Poetry

I

At sunset, when the rosy light was dying Far down the pathway of the west, I saw a lonely dove in silence flying, To be at rest.

Pilgrim of air, I cried, could I but borrow Thy wandering wings, thy freedom blest, I’d fly away from every careful sorrow, And find my rest.

II

But when the filmy veil of dusk was falling, Home flew the dove to seek his nest, Deep in the forest where his mate was calling To love and rest.

Peace, heart of mine! no longer sigh to wander; Lose not thy life in barren quest. There are no happy islands over yonder; Come home and rest.

1874.

Another Chance A Dramatic Lyric

Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death! Uncrook your fingers from my throat, and let me draw my breath. You do me wrong to take me now⁠—too soon for me to die⁠— Ah, loose me from this clutching pain, and hear the reason why.

I know I’ve had my forty years, and wasted every one; And yet, I tell you honestly, my life is just begun; I’ve walked the world like one asleep, a dreamer in a trance; But now you’ve gripped me wide awake⁠—I want another chance.

My dreams were always beautiful, my thoughts were high and fine; No life was ever lived on earth to match those dreams of mine. And would you wreck them unfulfilled? What folly, nay, what crime! You rob the world, you waste a soul; give me a little time.

You’ll hear me? Yes, I’m sure you will, my hope is not in vain: I feel the even pulse of peace, the sweet relief from pain; The black fog rolls away from me; I’m free once more to plan: Another chance is all I need to prove myself a man!

of wrath are heard along the height, And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand, To bring the tyrant low and free the land.

But little recked the pampered King of these; He heard no voice but such as praise and please. Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport, One day he wandered idly with his court Beside the river, seeking to devise New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes. There in the stream a patient angler stood, And cast his line across the rippling flood. His silver spoil lay near him on the green: “Such fish,” the courtiers cried, “were never seen! Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard shaft⁠— This man must be the master of his craft!” “An easy art!” the jealous King replied: “Myself could learn it better, if I tried, And catch a hundred larger fish a week⁠— Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!” The angler turned, came near, and bent his knee: “ ’Tis not for kings to strive with such as me; Yet if the King commands it, I obey. But one condition of the strife I pray: The fisherman who brings the least to land Shall do whate’er the other may command.” Loud laughed the King: “A foolish fisher thou! For I shall win, and rule thee then as now.”

One sail in sight upon the lonely sea, And only one! For never ship but mine Has dared these waters. We were first, My men, to battle in between the bergs And floes to these wide waves. This gulf is mine; I name it! and that flying sail is mine! And there, hull-down below that flying sail, The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine! My ship Discoverie! The sullen dogs Of mutineers, the bitches’ whelps that snatched Their food and bit the hand that nourished them, Have stolen her. You ingrate Henry Greene, I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch, And paid your debts, and kept you in my house, And brought you here to make a man of you! You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man, Toothless and tremulous, how many times Have I employed you as a master’s mate To give you bread? And you Abacuck Prickett, You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan, You knew the plot and silently agreed, Salving your conscience with a pious lie! Yes, all of you⁠—hounds, rebels, thieves! Bring back My ship! Too late⁠—I rave⁠—they cannot hear My voice: and if they heard, a drunken laugh Would be their answer; for their minds have caught The fatal firmness of the fool’s resolve, That looks like courage but is only fear. They’ll blunder on, and lose my ship, and drown; Or blunder home to England and be hanged.

“Gran’ Boule” A Seaman’s Tale of the Sea

We men hat go down for a livin’ in ships to the sea⁠— We love it a different way from you poets that ’bide on the land. We are fond of it, sure! But, you take it as comin’ from me, There’s a fear and a hate in our love that a landsman can’t understand.

Oh, who could help likin’ the salty smell, and the blue Of the waves that are lazily breathin’ as if they dreamed in the sun? She’s a Sleepin’ Beauty, the sea⁠—but you can’t tell what she’ll do; And the seamen never trust her⁠—they know too well what she’s done!

She’s a wench like one that I saw in a singin’-play⁠— Carmen they called her⁠—Lord, what a life her lovers did lead! She’d cuddle and kiss you, and sing you and dance you away; And then⁠—she’d curse you, and break you, and throw you down like a weed.

You may chance it awhile with the girls like that, if you please; But you want a woman to trust when you settle down with a wife; And a seaman’s thought of growin’ old at his ease Is a snug little house on the land to shelter the rest of his life.

So that was old Poisson’s dream⁠—did you know the Cap’?