Chapter VIII: Introduction: Child and Boatman

"Martin, I wonder who makes all the songs." "You do, sir?" "Yes, I wonder how they come." "Well, boy, I wonder what you'll wonder next!" "But somebody must make them?" "Sure enough." "Does your wife know?" "She never said she did." "You told me that she knew so many things." "I said she was a London woman, sir, And a fine scholar, but I never said She knew about the songs." "I wish she did." "And I wish no such thing; she knows enough, She knows too much already. Look you now, This vessel's off the stocks, a tidy craft." "A schooner, Martin?" "No, boy, no; a brig, Only she's schooner rigged,--a lovely craft." "Is she for me? O, thank you, Martin, dear. What shall I call her?" "Well, sir, what you please." "Then write on her 'The Eagle.'" "Bless the child! Eagle! why, you know naught of eagles, you. When we lay off the coast, up Canada way, And chanced to be ashore when twilight fell, That was the place for eagles; bald they were, With eyes as yellow as gold." "O, Martin, dear, Tell me about them." "Tell! there's nought to tell, Only they snored o' nights and frighted us." "Snored?" "Ay, I tell you, snored; they slept upright In the great oaks by scores; as true as time, If I'd had aught upon my mind just then, I wouldn't have walked that wood for unknown gold; It was most awful. When the moon was full, I've seen them fish at night, in the middle watch, When she got low. I've seen them plunge like stones, And come up fighting with a fish as long, Ay, longer than my arm; and they would sail,-- When they had struck its life out,--they would sail Over the deck, and show their fell, fierce eyes, And croon for pleasure, hug the prey, and speed Grand as a frigate on a wind." "My ship, She must be called 'The Eagle' after these. And, Martin, ask your wife about the songs When you go in at dinner-time." "Not I."

THE NIGHTINGALE HEARD BY THE UNSATISFIED HEART.

When in a May-day hush
Chanteth the Missel-thrush
The harp o' the heart makes answer with murmurous stirs;
When Robin-redbreast sings,
We think on budding springs,
And Culvers when they coo are love's remembrancers.

But thou in the trance of light
Stayest the feeding night,
And Echo makes sweet her lips with the utterance wise,
And casts at our glad feet,
In a wisp of fancies fleet,
Life's fair, life's unfulfilled, impassioned prophecies.

Her central thought full well
Thou hast the wit to tell,
To take the sense o' the dark and to yield it so;
The moral of moonlight
To set in a cadence bright,
And sing our loftiest dream that we thought none did know.

I have no nest as thou,
Bird on the blossoming bough,
Yet over thy tongue outfloweth the song o' my soul,
Chanting, "forego thy strife,
The spirit out-acts the life,
But MUCH is seldom theirs who can perceive THE WHOLE.

"Thou drawest a perfect lot
All thine, but holden not,
Lie low, at the feet of beauty that ever shall bide;
There might be sorer smart
Than thine, far-seeing heart,
Whose fate is still to yearn, and not be satisfied."

SAND MARTINS.

I passed an inland-cliff precipitate;
From tiny caves peeped many a soot-black poll;
In each a mother-martin sat elate,
And of the news delivered her small soul.

Fantastic chatter! hasty, glad, and gay,
Whereof the meaning was not ill to tell:
"Gossip, how wags the world with you to-day?"
"Gossip, the world wags well, the world wags well."

And heark'ning, I was sure their little ones
Were in the bird-talk, and discourse was made
Concerning hot sea-bights and tropic suns,
For a clear sultriness the tune conveyed;--

And visions of the sky as of a cup
Hailing down light on pagan Pharaoh's sand,
And quivering air-waves trembling up and up,
And blank stone faces marvellously bland.

"When should the young be fledged and with them hie
Where costly day drops down in crimson light?
(Fortunate countries of the firefly
Swarm with blue diamonds all the sultry night,

"And the immortal moon takes turn with them.)
When should they pass again by that red land,
Where lovely mirage works a broidered hem
To fringe with phantom-palms a robe of sand?

"When should they dip their breasts again and play
In slumberous azure pools, clear as the air,
Where rosy-winged flamingoes fish all day,
Stalking amid the lotus blossom fair?

"Then, over podded tamarinds bear their flight,
While cassias blossom in the zone of calms,
And so betake them to a south sea-bight,
To gossip in the crowns of cocoa-palms

"Whose roots are in the spray. O, haply there
Some dawn, white-winged they might chance to find
A frigate standing in to make more fair
The loneliness unaltered of mankind.

"A frigate come to water: nuts would fall,
And nimble feet would climb the flower-flushed strand,
While northern talk would ring, and there withal
The martins would desire the cool north land.

"And all would be as it had been before;
Again at eve there would be news to tell;
Who passed should hear them chant it o'er and o'er,
Gossip, how wags the world?' 'Well, gossip, well.'"

A POET IN HIS YOUTH, AND THE CUCKOO-BIRD.

