Chapter II: Part 2

Wave your hand to him--call good-bye!
Faintly his answer echoes back;
Voices of children eagerly
Lure him on by the fairy track
To the wonder-world, where all hearts are gay;
He is not dead, he is just--away.

THE SANDMAN

When the long, hot day is over,
And the sun drops down the west,
And the childish hands are weary,
And the childish feet must rest,
The Sandman steals through the portals
Where the dying sunlight gleams,
And touches the tired eyelids
And lulls them into dreams.

Even so, when life is over,
And the long day's march is past,
We wait in gathering shadows
Till the Sandman comes at last.
Sad are our hearts and weary,
And long the waiting seems;
Lord, we are tired children;
Touch Thou our eyes with dreams.

Take from the slackened fingers
The toys so heavy grown,
Give to Thy tired children
Visions of Thee alone;
Then, when at length the shadows
Darken adown the west,
Send to us Death, Thy Sandman,
To call Thine own to rest.

THE REMITTANCE MEN

She stands in peace by her waters,
Our Mother, fair and wise,
And ever amid our dreaming
We see her hills arise;
We, who have sold our birthright,
Sons, who have failed at need,
Outcast, lost and dishonoured,
We know her fair indeed.

Yes, we have sold our birthright--
Well have we learned the cost--
Drink-sodden, hateful bodies,
And souls forever lost;
We see the heights above us,
The depths into which we fall,
And we turn from that sight in horror,
Drinking to drown it all.

Lo, we have lost her forever!
Exiled, unclean, alone;
Yet she was once our Mother,
Once we were sons of her own;
We--who have failed her and shamed her,
Cast from her shores so long,
Still in our dreams we see her,
Noble and wise and strong.

Once in a far-off country
We named her great and fair,
They mocked us with scornful laughter,
"Lo, these are the sons she bare!"
Do we not feel our bondage,
We, who have owned her name,
When we dare not whisper her praises
Lest we whelm her in our shame?

Yet do the outcasts love her,
Who once were bone of her bone,
Pray for her life and honour
Who dare not pray for their own;
Out of the hell we have chosen
Watch her, with longing eyes--
She, who was once our Mother,
Excellent, just and wise.

THE LAST VOYAGE

When I loose my vessel's moorings, and put out to sea once more
On the last and longest voyage that shall never reach the shore,
O Thou Master of the Ocean, send no tranquil tides to me,
But 'mid all Thy floods and thunders let my vessel put to sea.

Let her lie within no tropic sea, dead rotten to the bone,
Till the lisping, sluggish waters claim my vessel for their own;
Till the sun shall scar her timbers, and the slimy weed shall crawl
O'er her planks that gape and widen, and the slow sea swallow all.

Let her not go down in darkness, where the smoking mist-wreaths hide
The white signal of the breakers, dimly guessed at, overside;
While her decks are in confusion, and the wreck drops momently,
And she drifts in dark and panic to the death she cannot see.

But out in the open ocean, where the great waves call and cry,
Leap and thunder at her taffrail, while the scud blows stinging by,
With the life still strong within her, struggling onward through
the blast,
Till one last long wave shall whelm her, and our voyaging is past.

BALLADE OF DREAMS

We dreamed our dreams in full many lands,
By mount and forest, by stream and lea,
Dreams of the touch of old-time hands,
Dreams of a future destiny,
Dreams of battle and victory,
Laughter and love and wealth and fame;
Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we--
Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?

Our rivers of dream had golden sands,
Our forests of Dream waved fair to see,
Our Dreamland Isles were enchanted strands
With shores of magic and mystery;
How should we dream of misery
With the blood of youth at our hearts aflame?
Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we--
Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?

If a mortal now our fate demands
(We who so long forgotten be),
He shall seek in vain, for our wandering bands
Now wait here, all so dreamlessly;
O the restless hearts rest quietly,
And the fire is quenched that no frost could tame;
Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we--
Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?

_L'Envoi_

Prince, this world is all vanity,
And dream and deed, they are still the same;
Dreamers of dreams, indeed, were we--
Have the lichens yet o'ergrown our name?

SHIPS OF OLD RENOWN

Triremes of the Roman, cruising down to Antioch,
Longships of the Northmen, galleons of Spain,
Tall, gleaming caravels, swinging in the tideway,
Never shall the sunlight gild their sails again.

