Collected Poems Volume II Part 82

Drake was never bolder!

Devil or Spaniard, what cares he Whence your eerie music be?

Till--lo, against yon old oak-tree He leans his brawny shoulder!

_Chorus:_ He lists and leans his shoulder!

Ah, what melody doth he hear As to that gnarled old tree-trunk there He lays his wind-bit bra.s.s-ringed ear, And steals his arm about it?

What Dryad could this Bo'sun win To that slow-rippling amorous grin?-- 'Twas full of singing bees within!

Not Didymus could doubt it!

_Chorus:_ So loud they buzzed about it!

Straight, o'er a bough one leg he throws, And up that oaken main-mast goes With reckless red unlarded nose And gooseberry eyes of wonder!

Till now, as in a galleon's hold, Below, he sees great cells of gold Whence all the hollow trunk up-rolled A low melodious thunder.

_Chorus:_ A sweet and perilous thunder!

Ay, there, within that hollow tree, Will Shakespeare, mightst thou truly see The Imperial City of the Bee, In Chrysomelan splendour!

And, in the midst, one eight-foot dome Swells o'er that t.i.tan honey-comb Where the Bee-Empress hath her home, With such as do attend her,

_Chorus:_ Weaponed with stings attend her!

But now her singing sentinels Have turned to sleep in waxen cells, And Bill leans down his face and smells The whole sweet summer's cargo-- In one deep breath, the whole year's bloom, Lily and thyme and rose and broom, One Golden Fleece of flower-perfume In that old oaken Argo.

_Chorus:_ That green and golden Argo!

And now he hangs with dangling feet Over that dark abyss of sweet, Striving to reach such wild gold meat As none could buy for money: His left hand grips a swinging branch When--crack! Our Bo'sun, stout and stanch, Falls like an Alpine avalanche, Feet first into the honey!

_Chorus:_ Up to his ears in honey!

And now his red unlarded nose And bulging eyes are all that shows Above it, as he puffs and blows!

And now--to 'scape the scathing Of that black host of furious bees His nose and eyes he fain would grease And bobs below those golden seas Like an old woman bathing.

_Chorus:_ Old Mother Hubbard bathing!

And now he struggles, all in vain, To reach some little bough again; But, though he heaves with might and main, This honey holds his ribs, sirs, So tight, a barque might sooner try To steer a cargo through the sky Than Bill, thus honey-logged, to fly By flopping of his jib, sirs!

_Chorus:_ His tops'l and his jib, sirs!

Like Oberon in the hive his beard With wax and honey all besmeared Would make the crescent moon afeard That now is sailing brightly Right o'er his leafy donjon-keep!

But that she knows him sunken deep, And that his tower is straight and steep, She would not smile so lightly.

_Chorus:_ Look down and smile so lightly.

She smiles in that small heavenly s.p.a.ce, Ringed with the tree-trunk's leafy grace, While upward grins his ghastly face As if some wild-wood Satyr, Some gnomish Ptolemy should dare Up that dark optic tube to stare, As all unveiled she floated there, Poor maiden moon, straight at her!

_Chorus:_ The buccaneering Satyr!

But there, till some one help him out, Black Bill must stay, without a doubt.

"_Help! Help!_" he gives a m.u.f.fled shout.

None but the white owls hear it!

_Who? Whoo?_ they cry: Bill answers "ME!

_I am stuck fast in this great tree!

Bring me a rope, good Timothy!

There's honey, lads, we'll share it!_"

_Chorus:_ Ay, now he wants to share it.

Then, thinking help may come with morn, He sinks, half-famished and out-worn, And scarce his nose exalts its horn Above that sea of glory!

But, even as he owns defeat, His belly saith, "A man must eat, And since there is none other meat, Come, lap this mess before 'ee!"

_Chorus:_ This glorious mess before 'ee.

Then Dian sees a right strange sight As, bidding him a fond good-night, She flings a silvery kiss to light In that deep oak-tree hollow, And finds that gold and crimson nose A moving, munching, ravenous rose That up and down unceasing goes, Save when he stops to swallow!

_Chorus:_ He finds it hard to swallow!

Ay, now his best becomes his worst, For honey cannot quench his thirst, Though he should eat until he burst; But, ah, the skies are kindly, And from their tender depths of blue They send their silver-sliding dew.

So Bill thrusts out his tongue anew And waits to catch it--blindly!

_Chorus:_ For ah, the stars are kindly!

And sometimes, with a shower of rain, They strive to ease their prisoner's pain: Then Bill thrusts out his tongue again With never a grace, the sinner!

And day and night and day goes by, And never a comrade comes anigh, And still the honey swells as high For supper, breakfast, dinner!

_Chorus:_ Yet Bill has grown no thinner!

The young moon grows to full and throws Her buxom kiss upon his nose, As nightly over the tree she goes, And peeps and smiles and pa.s.ses, Then with her fickle silver flecks Our old black galleon's dreaming decks; And then her face, with nods and becks, In midmost ocean gla.s.ses.

_Chorus:_ 'Twas ever the way with la.s.ses!

Ah, Didymus, hast thou won indeed That Paradise which is thy meed?

(Thy tale not all that run may read!) Thy sweet hath now no leaven!

Now, like an onion in a cup Of mead, thou liest for Jove to sup, Could Polyphemus lift thee up With t.i.tan hands to heaven!

_Chorus:_ This great oak-cup to heaven!

The second canto ceased; and, as they raised Their wine-cups with the last triumphant note, Bacon, undaunted, raised his grating voice-- "This honey which, in some sort, may be styled The Spettle of the Stars ..." "Bring the Canary!"

Ben Jonson roared. "It is a moral wine And suits the third, last canto!" At one draught John Davis drained it and began anew.

CANTO THE THIRD

A month went by. We were hoisting sail!

We had lost all hope of Bill; Though, laugh as you may at a seaman's tale, He was fast in his honey-comb still!

And often he thinks of the chaplain's word In the days he shall see no more,-- How the Sweet, indeed, of the Sour hath need; And the Sea, likewise, of the Sh.o.r.e.

_Chorus:_ The chaplain's word of the Air and a Bird; Of the Sea, likewise, and the Sh.o.r.e!

"O, had I the wings of a dove, I would fly To a heaven, of aloes and gall!