Once upon a time, I lay Fast asleep at dawn of day; Windows open to the south, Fancy pouting her sweet mouth To my ear. She turned a globe In her slender hand, her robe Was all spangled; and she said, As she sat at my bed's head, "Poet, poet, what, asleep! Look! the ray runs up the steep To your roof." Then in the golden Essence of romances olden, Bathed she my entrancéd heart. And she gave a hand to me, Drew me onward, "Come!" said she; And she moved with me apart, Down the lovely vale of Leisure.

Such its name was, I heard say, For some Fairies trooped that way; Common people of the place, Taking their accustomed pleasure, (All the clocks being stopped) to race Down the slope on palfreys fleet. Bridle bells made tinkling sweet; And they said, "What signified Faring home till eventide: There were pies on every shelf, And the bread would bake itself." But for that I cared not, fed, As it were, with angels' bread, Sweet as honey; yet next day All foredoomed to melt away; Gone before the sun waxed hot, Melted manna that _was not_.

Rock-doves' poetry of plaint, Or the starling's courtship quaint, Heart made much of; 'twas a boon Won from silence, and too soon Wasted in the ample air: Building rooks far distant were. Scarce at all would speak the rills, And I saw the idle hills, In their amber hazes deep, Fold themselves and go to sleep, Though it was not yet high noon.

Silence? Rather music brought From the spheres! As if a thought, Having taken wings, did fly Through the reaches of the sky. Silence? No, a sumptuous sigh That had found embodiment, That had come across the deep After months of wintry sleep, And with tender heavings went Floating up the firmament.

"O," I mourned, half slumbering yet, "'Tis the voice of _my_ regret,-- _Mine!_" and I awoke. Full sweet Saffron sunbeams did me greet; And the voice it spake again, Dropped from yon blue cup of light Or some cloudlet swan's-down white On my soul, that drank full fain The sharp joy--the sweet pain-- Of its clear, right innocent, Unreprovéd discontent.

How it came--where it went-- Who can tell? The open blue Quivered with it, and I, too, Trembled. I remembered me Of the springs that used to be, When a dimpled white-haired child, Shy and tender and half wild, In the meadows I had heard Some way off the talking bird, And had felt it marvellous sweet, For it laughed: it did me greet, Calling me: yet, hid away In the woods, it would not play. No.

And all the world about, While a man will work or sing, Or a child pluck flowers of spring, Thou wilt scatter music out, Rouse him with thy wandering note, Changeful fancies set afloat, Almost tell with thy clear throat, But not quite,--the wonder-rife, Most sweet riddle, dark and dim, That he searcheth all his life, Searcheth yet, and ne'er expoundeth; And so winnowing of thy wings, Touch and trouble his heart's strings. That a certain music soundeth In that wondrous instrument, With a trembling upward sent, That is reckoned sweet above By the Greatness surnamed Love.

"O, I hear thee in the blue; Would that I might wing it too! O to have what hope hath seen! O to be what might have been!

"O to set my life, sweet bird, To a tune that oft I heard When I used to stand alone Listening to the lovely moan Of the swaying pines o'erhead, While, a-gathering of bee-bread For their living, murmured round, As the pollen dropped to ground, All the nations from the hives; And the little brooding wives On each nest, brown dusky things, Sat with gold-dust on their wings. Then beyond (more sweet than all) Talked the tumbling waterfall; And there were, and there were not (As might fall, and form anew Bell-hung drops of honey-dew) Echoes of--I know not what; As if some right-joyous elf, While about his own affairs, Whistled softly otherwheres. Nay, as if our mother dear, Wrapped in sun-warm atmosphere, Laughed a little to herself, Laughed a little as she rolled, Thinking on the days of old.

"Ah! there be some hearts, I wis, To which nothing comes amiss. Mine was one. Much secret wealth I was heir to: and by stealth, When the moon was fully grown, And she thought herself alone, I have heard her, ay, right well, Shoot a silver message down To the unseen sentinel Of a still, snow-thatchéd town.

"Once, awhile ago, I peered In the nest where Spring was reared. There, she quivering her fair wings, Flattered March with chirrupings; And they fed her; nights and days, Fed her mouth with much sweet food, And her heart with love and praise, Till the wild thing rose and flew Over woods and water-springs, Shaking off the morning dew In a rainbow from her wings.

"Once (I will to you confide More), O once in forest wide, I, benighted, overheard Marvellous mild echoes stirred, And a calling half defined, And an answering from afar; Somewhat talkéd with a star, And the talk was of mankind.

"'Cuckoo, cuckoo!' Float anear in upper blue: Art thou yet a prophet true? Wilt thou say, 'And having seen Things that be, and have not been, Thou art free o' the world, for naught Can despoil thee of thy thought'? Nay, but make me music yet, Bird, as deep as my regret, For a certain hope hath set, Like a star; and left me heir To a crying for its light, An aspiring infinite, And a beautiful despair!