Never shall those white sails, lifting on the sea-line,
Swoop like a swallow across the blinding blue,
Caracque and caravel, lying 'neath the waters,
Wait till the bugles shall call the last review.

There in the darkness lie friend and foe together,
Drake's English pinnaces, the great Armada's host;
Quiet they lie in the silence of the sea-depths,
Waiting the call that shall sound from coast to coast.

War-ship and merchantmen, lying in the slime there,
Galleys of the Algerine, and traders of Almayne,
Hoys of the Dutchman, and haughty ships of Venice,
Never shall the sunlight gild their sails again.

SEA-SONG

I will go down to my sea again--to the waste of waters, wild and wide;
I am tired--so tired--of hill and plain and the dull tame face
of the country side.

I will go out across the bar, with a swoop like the flight of a
sea-bird's wings,
To where the winds and the waters are, with their multitudinous
thunderings.

My prows shall furrow the whitening sea, out into the teeth of the
lashing wind,
Where a thousand billows snarl and flee and break in a smother of
foam behind.

O strong and terrible Mother Sea, let me lie once more on your cool
white breast,
Your winds have blown through the heart of me and called me back from
the land's dull rest.

For night by night they blow through my sleep; the voice of waves
through my slumber rings;
I feel the spell of the steadfast deep; I hear its tramplings and
triumphings.

And at last, when my hours of life are sped, let them make me no
grave by hill or plain--
Thy waves, O Mother, shall guard my head. I will go down to my sea
again.

THE SEA-WIND

I am weary of this country, with its hedges and its walls,
And all night I do be dreaming how the water calls and calls;
Of the booming of the breakers as they dash against the shore,
And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind I'll hear no more.

I am weary of these meadows, where the sun comes scorching down
Till the ways are dry and dusty, and the grass is burnt and brown;
And forever through my dreaming come the great waves' lash and leap,
And the salt wind, the sea-wind, the wind upon the deep.

Should I die here in this country, and its stifling turf be pressed
Hot and heavy o'er my bosom, O 'tis never I could rest;
Let me lie beneath the washing of the green and silent wave,
With the salt wind, the sea-wind, to sing above my grave.

MY PHILOSOPHY

Life is a game that all must play;
Though you win or lose, though you gain or pay,
Whatever the cards you hold, I say,
Throw back your head and laugh.

Keep Youth's fire at your heart aglow,
A clasp for a friend and a fist for a foe,
And then let come or joy or woe,
Throw back your head and laugh.

Laugh, though the world upon you frown,
Laugh, though the deeps your soul shall drown,
Many a better man goes down--
Throw back your head and laugh.

And when Death's hand on your shoulder lies
And the world grows dim to your failing eyes,
Let him not say: "A coward dies."
Throw back your head and laugh.

EASTER, 1917

_I. M. Thomas MacDonagh_

He died for thee, O mournful Mother Erin!
A year ago he turned his face away
From the glad Spring, in her young green appearing;
He lingered not to listen to the lay
Of thrush or blackbird; turned him not aside
To watch the glory of the daffodils
That shone and fluttered on a hundred hills,
But where the mists had gathered, chill and grey,
He chose his path--and died.

And now another Spring makes green the meadows,
The daffodils are golden once again,
The little winds are dancing with the shadows
The young leaves make; once more the world is fain
Of life and laughter--but he shall not see
The leaf-strewn hollows where the violets grow,
Or watch the hawthorn buds foam into snow,
No more shall feel the warm, soft, springtime rain,
For he has died for thee.

And yet this year, 'mid all the Spring's rejoicing,
There sounds at times, I think, a sadder note;
This Spring no longer is the blackbird voicing
Such jubilation from his golden throat;
The winds, grown older, dance with feet of lead,
The daffodils are nodding listlessly,
The violet has no perfume for the bee,
The grasshopper has donned his dullest coat,
Remembering he is dead.

Yet once again, O thrush, break into singing;
Laugh, daffodils, to feel the falling rain;
Winter is past, and the young earth is springing
Joyous to greet her risen Lord again:
And he who loved you--deem not that he lies
Unheeding of your grief beneath his mound,
No more the sleep of Death enwraps him round;
Rejoice, O Erin, Death to-day is slain,
But Valour never dies.

"HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD"

April in England! Daffodils are growing
'Neath every hedgerow, golden, tall and fair;
April! and all the little winds are blowing
The scents of Springtime through the sunny air;
April in England! God! that we were there!

