=* A Distributed Proofreaders Canada eBook *= This eBook is made available at no cost and with very few restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make a change in the eBook (other than alteration for different display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of the eBook. If either of these conditions applies, please contact a https://www.fadedpage.com administrator before proceeding. Thousands more FREE eBooks are available at https://www.fadedpage.com. This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE. _Title:_ Collected Poems _Date of first publication:_ 1944 _Author:_ E. J. Pratt (1882-1964) _Date first posted:_ Sep. 14, 2022 _Date last updated:_ Sep. 14, 2022 Faded Page eBook #20220938 This eBook was produced by: Mardi Desjardins, Pat McCoy & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net [Cover Illustration] _COLLECTED_ _POEMS_ by E. J. PRATT TORONTO THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LIMITED 1944 Copyright, Canada, 1944 by THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LIMITED Printed in Canada by The Hunter-Rose Co. Limited, Toronto _To Viola my wife_ _and_ _to Claire my daughter_ _this book is lovingly dedicated_ CONTENTS PAGE Dunkirk 1 The Radio in the Ivory Tower 11 Come Away, Death 16 Silences 17 The Prize Cat 19 From Stone to Steel 20 The Invaded Field 20 Come not the Seasons Here 21 Still Life 22 Autopsy on a Sadist 24 Father Time 24 Seen on the Road 25 The Baritone 26 The Stoics 27 The Mystic 28 Missing: Believed Dead: Returned 28 The Impatient Earth 29 The Old Organon 30 The New 31 The Submarine 31 Brébeuf and His Brethren 36 Before an Altar 95 To An Enemy 95 The Empty Room 96 Fire 96 The Titanic 97 No. 6000 128 The Brawler in _Who’s Who_ 131 The Dying Eagle 132 The _Roosevelt_ and the _Antinoe_ 135 NEWFOUNDLAND REMINISCENCES Newfoundland 165 The Cachalot 167 Old Harry 181 The Drag-Irons 182 In Lantern Light 183 Great Tides 183 On the Shore 183 In Absentia 184 The Shark 185 The Fog 186 The Big Fellow 186 Sea-Gulls 187 The Way of Cape Race 188 Flood-Tide 189 Overheard by a Stream 190 The History of John Jones 191 To Angelina, an Old Nurse 192 The Ice-Floes 195 The Toll of the Bells 199 The Ground Swell 200 Time-Worn 200 The Weather Glass 201 The Lee-Shore 201 The Ritual 202 One Hour of Life 203 Erosion 203 A Reverie on a Dog 204 The Sea-Cathedral 211 The Iron Door 212 A MISCELLANY A Prairie Sunset 223 Out of Step 224 The Man and the Machine 224 The Parable of Puffsky 225 Old Age 226 Blind 227 A Legacy 227 The Decision 228 The Highway 228 Cherries 229 A Feline Silhouette 229 The Child and the Wren 230 Frost 231 Comrades 231 Jock o’ the Links 232 The Convict Holocaust 233 The Epigrapher 234 Like Mother, Like Daughter 235 EXTRAVAGANZAS The Witches’ Brew 239 The Great Feud 256 The Fable of the Goats 289 The Depression Ends 303 The Truant 309 COLLECTED POEMS DUNKIRK The English May was slipping into June With heralds that the spring had never known. Black cavalry were astride the air; The Downs awoke to find their faces slashed; There was blood on the hawthorn, And song had died in the nightingales’ throats. Appeasement is in its grave: it sleeps well. The mace had spiked the parchment seals And pulverized the hedging _ifs_ and _wherefores_, The wheezy adverbs, the gutted modifiers. Churchill and Bevin have the floor, Whipping snarling nouns and action-verbs Out of their lairs in the lexicon, Bull-necked _adversatives_ that bit and clawed, An age before gentility was cubbed. A call came in from the Channel Like the wash of surf on sand, Borne in by the winds against the chalk escarpments, Into the harbours, up the rivers, along the estuaries, And but one word in the call. Three hundred thousand on the beaches, Their spirit-level vision training West! A vast patience in their eyes, They had fought pig-iron, manganese, tungsten, cobalt; And their struggle with hunger, thirst, And the drug of sleep, Had multiplied the famine in their cheeks For England, By forty miles divided from her brood. Seven millions on the roads in France, Set to a pattern of chaos Fashioned through years for this hour. Inside the brain of the planner No tolerance befogged the reason— The _reason_ with its clear-swept halls, Its brilliant corridors, Where no recesses with their healing dusk Offered asylum for a fugitive. The straightedge ruled out errors, The tremors in the sensory nerves, Pity and the wayward impulses, The liberal imbecilities. The reason reckoned that the allied guns Would not be turned upon the roads To clear the path for the retreat. It reasoned well. _Regatta and Crew_ Millenniums it had taken to make their stock. Piltdown hung on the frontals of their fathers. They had lain as sacrifices Upon the mortuary slabs of Stonehenge. Their souls had come to birth out of their racial myths. _The sea was their school; the storm, their friend._ Foot by foot and hand to hand They had met the legions On the beaches and in the surf. Great names had been delivered unto them; Caractacus, Taking his toll of the invaders In his retreat to the fens and hills; Boadicea, The storming of Londinium and Verulamium, And the annihilation of the Roman ninth; Alban, Alfred, Athelney, Edington! And in the march of their survival They had fought the poll-tax and burned The manor rolls under Ball and Tyler. They had led the riots against the Enclosures. They had sung ballads to the rhythms of the gibbets. The welts had been around their necks and ankles. They had swept the Main with Hawkins and Drake. Morgan-mouthed vocabularians, Lovers of the beef of language, They had carved with curse and cutlass Castilian grandees in the Caribbean. They had signed up with Frobisher, Had stifled cries in the cockpits of Trafalgar. They had emptied their veins into the Marne. Freedom to them was like the diver’s lust for air. Children of oaths and madrigals, They had shambled out of caves To write the clauses of the Charters, To paint the Channel mists, To stand hushed before the Canterbury tapers. _The Race on the Channel_ The Royal Yacht squadrons of the Thames and Cowes, Those slim and rakish models of the _wave-line theory_, Flying the ensign with their Club devices— Grand-daughters of _Genesta_ and the _Galatea_ Whose racing spinnakers Outsilvered and outflow the sea-gulls off the Isle of Wight. Cutters, the pride of Folkestone and Sheerness With their press balloon-jibs, Their billows of flax and hemp Smothering their single masts And straight-running bowsprits. Excursion paddlers— Last of the family known as the _fleet of the butterflies_, Purveyors of moonlight sonatas and Sunday siestas. The fireboats from the London Fire Brigade. Luggers with four-sided sails bent to the yards And slung obliquely to the masts, Smelling of the wharves of Deal. Smacks that built the Grimsby name. Yawls with their handy mizzen-sails— The Jacks-of-all-trades on the English coast. Barges spritsail-rigged with jigger booms. Bluff-bowed billyboys and Norfolk wherries, Skiffs that stank of herring roes and Yarmouth. Dutch scoots and square-stemmed bawleys rank With kelp, fish-scales and the slime of eels. And with them all, the merchantmen, Three-funnel liners turbine-driven, Cabin cruisers, with whaleboats, rafts and dories Tied to the grimy tails of barges drawn by tugs. A Collingwood came from Newcastle-on-Tyne, Trelawney and Grenville of the Cornish Line, And Raleigh and Gilbert from the Devon Seas With a Somerset Blake. They met at the quays— McCluskey, Gallagher, Joe Millard, Three riveters red from Dumbarton Yard, And Peebles of Paisley, a notary clerk, Two joiners from Belfast, Mahaffy and Burke, Blackstone and Coke of Lincoln’s Inn, A butcher from Smithfield, Toby Quinn, Jonathan Wells, a Sheffield bricklayer, Tim Thomas of Swansea, a borough surveyor, Jack Wesley, a stoker, by way of South Shields, And Snodgrass and Tuttle from Giles-in-the-Fields, Young Bill of Old Bill with Hancock and Reid, Two sons of a bishop from Berwick-on-Tweed, A landscape gardener of Tunbridge, Kent, Povey, a draper from Stoke-on-Trent, Arthur Cholmondeley Bennington-Grubbe With Benbow of the Boodles Club, A Ralph Abercrombie, a Fetherstonehaugh With Smith, and Ibbs, and Jones, and Buggs— They met on the liners, yachts and tugs: The _Princess Maud_, the _Massy Shaw_, The _Crested Eagle_, the _Nicholas Drew_, The _Gurgling Jean_ and the _Saucy Sue_. Two prefects from Harrow—Dudley and Fraser, Fresh in their gray flannel trousers and blazer, Helping two tanners, Muggins and Day, To rig up a sail at a mizzen stay, Were hailed by a Cambridge stroke—“Ahoy! Will you let me go on your billyboy?” A curate from Cardiff, the Reverend Evans, Inspired with zeal by a speech of Bevin’s, Called on a Rochester verger named Burchall, Likewise inflamed by a speech from Churchill— Together they went to a Greenwich jetty And boarded a lighter—the _Bouncing Betty_. Meadows, the valet, tapped at the door Of Colonel Ramsbottom, late of Lahore: ’Twas dawn, and the Colonel was sick with a head; “The Dean and his lordship, the Bishop, are here, And your sloop, sir, is ready down at the pier, And may I go with you?” Meadows said— “No,” roared the Colonel, as he creaked out of bed, Blasting out damns with a spot of saliva, Yet the four of them boarded the _Lady Godiva_. A Captain with a Cape Horn face, Being down on his luck without a ship, Had spent ten years in his own disgrace As skipper of a river ferry— To-night he was taking his finest trip As master of a Norfolk wherry. The Junior partner, Davie Scott, Of MacTavish, MacEachren, MacGregor, and Scott, Conspired with Murdoch, MacNutt and MacPhail To go to Gravesend that evening and sail For the Beach in Mr. MacTavish’s yacht. _Heard on the Colliers_ “I’ve been in a bit of a muss, mesen, With my game left leg,” said Eddie Glen, “And every night my faintin’ spells, Contracted in the Dardanelles.” “My floatin’ kidney keeps me ’ome, My shoulder too ’as never ’ealed.” Quoth Rufus Stirk of ’Uddersfield, Cracked with shrapnel at Bapaume. “Ow, wot’s a kidney, look at me, A bleedin’ boulder in my lung,” Said ’Umphrey ’Iggins of Bermondsey; “A ’Igh Explosive ’ad me strung On the top of a ruddy poplar tree For thirty hours at Armenteers, ’Aven’t spit straight nigh twenty years.” “Now, my old woman,” said Solomon Pike, “Says ’Itler’s such a fidget like; ’E steals the cows and ’ens from the Danes, ’E rummages France, ’e chases the Poles, And comes over ’ere with ’is blinkin’ planes To drive us to the ’Yde Park ’oles Where there’s nary a roof that isn’t leakin’, Swipin’ the pillows right under our ’eads, Shooin’ us out from our ’umble beds.” “’E’s a mug, I says, in a manner o’ speakin’.” “How lang d’ye ken it’ll take to get through it?” Said a cautious drover, Angus Bain. “It’ll take a bit o’ doin’ to do it, The blighters are dropping bombs like rain,” Said the costermonger from Petticoat Lane. * * * Out on the Channel—laughter died. Casual understatement Was driven back from its London haunts To its clinical nakedness Along the banks of the Ilissus. In front of the crew were rolling mountains of smoke Spilling fire from their Vesuvian rims; The swaying fringes of Borealis blue; The crimson stabs through the curtains; The tracers’ fiery parabolas, The falling pendants of green from the Verey lights; The mad colours of the murals of Dunkirk. Space, time, water, bread, sleep, Above all—sleep; Commodities beyond the purchase of the Rand. _Space_—a thousand pounds per foot! Not up for sale In the cabin suites or on the floors of the lighters. The single Mole was crammed with human termites, Stumbling, falling on the decks of the destroyers, Sleeping, dying on the decks of the transports Strung along the seaward end. The solid black queues on the sand waited their turn To file along the bridgehead jetties Improvised from the army lorries, Or waded out to swim Or clutch at drifting gangplanks, rafts and life-belts. _Time_—Days, weeks of the balance of life Offered in exchange for minutes now. Stuff of the world’s sagas in the heavens! Spitfires were chasing Heinkels, one to twenty. The nation’s debt unpaid, unpayable, Was climbing up its pyramid, As the Hurricanes took on the Messerschmitts. _The Multipedes on the Roads_ Born on the blueprints, They are fed by fire. They grow their skin from carburized steel. They are put together by cranes. Their hearts are engines that do not know fatigue In the perfection of their valves, In the might of their systolic thrusts. Their blood is petrol: Oil bathes their joints. Their nerves are wire. From the assembly lines they are put on inspection. They pass tests, Are pronounced fit by the drill-sergeants. They go on parade and are the pride of the High Command. They take, understand and obey orders. They climb hills, straddle craters and the barbed barricades. They defy bullets and shells. Faster than Genghis’ cavalry they speed, Crueller than the hordes of Tamburlaine, Yet unknowing and uncaring. It is these that the rearguards are facing— Creatures of conveyor belts, Of precision tools and schedules. They breathe through carburetted lungs; If pierced, they do not feel the cut, And if they die, they do not suffer death. And Dunkirk stands between the rearguards and the sea. * * * Motor launches from the Port of London, Life-boats from the liners, Whale-boats, bottoms of shallow draught, Rammed their noses into the silt, Packed their loads and ferried them to scoots and drifters. Blood and oil smut on their faces, The wounded, dying and dead were hauled up Over the rails of the hospital carriers In the nets and cargo slings. _In the Skies_ The world believed the trap was sprung, And no Geneva words or signatures of mercy Availed the quarry on the sands. The bird’s right to dodge the barrels on the wing, The start for the hare, The chance for the fox to cross his scent, For the teeth to snap at the end of the chase, Did not belong to this tally-ho. The proffered sword disclaimed by the victor, The high salute at the burial of a foe Wrapped in the folds of his flag, The wreath from the skies, Were far romantic memories. As little chivalry here As in the peregrines chasing the carriers, As in the sniff of the jackals about a carcass! Here over the dunes The last civil rag was torn from the body of war— The decencies had perished with the Stukas. * * * From Dover to Dunkirk, From Dunkirk to Ramsgate, And back to the dunes. Power boats of the enemy Were driving torpedoes into transports and colliers, Lifting the engines clear from their beds, Blowing the boilers, sheering the sterns, And the jettisoned loads gathered up from the sea Were transferred to other decks And piled in steep confusion On the twisted steel of the listed destroyers, On the rough planks of the barges, Into the hatches of the freighters, Jammed against bulkheads and riddled ventilators, On the coils of the cables, On quarterdecks and in the fo’c’sles, On the mess-tables and under them. “Was that roar in the North from the _Rodney_? We hope to God it was.” Drip of the leadlines on the bows— “Two fathoms, sir, four feet, three and a half.” “Wake up, you dead end. You’re not on the feathers now. Make room for this ’ere bloke.” “Stiff as cement ’e is.” “Git a gait on, Or the Stukas’ll be raisin’ boils on your necks.” “Ahoy, skipper, a can of petrol.” “Compass out of gear—Give us the line to Ramsgate.” “Follow the skoots.” The great birds, carrying under their wings The black distorted crosses, Plunged, straightened out. Laid their eggs in air, Hatched them in fountains of water, In craters of sand, To the leap of flame, To the roar of avalanche. And in those hours, When Death was sweating at his lathe, When heads and legs and arms were blown from their trunks, When the seventh day on the dunes became the eighth, And the eighth slumped into the dawn of the ninth, When the sand’s crunch and suck under the feet Were sounds less to be endured than the crash of bombs In that coma and apathy of horror— It was then that the feel of a deck, The touch of a spar or a halyard, Was like a hold on the latch of the heart of God. _It’s the Navy’s job!