Chapter III: Art and Science

Dian, with silver robe from her shoulders flung,
And Fundy, with his tidal arc and gauge,
Beating as a great pendulum forth-swung,
The seconds of the geologic age.

THE OLD FISHER'S SONG.

From the broad-shouldered Cobequids we saw Prone Blomidon in lotos-eyed repose, The immemorial vigil lapst to dream. The Basin lay as if in calm of swoon. Upon the bosom of the breathing tide The drifting ships, wide-winged in air, in sea, Sailed double on a single keel--a ship In either stilly heaven, above, beneath. The day was warm, and as we lay beside The woodland brook and watched the pinfish play, We saw the sky within a silver pool, Like a great vase of lapis lazuli Veined with the feathery spray of cirrus cloud, While cumuli in spotless beauty bloomed Therein--a garden of the gods! And all The pool seemed fragrant with a myriad sweets.

"There's promise of fair morrow," Harold said, "The witness of the sea and wood is one: The hissing brine, moonstruck, comes vengeful up Its iron gateways with remorseless flood-- This little brook in rage and foam tears through A hundred hills--each sets a mirror at Our feet of beauty's self. And so, I ween, The fury of the age will end as full Of calm as are this sea and pool of heaven."

And breasting an old path to the carved shore Where fell at ebb the sea-green billows clear,-- A path o'ertangled thick with alder hung With tags that take the rich brown Vandyke loved, And cool with dusky air in which, all still, Eye-bright and fronded fern and lichened spruce Swam deep in voiceless sea of wildwood balm-- My eye had sight of emerald moss and bells That wreathed the bearded rocks that once were fire.

"Ho! here is where the fisher lives who sings All day while fingering nets, and chants the tide To sleep," cried Harold, "as he tends his seines At night. Some three-score souls like his would make A state, and one such state the golden age. This old man never knows when spring is past, But pipes a robin song from May to May, A fresh-blown breezy song of coming good-- He's piping now!"

_Heirs of the century,
Sons of the next,
Hearten your spirits,
Your souls keep unvext.
There's an ebb in the tide,
There's an open sea wide,
But where sun and star dart,
You've a trustworthy chart._

Beside the wave-worn cliffs, Painted with rainbows of a thousand storms, We sat us down, and took on grateful cheek And brow the waking winds that yestermorn, Far out Atlantic's grey unresting wastes, In awful tempest smote the full-winged ship And pluckt it naked to the hungry deep. "Peace is of conflict born," I said, "and good Seems rooted oft in ill. Man gropes in fog, And is a child tost in a cockle-shell. The stars wink over him and then are gone, The sun is not, and when he deems he's lost, The shore breaks forth in silver welcome sweet."

_Care for the coming man,
Heirs of the race,
Hearten your spirits,
Gird! quicken your pace!
There's a sound in the air,
There are trumpets ablare,
But there's nothing to dread,
You've God overhead._

"The Sirens once were symbol of chief fears That met the hardy mariner on life's main," Said Harold, musingly, "but now the coast Is set with sirens groaning lest he touch The isles mist-veiled and hooded white with fog, But cruel as the Sisters twain of death. Science, to-day, the witchery of the past Turns into truth to guide the course of man, Tracks to its lair disease, and bolt and flame Subdues to service of the struggling race; While breeze of health begins to fan alike The cheeks of rich and poor in city ways, And wisdom cries aloud in every street."

_You of the world-ages,
Saviors of man,
Hearten your spirits,
Lay open God's plan.
Labor hungers and wastes
While love tarries nor hastes,
Yet the note's round and clear,
The full time draweth near._

"But what of man's grim lust and greed?" said I. "The comradeship of stars and night is not More awful than is that of man with sin, Nor shows more steadfast purpose 'gainst the light. The sky and air fresh-washed with summer rain Forthwith begin to cloud with haze and smoke Till smit again with lightning's wrath, and torn By buffet of the thunder's pealing voice. So hath it been with man, till judgment-ire Reddens in vain to purge his murky sky And flash the light of God upon his soul. The beastly lure of drunkenness that cloaks Itself in the white mantle of the Christ; Delusion's wand that prints mirage for sight On eyes of civic crowds, and nations, too, Or, unclean, faith assoils in simple hearts; The simpering guile that toys with capital And robs the workman of his honest wage, While like the surgy murmurs of the sea Sounds out the moan of willing labor's voice For bread to fill its famished children's mouths; The lust of power to sit in place of God And turn for selfish ends the wheels of fate Of fellowman,--these wait a day of doom!"

