Chapter II: The Sailor

A sailor that rides the ocean wave,
And I in my room at home:
Where are the seas I fear to brave,
Or the lands I may not roam?
At the attic window I take my stand,
And tighten the curtain sail,
Then, ahoy! I ride the leagues of land,
Whether in calm or gale.

Tree at anchor along the road
Bow as I speed along;
At sunny brooks in the valley I load
Cargoes of blossom and song;
Stories I take on the passing wind
From the plains and forest seas,
And the Golden Fleece I yet will find,
And the fruit of Hesperides.

Steady I keep my watchful eyes,
As I range the thousand miles,
Till evening tides in western skies
Turn gold the cloudland isles;
Then fast is the hatch and dark the screen,
And I bring my cabin light;
With a wink I change to a submarine
And drop in the sea of Night.

WAR IN THE NORTH

Not from Mars and not from Thor
Comes the war, the welcome war,
Many months we waited for
To free us from the bondage
Of Winter's gloomy reign:
Valor to our hope is bound,
Songs of courage loud resound,
Vowed is Spring to win her ground
Through all our northern country,
From Oregon to Maine.

All our loyal brave allies
In the Southlands mobilize,
Faith is sworn to our emprise,
The scouting breezes whisper
That help is sure today:
Vanguards of the springtime rains
Cannonade the hills and plains,
Freeing them from Winter's chains,
So birds and buds may flourish
Around the throne of May.

Hark! and hear the clarion call
Bluebirds give by fence and wall!
Look! The darts of sunlight fall,
And red shields of the robins
Ride boldly down the leas;
Hail! The cherry banners shine,
Onward comes the battle line,--
On! White dogwood waves the sign,
And exile troops of blossoms
Are sailing meadow seas.

Winter's tyrant king retires;
Spring leads on her legion choirs
Where the hedges sound their lyres;
The victor hills and valleys
Ring merrily the tune:
April cohorts guard the way
For the great enthroning day,
When the Princess of May
Shall wed within our northlands
The charming Prince of June.

THE HAPPY TIME

Two gloomy scenes may be,
Or count you three:
A building hope all crushed at morn,
A bridal day in clouds of rain,
And night that keeps a mother's pain
For tidings of a child forlorn.

Of happy times count more,
Admit these four:
A flower of promise rich with day,
A son with victories that wear
A halo on his mother's way:
And friends whose hearts ring like a chime
Across the world at Christmas time.

THE TIME OF TRUCE

Two young lads from childhood up
Drank together friendship's cup:
Joe was glad with Bill at play,
Bill was home to Joe alway.

On their friendship came the blight
Of a little thoughtless fight;
Then, alas! each passing day
Farther bore these friends away.

There was grief in either heart,
Bleeding deep from sorrow's dart,
When in thoughtfulness again
Each beheld the other's pain.

But the shades of night are furled
When the morning takes the world,
And the Christmas days of peace
Make our little quarrels cease.

Bill and Joe on Christmas Day
Met as in the olden way;
Bill put out his hand to Joe,--
It was Christmas Day, you know.

Bill and Joe are friends again,
And to them long years remain;
Time may take them far away,
They keep Christmas every day.

BETHLEHEM

O ye who sail Potomac's even tide
To Vernon's shades, our Chieftain's hallowed mound;
Or who at distant shrines high paeans sound
In Alfred's cult, old England's morning pride;
Or seek Versailles, conceited as a bride,
With garish memories of kins strewn round;
Or lay your spirit's cheek on Forum ground,
For here a mighty Caesar lived and died:
To these and other stones, O ye who speed,
Since there, forsooth, a prince was passing great,
More zealous let your heart's adoring heed
The Child most Royal in a crib's estate.
No poor so poor, no king more king than He:
Come, better pilgrims, to this mystery.

A VOW-DAY FLOWER

(POVERTY, CHASTITY, OBEDIENCE)

Three little leaves like shamrock,
And the trefoil's love-lit eyes,
Whether it takes the sunshine
Or the shadows from the skies.

And richer than rose or lily
Is the flower he wears today,
With triune bloom and fragrance
From earth to heaven alway.

