Spun-yarn And Spindrift Part 8

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 sh.o.r.es so long, Still in our dreams we see her, n.o.ble 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 h.e.l.l 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 sh.o.r.es 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 mult.i.tudinous 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 gra.s.s 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.