April in England! And her sons are lying
On these red fields, and dreaming of her shore;
April! We hear the thrushes' songs replying
Each unto each, above the cannons' roar.
April in England! Shall we see it more?

April in England! There's the cuckoo calling
Down in her meadows, where the cowslip gleams;
April! And little showers are softly falling,
Dimpling the surface of her babbling streams.
April in England! How the shrapnel screams!

April in England! Blood and dust and smother,
Screaming of horses, moans of agony;
April! Full many of thy sons, O Mother,
Never again those dewy dawns shall see.
April in England! God, keep England free.

THE KAISER

"I am the Lord of War," he said, and bared
His blade. "Dominion shall be mine alone."
East, south, west, north, his clamorous bugles blared,
His battle lines were thrown.

Then lo! the leopards of England woke from sleep,
Roaring their challenge forth across the sea,
And France's voice was heard in thunders deep,
Calling on Liberty.

And Belgium sprang, alert, to meet the foe,
And from her mountains Serbia sent her bands,
And the great bear of Russia, growling low,
Turned from his northern lands.

Far over land and sea the summons swept,
And Canada, among her fields of grain,
Threw down the sickle, caught the sword, and leapt,
Shouting, across the main.

Australia, hasting from the southward, came;
Africa, India sprang into the fight.
"Lo, Kaiser! here our answer to thy claim;
Now God shall show the right."

Then he who drew the blade looked forth, and saw
That ring of steel and fire about his throne,
And knew himself at last, with trembling awe,
The Lord of Death alone.

CAPTAINS ADVENTUROUS

Captains adventurous, from your ports of quiet,
From the ghostly harbours where your sea-beat galleons lie,
Say, do your dreams go back across the sea-line
Where cliffs of England rise grey against the sky?

Say, do you dream of the pleasant ports of old-time,
Orchards of old Devon, all afoam with snowy bloom?
Or have the mists that veil the Sea of Shadows
Closed from your eyes all the memories of home?

Feet of the Captains hurry through the stillness,
Ghostly sails of galleons are drifting to and fro,
Voices of mariners sound across the shadows,
Waiting the word that shall bid them up and go.

"Lo now," they say, "for the grey old Mother calls us,"
(Listening to the thunder of the guns about her shore)
"Death shall not hold us, nor years that lie between us,
Sail we to England, to strike for her once more."

Captains adventurous, rest ye in your havens,
Pipe your ghostly mariners to keep their watch below;
Sons of your sons are here to strike for England,
Heirs of your glory--Beatty, Jellicoe.

Yet shall your names ring on in England's story,
You, who were the prophets of the mighty years to be;
Drake, Blake, and Nelson, thundering down the ages,
Captains adventurous, the Masters of the Sea.

DRAKE'S DRUM

Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon:
"Mariners, O Mariners, who warred so well with Spain,
Lo, the foe is here once more! Leave the ports of Heaven,
Haste across the jasper sea, and drive them home again."

All the streets of Paradise echo to its rattle--
Golden roads a-tremble to the chime of tramping feet;
Hawkins, Drake and Frobisher are marching forth to battle:
"Peter, open wide the gates. We're out to join the fleet."

Pinnace, caravel, caracque--many a galleon drifting--
Shadowy sails of old renown upon the shadowy sea;
Ghostly voices through the mists; "Lo, the white cliffs lifting;
Heaven's streets for those who will, but Devon's shores for me."

Drake's drum is beating along the coasts of Devon,
Calling, as in days of old it called to vanquish Spain;
Drake and Blake and Raleigh, they have left the ports of Heaven,
Homing back across the stars to England's cliffs again.

OUR DEAD

Not where the English turf grows green we laid them,
Where their forefathers lie;
O'er the rude trench and rough-built mound we made them
Arches an alien sky.

No chime of bells from old-time towers above them;
No sound of English streams,
Calling of rooks, or voice of those who love them,
Ever shall break their dreams.

What matters it? The earth that o'er them closes
Its flowers as softly sheds
As English winds could bring the English roses
To rain upon their heads.

And though an alien land their dust is keeping,
Still in their hearts with pride
They say: "Though England may not guard our sleeping,
Yet 'tis for her we died."

And with each wind across the waves that sever
Them from the land they knew,
Shall blow this message through their hearts forever:
"England remembers too."