Poverty is the low leaf,
And one is chastely white,
And the red love of obedience
Goes up to God a light.

Grow, good flower, and keep him
Who wears your bloom today,
Shadow and sunshine bless him,
And the trefoil's heavenward way.

THE TREE IN THE TENEMENT YARD

(For T. A. Daly)

America, Ireland and Italy,
All have known this poor old tree.

* * *

A rickety fence goes round the yard
And the noisy streets stand high:
The grassless ground is brown and hard,
And the cinder pathways, lined with shard,
Sees but a bit of sky.

Once the yard was fertile and fair,
And lilac bushes near:
And a Yankee counted with fretful care,
Under the solacing shadows there,
The gain of every year.

The crowded walls of trade arose
And gloomed the avenue:
But a Munster man at each day's close
Built in the tree his hope's rainbows,
And saw his dreams come true.

The years have thickened the darkened air,
But the tree is still on guard:
It comforts the young Italian there,
Who sees the future blossoming fair
From the tree in the tenement yard.

* * *

America, Ireland and Italy
All have loved this poor old tree.

OLD HUDSON ROVERS

(For Joyce Kilmer)

When the dreamy night is on, up the Hudson river,
And the sheen of modern taste is dim and far away,
Ghostly men on phantom rafts make the waters shiver,
Laughing in the sibilance of the silver spray.
Yea, and up the woodlands, staunch in moonlit weather,
Go the ghostly horsemen, adventuresome to ride,
White as mist the doublet-braize, bandolier and feather,
Fleet as gallant Robin Hood in an eventide.

Times are gone that knew the craft in the role of rovers,
Fellows of the open, care could never load:
Unalarmed for bed or board, they were leisure's lovers,
Summer bloomed in story on the Hyde Park Road.
Summer was a blossom, but the fruit was autumn,
Fragrant haylofts for a bed, cider-cakes in store,
Warmer was a cup they know, when the north wind caught 'em
Down at Benny Havens' by the West Point shore.

Idlers now-and loafers pass, joy is out of fashion,
Honest fun that fooled a dog or knew a friendly gate,
Now the craft are vagabonds, sick with modern passion,
Riding up and down the shore, on an aching freight;
Sullen are the battered looks, cheerless talk or tipsy,
Sickly in the smoky air, starving in the day,
Pining for a city's noise at Kingston or Po'keepsie,
Eager more for Gotham and a great White Way.

Rich is all the countryside, but glory has departed,
What if yachts and mansions be, by the river's marge!
Dim though was a hillside, lamps were happy-hearted,
Near the cove of Rondout in a hut or barge.
Silken styles are tyrants, fashion kills the playtime,
Robs the heart of largess that is kindly to the poor,
Richer were the freemen, welcome as the Maytime,
Glad was boy or maiden, seeing Brennan of the moor.

Send us back the olden knights, tell no law to track 'em,
Give to boy and maid the storytellers as of yore,
Millionaires in legend-wealth, though no bank would back 'em,
But old Benny Havens by the West Point Shore.
Off with lazy vagabonds, social ghosts that shiver,
Give to worthy road-men the great green way,
And we'll hear a song again up the Hudson river,
Ringing from a drifting raft, set in silver spray.

A WINTER MINSTER

(For Fr. C. L. O'Donnell)

The interlacing trees
Arise in Gothic traceries,
As if a vast cathedral deep and dim;
And through the solemn atmosphere
The low winds hymn
Such thoughts as solitude will hear.
To lead your way across
Gray carpet aisles of moss
Unto the chantry stalls,
The sumach candelabra are alight;
Along the cloister walls,
Like chorister and acolyte,
The shrubs are vested white;
The dutiful monastic oak
In his gray-friar cloak
Keeps penitential ways
And solemn orisons of praise;
For beads upon the cincture-vine
Red berries warm with color shine,
And to their constant rosary
The bedesmen firs incline;
And fair as frescoes be
Among the shrines of Italy,
These lights and shadows are,
Impalpable in gray and green
Upon the hills afar
And the gold westering sun between.
The music! Hark!
Oh, an it be no rapturous lark,
Yet has the lesser chant
The blessedness of song.
The snowbird mendicant
Intones the antiphon--
Et laboremus nos;

And all the grottoed aisles along,
Where servitors rejoice,
The chorused echoes run--

Oremus nos.