_ It’s their turn now, From the Beach to the ports. Let the Stukas break their bloody necks on the Mole; Let the fires scorch the stars— For now, whether on the burnished oak of the cabins, Or on the floor-boards of the punts, Or in the cuddies of the skiffs, Sleep at last has an even game with Death. The blessed fog— Ever before this day the enemy, Leagued with the quicksands and the breakers— Now mercifully masking the periscope lenses, Smearing the hair-lines of the bomb-sights, Hiding the flushed coveys. And with it the calm on the Channel, The power that drew the teeth from the storm, The peace that passed understanding, Soothing the surf, allaying the lop on the swell. Out of the range of the guns of Nieuport, Away from the immolating blasts of the oil-tanks, The flotillas of ships were met by flotillas of gulls Whiter than the cliffs of Foreland; Between the lines of the Medway buoys They steamed and sailed and rowed, Back to the roadsteads, back to the piers Inside the vigilant booms, Back to the harbours, Back to the River of London, to England, Saved once again by the tread of her keels. THE RADIO IN THE IVORY TOWER (1937—Sept. 1939) This is the castle of peace, And this its quietest hour; There isn’t a cry from the gathering dusk, There isn’t a stir in the mist; The fog has scarfed the moon and stars, The curtains are drawn on the tides; There isn’t a wave at the curve of the shore; A granite-gray silence covers the land, And the gulls are asleep on a soundless swell. Nor is there a sign that under this Rock, At the heart of the earth, the volcanoes Await the word of the Lord of Misrule To renew their ancient carnival; Nor is there a sign above the Rock That the earth responds to the whip of the sun, Directing its pace and its orbit. This is the cloister of the world, Reduced to a cell in the fortress of peace In the midst of anonymous, infinite darkness. A slight turn of a dial, And night and space and the silence Thronged and tongued with life— As the hosts might swarm through a lens From a blood drop Or a spot of dust in the heavens. Out of the void they came To storm the base of the tower, To hammer the walls of the cell And tap at the mullioned panes. Polaris, the scout of Orion, Was frigidly, jealously Watching a speck on the frontier. Adjusting a monocle, He focused a stare which had often congealed The blood of explorers, And frozen their hands to the sextants Till their bodies starched on the parallels. He flashed to his chief That a pair of Muscovite eagles Had taken his stare without blinking, Had rifled the pole right under his nose, And, southward advancing, had brushed with their wings One-half the floor of the world. Nor would it be long, he predicted, Before complaints would come from the stars, All the way from zenith to nadir, That their eyes had been blinded by grit, The moment those birds had swept All the dust from the planet Tellurian With one whiff of their insolent tails. A civilized group from the west, Lithe, sleek and genteel And ambassadorial, Silked from their speech to the rim of their cuffs, Were joined by a rout from the east: Battered, uncouth and down at the heel, Reeking with smoke from Nanking, Weathering typhoons off Shanghai and Burma, They filled the night with their clamour, And spattered the shirts of the Cabinet Ministers With sludge from the bed of the Yangzte. From the south, south-east and south-west Came the ghosts of the master of rapture, Invoked by their master executants. Through larynx and fingers and lips, From catgut and silver and brass, They were harassed by spirits still in the flesh Who strove through auditions With tap-dance and croon, with yodel and bleat, To grind out an art cacophonic. And choirs arrayed in white robes Who had heard of blood that redeemed, Of fires that refined And of glory that sanctified dying, Were massed in their anthem formation To peal forth their late Hallelujahs To a sovereign of love, law and order. Tenore robusto and coloratura, Deep-chested contralto and basso profundo Entered to sing of their balcony lovers, Of jealousies, hates and neurotic farewells, Of picadors, passionate gypsies, Of damsels anaemic waiting at windows For exiles that never returned. * * * The moon waxed and waned, And came again to the full, Till the sea arose to the equinox. But only ferrets of sound Came out of the fog To worm themselves through the cracks in the cobbles. The waters leaped at the splayed bastions— The might of the waters Against the weight of the concrete, Against the strength of the steel— But only the dull reverberation of their paws Disturbed the insulation of the tower; Only the faintest echoes seeped through the copper roof As the gulls screamed around the weather-vane. (September 1939) The dial swung to the 69, And with the sprint of light On the last lap of the kilocycles Blew in the great syllabic storm of the age. Slow in the deep bass started the overture, Heavy with guttural chords And growling consonants that raked the cuspids With timed explosions. A crash of the dental mutes Was followed by the pour of the open vowels Along a huge Teutonic corridor. And when the serried sibilants struck High G, A child ran from the room of the tower, An Alsatian bristled his neck, A Dachshund slunk under a chair; And the period ended with the frenzy Of thirty thousand voices orchestrated To reduce the Götterdämerung To a trundle lullaby. O master mason! What was wrong with the mortar That, built to withstand the siege of the sea, Should crumble beneath the roar from a throat? Another turn, and the static combined With the music of march and the roll of drums, To prelude the close of a civilized aeon. With a new salute and macabre step, Chaos came in at the call of the horns. No longer did news pause to rest on the journey, Relayed through the stations in story and comment, To be combed and groomed by the censors In the leisured light of the studios: But straight from the rape of the liners, From the listed decks of the cruisers, From trenches and plants and fields, Came the grind from the lurch of the life-boats, The sputter of salt from the throats, The caterpillar crunch of the tanks, The cries that out-blared the burst of the shells, And the wheeze from the lungs that followed the sirens In the smother of black-outs that covered the world. Then Time shedding his mask, His lazy hour-glass, his rusty scythe, And all his tattered mortalities Curved over bowed decrepit shoulders, Assumed the stature of a young Apollyon. He rose to be the Paragon of power. A set of golden keys Closing all doors of life, Fitting the wards of death, Hung from a girdle at his waist; And as he led his mad aerial legions Around the turret, What thunders tarried in his fists! What voltage in the dark tips of his wings! COME AWAY, DEATH Willy-nilly, he comes or goes, with the clown’s logic, Comic in epitaph, tragic in epithalamium, And unseduced by any mused rhyme. However blow the winds over the pollen, Whatever the course of the garden variables, He remains the constant, Ever flowering from the poppy seeds. There was a time he came in formal dress, Announced by Silence tapping at the panels In deep apology. A touch of chivalry in his approach, He offered sacramental wine, And with acanthus leaf And petals of the hyacinth He took the fever from the temples And closed the eyelids, Then led the way to his cool longitudes In the dignity of the candles. His mediaeval grace is gone— Gone with the flame of the capitals And the leisured turn of the thumb Leafing the manuscripts, Gone with the marbles And the Venetian mosaics, With the bend of the knee Before the rose-strewn feet of the Virgin. The _paternosters_ of his priests, Committing clay to clay, Have rattled in their throats Under the gride of his traction tread. One night we heard his footfall—one September night— In the outskirts of a village near the sea. There was a moment when the storm Delayed its fist, when the surf fell Like velvet on the rocks—a moment only; The strangest lull we ever knew! A sudden truce among the oaks Released their fratricidal arms; The poplars straightened to attention As the winds stopped to listen To the sound of a motor drone— And then the drone was still. We heard the tick-tock on the shelf, And the leak of valves in our hearts. A calm condensed and lidded As at the core of a cyclone ended breathing. This was the monologue of Silence Grave and unequivocal. What followed was a bolt Outside the range and target of the thunder, And human speech curved back upon itself Through Druid runways and the Piltdown scarps, Beyond the stammers of the Java caves, To find its origins in hieroglyphs On mouths and eyes and cheeks Etched by a foreign stylus never used On the outmoded page of the Apocalypse. SILENCES There is no silence upon the earth or under the earth like the silence under the sea; No cries announcing birth, No sounds declaring death. There is silence when the milt is laid on the spawn in the weeds and fungus of the rock-clefts; And silence in the worth and struggle for life. The bonitoes pounce upon the mackerel, And are themselves caught by the barracudas, The sharks kill the barracudas And the great molluscs rend the sharks, And all noiselessly— Though swift be the action and final the conflict, The drama is silent. There is no fury upon the earth like the fury under the sea. For growl and cough and snarl are the tokens of spendthrifts who know not the ultimate economy of rage. Moreover, the pace of the blood is too fast. But under the waves the blood is sluggard and has the same temperature as that of the sea. There is something pre-reptilian about a silent kill. Two men may end their hostilities just with their battle-cries. “The devil take you,” says one. “I’ll see you in hell first,” says the other. And these introductory salutes followed by a hail of gutturals and sibilants are often the beginning of friendship, for who would not prefer to be lustily damned than to be half-heartedly blessed? No one need fear oaths that are properly enunciated, for they belong to the inheritance of just men made perfect, and, for all we know, of such may be the Kingdom of Heaven. But let silent hate be put away for it feeds upon the heart of the hater. To-day I watched two pairs of eyes. One pair was black and the other grey. And while the owners thereof, for the space of five seconds, walked past each other, the grey snapped at the black and the black riddled the grey. One looked to say—“The cat,” And the other—“The cur.” But no words were spoken; Not so much as a hiss or a murmur came through the perfect enamel of the teeth; not so much as a gesture of enmity. If the right upper lip curled over the canine, it went unnoticed. The lashes veiled the eyes not for an instant in the passing. And as between the two in respect to candour of intention or eternity of wish, there was no choice, for the stare was mutual and absolute. A word would have dulled the exquisite edge of the feeling, An oath would have flawed the crystallization of the hate. For only such culture could grow in a climate of silence,— Away back before the emergence of fur or feather, back to the unvocal sea and down deep where the darkness spills its wash on the threshold of light, where the lids never close upon the eyes, where the inhabitants slay in silence and are as silently slain. THE PRIZE CAT Pure blood domestic, guaranteed, Soft-mannered, musical in purr, The ribbon had declared the breed, Gentility was in the fur. Such feline culture in the gads No anger ever arched her back— What distance since those velvet pads Departed from the leopard’s track! And when I mused how Time had thinned The jungle strains within the cells, How human hands had disciplined Those prowling optic parallels; I saw the generations pass Along the reflex of a spring, A bird had rustled in the grass, The tab had caught it on the wing: Behind the leap so furtive-wild Was such ignition in the gleam, I thought an Abyssinian child Had cried out in the whitethroat’s scream. FROM STONE TO STEEL From stone to bronze, from bronze to steel Along the road-dust of the sun, Two revolutions of the wheel From Java to Geneva run. The snarl Neanderthal is worn Close to the smiling Aryan lips, The civil polish of the horn Gleams from our praying finger tips. The evolution of desire Has but matured a toxic wine, Drunk long before its heady fire Reddened Euphrates or the Rhine. Between the temple and the cave The boundary lies tissue-thin: The yearlings still the altars crave As satisfaction for a sin. The road goes up, the road goes down— Let Java or Geneva be— But whether to the cross or crown, The path lies through Gethsemane. THE INVADED FIELD They brought their youth up on the lore Of the Phoenix and the pyre, Of birth from death and gold from fire And the myth of the Aryan spore. They measured life in metric tons, Assessed both man and beast, And with their patriot sweat they greased The breechblocks of their guns. They took their parables from mud— _How pure the crocus grows!_ _See how the fragrance of a rose_ _May spring from buried blood!_ So, on the promise of this yield The youth swung down the road, Goose-stepping to their songs, and sowed Their bodies on the field. * * * Now if a brier should here be born In some ironic hour, Let life infect both leaf and flower But death preserve the thorn. COME NOT THE SEASONS HERE Comes not the spring-time here, Though the snowdrop came, And the time of the cowslip is near, For a yellow flame Was found in a tuft of green; And the joyous shout Of a child rang out That a cuckoo’s eggs were seen. Comes not the summer here, Though the cowslip be gone, Though the wild rose blow as the year Draws faithfully on; Though the face of the poppy be red In the morning light, And the ground be white With the bloom of the locust shed. Comes not the autumn here, Though someone said He found a leaf in the sere By an aster dead; And knew that the summer was done, For a herdsman cried That his pastures were brown in the sun, And his wells were dried. Nor shall the winter come, Though the elm be bare, And every voice be dumb On the frozen air; But the flap of a waterfowl In the marsh alone, Or the hoot of a horned owl On a glacial stone. STILL LIFE To the poets who have fled To pools where little breezes dusk and shiver, Who need still life to deliver Their souls of their songs, We offer roses blanched of red In the Orient gardens, With April lilies to limn On the Japanese urns— And time, be it said, For a casual hymn To be sung for the hundred thousand dead In the mud of the Yellow River. And if your metric paragraphs Incline to Western epitaphs, Be pleased to return to a plain Where a million lie Under a proletarian sky, Waiting to trouble Your lines on the scorched Ukrainian stubble. On the veined marble of their snows Indite a score to tether The flight of your strain; Or should you need a rougher grain That will never corrode with weather, Let us propose A stone west of the bend where the Volga flows To lick her cubs on the Stalingrad rubble. Hasten, for time may pass you by, Mildew the reed and rust the lyre; Look—that Tunisian glow will die As died the Carthaginian fire! To-day the autumn tints are on The trampled grass at Marathon. Here are the tales to be retold, Here are the songs to be resung. Go, find a cadence for that field-grey mould Outcropping on the Parthenon. Invoke, in other than the Latin tongue, A Mediterranean Muse To leave her pastoral loves— The murmurs of her soft Theocritean fold, Mimosa, oleander, Dovecotes and olive groves, And court the shadows where the night bedews A Roman mausoleum hung Upon the tides from Candia to Syracuse. AUTOPSY ON A SADIST (after Lidice) The microscope was at a loss to tell The composition of his brain and glands— Why blood should be like catnip to his smell, And paws be given him instead of hands. What toxins in a mammal’s milk could serve To manufacture luxuries out of pains, Anaesthetize the sympathetic nerve Or turn to sleet the fluids of his veins? Much less could it explain those pointed ears That caught the raptures of a werewolf’s howl, The allegretto strains in human tears, The hallelujahs in a tiger’s growl. FATHER TIME Worry had crept into the old man’s face. Why did he have to tilt the hour-glass So often? Strange, he thought, this hurried pace Of the atoms as they strove to pass From bulb to bulb, fighting their way From life to death in an unexplained stampede. He had measured many tempos in his season, But never cared for speed. He always liked the sanitary, slow, Grave manner of the mountains. He had seen them flow In rivulets of crystal grains Down through this very corridor To the deltas of the ocean shore. He had watched the plants and trees turn into coal; The marks of the fronds were in the veins Resembling those of his own hands and temples. He remembered how he used to while Away the aeons, pondering the roll Of the Amazon and Nile. The curve of the sand dunes of Sahara, The depositions of the layers of gneiss, The march of the granite boulders Under the control Of dynasties of ice. He thought of the prehistoric file Of the saurians, one long and leisured day, On the crumbling bridges from Australia to Malay. And now this new adventurer— Which called itself a soul, With its mélange of pride, Courage, honour, suicide, Pursuing an eternal goal— Had come along to wreck His cool pre-Cambrian sense of sequence. He shot a last glance at the trek Of the human granules through the bottleneck, Then rose and smashed the glass, and with the dust Christened the knoll— SEBASTOPOL! SEEN ON THE ROAD The pundit lectured that the world was young As ever, frisking like a spring-time colt Around the sun, his mother. The class hung Upon his words. I listened like a dolt, And muttered that I saw the wastrel drawn Along a road with many a pitch and bump By spavined mules—this very day at dawn! And heading for an ammunition dump. The savant claimed I heckled him, but—Hell! I saw the fellow in a tumbril there, Tattered and planet-eyed and far from well, With Winter roosting in his Alpine hair. THE BARITONE He ascended the rostrum after the fashion of the Caesars: His arm, a baton raised oblique, Answering the salute of the thunder, Imposed a silence on the Square. For three hours A wind-theme swept his laryngeal reeds, Pounded on the diaphragm of a microphone, Entered, veered, ran round a coil, Emerged, to storm the passes of the ether, Until, impinging on a hundred million ear-drums, It grew into the fugue of Europe. Nickel, copper and steel rang their quotations to the skies, And down through the diatonic scale The mark hallooed the franc, The franc bayed the lira, With the three in full flight from the pound. And while the diapasons were pulled On the _Marseillaise_, The _Giovinezza_ And the _Deutschlandlied_, A perfect stretto was performed As the _Dead March_ boomed its way Through _God Save The King_ And the _Star Spangled Banner_. Then the codetta of the clerics (Chanting a ritual over the crosses of gold tossed into the crucibles to back the billion credit) Was answered by The clang of the North Sea against the bows of the destroyers, The ripple of surf on the periscopes. The grunt of the Mediterranean shouldering Gibraltar, And the hum of the bombing squadrons in formation under Orion. And the final section issued from the dials, WHEN— Opposed by contrapuntal blasts From the Federated Polyphonic Leagues Of Gynecologists, Morticians, And the Linen Manufacturers— The great Baritone, Soaring through the notes of the hymeneal register, Called the brides and the grooms to the altar, To be sent forth by the Recessional Bells To replenish the earth, And in due season to produce Magnificent crops of grass on the battlefields. THE STOICS They were the oaks and beeches of our species. Their roots struck down through acid loam To weathered granite and took hold Of flint and silica, or found their home With red pyrites—fools’ mistake for gold. Their tunics, stoles and togas were like watersheds, Splitting the storm, sloughing the rain. Under such cloaks the morrow could not enter— Their _gravitas_ had seized a geologic centre And triumphed over subcutaneous pain. Aurelius! What direction did you take To find your hermitage? We have tried but failed to make That cool unflawed retreat Where the pulses slow their beat To an aspen-yellow age. To-day we cannot discipline The ferments ratting underneath our skin. Where is the formula to win Composure from defeat? And what specific can unmesh The tangle of civilian flesh From the traction of the panzers? And when our children cry aloud At screaming comets in the skies, what serves The head that’s bloody but unbowed? What are the Stoic answers To those who flag us at the danger curves Along the quivering labyrinth of nerves? THE MYSTIC Where do you bank such fires as can transmute This granite-fact intransigence of life, Such proud irenic faith as can refute The upstart logic of this world of strife— Its come-and-go of racial dust, its strum Of windy discords from the seven seas, Its scream of fifes and din of kettle-drum That lead the march towards our futurities? The _proof_, that slays the reason, has no power To stem your will, corrode your soul—though lime Conspire with earth and water to devour The finest cultures from the lust of slime; Though crumbled Tartar hordes break through their sod To blow their grit into the eyes of God. MISSING: BELIEVED DEAD: RETURNED Steady, the heart! Can you not see You must not break Incredulously? The dead has come back, He is here at the sill; Try to believe The miracle. Give me more breath, Or I may not withstand The thrill of his voice And the clasp of his hand. Be quiet, my heart, Can you not see In the beat of my pulse Mortality? THE IMPATIENT EARTH Back to the earth would we come In the fullness of years, As we return home at dusk When our eyes are dim with day And our feet tired with stubble. We would come with slow step Along the cool loam of lanes, Home to your heart With the mellow toll of bells in the west. But not as to-day would we come To the trumpet’s unnatural summons, With our loins girt for a longer race And our faces set for a different goal, With our feet strung to the measures of life, To a riot of bells in the east. This is the season for blood-root and bud-break, For freshets and resinous airs, For the mating migrations Of swallows and whitethroats. For the scaling of crags, For the plangent call of the surf Where ospreys are building their nests. Then why should we come out of season To take the long lease of your heart, When the swift irresponsible trespass Of our feet above ground Is cut short by the halt of the sentry?