The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 6

Will the journey never end?

Over yonder lies the camp; Welcome waits us there, my friend.

Can we reach it ere the night?

Upward, upward, never fear!

Look, the summit must be near; See the line of light!

Red, red, red the s.h.i.+ne Of the splendour in the west, Glowing through the ranks of pine, Clear along the mountain-crest!

Long, long, long the trail Out of sorrow's lonely vale; But at last the traveller sees Light between the trees!

March, 1904.

THE HERMIT THRUSH

O wonderful! How liquid clear The molten gold of that ethereal tone, Floating and falling through the wood alone, A hermit-hymn poured out for G.o.d to hear!

_O holy, holy, holy! Hyaline, Long light, low light, glory of eventide!

Love far away, far up,--up,--love divine!

Little love, too, for ever, ever near, Warm love, earth love, tender love of mine, In the leafy dark where you hide, You are mine,--mine,--mine!_

Ah, my beloved, do you feel with me The hidden virtue of that melody, The rapture and the purity of love, The heavenly joy that can not find the word?

Then, while we wait again to hear the bird, Come very near to me, and do not move,-- Now, hermit of the woodland, fill anew The cool, green cup of air with harmony, And we will drink the wine of love with you.

May, 1908.

TURN O' THE TIDE

The tide flows in to the harbour,-- The bold tide, the gold tide, the flood o' the sunlit sea,-- And the little s.h.i.+ps riding at anchor, Are swinging and slanting their prows to the ocean, panting To lift their wings to the wide wild air, And venture a voyage they know not where,-- To fly away and be free!

The tide runs out of the harbour,-- The low tide, the slow tide, the ebb o' the moonlit bay,-- And the little s.h.i.+ps rocking at anchor, Are rounding and turning their bows to the landward, yearning To breathe the breath of the sun-warmed strand, To rest in the lee of the high hill land,-- To hold their haven and stay!

My heart goes round with the vessels,-- My wild heart, my child heart, in love with the sea and the land,-- And the turn o' the tide pa.s.ses through it, In rising and falling with mystical currents, calling At morn, to range where the far waves foam, At night, to a harbour in love's true home, With the hearts that understand!

Seal Harbour, August 12, 1911.

SIERRA MADRE

O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands, Robed in aerial amethyst, silver, and blue, Why do ye look so proudly down on the lowlands?

What have their groves and gardens to do with you?

Theirs is the languorous charm of the orange and myrtle, Theirs are the fruitage and fragrance of Eden of old,-- Broad-boughed oaks in the meadows fair and fertile, Dark-leaved orchards gleaming with globes of gold.

You, in your solitude standing, lofty and lonely, Bear neither garden nor grove on your barren b.r.e.a.s.t.s; Rough is the rock-loving growth of your canyons, and only Storm-battered pines and fir-trees cling to your crests.

Why are ye throned so high, and arrayed in splendour Richer than all the fields at your feet can claim?

What is your right, ye rugged peaks, to the tender Queenly promise and pride of the mother-name?

Answered the mountains, dim in the distance dreaming: "Ours are the forests that treasure the riches of rain; Ours are the secret springs and the rivulets gleaming Silverly down through the manifold bloom of the plain.

"Vain were the toiling of men in the dust of the dry land, Vain were the ploughing and planting in waterless fields, Save for the life-giving currents we send from the sky-land, Save for the fruit our embrace with the storm-cloud yields."

O mother mountains, Madre Sierra, I love you!

Rightly you reign o'er the vale that your bounty fills-- Kissed by the sun, or with big, bright stars above you,-- I murmur your name and lift up mine eyes to the hills.

Pasadena, March, 1913.

THE GRAND CANYON

DAYBREAK

What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee?

Thou vast, profound, primeval hiding-place Of ancient secrets,--gray and ghostly gulf Cleft in the green of this high forest land, And crowded in the dark with giant forms!

Art thou a grave, a prison, or a shrine?

A stillness deeper than the dearth of sound Broods over thee: a living silence breathes Perpetual incense from thy dim abyss.

The morning-stars that sang above the bower Of Eden, pa.s.sing over thee, are dumb With trembling bright amazement; and the Dawn Steals through the glimmering pines with naked feet, Her hand upon her lips, to look on thee!

She peers into thy depths with silent prayer For light, more light, to part thy purple veil.

O Earth, swift-rolling Earth, reveal, reveal,-- Turn to the East, and show upon thy breast The mightiest marvel in the realm of Time!

'Tis done,--the morning miracle of light,-- The resurrection of the world of hues That die with dark, and daily rise again With every rising of the splendid Sun!

Be still, my heart! Now Nature holds her breath To see the solar flood of radiance leap Across the chasm, and crown the western rim Of alabaster with a far-away Rampart of pearl, and flowing down by walls Of changeful opal, deepen into gold Of topaz, rosy gold of tourmaline, Crimson of garnet, green and gray of jade, Purple of amethyst, and ruby red, Beryl, and sard, and royal porphyry; Until the cataract of colour breaks Upon the blackness of the granite floor.

How far below! And all between is cleft And carved into a hundred curving miles Of unimagined architecture! Tombs, Temples, and colonnades are neighboured there By fortresses that t.i.tans might defend, And amphitheatres where G.o.ds might strive.

Cathedrals, b.u.t.tressed with unnumbered tiers Of ruddy rock, lift to the sapphire sky A single spire of marble pure as snow; And huge aerial palaces arise Like mountains built of unconsuming flame.

Along the weathered walls, or standing deep In riven valleys where no foot may tread, Are lonely pillars, and tall monuments Of perished aeons and forgotten things.

My sight is baffled by the wide array Of countless forms: my vision reels and swims Above them, like a bird in whirling winds.

Yet no confusion fills the awful chasm; But s.p.a.cious order and a sense of peace Brood over all. For every shape that looms Majestic in the throng, is set apart From all the others by its far-flung shade, Blue, blue, as if a mountain-lake were there.

How still it is! Dear G.o.d, I hardly dare To breathe, for fear the fathomless abyss Will draw me down into eternal sleep.

What force has formed this masterpiece of awe?

What hands have wrought these wonders in the waste?

O river, gleaming in the narrow rift Of gloom that cleaves the valley's nether deep,-- Fierce Colorado, prisoned by thy toil, And blindly toiling still to reach the sea,-- Thy waters, gathered from the snows and springs Amid the Utah hills, have carved this road Of glory to the Californian Gulf.

But now, O sunken stream, thy splendour lost, 'Twixt iron walls thou rollest turbid waves, Too far away to make their fury heard!

At sight of thee, thou sullen labouring slave Of gravitation,--yellow torrent poured From distant mountains by no will of thine, Through thrice a hundred centuries of slow Fallings and liftings of the crust of Earth,-- At sight of thee my spirit sinks and fails.

Art thou alone the Maker? Is the blind Unconscious power that drew thee dumbly down To cut this gash across the layered globe, The sole creative cause of all I see?

Are force and matter all? The rest a dream?