The inspiration of the breeze
Gives every reed a voice
From tenebrae and silences;
Over the valleys borne,
Come organ harmonies;
And when the low winds call,
The pines with miserere mourn
A requiem musical,
Softer than moonbeams fall
Across the starry oriels of night,
Flooding the azure round
With hushed delight
And sanctity of sound.

THE DARK LITTLE ROSE

IRELAND

When shall we find the spring come in,
And the fragrant air it blows?
And when shall the bounty of summer win
Fairer than fields of Camolin
For the dark little Rose?

Long was the winter, the storms how long!
What flower may live i' the snows!
No bloom shall last under heels of wrong,
If the heart-blood be not deathless strong,
As the dark little Rose.

Sing hers the culture sweeter than rain
That healed old Europe's woes;
Older than bowers of Lille and Louvain
Grew by the Rhine and the towns of Spain
From the dark little Rose.

Leagues in the sunlight never shall fail
While the broad, round ocean flows;
Though never a fleet goes up Kinsale,
See, all the world is within the pale
Of the dark little Rose.

THE MONK MAELANFAID

Maelanfaid saw a tiny bird
A-grieving on the ground,
And O, the sad lament he heard,
That sorrow's self might sound:
He could not read a note or word
The song of grief inwound.

Maelanfaid went within his cell
To keep a fast and pray,
To listen to a voice would tell
The mystery away:
What was the red long pain befell
The bird of grief all day?

"Maelanfaid," airy voices call,
"MacOcha Molv is dead,
Who killed no creature great or small,
Who helped all life instead:
Now griefs of bird and blossom fall
Around his funeral bed."

THE YOUNG ADVENTURERS

We will go adventuring, will you come adventuring,
Hail, to all who sail with us the seven pleasant seas:
All the shores with lily bells, all the flutes of woodland dells
Are calling like a legend upon a fragrant breeze.

Throw away the haughty cares, children here are millionaires,
Laughter take for baggage and give your laugh a song;
We must sail the seas of grass, round the isles of clover pass,
And delve in leagues of shadowland, when clouds come along.

Caves are walled with treasure trove, rich as any south-sea cove,
Bullion of the meadow where the gold sun flows;

Round the reefs of mignonette, up the waves of violet,
Fragrant go our sails and spars with attar of the rose.

On, gay adventurers, bravely ride the billowy furze,
Golden foil and dewy pearls are swaying to a tune:
Quaff the brew of red raspberry through the vine veils gossamery.
Till we turn when night comes down alleys of the moon.

Yea, with laughter in our sails and our hearts a book of tales,
Down the silver roadways, a homeward hymn we say:--
Praise the Lord ye great and small, flower and weed majestical,
For pleasant seas that God gave adventurers today.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

(For Osceola and Pocahontas)

Was it a hundred years ago,
Or was it but yesterday,
When we found the roads that grow
Blossom and song of May?
Maybe it was but yesterday,
Or a hundred years ago.

The roads from Bersabee to Dan
Are old and quickly tire,
But to the heart of child or man
Youth is a fairy fire:
Our youthful roads, they never tire
From Bersabee to Dan.

Ponce de Leon found no spring,
But legend's long, long ruth;
But the grace of God is a magic thing
Abides with chivalrous youth:
The grace of God that brings no ruth
For them who find the spring.

There is a land, there is a May
Beyond the graveyard tree;
Ten thousand years are like a day
Of a youth that we shall see:
Our young hearts pass the graveyard tree
To a land forever in May.

THE BONNIE PRINCE O' SPRING

The little green soldiers are here at last,
With their waving blades and spears;
And across the hills they are marching fast
With the drill of a thousand years:
And I wave afar, and I shout, Hurrah!
Till I hear their echoing cheers.