— There are months still to go for the autumn, And months for the poppies to bloom, Though hate and greed have grown to their harvest, Though tolerance, forgiveness and love are forgotten Like scars on the body of Christ— Too soon in the morning for youth To take the deep draught of your opiate! THE OLD ORGANON (1225 A.D.) When Genghis and his captains Built their pyramids of skulls Outside Bokhara and Herat, And sacked Otrar and Samarcand, There was no sophistry between the subject and the verb; For what the Khan said, he meant. Behind the dust were the hoofs of his cavalry, Behind the smoke was his fire. And when Mohammed and Jehal-ud-Din, In their flight from the Indus to the Caspian, Appealed to Allah for protection, Even the Great God of Islam Could find no escape for the faithful, When he knew the flight was regimented To the paces of a Mongol syllogism. THE NEW (1937 A.D.) Now when the delegates met around the tables And lifted up their voices, The subjects were their civilizing tasks, The fulfilment of historic missions, The redemption of the national honour, And the emancipation of the slaves. But flaws were hidden in the predicates, And in the pips of the adverbials, And the rhetorical adjectives Assumed the protective colouring Of the great cats against the jungle grass— THEREFORE, In all the wealth of their possessive pronouns, Not a syllable was spared For the oil reported in the foreign shales. THE SUBMARINE The young lieutenant in command Of the famous submarine, the K- 148, had scanned The sea circumference all day: A thousand times or so his hand Revolved the prism in the hope That the image of the ship expected, But overdue, might be reflected Through the lenses of his periscope. ’Twas getting late, and not a mark Had troubled the monotony Of every slow expanding arc Of the horizon. Suddenly His grip froze to the handle! What Was that amorphous yellow spot To the north-east? Was it the lift Of a wave, a curl of foam, a drift Of cloud? Too slow for foam, too fast For cloud. A minute more. At last The drift was taking shape; his stroke Of luck had fallen—it was SMOKE! An hour of light in the western sky, And thirty seconds for descent; The quarry ten miles off. Stand-by! The valves were opened—flood and vent— And the water like a rumble of thunder Entered the tanks. Two generators Sparked her fins and drove her under Down the ocean escalators. No forebear of the whale or shark, No saurian of the Pleiocene, Piercing the sub-aquatic dark Could rival this new submarine. The evolution of the sea Had brought forth many specimens Conceived in horror—denizens Whose vast inside economy Not only reproduced their broods, But having shot them from their wombs, Devoured them in their family feuds And passed them through their catacombs. But was there one in all their race Combined such terror with such grace, As this disturber of the glooms, This rapid sinuous oval form Which knew unerringly the way To sound and circumvent a storm Or steal a march upon her prey? No product she of Nature’s dower, No casual selection wrought her Or gave her such mechanic power To breathe above or under water. In her thoracic cavities One hundred tons of batteries Were ready, on the dive, to start The musculation of the heart. And where outside a Ming museum Could any antiquarian find An assemblage such as here was shrined Within the vault of her peritoneum? Electric switches, indicators. Diving alarm-horns, oscillators, Rudder controls, and tubes and dials, Yellow, white, magenta vials, Pipes to force out battery gases, Pressure gauges, polished brasses, Surrounded human figures caught At their positions, silent, taut, Like statues in the tungsten light, While just outside the cell was night And a distant engine’s monotone Tapping at a telephone. And now two hundred feet below She held her bearings towards her foe, While silence and the darkness flowed Along an unnavigated road. In half an hour she stopped and blew The water ballast with her air, Rose stealthily to surface where Upon the mirror in full view, Cutting an Atlantic swarth The trail of smoke turned out to be A fat mammalian of the sea, Set on a course north-east by north, And heavy with maternity. Within her frame-work iron-walled A thousand bodies were installed, A snug and pre-lacteal brood Drawing from her warmth and food, Awaiting in two days or three A European delivery. Blood of tiger, blood of shark, What a prey to stalk and strike From an ambush in the dark Thicket of the sea! Now like The tiger-shark viviparous Who with her young grown mutinous Before the birth-hour with the smell Of blood inside the mother, will expel Them from her body to begin At once the steerage of the fin, The seizure of the jaw, the click Of serried teeth fashioned so well Pre-natally to turn the trick Upon a shoal of mackerel— So like the shark, the submarine Ejected from her magazine The first one of her foetal young. It ran along the trolley, swung Into a flooded tube and there Under a jet of compressed air It found the sea. A trip-latch in The tube a second later sprung A trigger, and the turbine power Acting on the driving fin Paced it at fifty miles per hour. So huge and luscious was this feast, The 148 released Three others to offset the chance Of some erratic circumstance Of aim or speed or tide or weather. And during this time nothing was seen Except to an eye in the submarine Of that bevy of sharks on the sea together, So accurately spaced one after the other, And driven by thirst derived from the mother. Each seemed on the glass a tenuous feather Of gold such as a curlew in flight Would make with its nether wing skimming the swell; Not a hint of a swerve to the left or right, The gyros were holding the balance so well. The rich-ripe mammal was swimming straight On the course of her chart with unconcerned leisure, Her steady keel and uniform rate Combining so perfectly with the deep black Of the hull—silhouette against the back- Drop of the sunset to etch and measure The target—when three of those shafts of foam At the end of their amber stretch struck home. The first one barely missed—to plough A harmless path across her bow: The next tore like a scimitar Through flesh to rip the jugular; Boilers and bulkheads broke apart When the third torpedo struck the heart; And with what logic did the fourth Cancel the course north-east by north, Hitting abaft the beam to rut The exploding nitrates through her gut. The young commander’s time was short To log the items for report. Upon the mirror he descried Three cavernous wounds in the mammal’s side— Three crumbled dykes through which the tide Of a gluttonous Atlantic poured; A heavy starboard list with banks Of smoke fluted with steam which soared From a scramble of pipes within her flanks; Twin funnel-nostrils belching red, A tilting stern, a plunging head, The foundering angle in position, And the sea’s reach for a thousand souls In the last throe of the parturition. Now with her hyper-sensitive feel Of her master’s hands on the controls— A pull of a switch, a turn of a wheel, The submarine, like the deep-sea shark, Went under cover, away from the light And limn of the sunset, from the sight Of the stars, to a native lair as dark As a kraken’s grave. She took her course South-west by south—for what was the source Of that hum to the port picked up by the oscillator? A rhythm too rapid, too hectic for freighter Or liner! This was her foe, not her prey: Faster and louder, and heading her way! Beyond the depth where the tanks could flood ’er, She drove her nose down with the diving rudder, Far from the storm of shells or thrust Of the ram, away from the gear-wrenching zone Of the depth-bomb, away from the scent and lust Of a killer whose might was as great as her own. BRÉBEUF AND HIS BRETHREN I The winds of God were blowing over France, Kindling the hearths and altars, changing vows Of rote into an alphabet of flame. The air was charged with song beyond the range Of larks, with wings beyond the stretch of eagles. Skylines unknown to maps broke from the mists And there was laughter on the seas. With sound Of bugles from the Roman catacombs, The saints came back in their incarnate forms. Across the Alps St. Francis of Assisi In his brown tunic girt with hempen cord, Revisited the plague-infected towns. The monks were summoned from their monasteries, Nuns from their convents; apostolic hands Had touched the priests; foundlings and galley slaves Became the charges of Vincent de Paul; Francis de Sales put his heroic stamp Upon his order of the Visitation. Out of Numidia by way of Rome, The architect of palaces, unbuilt Of hand, again was busy with his plans, Reshaping for the world his _City of God_. Out of the Netherlands was heard the call Of Kempis through the _Imitatio_ To leave the dusty marts and city streets And stray along the shores of Galilee. The flame had spread across the Pyrenees— The visions of Theresa burning through The adorations of the Carmelites; The very clouds at night to John of the Cross Being cruciform—chancel, transept and aisle Blazing with light and holy oracle. Xavier had risen from his knees to drive His dreams full-sail under an ocean compass. Loyola, soldier-priest, staggering with wounds At Pampeluna, guided by a voice, Had travelled to the Montserrata Abbey To leave his sword and dagger on an altar That he might lead the _Company of Jesus_. The story of the frontier like a saga Sang through the cells and cloisters of the nation, Made silver flutes out of the parish spires, Troubled the ashes of the canonized In the cathedral crypts, soared through the nave To stir the foliations on the columns, Roll through the belfries, and give deeper tongue To the _Magnificat_ in Notre Dame. It brought to earth the prophets and apostles Out of their static shrines in the stained glass. It caught the ear of Christ, reveined his hands And feet, bidding his marble saints to leave Their pedestals for chartless seas and coasts And the vast blunders of the forest glooms. So, in the footsteps of their patrons came A group of men asking the hardest tasks At the new outposts of the Huron bounds Held in the stern hand of the Jesuit Order. And in Bayeux a neophyte while rapt In contemplation saw a bleeding form Falling beneath the instrument of death, Rising under the quickening of the thongs, Stumbling along the Via Dolorosa. No play upon the fancy was this scene, But the Real Presence to the naked sense. The fingers of Brébeuf were at his breast, Closing and tightening on a crucifix, While voices spoke aloud unto his ear And to his heart—_Per ignem et per aquam_. Forests and streams and trails thronged through his mind. The painted faces of the Iroquois, Nomadic bands and smoking bivouacs Along the shores of western inland seas, With forts and palisades and fiery stakes. The stories of Champlain, Brulé, Viel, Sagard and Le Caron had reached his town— The stories of those northern boundaries Where in the winter the white pines could brush The Pleiades, and at the equinoxes Under the gold and green of the auroras Wild geese drove wedges through the zodiac. The vows were deep he laid upon his soul. “I shall be broken first before I break them.” He knew by heart the manual that had stirred The world—the clarion calling through the notes Of the Ignatian preludes. On the prayers, The meditations, points and colloquies, Was built the soldier and the martyr programme. This is the end of man—_Deum laudet_, To seek and find the will of God, to act Upon it for the ordering of life, And for the soul’s beatitude. This is To do, this not to do. To weigh the sin; The interior understanding to be followed By the amendment of the deed through grace; The abnegation of the evil thought And act; the trampling of the body under; The daily practice of the _counter virtues_. “In time of desolation to be firm And constant in the soul’s determination, Desire and sense obedient to the reason.” The oath Brébeuf was taking had its root Firm in his generations of descent. The family name was known to chivalry— In the Crusades; at Hastings; through the blood Of the English Howards; called out on the rungs Of the siege ladders; at the castle breaches; Proclaimed by heralds at the lists, and heard In Council Halls:—the coat-of-arms a bull In black with horns of gold on a silver shield. So on that toughened pedigree of fibre Were strung the pledges. From the novice stage To the vow-day he passed on to the priesthood, And on the anniversary of his birth He celebrated his first mass at Rouen. And the first clauses of the Jesuit pledge Were honoured when, embarking at Dieppe, Brébeuf, Massé and Charles Lalemant Travelled three thousand miles of the Atlantic, And reached the citadel in seven weeks. A month in preparation at Notre Dame Des Anges, Brébeuf in company with Daillon Moved to Three Rivers to begin the journey. Taking both warning and advice from traders, They packed into their stores of altar-ware And vestments, strings of coloured beads with knives, Kettles and awls, domestic gifts to win The Hurons’ favour or appease their wrath. There was a touch of omen in the warning, For scarcely had they started when the fate Of the Franciscan mission was disclosed— News of Viel, delivered to Brébeuf,— Drowned by the natives in the final league Of his return at Sault-au-Récollet! Back to Quebec by Lalemant’s command; A year’s delay of which Brébeuf made use By hardening his body and his will, Learning the rudiments of the Huron tongue, Mastering the wood-lore, joining in the hunt For food, observing habits of speech, the ways Of thought, the moods and the long silences. Wintering with the Algonquins, he soon knew The life that was before him in the cabins— The troubled night, branches of fir covering The floor of snow; the martyrdom of smoke That hourly drove his nostrils to the ground To breathe, or offered him the choice of death Outside by frost, inside by suffocation; The forced companionship of dogs that ate From the same platters, slept upon his legs Or neck; the nausea from sagamite, Unsalted, gritty, and that bloated feeling, The February stomach touch when acorns, Turk’s cap, bog-onion bulbs dug from the snow And bulrush roots flavoured with eel skin made The menu for his breakfast-dinner-supper. Added to this, the instigated taunts Common as daily salutations; threats Of murderous intent that just escaped The deed—the prologue to Huronia! Midsummer and the try again—Brébeuf, Daillon, de Nouë just arrived from France; Quebec up to Three Rivers; the routine Repeated; bargaining with the Indians, Axes and beads against the maize and passage; The natives’ protest when they saw Brébeuf, High as a totem-pole. What if he placed His foot upon the gunwale, suddenly Shifted an ounce of those two hundred pounds Off centre at the rapids! They had visions Of bodies and bales gyrating round the rocks, Plunging like stumps and logs over the falls. The Hurons shook their heads: the bidding grew; Kettles and porcelain necklaces and knives, Till with the last awl thrown, upon the heap, The ratifying grunt came from the chief. Two Indians holding the canoe, Brébeuf, Barefooted, cassock pulled up to his knees, Planted one foot dead in the middle, then The other, then slowly and ticklishly Adjusted to the physics of his range And width, he grasped both sides of the canoe, Lowered himself and softly murmuring An _Ave_, sat, immobile as a statue. So the flotilla started—the same route Champlain and Le Caron eleven years Before had taken to avoid the swarm Of hostile Iroquois on the St. Lawrence. Eight hundred miles—along the Ottawa Through the steep gorges where the river narrowed. Through calmer waters where the river widened, Skirting the island of the Allumettes, Thence to the Mattawa through lakes that led To the blue waters of the Nipissing, And then southward a hundred tortuous miles Down the French River to the Huron shore. The record of that trip was for Brébeuf A memory several times to be re-lived; Of rocks and cataracts and portages, Of feet cut by the river stones, of mud And stench, of boulders, logs and tangled growths, Of summer heat that made him long for night, And when he struck his bed of rock—mosquitoes That made him doubt if dawn would ever break. ’Twas thirty days to the Georgian Bay, then south One hundred miles threading the labyrinth Of islands till he reached the western shore That Banked the Bay of Penetanguishene. Soon joined by both his fellow priests he followed The course of a small stream and reached Toanché, Where for three years he was to make his home And turn