_Heirs of the century,
Sons of renown,
Lift up humanity's
Broad kingdom and crown.
There's a purpose replete,
To put all 'neath man's feet,
And we see it begun
In the Virgin's crowned Son._

"Injustice," Harold said, with eye that burned Like a star, "_is_ the devil's own trade-mark, And hottest comes from hell through saintly hands! The race of man is in the making yet. Hypocrisy still deftly apes true worth-- Thus prophesying universal good. Nature is non-committal of her end, But God is hiding not man's destiny. Yon fitful beacon flares the dark night through, And then the kindling clouds, day's heralds, burn In golden dawn. Earth's skyward crags, which thirst For news from God, are bathed in heavenly light, And from their sunrise shoulders the full morn Shoots far the splendors of its coming noon. The shadows of a fleeing night yet dim The age and mask a hundred ills as good, More eager graspt at since they haste away; But from the slopes there pours a clear new light, Divinely aired, above that of the sun. Philosophy of schools, nor science wise, Nor labor, of itself, life's secret finds, That fills the promise of man's vermeil bloom. 'Tis love alone can sheathe the alien sword, And crown mankind in his own kingdom lord."

_Heirs of the coming age,
Makers of man,
The Christ be your pattern,
Ay, choose with elan.
There's a presence at hand,
There's a voice of command--
It is Love, King of men,
Alleluia, Amen!_

And as we turned toward home by open beach, The waves were loud in clamor on the shore; But over all, and far away, we caught The drifting chant of the old Christian seer:

_It is Love, King of men, Alleluia, Amen!_

NORA LEE.

I.

Away from Howth into the south A stanch brave ship left harbor-mouth.

The _Easter Bell_, all sails a-swell, Gallantly swept to sea they tell,

And Nora flamed like one ashamed, When her fair sailor-man they named.

II.

Three moons did heap the cresting deep Since Nora Lee was wed at Dreep.

Up from the dim grey ocean's rim No tidings came of ship, or him.

A sea-gull's wing would make her sing, And eye with smiles her wedding-ring.

If signal high flew in the sky, She knew the _Easter Bell_ was nigh,

And pulled a rose, as wife that knows Her good man cometh at the close.

The white ship came--'twas not the name! And Nora Lee was not the same.

III.

The kraken grim, in dream, did swim Beside the _Easter Bell_, and him.

The ocean swell and harbor bell Chimed in an endless passing knell.

In gleaming green of breaker's sheen, The pallid light of death was seen.

The shaping clouds, the mist, like shrouds, Floated in ever-thickening crowds,--

Till piping wind her blood did bind, Froze by the phantoms of the mind.

IV.

"Cheer up, good wife," the neighbors rife Said all, "the _Bell_ has charmëd life.

"Brave Captain Head, no dawn a-red In vain e'er signaled him, 'tis said.

"Of all this town, from foot to crown No sailor has so just renown.

"The winds that blow, the reefs that grow, Each one by heart he'd know, he'd know.

"Some night full soon, or morn, or noon, The _Bell_ will fly her home gossoon!"

V.

The days they came and went the same, The moons, the tides, the mists, the flame.

And Nora said: "Since I was wed Six moons the heaping tides have led.

"In gloom I pine--(love makes him mine, Alive or dead)--I'll throw the line!"

VI.

She pulled a rose, as wife that knows Her good man cometh at the close.

Three neighbors true with her she drew To the grey shore, and, calling, threw,

With passionate leap, far to the deep, The life-line good wives always keep--

"O Mike, my man, my dear good man! The line, the line, my dear good man!"

(Calling so sore adown the shore, As fell the wintry surge's roar.)

Across the line of foaming brine, Low answer came that lit her eyne.

* * * * * * *

The neighbors three with Nora Lee All heard the words from out the sea,

Yet none e'er said what past the wed,-- A fearsome awe o'er them was spread.