A bonnie prince is at their head,
And his love the legions know:
For he gives them rest where the twigs are red
At the hedges cool in a row:
And afoot are they soon to a birdlike tune
On the northward march to go.

Oh, I am leal to the marching men,
To my bonnie Prince I'm true;
For he tells me the way to his tented glen,
And the secret password too:
And he sets in my hair a blossom to wear,
Like his own good horsemen do.

Then I will follow on all the day
Where the bonnie Prince has led,
Till we drive the Winter foeman away
And throne my Prince instead:
And sing willaloo! With the birds, willaloo!
For the Winter King is dead.

ON A TRAIN

(For Christine and Tom)

Oases are charming 'mid the Afric sands,
Beautiful is summer after rain;
But the sweetest blossoms may be eyes and hands,
And two playful children on a train.

Aileen and her brother, home from holiday,
Left behind them Narragansett town;
Innocence like music followed all the way,
Summer glowed upon the cheeks of brown.

She that was their escort read a magazine:
They were young, and trains are dull at night;
All the passing signals, red and blue and green,
Counted up the miles for young delight.

I was there behind them, earnest in a book:
Lo, the journey turned to fairyland,
When, like magic mirrors, dusty windows took
Aileen's dancing eyes and waving hand!

That is how it happened on a creeping train,
How a play began without a word,--
Peekaboo reflections in a window-pane,
Such a story-hour was never heard.

Aileen and her brother, strangers were to me;
They were friendly for the cloth I wore;
And through leagues of window, youthful play could see
We were friends to be for evermore.

So we passed the hamlets, passed the miles of night
In a fairyland of silent games,
Till the travel ended in the Worcester light,--
Yet we parted, strangers in our names.

But a fortnight later, by an autumn tree,
Aileen and her brother came my way,
And another, glad to tell the names of them and me,
And to hear how travellers can play.

Life is but a journey, say we evermore,
Passing lights the years have, like a train;
Three good friends will travel up to heaven's door,
With the world a merry window-pane.

THE COLUMBINE

Gray lonely rocks about thee stand,
Ignored of sun and dew,
Yet is thy breath upon the land,
To thy vocation true.

So come they character to me
That works in sunless ways,
And I shall learn to give with thee
Dark hills a constant praise.

TWO SEANICHIES

(For Aedh)

'Tis the queerest trade we have, the two of us that go about,
I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings,
We to tell the story of a Land you ought to know about,--
The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.

Sure it is a wonder land, richer than the books it is,
Full of magic stories and a hopeful heart of song;
Faith, and near the mountains and the sunny lakes and brooks it is,
Like the olden seanichies, the pair of us belong.

Far and broad our journeyin', up and down the land we go,
Today among the mountains and tomorrow by the sea;
Pleasant are the roads with us, and to a welcome grand we go,
Erin wins the heart of you, whoever you may be.

Erin's heart will capture you, if you will but listen now,
Great she was afore the Danes and all her Saxon foes,
After that the sorrows came, sure your eyes will glisten now,
Up, my lad, and sing for them "The Dark Little Rose."

Rest awhile and I will tell the fame of Tara's Hall to them,
All the deeds of valor and a thousand scenes of joy,
Wicklow hills and Derry fields where Killarney calls to them.
Come, my lad, it's Ninety-Eight and sing "The Croppy Boy."

Long ago the stranger came and learned to love the ways of her,
Irish more than Irish the Norman foe became;
Sure and here across the sea you give your hearts to praise of her,
The tear and smile within her eyes that ever are the same.

Not for gold or little fame the two of us to go about,
I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings,
We to win your love for her, the Land you're glad to know about,
The wonder land of Erin and the memories it brings.

THE GREEN BRIGADE

ON THE FIELD OF CORN

Where is the war ye march unto,
From the early tents of morn?
And what are the deeds ye hope to do,
Brave Grenadiers of Corn?
Pearls of the dew are on your hair,
And the jewels of morning light,
Pennants of green ye fling to the air,
And the tall plumes waving bright.