the first sod of the Jesuit mission. ’Twas ploughing only—for eight years would pass Before even the blades appeared. The priests Knew well how barren was the task should signs, Gestures and inarticulate sounds provide The basis of the converse. And the speech Was hard. De Nouë set himself to school, Unfalteringly as to his Breviary, Through the long evenings of the fall and winter. But as light never trickled through a sentence, Either the Hurons’ or his own, he left With the spring’s expedition to Quebec, Where intermittently for twenty years He was to labour with the colonists, Travelling between the outposts, and to die Snow-blind, caught in the circles of his tracks Between Three Rivers and Fort Richelieu. Daillon migrated to the south and west To the country of the Neutrals. There he spent The winter, fruitless. Jealousies of trade Awoke resentment, fostered calumnies, Until the priest under a constant threat That often issued in assault, returned Against his own persuasion to Quebec. Brébeuf was now alone. He bent his mind To the great end. The efficacious rites Were hinged as much on mental apprehensions As on the disposition of the heart. For that the first equipment was the speech. He listened to the sounds and gave them letters, Arranged their sequences, caught the inflections, Extracted nouns from objects, verbs from actions And regimented rebel moods and tenses. He saw the way the chiefs harangued the clans, The torrent of compounded words, the art Concealed within the pause, the look, the gesture. Lacking all labials, the open mouth Performed a double service with the vowels Directed like a battery at the hearers. With what forebodings did he watch the spell Cast on the sick by the Arendiwans: The sorcery of the Huron rhetoric Extorting bribes for cures, for guarantees Against the failure of the crop or hunt! The time would come when steel would clash on steel, And many a battle would be won or lost With weapons from the armoury of words. Three years of that apprenticeship had won The praise of his Superior and no less Evoked the admiration of Champlain. That soldier, statesman, navigator, friend, Who had combined the brain of Richelieu With the red blood of Cartier and Magellan, Was at this time reduced to his last keg Of powder at the citadel. Blockade, The piracy of Kirke on the Atlantic, The English occupation of Quebec, And famine, closed this chapter of the Mission. II Four years at home could not abate his zeal. Brébeuf, absorbed within his meditations, Made ready to complete his early vows. Each year in France but served to clarify His vision. At Rouen he gauged the height Of the Cathedral’s central tower in terms Of pines and oaks around the Indian lodges. He went to Paris. There as worshipper, His eyes were scaling transepts, but his mind, Straying from window patterns where the sun Shed rose ellipses on the marble floor, Rested on glassless walls of cedar bark. To Rennes—the Jesuits’ intellectual home, Where, in the _Summa_ of Aquinas, faith Laid hold on God’s existence when the last Link of the Reason slipped, and where Loyola Enforced the high authoritarian scheme Of God’s vicegerent on the priestly fold. Between the two nostalgic fires Brébeuf Was swung—between two homes; in one was peace Within the holy court, the ecstasy Of unmolested prayer before the Virgin, The daily and vicarious offering On which no hand might dare lay sacrilege: But in the other would be broken altars And broken bodies of both Host and priest. Then of which home, the son? From which the exile? With his own blood Brébeuf wrote his last vow— “Lord Jesus! Thou didst save me with thy blood; By thy most precious death; and this is why I make this pledge to serve thee all my life In the Society of Jesus—never To serve another than thyself. Hereby I sign this promise in my blood, ready To sacrifice it all as willingly As now I give this drop.”—Jean de Brébeuf. Nor did the clamour of the _Thirty Years_, The battle-cries at La Rochelle and Fribourg, Blow out the flame. Less strident than the names Of Richelieu and Mazarin, Condé, Turenne, but just as mighty, were the calls Of the new apostolate. A century Before had Xavier from the Indies summoned The world to other colours. Now appeals Were ringing through the history of New France. Le Jeune, following the example of Biard And Charles Lalemant, was capturing souls By thousands with the fire of the _Relations_: Noble and peasant, layman, priest and nun Gave of their wealth and power and personal life. Among his new recruits were Chastellain, Pijart, Le Mercier, and Isaac Jogues, The Lalemants—Jerome and Gabriel— Jerome who was to supervise and write, With Ragueneau, the drama of the Mission; Who told of the survivors reaching France When the great act was closed that “all of them Still hold their resolution to return To the combat at the first sound of the trumpets.” The other, Gabriel, who would share the crown With Jean Brébeuf, pitting the frailest body Against the hungers of the wilderness, The fevers of the lodges and the fires That slowly wreathed themselves around a stake. Then Garnier, comrade of Jogues. The winds Had fanned to a white heat the hearth and placed Three brothers under vows—the Carmelite, The Capuchin, and his, the Jesuit. The gentlest of his stock, he had resolved To seek and to accept a post that would Transmit his nurture through a discipline That multiplied the living martyrdoms Before the casual incident of death. To many a vow did Chabanel subject His timid nature as the evidence Of trial came through the Huronian records. He needed every safeguard of the soul To fortify the will, for every day Would find him fighting, mastering his revolt Against the native life and practices. Of all the priests he could the least endure The sudden transformation from the Chair Of College Rhetoric to the heat and drag Of portages, from the monastic calm To the noise and smoke and vermin of the lodges, And the insufferable sights and stinks When, at the High Feast of the Dead, the bodies Lying for months or years upon the scaffolds Were taken down, stripped of their flesh, caressed, Strung up along the cabin poles and then Cast in a pit for common burial. The day would come when in the wilderness. The weary hand protesting, he would write This final pledge—“I, Noel Chabanel, Do vow, in presence of the Sacrament Of Thy most precious blood and body, here To stay forever with the Huron Mission, According to commands of my Superiors. Therefore I do beseech Thee to receive me As Thy perpetual servant and to make Me worthy of so sublime a ministry.” And the same spirit breathed on Chaumonot, Making his restless and undisciplined soul At first seek channels of renunciation In abstinence, ill health and beggary. His months of pilgrimages to the shrines At Rome and to the Lady of Loretto, The static hours upon his knees had sapped His strength, turning an introspective mind Upon the weary circuit of its thoughts, Until one day a letter from Brébeuf Would come to burn the torpors of his heart And galvanize a raw novitiate. III New France restored! Champlain, Massé, Brébeuf Were in Quebec, hopes riding high as ever. Davost and Daniel soon arrived to join The expedition west. Midsummer trade, The busiest the Colony had known, Was over: forty-three canoes to meet The hazards of return; the basic sense Of safety, now Champlain was on the scene; The joy of the Toanché Indians As they beheld Brébeuf and heard him speak In their own tongue, was happy augury. But as before upon the eve of starting The path was blocked, so now the unforeseen Stepped in. A trade and tribal feud long-blown Between the Hurons and the Allumettes Came to a head when the Algonquin chief Forbade the passage of the priests between His island and the shore. The Hurons knew The roughness of this channel, and complied. In such delays which might have been construed By lesser wills as exits of escape, As providential doors on a light latch, The Fathers entered deeper preparation. They worked incessantly among the tribes In the environs of Quebec, took hold Of Huron words and beat them into order. Davost and Daniel gathered from the store Of speech, manners, and customs that Brébeuf Had garnered, all the subtleties to make The bargain for the journey. The next year Seven canoes instead of forty! Fear Of Iroquois following a recent raid And massacre; growing distrust of priests; The sense of risk in having men aboard Unskilled in fire-arms, helpless at the paddles And on the portages—all these combined To sharpen the terms until the treasury Was dry of presents and of promises. The ardours of his trip eight years before Fresh in his mind, Brébeuf now set his face To graver peril, for the native mood Was hostile. On the second week the corn Was low, a handful each a day. Sickness Had struck the Huron, slowing down the blades, And turning murmurs into menaces Against the Blackrobes and their French companions. The first blow hit Davost. Robbed of his books, Papers and altar linens, he was left At the Island of the Allumettes; Martin[A] Was put ashore at Nipissing; Baron[A] And Daniel were deserted, made to take Their chances with canoes along the route, Yet all in turn, tattered, wasted, with feet Bleeding—broken though not in will, rejoined Their great companion after he had reached The forest shores of the Fresh Water Sea, And guided by the sight of smoke had entered The village of Ihonatiria. A year’s success flattered the priestly hope That on this central field seed would be sown On which the yield would be the Huron nation Baptized and dedicated to the Faith; And that a richer harvest would be gleaned Of duskier grain from the same seed on more Forbidding ground when the arch-foes themselves Would be re-born under the sacred rites. For there was promise in the auspices. Ihonatiria received Brébeuf With joy. Three years he had been there, a friend Whose visit to the tribes could not have sprung From inspiration rooted in private gain. He had not come to stack the arquebuses Against the mountains of the beaver pelts. He had not come to kill. Between the two— Barter and battle—what was left to explain A stranger in their midst? The name _Echon_[B] Had solved the riddle. So with native help The Fathers built their mission house—the frame Of young elm-poles set solidly in earth; Their supple tops bent, lashed and braced to form The arched roof overlaid with cedar-bark. “No Louvre or palace is this cabin,” wrote Brébeuf, “no stories, cellar, garret, windows, No chimney—only at the top a hole To let the smoke escape. Inside, three rooms With doors of wood alone set it apart From the single long-house of the Indians. The first is used for storage; in the second Our kitchen, bedroom and refectory; Our bedstead is the earth; rushes and boughs For mattresses and pillows; in the third, Which is our chapel, we have placed the altar, The images and vessels of the Mass.” It was the middle room that drew the natives, Day after day, to share the sagamite And raisins, and to see the marvels brought From France—marvels on which the Fathers built A basis of persuasion, recognizing The potency of awe for natures nurtured On charms and spells, invoking kindly spirits And exorcising demons. So the natives Beheld a mass of iron chips like bees Swarm to a lodestone: was it gum that held Them fast? They watched the handmill grind the corn; Gaped at a lens eleven-faceted That multiplied a bead as many times, And at a phial where a captive flea Looked like a beetle. But the miracle Of all, the clock! It showed the hours; it struck Or stopped upon command. Le Capitaine Du Jour which moved its hands before its face, Called up the dawn, saluted noon, rang out The sunset, summoned with the count of twelve The Fathers to a meal, or sent at four The noisy pack of Indians to their cabins. “What did it say?” “Yo eiouahaoua— Time to put on the cauldron.” “And what now?” “Time to go home at once and close the door.” It was alive: an _oki_ dwelt inside, Peering out through that black hub on the dial. As great a mystery was writing—how A Frenchman fifteen miles away could know The meaning of black signs the runner brought. Sometimes the marks were made on peel of bark, Sometimes on paper—in itself a wonder! From what strange tree was it the inside rind? What charm was in the ink that transferred thought Across such space without a spoken word? This growing confirmation of belief Was speeded by events wherein good fortune Waited upon the priestly word and act. A moon eclipse was due—Brébeuf had known it— Had told the Indians of the moment when The shadow would be thrown across the face. Nor was there wastage in the prayers as night, Uncurtained by a single cloud, produced An orb most perfect. No one knew the lair Or nest from which the shadow came; no one The home to which it travelled when it passed. Only the vague uncertainties were left— Was it the dread invasion from the south? Such portent was the signal for the braves To mass themselves outside the towns and shoot Their multitudes of arrows at the sky And fling their curses at the Iroquois. Like a crow’s wing it hovered, broodily Brushing the face—five hours from rim to rim While midnight darkness stood upon the land. This was prediction baffling all their magic. Again, when weeks of drought had parched the land And burned the corn, when dancing sorcerers Brought out their tortoise shells, climbed on the roofs, Clanging their invocation to the Bird Of Thunder to return, day after day, Without avail, the priests formed their processions, Put on their surplices above their robes, And the Bird of Thunder came with heavy rain, Released by the nine masses at Saint Joseph. Nor were the village warriors slow to see The value of the Frenchmen’s strategy In war. Returning from the eastern towns, They told how soldiers had rebuilt the forts, And strengthened them with corner bastions Where through the embrasures enfilading fire Might flank the Iroquois bridging the ditches, And scaling ramparts. Here was argument That pierced the thickest prejudice of brain And heart, allaying panic ever present, When with the first news of the hated foe From scouts and hunters, women with their young Fled to the dubious refuge of the forest From terror blacker than a pestilence. On such a soil tilled by those skilful hands Those passion flowers and lilies of the East, The _Aves_ and the _Paternosters_ bloomed. The _Credos_ and the _Thou-shalt-nots_ were turned By Daniel into simple Huron rhymes And taught to children, and when points of faith Were driven hard against resistant rock, The Fathers found the softer crevices Through deeds which readily the Indian mind Could grasp—where hands were never put to blows Nor the swift tongues used for recrimination. Acceptance of the common lot was part Of the original vows. But that the priests Who were to come should not misread the text, Brébeuf prepared a sermon on the theme Of Patience:—“Fathers, Brothers, under call Of God! Take care that you foresee the perils, Labours and hardships of this Holy Mission. You must sincerely love the savages As brothers ransomed by the blood of Christ. All things must be endured. To win their hearts You must perform the smallest services. Provide a tinder-box or burning mirror To light their fires. Fetch wood and water for them; And when embarking never let them wait For you; tuck up your habits, keep them dry To avoid water and sand in their canoes. Carry Your load on portages. Always appear Cheerful—their memories are good for faults. Constrain yourselves to eat their sagamite The way that they prepare it, tasteless, dirty.” And by the priests upon the ground all dots And commas were observed. They suffered smoke That billowed from the back-draughts at the roof, Smothered the cabin, seared the eyes; the fire That broiled the face, while frost congealed the spine; The food from unwashed platters where refusal Was an offence; the rasp of speech maintained All day by men who never learned to talk In quiet tones; the drums of the Diviners Blasting the night—all this without complaint! And more—whatever sleep was possible To snatch from the occasional lull of cries Was broken by uncovenanted fleas That fastened on the priestly flesh like hornets. Carving the curves of favour on the lips, Tailoring the man into the Jesuit coat, Wrapping the smiles round inward maledictions, And sublimating hoary Gallic oaths Into the _Benedicite_ when dogs And squaws and reeking children violated The hours of rest, were penances unnamed Within the iron code of good Ignatius. Was there a limit of obedience Outside the jurisdiction of this Saint? How often did the hand go up to lower The flag? How often by some ringing order Was it arrested at the halliard touch? How often did Brébeuf seal up his ears When blows and insults woke ancestral fifes Within his brain, blood-cells, and viscera, Is not explicit in the written story. But never could the Indians infer Self-gain or anything but simple courage Inspired by a zeal beyond reproof, As when the smallpox spreading like a flame Destroying hundreds, scarifying thousands, The Fathers took their chances of contagion, Their broad hats warped by rain, their moccasins Worn to the kibes, that they might reach the huts, Share with the sick their dwindled stock of food— A sup of partridge broth or raisin juice, Inscribe the sacred sign of the cross, and place A touch of moisture from the Holy Water Upon the forehead of a dying child. Before the year was gone the priests were shown The way the Hurons could prepare for death A captive foe. The warriors had surprised A band of Iroquois and had reserved The one survivor for a fiery pageant. No cunning of an ancient Roman triumph, Nor torment of a Medici confession Surpassed the subtle savagery of art Which made the dressing for the sacrifice A ritual of mockery for the victim. What visions of the past came to Brébeuf, And what forebodings of the days to come, As he beheld this weird compound of life In jest and intent taking place before His eyes—the crude unconscious variants Of reed and sceptre, robe and cross, brier And crown! Might not one day baptismal drops Be turned against him in a rain of death? Whatever the appeals made by the priests, They could not break the immemorial usage Or vary one detail. The prisoner Was made to sing his death-song, was embraced, Hailed with ironic greetings, forced to state His willingness to die. “See how your hands Are crushed. You cannot thus desire to live. No. Then be of good courage—you shall die. True!