+p Will push her bowsprit in, and battle through!

And why not ours,--to-morrow,--who can tell?

The lucky chance awaits the fearless heart!

These are the longest days of all the year; The world is round and G.o.d is everywhere, And while our shallop floats we still can steer.

So point her up, John King, nor'west by north We'll keep the honour of a certain aim Amid the peril of uncertain ways, And sail ahead, and leave the rest to G.o.d.

July, 1909.

SEA-GULLS OF MANHATTAN

Children of the elemental mother, Born upon some lonely island sh.o.r.e Where the wrinkled ripples run and whisper, Where the crested billows plunge and roar; Long-winged, tireless roamers and adventurers, Fearless breasters of the wind and sea, In the far-off solitary places I have seen you floating wild and free!

Here the high-built cities rise around you; Here the cliffs that tower east and west, Honeycombed with human habitations, Have no hiding for the sea-bird's nest: Here the river flows begrimed and troubled; Here the hurrying, panting vessels fume, Restless, up and down the watery highway, While a thousand chimneys vomit gloom.

Toil and tumult, conflict and confusion, Clank and clamour of the vast machine Human hands have built for human bondage-- Yet amid it all you float serene; Circling, soaring, sailing, swooping lightly Down to glean your harvest from the wave; In your heritage of air and water, You have kept the freedom Nature gave.

Even so the wild-woods of Manhattan Saw your wheeling flocks of white and gray; Even so you fluttered, followed, floated, Round the _Half-Moon_ creeping up the bay; Even so your voices creaked and chattered.

Laughing shrilly o'er the tidal rips, While your black and beady eyes were glistening Round the sullen British prison-s.h.i.+ps.

Children of the elemental mother, Fearless floaters 'mid the double blue, From the crowded boats that cross the ferries Many a longing heart goes out to you.

Though the cities climb and close around us, Something tells us that our souls are free, While the sea-gulls fly above the harbour, While the river flows to meet the sea!

December, 1905.

A BALLAD OF CLAREMONT HILL

The roar of the city is low, m.u.f.fled by new-fallen snow, And the sign of the wintry moon is small and round and still.

Will you come with me to-night, To see a pleasant sight Away on the river-side, at the edge of Claremont Hill?

"And what shall we see there, But streets that are new and bare, And many a desolate place that the city is coming to fill; And a soldier's tomb of stone, And a few trees standing alone-- Will you walk for that through the cold, to the edge of Claremont Hill?"

But there's more than that for me, In the place that I fain would see: There's a glimpse of the grace that helps us all to bear life's ill, A touch of the vital breath That keeps the world from death, A flower that never fades, on the edge of Claremont Hill.

For just where the road swings round, In a narrow strip of ground, Where a group of forest trees are lingering fondly still, There's a grave of the olden time, When the garden bloomed in its prime, And the children laughed and sang on the edge of Claremont Hill.

The marble is pure and white, And even in this dim light, You may read the simple words that are written there if you will; You may hear a father tell Of the child he loved so well, A hundred years ago, on the edge of Claremont Hill.

The tide of the city has rolled Across that bower of old, And blotted out the beds of the rose and the daffodil; But the little playmate sleeps, And the shrine of love still keeps A record of happy days, on the edge of Claremont Hill.

The river is pouring down To the crowded, careless town, Where the intricate wheels of trade are grinding on like a mill; But the clamorous noise and strife Of the hurrying waves of life Flow soft by this haven of peace on the edge of Claremont Hill.

And after all, my friend, When the tale of our years shall end, Be it long or short, or lowly or great, as G.o.d may will, What better praise could we hear, Than this of the child so dear: You have made my life more sweet, on the edge of Claremont Hill?

December, 1896.

URBS CORONATA

(Song for the City College of New York)

O youngest of the giant brood Of cities far-renowned; In wealth and glory thou hast pa.s.sed Thy rivals at a bound; Thou art a mighty queen, New York; And how wilt thou be crowned?

"Weave me no palace-wreath of Pride,"

The royal city said; "Nor forge of frowning fortress-walls A helmet for my head; But let me wear a diadem Of Wisdom's towers instead."

She bowed herself, she spent herself, She wrought her will forsooth, And set upon her island height A citadel of Truth, A house of Light, a home of Thought, A shrine of n.o.ble Youth.

Stand here, ye City College towers, And look both up and down; Remember all who wrought for you Within the toiling town; Remember all their hopes for you, And _be_ the City's Crown.

June, 1908.

MERCY FOR ARMENIA

I

THE TURK'S WAY

Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand Far off, for I will save my troubled folk In my own way. So the false Sultan spoke; And Europe, hearkening to his base command, Stood still to see him heal his wounded land.

Through blinding snows of winter and through smoke Of burning towns, she saw him deal the stroke Of cruel mercy that his hate had planned.

Unto the prisoners and the sick he gave New tortures, horrible, without a name; Unto the thirsty, blood to drink; a sword Unto the hungry; with a robe of shame He clad the naked, making life abhorred; He saved by slaughter, and denied a grave.

II