Spun-yarn And Spindrift Part 9

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 gra.s.shopper 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! G.o.d! that we were there!

April in England! And her sons are lying On these red fields, and dreaming of her sh.o.r.e; 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! G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e) "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 sh.o.r.es 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.