—What shall be the manner of my death? By fire. When shall it be? To-night. What hour? At sunset. All is well.” Eleven fires Were lit along the whole length of the cabin. His body smeared with pitch and bound with belts Of bark, the Iroquois was forced to run The fires, stopped at each end by the young braves, And swiftly driven back, and when he swooned, They carried him outside to the night air, Laid him on fresh damp moss, poured cooling water Into his mouth, and to his burns applied The soothing balsams. With resuscitation They lavished on him all the courtesies Of speech and gesture, gave him food and drink, Compassionately spoke of his wounds and pain. The ordeal every hour was resumed And halted, but, with each recurrence, blows Were added to the burns and gibes gave place To yells until the sacrificial dawn, Lighting the scaffold, dimming the red glow Of the hatchet collar, closed the festival. Brébeuf had seen the worst. He knew that when A winter pack of wolves brought down a stag There was no waste of time between the leap And the business click upon the jugular. Such was the forthright honesty in death Among the brutes. They had not learned the sport Of dallying around the nerves to halt A quick despatch. A human art was torture, Where Reason crept into the veins, mixed tar With blood and brewed its own intoxicant. Brébeuf had pleaded for the captive’s life, But as the night wore on, would not his heart, Colliding with his mind, have wished for death? The plea refused, he gave the Iroquois The only consolation in his power. He went back to his cabin, heavy in heart. To stem that viscous melanotic current Demanded labour, time, and sacrifice. Those passions were not altered over-night. Two plans were in his mind—the one concerned The seminary started in Quebec. The children could be sent there to be trained In Christian precepts, weaned from superstition And from the savage spectacle of death. He saw the way the women and their broods Danced round the scaffold in their exaltation. How much of this was habit and how much Example? Curiously Brébeuf revolved The facets of the Indian character. A fighting courage equal to the French— It could be lifted to crusading heights By a battle speech. Endurance was a code Among the braves, and impassivity. Their women wailing at the Feast of Death, The men sat silent, heads bowed to the knees. “Never in nine years with but one exception,” Wrote Ragueneau, “did I see an Indian weep For grief.” Only the fires evoked the cries, And these like scalps were triumphs for the captors. But then their charity and gentleness To one another and to strangers gave A balance to the picture. Fugitives From villages destroyed found instant welcome To the last communal share of food and land. Brébeuf’s stay at Toanché gave him proof Of how the Huron nature could respond To kindness. But last night upon that scaffold! Could that be scoured from the heart? Why not Try out the nurture plan upon the children And send the boys east, shepherded by Daniel? The other need was urgent—labourers! The villages were numerous and were spread Through such a vast expanse of wilderness And shore. Only a bell with a bronze throat Must summon missionaries to these fields. With the last cry of the captive in his ears, Brébeuf strode from his cabin to the woods To be alone. He found his tabernacle Within a grove, picked up a stone flat-faced, And going to a cedar-crotch, he jammed It in, and on this table wrote his letter. “Herein I show you what you have to suffer. I shall say nothing of the voyage—that You know already. If you have the courage To try it, that is only the beginning, For when after a month of river travel You reach our village, we can offer you The shelter of a cabin lowlier Than any hovel you have seen in France. As tired as you may be, only a mat Laid on the ground will be your bed. Your food May be for weeks a gruel of crushed corn That has the look and smell of mortar paste. This country is the breeding place of vermin. Sandflies, mosquitoes haunt the summer months. In France you may have been a theologian, A scholar, master, preacher, but out here You must attend a savage school; for months Will pass before you learn even to lisp The language. Here barbarians shall be Your Aristotle and Saint Thomas. Mute Before those teachers you shall take your lessons. What of the winter? Half the year is winter. Inside your cabins will be smoke so thick You may not read your Breviary for days. Around your fireplace at mealtime arrive The uninvited guests with whom you share Your stint of food. And in the fall and winter, You tramp unbeaten trails to reach the missions, Carrying your luggage on your back. Your life Hangs by a thread. Of all calamities You are the cause—the scarcity of game, A fire, famine or an epidemic. There are no natural reasons for a drought And for the earth’s sterility. You are The reasons, and at any time a savage May burn your cabin down or split your head. I tell you of the enemies that live Among our Huron friends. I have not told You of the Iroquois our constant foes. Only a week ago in open fight They killed twelve of our men at Contarea, A day’s march from the village where we live. Treacherous and stealthy in their ambuscades, They terrorize the country, for the Hurons Are very slothful in defence, never On guard and always seeking flight for safety. “Wherein the gain, you ask, of this acceptance? There is no gain but this—that what you suffer Shall be of God: your loneliness in travel Will be relieved by angels overhead; Your silence will be sweet for you will learn How to commune with God; rapids and rocks Are easier than the steeps of Calvary. There is a consolation in your hunger And in abandonment upon the road, For once there was a greater loneliness And deeper hunger. As regards the soul There are no dangers here, with means of grace At every turn, for if we go outside Our cabin, is not heaven over us? No buildings block the clouds. We say our prayers Freely before a noble oratory. Here is the place to practise faith and hope And charity where human art has brought No comforts, where we strive to bring to God A race so unlike men that we must live Daily expecting murder at their hands, Did we not open up the skies or close Them at command, giving them sun or rain. So if despite these trials you are ready To share our labours, come; for you will find A consolation in the cross that far outweighs Its burdens. Though in many an hour your soul Will echo—‘Why hast Thou forsaken me,’ Yet evening will descend upon you when, Your heart too full of holy exultation, You call like Xavier—‘Enough, O Lord!’” This letter was to loom in history, For like a bulletin it would be read In France, and men whose bones were bound for dust Would find that on those jagged characters Their names would rise from their oblivion To flame on an eternal Calendar. Already to the field two young recruits Had come—Pijart, Le Mercier; on their way Were Chastellain with Garnier and Jogues Followed by Ragueneau and Du Peron. On many a night in lonely intervals, The priest would wander to the pines and build His oratory where celestial visions Sustained his soul. As unto Paul and John Of Patmos and the martyr multitude The signs were given—voices from the clouds, Forms that illumined darkness, stabbed despair, Turned dungeons into temples and a brand Of shame into the ultimate boast of time— So to Brébeuf had Christ appeared and Mary. One night at prayer he heard a voice command— “Rise, Read!” Opening the _Imitatio Christi_, His eyes “without design” fell on the chapter, _Concerning the royal way of the Holy Cross_, Which placed upon his spirit “a great peace”. And then, day having come, he wrote his vow— “My God, my Saviour, I take from thy hand The cup of thy sufferings. I invoke thy name; I vow never to fail thee in the grace Of martyrdom, if by thy mercy, Thou Dost offer it to me. I bind myself, And when I have received the stroke of death, I will accept it from thy gracious hand With all pleasure and with joy in my heart; To thee my blood, my body and my life.” [A] French assistants. [B] _Echon_—he who pulls the heavy load. IV The labourers were soon put to their tasks,— The speech, the founding of new posts, the sick: Ihonatiria, a phantom town, Through plague and flight abandoned as a base, The Fathers chose the site—Teanaostayé, To be the second mission of St. Joseph. But the prime hope was on Ossossané, A central town of fifty cabins built On the east shore of Nottawasaga Bay. The native council had approved the plans. The presence of the priests with their lay help Would be defence against the Iroquois. Under the supervision of Pijart The place was fortified, ramparts were strengthened, And towers of heavy posts set at the angles. And in the following year the artisans And labourers from Quebec with Du Peron, Using broad-axe and whipsaw built a church, The first one in the whole Huronian venture To be of wood. Close to their lodge, the priests Dug up the soil and harrowed it to plant A mere handful of wheat from which they raised A half a bushel for the altar bread. From the wild grapes they made a cask of wine For the Holy Sacrifice. But of all work The hardest was instruction. It was easy To strike the Huron sense with sound and colour— The ringing of a bell; the litanies And chants; the surplices worn on the cassocks; The burnished ornaments around the altar; The pageant of the ceremonial. But to drive home the ethics taxed the brain To the limit of its ingenuity. Brébeuf had felt the need to vivify His three main themes of God and Paradise And Hell. The Indian mind had let the cold Abstractions fall: the allegories failed To quicken up the logic. Garnier Proposed the colours for the homilies. The closest student of the Huron mind, He had observed the fears and prejudices Haunting the shadows of their racial past; Had seen the flaws in Brébeuf’s _points_; had heard The Indian comments on the moral law And on the Christian scheme of Paradise. Would Iroquois be there? Yes, if baptized. Would there be hunting of the deer and beaver? No. Then starvation. War? And Feasts? Tobacco? No. Garnier saw disgust upon their faces, And sent appeals to France for pictures—one _Only_ of souls in bliss: of _âmes damnées_ Many and various—the horned Satan, His mastiff jaws champing the head of Judas; The plummet fall of the unbaptized pursued By demons with their fiery forks; the lick Of flames upon a naked Saracen; Dragons with scarlet tongues and writhing serpents In ambush by the charcoal avenues Just ready at the Judgment word to wreak Vengeance upon the unregenerate. The negative unapprehended forms Of Heaven lost in the dim canvas oils Gave way to glows from brazier pitch that lit The visual affirmatives of Hell. Despite the sorcerers who laid the blame Upon the French for all their ills—the plague, The drought, the Iroquois—the Fathers counted Baptisms by the hundreds, infants, children And aged at the point of death. Adults In health were more intractable, but here The spade had entered soil in the conversion Of a Huron in full bloom and high in power And counsel, Tsiouendaentaha Whose Christian name—to aid the tongue—was Peter. Being the first, he was the Rock on which The priests would build their Church. He was baptized With all the pomp transferable from France Across four thousand miles combined with what A sky and lake could offer, and a forest Strung to the _aubade_ of the orioles. The wooden chapel was their Rheims Cathedral. In stole and surplice Lalemant intoned— “If therefore thou wilt enter into life, Keep the commandments. Thou shalt love the Lord Thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, With all thy might, and thy neighbour as thyself.” With salt and water and the holy chrism, And through the signs made on his breast and forehead The Huron was exorcised, sanctified, And made the temple of the Living God. The holy rite was followed by the Mass Before the motliest auditory known In the annals of worship. Oblates from Quebec, Blackrobes, mechanics, soldiers, labourers, With almost half the village packed inside, Or jammed with craning necks outside the door. The warriors lean, lithe, and elemental, “As naked as your hand”[C] but for a skin Thrown loosely on their shoulders, with their hair Erect, boar-brushed, matted, glued with the oil Of sunflower larded thickly with bear’s grease; Papooses yowling on their mothers’ backs, The squatting hags, suspicion in their eyes, Their nebulous minds relating in some way The smoke and aromatics of the censer, The candles, crucifix and Latin murmurs With vapours, sounds and colours of the Judgment. [C] Lalemant’s phrase. V (_The Founding of Fort Sainte Marie_) The migrant habits of the Indians With their desertion of the villages Through pressure of attack or want of food Called for a central site where undisturbed The priests with their attendants might pursue Their culture, gather strength from their devotions, Map out the territory, plot the routes, Collate their weekly notes and write their letters. The roll was growing—priests and colonists, Lay brothers offering services for life. For on the ground or on their way to place Themselves at the command of Lalemant, Superior, were Claude Pijart, Poncet, Le Moyne, Charles Raymbault, René Menard And Joseph Chaumonot: as oblates came Le Coq, Christophe Reynaut, Charles Boivin, Couture and Jean Guérin. And so to house Them all the Residence—Fort Sainte Marie! Strategic as a base for trade or war The site received the approval of Quebec, Was ratified by Richelieu who saw Commerce and exploration pushing west. Fulfilling the long vision of Champlain— “Greater New France beyond those inland seas.” The fort was built, two hundred feet by ninety, Upon the right bank of the River Wye: Its north and eastern sides of masonry, Its south and west of double palisades, And skirted by a moat, ran parallel To stream and lake. Square bastions at the corners, Watch-towers with magazines and sleeping posts, Commanded forest edges and canoes That furtively came up the Matchedash, And on each bastion was placed a cross. Inside, the Fathers built their dwelling house, No longer the bark cabin with the smoke Ill-trained to work its exit through the roof, But plank and timber—at each end a chimney Of lime and granite field-stone. Rude it was But clean, capacious, full of twilight calm. Across the south canal fed by the river, Ringed by another palisade were buildings Offering retreat to Indian fugitives Whenever war and famine scourged the land. The plans were supervised by Lalemant, Assigning zones of work to every priest. He made a census of the Huron nation; Some thirty villages—twelve thousand persons. Nor was this all: the horizon opened out On larger fields. To south and west were spread The unknown tribes—the Petuns and the Neutrals. VI (_The mission to the Petuns and Neutrals_) In late November Jogues and Garnier Set out on snow-obliterated trails Towards the Blue Hills south of the Nottawasaga, A thirty mile journey through a forest Without a guide. They carried on their backs A blanket with the burden of the altar. All day confronting swamps with fallen logs, Tangles of tamarack and juniper, They made detours to avoid the deep ravines And swollen creeks. Retreating and advancing, Ever in hope their tread was towards the south, Until, “surprised by night in a fir grove”, They took an hour with flint and steel to nurse A fire from twigs, birch rind and needles of pine; And flinging down some branches on the snow, They offered thanks to God, lay down and slept. Morning—the packs reshouldered and the tramp Resumed, the stumble over mouldering trunks Of pine and oak, the hopeless search for trails, Till after dusk with cassocks torn and “nothing To eat all day save each a morsel of bread”, They saw the smoke of the first Indian village. And now began a labour which for faith And triumph of the spirit over failure Was unsurpassed in records of the mission. Famine and pest had struck the Neutral tribes, And fleeing squaws and children had invaded The Petun villages for bread and refuge, Inflicting on the cabins further pest And further famine. When the priests arrived, They found that their black cassocks had become The symbols of the scourge. Children exclaimed— “Disease and famine are outside.” The women Called to their young and fled to forest shelters, Or hid them in the shadows of the cabins. The men broke through a never-broken custom, Denying the strangers right to food and rest. Observing the two priests at prayer, the chief Called out in _council voice_—“What are these demons Who take such unknown postures, what are they But spells to make us die—to finish those Disease had failed to kill inside our cabins?” Driven from town to town with all doors barred, Pursued by storms of threats and flying hatchets, The priests sought refuge through the forest darkness Back to the palisades of Sainte Marie. As bleak an outlook faced Brébeuf when he And Chaumonot took their November tramp— Five forest days—to the north shores of Erie, Where the most savage of the tribes—the Neutrals— Packed their twelve thousand into forty towns. Evil report had reached the settlements By faster routes, for when upon the eve Of the new mission Chaumonot had stated The purpose of the journey, Huron chiefs, Convinced by their own sorcerers that Brébeuf Had laid the epidemic on the land, Resolved to make the Neutral leaders agents Of their revenge: for it was on Brébeuf, The chieftain of the robes, that hate was centred. They had the reason why the drums had failed The hunt, why moose and deer had left the forest, And why the Manitou who sends the sun And rain upon the corn, lures to the trap The beaver, trains the arrow on the goose, Had not responded to the chants and cries. The magic of the “breathings” had not cured The sick and dying. Was it not the prayers To the new God which cast malignant spells? The rosary against the amulet? The Blackrobes with that water-rite performed Upon the children—with that new sign Of wood or iron held up before the eyes Of the stricken? Did the Indian not behold Death following hard upon the offered Host? Was not _Echon_ Brébeuf the evil one? Still, all attempts to kill him were forestalled, For awe and fear had mitigated fury: His massive