"Ah! no more, no more, no more I shall lie at thy shut door, Mine ideal, my desired, Dreaming thou wilt open it, And step out, thou most admired, By my side to fare, or sit, Quenching hunger and all drouth With the wit of thy fair mouth, Showing me the wishéd prize In the calm of thy dove's eyes, Teaching me the wonder-rife Majesties of human life, All its fairest possible sum, And the grace of its to come.

"What a difference! Why of late All sweet music used to say, 'She will come, and with thee stay To-morrow, man, if not to-day.' Now it murmurs, 'Wait, wait, wait!'"

A RAVEN IN A WHITE CHINE.

I saw when I looked up, on either hand,
A pale high chalk-cliff, reared aloft in white;
A narrowing rent soon closed toward the land,--
Toward the sea, an open yawning bight.

The polished tide, with scarce a hint of blue,
Washed in the bight; above with angry moan
A raven, that was robbed, sat up in view,
Croaking and crying on a ledge alone.

"Stand on thy nest, spread out thy fateful wings,
With sullen hungry love bemoan thy brood,
For boys have wrung their necks, those imp-like things,
Whose beaks dripped crimson daily at their food.

"Cry, thou black prophetess! cry, and despair,
None love thee, none! Their father was thy foe,
Whose father in his youth did know thy lair,
And steal thy little demons long ago.

"Thou madest many childless for their sake,
And picked out many eyes that loved the light.
Cry, thou black prophetess! sit up, awake,
Forebode; and ban them through the desolate night"

Lo! while I spake it, with a crimson hue
The dipping sun endowed that silver flood,
And all the cliffs flushed red, and up she flew,
The bird, as mad to bathe in airy blood.

"Nay, thou mayst cry, the omen is not thine,
Thou aged priestess of fell doom, and fate.
It is not blood: thy gods are making wine,
They spilt the must outside their city gate,

"And stained their azure pavement with the lees:
They will not listen though thou cry aloud.
Old Chance, thy dame, sits mumbling at her ease,
Nor hears; the fair hag, Luck, is in her shroud.

"They heed not, they withdraw the sky-hung sign,
Thou hast no charm against the favorite race;
Thy gods pour out for it, not blood, but wine:
There is no justice in their dwelling-place!

"Safe in their father's house the boys shall rest,
Though thy fell brood doth stark and silent lie;
Their unborn sons may yet despoil thy nest:
Cry, thou black prophetess! lift up! cry, cry!"

THE WARBLING OF BLACKBIRDS.

When I hear the waters fretting,
When I see the chestnut letting
All her lovely blossom falter down, I think, "Alas the day!"
Once with magical sweet singing,
Blackbirds set the woodland ringing,
That awakes no more while April hours wear themselves away.

In our hearts fair hope lay smiling,
Sweet as air, and all beguiling;
And there hung a mist of bluebells on the slope and down the dell;
And we talked of joy and splendor
That the years unborn would render,
And the blackbirds helped us with the story, for they knew it well.

Piping, fluting, "Bees are humming,
April's here, and summer's coming;
Don't forget us when you walk, a man with men, in pride and joy;
Think on us in alleys shady,
When you step a graceful lady;
For no fairer day have we to hope for, little girl and boy.

"Laugh and play, O lisping waters,
Lull our downy sons and daughters;
Come, O wind, and rock their leafy cradle in thy wanderings coy;
When they wake we'll end the measure
With a wild sweet cry of pleasure,
And a 'Hey down derry, let's be merry! little girl and boy!'"

SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME.

I walked beside a dark gray sea.
And said, "O world, how cold thou art!
Thou poor white world, I pity thee,
For joy and warmth from thee depart.

"Yon rising wave licks off the snow,
Winds on the crag each other chase,
In little powdery whirls they blow
The misty fragments down its face.

"The sea is cold, and dark its rim,
Winter sits cowering on the wold,
And I beside this watery brim,
Am also lonely, also cold."

I spoke, and drew toward a rock,
Where many mews made twittering sweet;
Their wings upreared, the clustering flock
Did pat the sea-grass with their feet.

A rock but half submerged, the sea
Ran up and washed it while they fed;
Their fond and foolish ecstasy
A wondering in my fancy bred.

Joy companied with every cry,
Joy in their food, in that keen wind,
That heaving sea, that shaded sky,
And in themselves, and in their kind.

The phantoms of the deep at play!
What idless graced the twittering things;
Luxurious paddlings in the spray,
And delicate lifting up of wings.

Then all at once a flight, and fast
The lovely crowd flew out to sea;
If mine own life had been recast,
Earth had not looked more changed to me.

"Where is the cold? Yon clouded skies
Have only dropt their curtains low
To shade the old mother where she lies
Sleeping a little, 'neath the snow.

"The cold is not in crag, nor scar,
Not in the snows that lap the lea,
Not in yon wings that beat afar,
Delighting, on the crested sea;

"No, nor in yon exultant wind
That shakes the oak and bends the pine.
Look near, look in, and thou shalt find
No sense of cold, fond fool, but thine!"

With that I felt the gloom depart,
And thoughts within me did unfold,
Whose sunshine warmed me to the heart,--
I walked in joy, and was not cold.

LAURANCE.