NEW YEAR'S EVE, 1916

Gregory fell beside the Marne,
And John where flows the Aisne;
But here to-night, ere midnight chime,
We three shall meet again.

Though land and sea lie wide between,
Their ghosts this way shall win,
For, three true men, we made a bond
To watch the New Year in.

We made it on a Flanders field
Where white the shell-smoke ran;
And who is Death to break the faith
That man has pledged to man?

Then draw their chairs beside the fire
And brim their cups with wine;
For ere the bells of midnight swing
Their hands shall clasp with mine.

Though Gregory lies where Marne runs down,
And John beside the Aisne,
Living and dead, ere midnight chime,
We three shall meet again.

TO IRELAND'S DEAD

Ah, golden youths! who leave for evermore
Your ports of quiet breath,
Turning your prows from Life's familiar shore
Forth with adventurous Death.

With that great comrade sailing, side by side,
To meet your warrior peers,
Whose names have starred the roll of Erin's pride
Down all the echoing years.

Your sunlit sails flash for a moment's space,
Fade, waver and are gone;
But, straining through the mists, our spirits trace
A glory lingering on.

Farewell, great fellowship! Sail on, nor mourn
Your ports of quiet breath;
Your prows with singing and with laughter turn
Forth with adventurous Death.

A SONG OF EXILE

What is the news of England?
The April breezes blow,
Bringing to us faint odours
From lanes we used to know--
Lanes, where the hawthorn hedges
Foam into blossoms white;
What is the news of England
For England's sons to-night?

What is the news of England?
'Neath her white cliffs the sea
Croons its soft song of summer,
The golden days to be.
Her hills are fair with promise,
Her woods with voices ring,
From every copse the cuckoo
Shouts to the jocund Spring.

What is the news of England?
Once more the cowslip gleams
Gold in her misty meadows,
Gold by her murmuring streams.
Once more the April breezes
Blow secrets of delight
From the great heart of England
To England's sons to-night.

THE AIR-MEN

We brought great ships to birth,
We builded towns and towers--
Lords of the sea and earth,
Soon shall the sky be ours.

Soon shall our navies drift
Like swallows down the wind,
Shall wheel and swoop and lift,
Leaving the clouds behind.

The stars our keels shall know,
The eagle, as it flies,
Shall scream to see us go
Swift moving through the skies.

High o'er the mountain-steep
Our winged fleets shall sail,
The serried squadrons sweep,
White-pinioned down the gale.

We are the lords of the land,
We built us towns and towers,
The sea has felt our hand--
Soon shall the sky be ours.

THE DEFEATED

Cheer if you will the brave deed done, with laurels the victor crown,
But keep one leaf of your wreath of bay for the men who lost and are
down--
For the fight in vain, for the cankered grain that in blood and tears
was sown.

Honour the strong of heart and hand, the sure of will and of sight,
But what of the stumbling feet, the eyes that strain in vain for light?
Is there no gain for the tears and pain of the men who fell in the fight?

Beaten--baffled--with standards lost--knowing no rallying cry,
Struggling still, but with failing strength, while stronger men
pass by:--
Keep ye your bays; I give my praise to the men who lose and die.

THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD

The sunny streets of Oxford
Are lying still and bare,
No sound of voice or laughter
Rings through the golden air;
And, chiming from her belfry,
No longer Christchurch calls
The eager, boyish faces
To gather in her halls.

The colleges are empty,
Only the sun and wind
Make merry in the places
The lads have left behind.
But, when the trooping shadows
Have put the day to flight,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Come homing through the night.

From France they come, and Flanders,
From Mons, and Marne and Aisne,
From Greece and from Gallipoli
They come to her again;
From the North Sea's grey waters,
From many a grave unknown,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Come back to claim their own.

The dark is full of laughter,
Boy laughter, glad and young,
They tell the old-time stories,
The old-time songs are sung;
They linger in her cloisters,
They throng her dewy meads,
Till Isis hears their calling
And laughs among her reeds.

But, when the east is whitening
To greet the rising sun,
And slowly, over Carfax,
The stars fade, one by one,
Then, when the dawn-wind whispers
Along the Isis shore,
The Gentlemen of Oxford
Must seek their graves once more.

The Temple Press, Letchworth, England

End of Project Gutenberg's Spun-yarn and Spindrift, by Norah M. Holland

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