stature, courage never questioned, His steady glance, the firmness of his voice, And that strange nimbus of authority, In some dim way related to their gods, Had kept the bowstrings of the Hurons taut At the arrow feathers, and the javelin poised And hesitant. But now cunning might do What fear forbade. A brace of Huron runners Were sped to the Neutral country with rich bribes To put the priests to death. And so Brébeuf And his companion entered the first town With famine in their cheeks only to find Worse than the Petun greetings—corn refused, Whispers of death and screams of panic, flight From incarnated plague, and while the chiefs In closest council on the Huron terms Voted for life or death, the younger men Outside drew nearer to the priests, cursed them, Spat at them while convulsive hands were clutching At hatchet helves, waiting impatiently The issue of that strident rhetoric Shaking the cabin bark. The council ended, The feeling strong for death but ruled by fears, For if those foreign spirits had the power To spread the blight upon the land, what could Their further vengeance not exact? Besides, What lay behind those regimental colours And those new drums reported from Quebec? The older men had qualified the sentence— The priests at once must leave the Neutral land, All cabins to be barred against admission, No food, no shelter, and return immediate. Defying threats, the Fathers spent four months, Four winter months, besieging half the towns In their pursuit of souls, for days their food Boiled lichens, ground-nuts, star-grass bulbs and roots Of the wild columbine. Met at the doors By screams and blows, they would betake themselves To the evergreens for shelter over-night. And often, when the body strength was sapped By the day’s toil and there were streaks of blood Inside the moccasins, when the last lodge Rejected them as lepers and the welts Hung on their shoulders, then the Fathers sought The balm that never failed. Under the stars, Along an incandescent avenue The visions trembled, tender, placid, pure, More beautiful than the doorway of Rheims And sweeter than the Galilean fields. For what was hunger and the burn of wounds In those assuaging, healing moments when The clearing mists revealed the face of Mary And the lips of Jesus breathing benedictions? At dawn they came back to the huts to get The same rebuff of speech and club. A brave Repulsed them at the palisade with axe Uplifted—“I have had enough,” he said, “Of the dark flesh of my enemies. I mean To kill and eat the white flesh of the priests.” So close to death starvation and assault Had led them and so meagre of result Were all their ministrations that they thought This was the finish of the enterprise. The winter ended in futility. And on their journey home the Fathers took A final blow when March leagued with the natives Unleashed a northern storm, piled up the snow-drifts, Broke on the ice the shoulder of Brébeuf, And stumbled them for weeks before she sent Them limping through the postern of the fort. Upon his bed that night Brébeuf related A vision he had seen—a moving cross, Its upright beam arising from the south— The country of the Iroquois: the shape Advanced along the sky until its arms Cast shadow on the Huron territory, “And huge enough to crucify us all”. VII (_The story of Jogues_) Bad days had fallen on Huronia. A blight of harvest, followed by a winter In which unusual snowfall had thinned out The hunting and reduced the settlements To destitution, struck its hardest blow At Sainte Marie. The last recourse in need, The fort had been a common granary And now the bins were empty. Altar-ware, Vessels, linens, pictures lost or damaged; Vestments were ragged, writing paper spent. The Eucharist requiring bread and wine, Quebec eight hundred miles away, a war Freshly renewed—the Iroquois (Dutch-armed And seething with the memories of Champlain) Arrayed against the French and Huron allies. The priests assessed the perils of the journey, And the lot fell on Jogues to lead it. He, Next to Brébeuf, had borne the heaviest brunt— The Petun mission, then the following year, The Ojibway where, after a hundred leagues, Canoe and trail, accompanied by Raymbault, He reached the shores of Lake Superior, “And planted a great cross, facing it west”. The soundest of them all in legs, he gathered A band of Huron traders and set out, His task made double by the care of Raymbault Whose health was broken mortally. He reached Quebec with every day of the five weeks A miracle of escape. A few days there, With churches, hospitals, the Indian school At Sillery, pageant and ritual, Making their due impression on the minds Of the Huron guides, Jogues with his band of forty Packed the canoes and started back. Mohawks, Enraged that on the east-bound trip the party Had slipped their hands, awaited them, ambushed Within the grass and reeds along the shore. (_The account of Jogues’ capture and enslavement by the Mohawks as taken from his letter to his Provincial, Jean Filleau, dated August 5, 1643._) “Unskilled in speech, in knowledge and not knowing The precious hour of my visitation, I beg you, if this letter chance to come Unto your hands that in your charity You aid me with your Holy Sacrifices And with the earnest prayers of the whole Province, As being among a people barbarous In birth and manners, for I know that when You will have heard this story you will see The obligation under which I am To God and my deep need of spiritual help. Our business finished at Quebec, the feast Of Saint Ignatius celebrated, we Embarked for the Hurons. On the second day Our men discovered on the shore fresh tracks Thought by Eustache, experienced in war, To be the footprints of our enemies. A mile beyond we met them, twelve canoes And seventy men. Abandoning the boats, Most of the Hurons fled to a thick wood, Leaving but twelve to put up the best front We could, but seeing further Iroquois Paddling so swiftly from the other shore, We ceased from our defence and fled to cover Of tree and bulrush. Watching from my shelter The capture of Goupil and Indian converts, I could not find it in my mind to leave them; But as I was their comrade on the journey, And should be made their comrade in the perils, I gave myself as prisoner to the guard. Likewise Eustache, always devoted, valiant, Returned, exclaiming ‘I praise God that He Has granted me my prayer—that I should live And die with you.’ And then Guillaume Couture Who, young and fleet, having outstripped his foe, But finding flight intolerable came back Of his free will, saying ‘I cannot leave My father in the hands of enemies.’ On him the Iroquois let loose their first Assault for in the skirmish he had slain A chief. They stripped him naked; with their teeth They macerated his finger tips, tore off The nails and pierced his right hand with a spear, Couture taking the pain without a cry. Then turning on Goupil and me they beat Us to the ground under a flurry of fists And knotted clubs, dragging us up half-dead To agonize us with the finger torture. And this was just the foretaste of our trials: Dividing up as spoils of war our food, Our clothes and books and vessels for the church, They led or drove us on our six weeks’ journey, Our wounds festering under the summer sun. At night we were the objects of their sport— They mocked us by the plucking of our hair From head and beard. And on the eighth day meeting A band of warriors from the tribe on march To attack the Richelieu fort, they celebrated By disembarking all the captives, making Us run the line beneath a rain of clubs. And following that they placed us on the scaffolds, Dancing around us hurling jests and insults. Each one of us attempted to sustain The other in his courage by no cry Or sign of our infirmities. Eustache, His thumbs wrenched off, withstood unconquerably The probing of a stick which like a skewer Beginning with the freshness of a wound On the left hand was pushed up to the elbow. And yet next day they put us on the route Again—three days on foot and without food. Through village after village we were led In triumph with our backs shedding the skin Under the sun—by day upon the scaffolds, By night brought to the cabins where, cord-bound, We lay on the bare earth while fiery coals Were thrown upon our bodies. A long time Indeed and cruelly have the wicked wrought Upon my back with sticks and iron rods. But though at times when left alone I wept, Yet I thanked Him who always giveth strength To the weary (I will glory in the things Concerning my infirmity, being made A spectacle to God and to the angels, A sport and a contempt to the barbarians) That I was thus permitted to console And animate the French and Huron converts, Placing before their minds the thought of Him Who bore against Himself the contradiction Of sinners. Weak through hanging by my wrists Between two poles, my feet not touching ground, I managed through His help to reach the stage, And with the dew from leaves of Turkish corn Two of the prisoners I baptized. I called To them that in their torment they should fix Their eyes on me as I bestowed the sign Of the last absolution. With the spirit Of Christ, Eustache then in the fire entreated His Huron friends to let no thought of vengeance Arising from this anguish at the stake Injure the French hope for an Iroquois peace. Onnonhoaraton, a youthful captive, They killed—the one who seeing me prepared For torture interposed, offering himself A sacrifice for me who had in bonds Begotten him for Christ. Couture was seized And dragged off as a slave. René Goupil, While placing on a child’s forehead the sign Of the Cross was murdered by a sorcerer, And then, a rope tied to his neck, was dragged Through the whole village and flung in the River.” (_The later account_) A family of the Wolf Clan having lost A son in battle, Jogues as substitute Was taken in, half-son, half-slave, his work The drudgery of the village, bearing water, Lighting the fires, and clad in tatters made To join the winter hunt, bear heavy packs On scarred and naked shoulders in the trade Between the villages. His readiness To execute his tasks, unmurmuring, His courage when he plunged into a river To save a woman and a child who stumbled Crossing a bridge made by a fallen tree, Had softened for a time his master’s harshness. It gained him scattered hours of leisure when He set his mind to work upon the language To make concrete the articles of Faith. At intervals he stole into the woods To pray and meditate and carve the Name Upon the bark. Out of the Mohawk spoils At the first battle he had found and hid Two books—_The Following of Christ_ and one Of Paul’s _Epistles_, and with these when “weary Even of life and pressed beyond all measure Above his strength” he followed the “running waters” To quench his thirst. But often would the hate Of the Mohawk foes flame out anew when Jogues Was on his knees muttering the magic words, And when a hunting party empty-handed Returned or some reverse was met in battle, Here was the victim ready at their door. Believing that a band of warriors Had been destroyed, they seized the priest and set His day of death, but at the eleventh hour, With the arrival of a group of captives, The larger festival of torture gave Him momentary reprieve. Yet when he saw The holocaust and rushed into the flames To save a child, a heavy weight laid hold Upon his spirit lasting many days— “My life wasted with grief, my years with sighs; Oh wherefore was I born that I should see The ruin of my people! Woe is me! But by His favour I shall overcome Until my change is made and He appear.” This story of enslavement had been brought To Montmagny, the Governor of Quebec, And to the outpost of the Dutch, Fort Orange. Quebec was far away and, short of men, Could never cope with the massed Iroquois, Besides, Jogues’ letter begged the Governor That no measures “to save a single life” Should hurt the cause of France. To the Provincial He wrote—“Who in my absence would console The captives? Who absolve the penitent? Encourage them in torments? Who baptize The dying? On this cross to which our Lord Has nailed me with Himself am I resolved To live and die.” And when the commandant Of the Dutch fort sent notice that a ship At anchor in the Hudson would provide Asylum, Jogues delayed that he might seek Counsel of God and satisfy his conscience, Lest some intruding self-preserving thought Conflict with duty. Death was certain soon. He knew it—for that mounting tide of hate Could not be checked: it had engulfed his friends; ’Twould take him next. How close to suicide Would be refusal? Not as if escape Meant dereliction: no, his early vows Were still inviolate—he would return. He pledged himself to God there on his knees Before two bark-strips fashioned as a cross Under the forest trees—his oratory. And so, one night, the Indians asleep, Jogues left the house, fumbling his darkened way, Half-walk, half-crawl, a lacerated leg Making the journey of one-half a mile The toil of half a night. By dawn he found The shore, and, single-handed, pushed a boat Stranded by ebb-tide, down the slope of sand To the river’s edge and rowed out to the ship, Where he was lifted up the side by sailors Who, fearful of the risk of harbouring A fugitive, carried him to the hatch And hid him with the cargo in the hold, The outcry in the morning could be heard Aboard the ship as Indians combed the cabins, Threatened the guards and scoured the neighbouring woods, And then with strong suspicion of the vessel Demanded of the officers their captive. After two days Jogues with his own consent Was taken to the fort and hid again Behind the barrels of a store. For weeks He saw and heard the Mohawks as they passed, Examining cordage, prying into casks, At times touching his clothes, but missing him As he lay crouched in darkness motionless. With evidence that he was in the fort, The Dutch abetting the escape, the chiefs Approached the commandant—“The prisoner Is ours. He is not of your race or speech. The Dutch are friends: the Frenchmen are our foes. Deliver up this priest into our hands.” The cries were countered by the officer— “He is like us in blood if not in tongue. The Frenchman here is under our protection. He is our guest. We treat him as you treat The strangers in your cabins, for you feed And shelter them. That also is our law, The custom of our nation.” Argument Of no avail, a ransom price was offered, Refused, but running up the bargain scale, It caught the Mohawks at three hundred livres, And Jogues at last was safely on the Hudson. The tale of Jogues’ first mission to the Hurons Ends on a sequel briefly sung but keyed To the tune of the story, for the stretch Home was across a wilderness, his bed A coil of rope on a ship’s open deck Swept by December surge. The voyage closed At Falmouth where, robbed by a pirate gang, He wandered destitute until picked up By a French crew who offered him tramp fare. He landed on the shore of Brittany On Christmas Eve, and by New Year he reached The Jesuit establishment at Rennes. The trumpets blew once more, and Jogues returned With the spring expedition to Quebec. Honoured by Montmagny, he took the post Of peace ambassador to hostile tribes, And then the orders came from Lalemant That he should open up again the cause Among the Mohawks at Ossernenon. Jogues knew that he was travelling to his death, And though each hour of that former mission Burned at his finger stumps, the wayward flesh Obeyed the summons. Lalemant as well Had known the peril—had he not re-named Ossernenon, the Mission of the Martyrs? So Jogues, accompanied by his friend Lalande Departed for the village—his last letter To his Superior read: “I will return Cost it a thousand lives. I know full well That I shall not survive, but He who helped Me by His grace before will never fail me Now when I go to do His holy will.” And to the final consonant the vow Was kept, for two days after they had struck The town, their heads were on the palisades, And their dragged bodies flung into the Mohawk. VIII (_Bressani_) The western missions waiting Jogues’ return Were held together by a scarlet thread. The forays of the Iroquois had sent The fugitive survivors to the fort. Three years had passed—and where was Jogues? The scant Supplies of sagamite could never feed The inflow from the stricken villages. The sparse reports had filtered to Quebec And the command was given to Bressani To lead the rescue band to Sainte Marie. Leaving Three Rivers in the spring when ice Was on the current, he was caught like Jogues, With his six Hurons and a French oblate, A boy of twelve; transferred to Iroquois’ Canoes and carried up the Richelieu; Disbarked and driven through the forest trails To Lake Champlain; across it; and from there Around the rocks and marshes to the Hudson. And every time a camp was built and fires Were laid the torment was renewed; in all The towns the squaws and children were regaled With evening festivals upon the scaffolds. Bressani wrote one day when vigilance Relaxed and his split hand was partly healed— “I do not know if your Paternity Will recognize this writing for the letter Is soiled. Only one finger of the hand Is left unburned. The blood has stained the paper. My writing table is the earth; the ink Gunpowder mixed with water.” And again— This time to his Superior—“I could Not have believed it to be possible That a man’s body was so hard to kill.” The earlier fate of Jogues was his—enslaved, But ransomed at Fort Orange by the Dutch; Restored to partial health; sent to Rochelle In the autumn, but in April back again And under orders for the Huron mission, Where he arrived this time unscathed to take A loyal welcome from his priestly comrades. Bressani’s presence stimulated faith Within the souls of priests and neophytes. The stories burned like fuel of the faggots— Jogues’ capture and his rock stability, And the no less triumphant stand Eustache Had made showing the world that native metal Could take the test as nobly as the French. And Ragueneau’s letter to his General stated— “Bressani ill-equipped to speak the Huron Has speech more eloquent to capture souls: It is his scars, his mutilated hands. ‘Only show us,’ the neophytes exclaim, ‘The wounds, for they teach better than our tongues Your faith, for you have come again to face The dangers. Only thus we know that you Believe the truth and would have us believe it.’” IX In those three years since Jogues’ departure doubts Though