Gaily away and steady ye go,
Never a faltering line:
Forward! I follow and try to know
Word of your countersign:
Hist! The spies of the tyrant sun
Eagerly watch your plan,
Lavish with bribes of gold, they run
Down to your outmost man.

Steady, good lads, go bravely on
By the parching hills of pain,
An armor of shade ye soon may don
And meet the allies of rain:
And night in the bivouac hours will sing
Praise of the march ye made,
And into your pockets good gold will bring,
Men of the Green Brigade.

Yea, and upon September's field,
When the long campaign is done,
With arms up-stacked, your hearts will yield
Conquest of rain and sun:
The pennants and plumes will then be sere,
Your pearls delight no morn,
But tents of plenty will bless the year,
Brave Grenadiers of Corn.

ALLELUIA HEIGHT

Obedience to the seasons' marshall-rod,
That is a law of God,
Here beauty passes with her gorgeous train,
On paths that range from bud to grain.
O, here the searching eyes
In traffic for the soul's good gain
Earn wealth of rare delight.
Far pathways of surprise,
In color's frumenty bedight,
Lead off from avenues of day
Through miles of pageantries:
And from the starry chancels of the night
And the inscrutable farther skies,
Beyond where trackless comets stray,
Outspreads a world in thought's array.
And lo! the heart's true voices sing
From the exulting reverent breast,
And lips proclaim, with adoration blessed,
Glad Alleluias to the King.

Prompt is our praise unto a jewelled queen
In all her courtly splendor set,
(Fair as those fairylands are seen
By childhood's other sight):
But if in pauper mien,
Too poor for stray regret
Where crowded streets affright
She stood in beggary,
Unknown, though faithful to her high degree,--
O, then her praise 'twere easy to forget.
Yet ever here,
For all of time's prompt fickleness--
From plenteous June and wide largess
Of full midsummer days,
To dwarf December pitiless
Amid the earth's uncomplimented ways--
Yea, constant through the changeful year,
This queenly Height commands our praise.
To stand in meek unflinching hardihood
When fortune blows its storm of fright,
And work to full effect that good
Resolved in open days of clearer sight--
O, this is worth!
That daily sees the soul
To braver liberties give birth,
That heeds not time's annoy,
And hears surrounding voices roll
Perennial circumstance of joy.
Then come not only when the springtime blows
The old familiar strangeness of its breath
Across the long-lain snows,
And chants her resurrected songs
About the tombs of death;
Nor yet when summer glows
In roseate throngs
And works her plenitude of deeds
By tangled dells and waving meads,
Come here in beauty's pilgrimage:
Nor when the autumn reads
Illuminate her page
With tints of magicry besprent
Of iridescent wonderment--
(As scrolls in old monastic towers,
Done in an earnest far-off age).
But choose to come in winter hours
To see how character can live,
How noble character will give
Through desolate distress
And cold neglect's duress,
The fulness of its powers
And win the soul its victor sign.
Yea, come when in a peasant gown,
Amid the ample banners of the pine,
And the resounding harpers of the vine,
Lone winter holds upon the Height
Her court in full renown.
Obedient her courtiers go,
Their gonfalons aloft and bright,
And scatter pearls of snow;
Her sturdy knighthood wear for crown
Prismatic sheen in young delight,
And wave the cedar oriflamme on high;
While windward heralds cry,
Across the battlements of earth
To parapets along the sky,
The lauds of character's full worth.

The winter passes and the days come in
Vibrant with spring.
And men find welcome at the Easter tomb,
Reward they win,
Who make their hearts with courage sing
Through Lenten opportunity of gloom:
(Not as the Pharisees,
With faces lacrimose,
Who wear pretence of ashen woes,
And murmur like the tuneless bees,
Whose honies are hypocrisies),
But men of character's delight,
Who like this valiant Height
Still serving through the bleakest day,
With humble offerings of sound and sight,
Do steadfast stand and pray:
O, count those souls of noble worth,
And God's good pleasure on His earth,
Who still, if joy or pain
Brings sun or rain,
Heroic sing
The law of Alleluia to the King.

End of Project Gutenberg's Ballads of Peace in War, by Michael Earls