unexpressed had visited the mission. For death had come to several in the fold— Raymbault, Goupil, Eustache, and worse than death To Jogues, and winter nights were bleaker, darker Without the company of Brébeuf. Lion Of limb and heart, he had entrenched the faith, Was like a triple palisade himself. But as his broken shoulder had not healed, And ordered to Quebec by Lalemant, He took the leave that seven years of work Deserved. The city hailed him with delight. For more than any other did he seem The very incarnation of the age— Champlain the symbol of exploring France, Tracking the rivers to their lairs, Brébeuf The token of a nobler chivalry. He went the rounds of the stations, saw the gains The East had made in converts—Sillery For Indians and Notre Dame des Anges For the French colonists; convents and schools Flourished. Why should the West not have the same Yield for the sowing? It was labourers They needed with supplies and adequate Defence. St. Lawrence and the Ottawa Infested by the Iroquois were traps Of death. Three bands of Hurons had been caught That summer. Montmagny had warned the priest Against the risk of unprotected journeys. So when the reinforcements came from France, Brébeuf set out under a guard of soldiers Taking with him two young recruits—Garreau And Chabanel—arriving at the fort In the late fall. The soldiers wintered there And supervised defensive strategy. Replaced the forlorn feelings with fresh hopes, And for two years the mission enterprise Renewed its lease of life. Rumours of treaties Between the French and Mohawks stirred belief That peace was in the air, that other tribes Inside the Iroquois Confederacy Might enter—with the Hurons sharing terms. This was the pipe-dream—was it credible? The ranks of missionaries were filling up: At Sainte Marie, Brébeuf and Ragueneau, Le Mercier, Chastellain and Chabanel; St. Joseph—Garnier and René Menard; St. Michel—Chaumonot and Du Peron; The others—Claude Pijart, Le Moyne, Garreau And Daniel. What validity the dream Possessed was given by the seasonal Uninterrupted visits of the priests To their loved home, both fort and residence. Here they discussed their plans, and added up In smiling rivalry their tolls of converts: They loitered at the shelves, fondled the books, Running their fingers down the mellowed pages As if they were the faces of their friends. They stood for hours before the saints or knelt Before the Virgin and the crucifix In mute transfiguration. These were hours That put the bandages upon their hurts, Making their spirits proof against all ills That had assailed or could assail the flesh, Turned winter into spring and made return To their far mission posts an exaltation. The bell each morning called the neophytes To Mass, again at evening, and the tones Lured back the memories across the seas. And often in the summer hours of twilight When Norman chimes were ringing, would the priests Forsake the fort and wander to the shore To sing the _Gloria_ while hermit thrushes Rivalled the rapture of the nightingales. The native register was rich in name And number. Earlier years had shown results Mainly among the young and sick and aged, Where little proof was given of the root Of faith, but now the Fathers told of deeds That flowered from the stems. Had not Eustache Bequeathed his record like a Testament? The sturdiest warriors and chiefs had vied Among themselves within the martyr ranks:— Stories of captives led to sacrifice, Accepting scaffold fires under the rites, Enduring to the end, had taken grip Of towns and clans. St. Joseph had its record For Garnier reported that Totiri, A native of high rank, while visiting St. Ignace when a torture was in progress, Had emulated Jogues by plunging through The flaming torches that he might apply The Holy Water to an Iroquois. Garreau and Pijart added lists of names From the Algonquins and the Nipissings, And others told of Pentecostal meetings In cabins by the Manitoulin shores. Not only was the faith sustained by hopes Nourished within the bosom of their home And by the wish-engendered talk of peace, But there outside the fort was evidence Of tenure for the future. Acres rich In soil extended to the forest fringe. Each year they felled the trees and burned the stumps, Pushing the frontier back, clearing the land, Spading, hoeing. The stomach’s noisy protest At sagamite and wild rice found a rest With bread from wheat, fresh cabbages and pease, And squashes which when roasted had the taste Of Norman apples. Strawberries in July, October beechnuts, pepper roots for spice, And at the bottom of a spring that flowed Into a pond shaded by silver birches And ringed by marigolds was water-cress In chilled abundance. So, was this the West? The Wilderness? That flight of tanagers; Those linguals from the bobolinks; those beeches, Roses and water-lilies; at the pools Those bottle-gentians! For a time the fields Could hypnotize the mind to scenes of France. Within five years the change was wrought. The cocks Were crowing in the yards, and in the pasture Were sheep and cows and pigs that had been brought As sucklings that immense eight hundred miles In sacks—canoed, and portaged on the shoulders. The traders, like the soldiers, too, had heard Of a great ocean larger than the Huron. Was it the western gateway to Cathay? The Passage? Master-theme of song and ballad; The _myth_ at last resolved into the _fact_! Along that route, it was believed, French craft Freighted with jewels, spices, tapestries, Would sail to swell the coffers of the Bourbons. Such was the dream though only buffalo roamed The West and autumn slept upon the prairies. This dream was at its brightest now, Quebec Was building up a western citadel In Sainte Marie. With sixty Frenchmen there, The eastern capital itself had known Years less auspicious. Might the fort not be The bastion to one-half the continent, New France expanding till the longitudes Staggered the daring of the navigators? The priests were breathless with another space Beyond the measure of the astrolabe— A different empire built upon the pulses, Where even the sun and moon and stars revolved Around a Life and a redemptive Death. They pushed their missions to the north and west Further into Algonquin territories, Among the Ottawas at Manitoulin, And towards the Ojibways at Sault Sainte Marie. New village groups were organized in stations— St. Magdalen, St. Jean, and St. Matthias. Had Chabanel, ecstatic with success, Not named one fort the Village of Believers? Brébeuf was writing to his General— “Peace, union and tranquillity are here Between the members of our Order. We need More workers for the apostolic field, Which more than ever whitens for the harvest.” And to this call came Gabriel Lalemant, Bonin, Daran, Greslon, besides a score Of labourers and soldiers. In one year Twelve hundred converts, churches over-crowded, With Mass conducted in the open air! And so the seasons passed. When the wild ducks Forsook the Huron marshes for the south, It was the signal for the priests to pack Their blankets. Not until the juncos came, And flickers tapped the crevices of bark, And the blood-root was pushing through the leaf-mould, Would they reset their faces towards their home. X While Ragueneau’s _Relations_ were being sent Homeward, picturing the promise of the west, The thunder clouds were massing in the east Under the pounding drums. The treaty signed Between the Iroquois and Montmagny Was broken by the murder of Lalande And Jogues. The news had drifted to the fort— The prelude only to the heavier blows And deeper treachery. The Iroquois, Infesting lake and stream, forest and shore, Were trapping soldiers, traders, Huron guides: The whole confederacy was on the march. Both waterways were blocked, the quicker route— St. Lawrence, and the arduous Ottawa. They caught the Hurons at their camps, surprised Canoe-fleets from the reeds and river bends And robbed them, killed them on the portages. So widespread were their forays, they encountered Bands of Algonquins on the hunt, slew them, Dispersed them from their villages and sent Survivors to the northern wilderness. So keen their lust for slaughter, they enticed The Huron chieftains under pledge of truce And closed negotiations with their scalps. As the months passed the pressure of attack Moved grimly towards the west, making complete The isolation of Huronia. No commerce with Quebec—no traveller For a whole year came to the Residence. But constant was the stream of fugitives From smaller undefended villages, Fleeing west and ever west. The larger towns, The deluge breaking down their walls, drove on The surplus to their neighbours which, in turn, Urged on the panic herd to Sainte Marie. This mother of the missions felt the strain As one by one the buffers were destroyed, And the flocks came nearer for their pasturage. There could be only one conclusion when The priests saw the migration of the missions— That of St. Jean four times abandoning Its stations and four times establishing New centres with a more improved defence; That of St. Ignace where a double raid That slaughtered hundreds, lifted bodily Both town and mission, driving to their last Refuge the ragged remnants. Yet Ragueneau Was writing—“We are here as yet intact But all determined to shed blood and life If need be. In this Residence still reigns The peace and love of Heaven. Here the sick Will find a hospital, the travellers A place of rest, the fugitives, asylum. During the year more than three thousand persons Have sought and found shelter under our roof. We have dispensed the Bread of Life to all And we have fed their bodies, though our fare Is down to one food only, crushed corn boiled And seasoned with the powder of smoked fish.” Despite the perils, Sainte Marie was sending Her missionaries afield, revisiting The older sites, establishing the new, With that same measure of success and failure Which tested courage or confirmed a faith. Garreau, sick and expecting death, was brought By Pijart and a French assistant back From the Algonquin wastes, for thirteen days Borne by a canoe and by his comrades’ shoulders. Recovering even after the last rites Had been administered, he faced the task Again. Fresh visits to the Petun tribes Had little yield but cold and starving days, Unsheltered nights, the same fare at the doors, Savoured by Jogues and Garnier seven years Before. And everywhere the labourers worked Under a double threat—the Iroquois, And the Huron curse inspired by sorcerers Who saw black magic in the Jesuit robes And linked disaster with their ritual. Between the hammer and the anvil now Huronia was laid and the first priest To take the blow was Daniel. Fourteen years This priest had laboured at the Huron mission. Following a week of rest at Sainte Marie He had returned to his last post, St. Joseph, Where he had built his church and for the year Just gone had added to his charge the hundreds Swarming from villages stormed by the foe. And now in that inexorable order, Station by station, town by town, it was St. Joseph’s turn. Aware that the main force Of Huron warriors had left the town, The Iroquois had breached the palisade And, overwhelming the defenders, sacked And burned the cabins. Mass had just been offered, When the war yells were heard and Daniel came Outside. Seeing the panic, fully knowing Extinction faced the town with this invasion, And that ten precious minutes of delay Might give his flock the refuge of the woods, He faced the vanguard of the Iroquois, And walked with firm selective dignity As in the manner of a parley. Fear And wonder checked the Indians at the sight Of a single dark-robed, unarmed challenger Against arrows, muskets, spears and tomahawks. That momentary pause had saved the lives Of hundreds as they fled into the forest, But not the life of Daniel. Though afraid At first to cross a charmed circumference To take a struggle hand-to-hand, they drove Their arrows through him, then in frenzied rush Mastering their awe, they hurled themselves upon The body, stripped it of its clothes and flung it Into the burning church. By noon nothing Remained but ashes of the town, the fort, The cabins and their seven hundred dead. XI Ragueneau was distraught. He was shepherd-priest. Daniel was first to die under his care, And nigh a score of missionaries were lost In unprotected towns. Besides, he knew He could not, if he would, resist that mob That clamoured at the stockades, day by day. His moral supervision was bound up With charity that fed and warmed and healed. And through the winter following Daniel’s death Six thousand Indians sought shelter there. The season’s crops to the last grain were garnered And shared. “Through the kind Providence of God, We managed, as it were, to draw both oil And honey from the very stones around us. The obedience, patience of our missionaries Excel reward—all with one heart and soul Infused with the high spirit of our Order; The servants, boys, and soldiers day and night Working beyond their strength! Here is the service Of joy, that we will take whatever God Ordains for us whether it be life or death.” The challenge was accepted, for the spring Opened upon the hardest tragic blows The iron in the human soul could stand. St. Louis and St. Ignace still remained The flying buttresses of Sainte Marie. From them the Residence received reports Daily of movements of the Iroquois. Much labour had been spent on their defence. Ramparts of pine fifteen feet high enclosed St. Louis. On three sides a steep ravine Topped by the stakes made nigh impregnable St Ignace; then the palisaded fourth, Subject alone to a surprise assault, Could rally the main body of defenders. The Iroquois, alert as eagles, knew The weakness of the Hurons, the effect On the morale of unexpected raids Committing towns to fire and pushing back The eastern ramparts. Piece by piece, the rim Was being cracked and fissures driven down The bowl: and stroke by stroke the strategy Pointed to Sainte Marie. Were once the fort Now garrisoned by forty Frenchmen taken, No power predicted from Quebec could save The Huron nation from its doom. St. Ignace Lay in the path but during the eight months After St. Joseph’s fall the enemy Had leisurely prepared their plans. Their scouts Reported that one-half of the town’s strength Was lost by flight and that an apathy, In spite of all the priests could do to stem it, Had seized the invaded tribes. They knew that when The warriors were hunting in the forest This weaker palisade was scalable. And the day came in March when the whole fate That overtook St. Joseph in July Swept on St. Ignace—sudden and complete. The Mohawks and the Senecas uniting, A thousand strong, the town bereft of fighters, Four hundred old and young inside the stakes, The assault was made two hours before the dawn. But half-aroused from sleep, many were killed Within their cabins. Of the four hundred three Alone managed to reach the woods to scream The alarm to the drowsed village of St. Louis. At nine o’clock that morning—such the speed Of the pursuit—a guard upon the hill Behind the Residence was watching whiffs Of smoke to the south, but a league away. Bush fires? Not with this season’s depth of snow. The Huron bivouacs? The settlements Too close for that. Camps of the Iroquois? Not while cunning and stealth controlled their tactics. The smoke was in the town. The morning air, Clearing, could leave no doubt of that, and just As little that the darkening pall could spring Out of the vent-holes from the cabin roofs. Ragueneau rushed to the hill at the guard’s call; Summoned Bressani; sheets and tongues of flame Leaping some fifty feet above the smoke Meant to their eyes the capture and the torch— St. Louis with Brébeuf and Lalemant! Less than two hours it took the Iroquois To capture, sack and garrison St. Ignace, And start then for St. Louis. The alarm Sounded, five hundred of the natives fled To the mother fort only to be pursued And massacred in the snow. The eighty braves That manned the stockades perished at the breaches; And what was seen by Ragueneau and the guard Was smoke from the massed fire of cabin bark. Brébeuf and Lalemant were not numbered In the five hundred of the fugitives. They had remained, infusing nerve and will In the defenders, rushing through the cabins Baptizing and absolving those who were Too old, too young, too sick to join the flight. And when, resistance crushed, the Iroquois Took all they had not slain back to St. Ignace, The vanguard of the prisoners were the priests. Three miles from town to town over the snow, Naked, laden with pillage from the lodges, The captives filed like wounded beasts of burden, Three hours on the march, and those that fell Or slowed their steps were killed. Three days before Brébeuf had celebrated his last mass. And he had known it was to be the last. There was prophetic meaning as he took The cord and tied the alb around his waist, Attached the maniple to his left arm And drew the seamless purple chasuble With the large cross over his head and shoulders, Draping his body: every vestment held An immediate holy symbol as he whispered— “Upon my head the helmet of Salvation. So purify my heart and make me white; With this cincture of purity gird me, O Lord. May I deserve this maniple Of sorrow and of penance. Unto me Restore the stole of immortality. My yoke is sweet, my burden light. Grant that I may so bear it as to win Thy grace.” Entering, he knelt before as rude an altar As ever was reared within a sanctuary, But hallowed as that chancel where the notes Of Palestrina’s score had often pealed The _Assumpta est Maria_ through Saint Peter’s. For, covered in the centre of the table, Recessed and sealed, a hollowed stone contained A relic of a charred or broken body Which perhaps a thousand years ago or more Was offered as a sacrifice to Him Whose crucifix stood there between the candles. And on the morrow would this prayer be answered:— “Eternal Father, I unite myself With the affections and the purposes Of Our Lady of Sorrows on Calvary. And now I offer Thee the sacrifice Which Thy Beloved Son made of Himself Upon the Cross and now renews on this, His holy altar . . . Graciously receive My life for His life as he gave His life For mine . . . This is my body. In like manner . . . Take ye and drink—the chalice of my blood.” XII No doubt in the mind of Brébeuf that this was the last Journey—three miles over the snow. He knew That the margins as thin as they were by which he escaped From death through the eighteen years of his mission toil Did not belong to this chapter: not by his pen Would this be told. He knew his place in the line, For the blaze of the trail that was cut on the bark by Jogues Shone still. He had heard the story as told by writ And word of survivors—of how a captive slave Of the hunters, the skin of his thighs cracked with the frost, He would steal from the tents to the birches, make a rough cross From two branches, set it in snow and on the peel Inscribe his vows and dedicate to the Name In “litanies of love” what fragments were left From the wrack of his flesh; of his escape from the tribes; Of his journey to France where he knocked at the door of the College Of Rennes, was gathered in as a mendicant friar, Nameless, unknown, till he gave for proof to the priest His scarred credentials of faith, the nail-less hands And withered arms—the signs of the Mohawk fury. Nor yet was the story finished—he had come again Back to his mission to get the second death. And the comrades of Jogues—Goupil, Eustache and Couture, Had been stripped and made to run the double files And take the blows—one hundred clubs to each line— And this as the prelude to torture, leisured, minute, Where thorns on the quick, scallop shells to the joints of the thumbs, Provided the sport for children and squaws till the end. And adding salt to the blood of Brébeuf was the thought Of Daniel—was it months or a week ago? So far, so near, it seemed in time, so close In leagues—just over there to the south it was He faced the arrows and died in front of his church. But winding into the greater artery Of thought that bore upon the coming passion Were little tributaries of wayward wish And reminiscence. Paris with its vespers Was folded in the mind of Lalemant, And the soft Gothic lights and traceries Were shading down the ridges of his vows. But two years past at Bourges he had walked the cloisters, Companioned by Saint Augustine and Francis, And wrapped in quiet holy mists. Brébeuf, His mind a moment throwing back the curtain Of eighteen years, could see the orchard lands, The _cidreries_, the peasants at the Fairs, The undulating miles of wheat and barley, Gardens and pastures rolling like a sea From Lisieux to Le Havre. Just now the surf Was pounding on the limestone Norman beaches And on the reefs of Calvados. Had dawn This very day not flung her surplices Around the headlands and with golden fire Consumed the silken argosies that made For Rouen from the estuary of the Seine? A moment only for that veil to lift— A moment only for those bells to die That rang their matins at Condé-sur-Vire. By noon St. Ignace! The arrival there The signal for the battle-cries of triumph, The gauntlet of the clubs. The stakes were set And the ordeal of Jogues was re-enacted Upon the priests—even with wilder fury, For here at last was trapped their greatest victim, _Echon_. The Iroquois had waited long For this event. Their hatred for the Hurons Fused with their hatred for the French and priests Was to be vented on this sacrifice, And to that camp had come apostate Hurons, United with their foes in common hate To settle up their reckoning with _Echon_. . . . . . . Now three o’clock, and capping the height of the passion, Confusing the sacraments under the pines of the forest, Under the incense of balsam, under the smoke Of the pitch, was offered the rite of the font. On the head, The breast, the loins and the legs, the boiling water! While the mocking paraphrase of the symbols was hurled At their faces like shards of flint from the arrow heads— “We baptize thee with water . . . That thou mayest be led To Heaven . . . To that end we do anoint thee. We treat thee as a friend: we are the cause Of thy happiness; we are thy priests; the more Thou sufferest, the more thy God will reward thee, So give us thanks for our kind offices.” The fury of taunt was followed by fury of blow. Why did not the flesh of Brébeuf cringe to the scourge, Respond to the heat, for rarely the Iroquois found A victim that would not cry out in such pain—yet here The fire was on the wrong fuel. Whenever he spoke, It was to rally the soul of his friend whose turn Was to come through the night while the eyes were uplifted in prayer, Imploring the Lady of Sorrows, the mother of Christ, As pain brimmed over the cup and the will was called To stand the test of the coals. And sometimes the speech Of Brébeuf struck out, thundering reproof to his foes, Half-rebuke, half-defiance, giving them roar for roar. Was it because the chancel became the arena, Brébeuf a lion at bay, not a lamb on the altar, As if the might of a Roman were joined to the cause Of Judaea? Speech they could stop for they girdled his lips, But never a moan could they get. Where was the source Of his strength, the home of his courage that topped the best Of their braves and even out-fabled the lore of their legends? In the bunch of his shoulders which often had carried a load Extorting the envy of guides at an Ottawa portage? The heat of the hatchets was finding a path to that source. In the thews of his thighs which had mastered the trails of the Neutrals? They would gash and beribbon those muscles. Was it the blood? They would draw it fresh from its fountain. Was it the heart? They dug for it, fought for the scraps in the way of the wolves. But not in these was the valour or stamina lodged; Nor in the symbol of Richelieu’s robes or the seals Of Mazarin’s charters, nor in the stir of the _lilies_ Upon the Imperial folds; nor yet in the words Loyola wrote on a table of lava-stone In the cave of Manresa—not in these the source— But in the sound of invisible trumpets blowing Around two slabs of board, right-angled, hammered By Roman nails and hung on a Jewish hill. The wheel had come full circle with the visions In France of Brébeuf poured through the mould of St. Ignace. Lalemant died in the morning at nine, in the flame Of the pitch belts. Flushed with the sight of the bodies, the foes Gathered their clans and moved back to the north and west To join in the fight against the tribes of the Petuns. There was nothing now that could stem the Iroquois blast. However undaunted the souls of the priests who were left, However fierce the sporadic counter attacks Of the Hurons striking in roving bands from the ambush, Or smashing out at their foes in garrison raids, The villages fell before a blizzard of axes And arrows and spears, and then were put to the torch. The days were dark at the fort and heavier grew The burdens on Ragueneau’s shoulders. Decision was his. No word from the east could arrive in time to shape The step he must take. To and fro—from altar to hill, From hill to altar, he walked and prayed and watched. As governing priest of the Mission he felt the pride Of his Order whipping his pulse, for was not St. Ignace The highest test of the Faith? And all that torture And death could do to the body was done. The Will And the Cause in their triumph survived. Loyola’s mountains, Sublime at their summits, were scaled to the uttermost peak. Ragueneau, the Shepherd, now looked on a battered fold. In a whirlwind of fire St. Jean, like St. Joseph, crashed Under the Iroquois impact. Firm at his post, Garnier suffered the fate of Daniel. And now Chabanel, last in the roll of the martyrs, entrapped On his knees in the woods met death at apostate hands. The drama was drawing close to its end. It fell To Ragueneau’s lot to perform a final rite— To offer the fort in sacrificial fire! He applied the torch himself. “Inside an hour,” He wrote, “we saw the fruit of ten years’ labour Ascend in smoke,—then looked our last at the fields, Put altar-vessels and food on a raft of logs, And made our way to the island of St. Joseph.” But even from there was the old tale retold— Of hunger and the search for roots and acorns; Of cold and persecution unto death By the Iroquois; of Jesuit will and courage As the shepherd-priest with Chaumonot led back The remnant of a nation to Quebec. THE MARTYRS’ SHRINE Three hundred years have passed, and the winds of God Which blew over France are blowing once more through the pines That bulwark the shores of the great Fresh Water Sea. Over the wastes abandoned by human tread, Where only the bittern’s cry was heard at dusk; Over the lakes where the wild ducks built their nests, The skies that had banked their fires are shining again With the stars that guided the feet of Jogues and Brébeuf. The years as they turned have ripened the martyrs’ seed, And the ashes of St. Ignace are glowing afresh. The trails, having frayed the threads of the cassocks, sank Under the mould of the centuries, under fern And brier and fungus—there in due time to blossom Into the highways that lead to the crest of the hill Which havened both shepherd and flock in the days of their trial. For out of the torch of Ragueneau’s ruins the candles Are burning to-day in the chancel of Sainte Marie. The Mission sites have returned to the fold of the Order. Near to the ground where the cross broke under the hatchet, And went with it into the soil to come back at the turn Of the spade with the carbon and calcium char of the bodies, The shrines and altars are built anew; the _Aves_ And prayers ascend, and the Holy Bread is broken. BEFORE AN ALTAR (After Gueudecourt) Break we the bread once more, The cup we pass around— No, rather let us pour This wine upon the ground; And on the salver lay The bread—there to remain. Perhaps, some other day, Shrovetide will come again. Blurred is the rubric now, And shadowy the token, When blood is on the brow, And the frail body broken. TO AN ENEMY Some passionate hour before my own deep stripe Has taken on its healing, I shall trace Him out, and with clean linen I shall wipe The stain from that raw cut upon his face; And with the hand that smote him I shall turn The audit strong against him, offering Once more a wound for wound and burn for burn Out of the heart’s own codeless bargaining. And he, with wound adjuring wound, shall draw His equal measure to the sacrament From an old well to which some mortals went When, with their thirsts ablaze, they looked and saw An Orient form uplifted in the skies, And quenched their hate in his forgiving eyes. THE EMPTY ROOM I know that were my soul to-night Strung to the silence of this room, I’d hear remembered footfalls light As wayward drift of lotus bloom. Nor would it just be make-believe, Were I to find her in this chair, Or catch the rustle of her sleeve, Or note the glint upon her hair. Say, would you blame me if I knelt To put faith to its enterprise? So surely must her touch be felt In liquid coolness on my eyes. Now listen! If the veil should part Within this holy ritual, You’ll hear a voice call to my heart More lovely than a madrigal. FIRE Wiser than thought, more intimate than breath, More ancient than the plated rust of Mars, Beyond the light geometry of stars, Yet closer than our web of life and death— This sergeant of the executing squads Calls night from dawn no less than dawn from night; This groom that teams the wolf and hare for flight Is obstetrician at the birth of gods. Around this crimson source of human fears, Where rites and myths have built their scaffoldings, With smoke of hecatombs upon her wings, And chased by shadows of the coming years, Our planet-moth tries blindly to survive Her spinning vertigo as fugitive. But stronger than its terror is the deep Allurement, primary to our blood, which holds Safety and warmth in unimpassioned folds, Night and the candle-quietness of sleep; With the day’s bugles silent, when the will, That feeds the tumult of our natures, rests Along the broken arteries of its quests. So, let the yellowing world revolve until The old Sun’s ultimate expatriate On this exotic hearth leans forth to claim Promethean virtue from a dying flame, His fingers tapered—less to mitigate The chilling accident of his sojourn Than to invoke his ultimate return. THE TITANIC The hammers silent and the derricks still, And high-tide in the harbour! Mind and will In open test with time and steel had run The first lap of a schedule and had won. Although a shell of what was yet to be Before another year was over, she, Poised for the launching signal, had surpassed The dreams of builder or of navigator. The Primate of the Lines, she had out-classed That rival effort to eliminate her Beyond the North Sea where the air shots played The laggard rhythms of their fusilade Upon the rivets of the _Imperator_. The wedges in, the shores removed, a girl’s Hand at a sign released a ribbon braid; Glass crashed against the plates; a wine cascade, Netting the sunlight in a shower of pearls, Baptized the bow and gave the ship her name; A slight push of the rams as a switch set free The triggers in the slots, and her proud claim On size—to be the first to reach the sea— Was vindicated, for whatever fears Stalked with her down the tallow of the slips Were smothered under by the harbour cheers, By flags strung to the halyards of the ships. Completed! Waiting for her trial spin— Levers and telegraphs and valves within Her intercostal spaces ready to start The power pulsing through her lungs and heart. An ocean life-boat in herself—so ran The architectural comment on her plan. No wave could sweep those upper decks—unthinkable! No storm could hurt that hull—the papers said so. The perfect ship at last—the first unsinkable, Proved in advance—had not the folders read so? Such was the steel strength of her double floors Along the whole length of the keel, and such The fine adjustment of the bulkhead doors Geared to the rams, responsive to a touch, That in collision with iceberg or rock Or passing ship she could survive the shock, Absorb the double impact, for despite The bows stove in, with forward holds aleak, Her aft compartments buoyant, watertight, Would keep her floating steady for a week. And this belief had reached its climax when, Through wireless waves as yet unstaled by use, The wonder of the ether had begun To fold the heavens up and reinduce That ancient _hubris_ in the dreams of men, Which would have slain the cattle of the sun, And filched the lightnings from the fist of Zeus. What mattered that her boats were but a third Of full provision—caution was absurd; Then let the ocean roll and the winds blow While the risk at Lloyds remained a record low. Calved from a glacier near Godhaven coast, It left the fiord for the sea—a host Of white flotillas gathering in its wake, And joined by fragments from a Behring floe, Had circumnavigated it to make It centre of an archipelago. Its lateral motion on the Davis Strait Was casual and indeterminate, And each advance to southward was as blind As each recession to the north. No smoke Of steamships nor the hoist of mainsails broke The polar wastes—no sounds except the grind Of ice, the cry of curlews and the lore Of winds from mesas of eternal snow; Until caught by the western undertow, It struck the current of the Labrador Which swung it to its definite southern stride. Pressure and glacial time had stratified The berg to the consistency of flint, And kept inviolate, through clash of tide And gale, façade and columns with their hint Of inward altars and of steepled bells Ringing the passage of the parallels. But when with months of voyaging it came To where both streams—the Gulf and Polar—met, The sun which left its crystal peaks aflame In the sub-arctic noons, began to fret The arches, flute the spires and deform The features, till the batteries of storm, Playing above the slow-eroding base, Demolished the last temple touch of grace. Another month, and nothing but the brute And palaeolithic outline of a face Fronted the transatlantic shipping route. A sloping spur that tapered to a claw And lying twenty feet below had made It lurch and shamble like a plantigrade; But with an impulse governed by the raw Mechanics of its birth, it drifted where Ambushed, fog-gray, it stumbled on its lair, North forty-one degrees and forty-four, Fifty and fourteen west the longitude, Waiting a world-memorial hour, its rude Corundum form stripped to its Greenland core. An omen struck the thousands on the shore— A double accident! And as the ship Swung down the river on her maiden trip, Old sailors of the clipper decades, wise To the sea’s incantations, muttered fables About careening vessels with their cables Snapped in their harbours under peaceful skies. Was it just suction or fatality Which caused the _New York_ at the dock to turn, Her seven mooring ropes to break at the stern And writhe like anacondas on the quay, While tugs and fenders answered the collision Signals with such trim margin of precision? And was it backwash from the starboard screw Which, tearing at the big _Teutonic_, drew Her to the limit of her hawser strain, And made the smaller tethered craft behave Like frightened harbour ducks? And no one knew For many days the reason to explain The rise and wash of one inordinate wave, When a sunken barge on the Southampton bed Was dragged through mire eight hundred yards ahead. As the _Titanic_ passed above its grave. But many of those sailors wise and old, Who pondered on this weird mesmeric power, Gathered together, lit their pipes and told Of portents hidden in the natal hour, Told of the launching of some square-rigged ships, When water flowed from the inverted tips Of a waning moon, of sun-hounds, of the shrieks Of whirling shags around the mizzen peaks. And was there not this morning’s augury For the big one now heading for the sea? So long after she passed from landsmen’s sight, They watched her with their Mother Carey eyes Through Spithead smoke, through mists of Isle of Wight, Through clouds of sea-gulls following with their cries. Electric elements were glowing down In long galley passages where scores Of white-capped cooks stood at the oven doors To feed the population of a town. Cauldrons of stock, purées and consommés, Simmered with peppercorns and marjoram. The sea-shore smells from bisque and crab and clam Blended with odours from the fricassées. Refrigerators, hung with a week’s toll Of the stockyards, delivered sides of lamb And veal, beef quarters to be roasted whole, Hundreds of capons and halibut. A shoal Of Blue-Points waited to be served on shell. The boards were loaded with pimolas, pails Of lobster coral, jars of Béchamel, To garnish tiers of rows of chilled timbales And aspics. On the shelves were pyramids Of truffles, sprigs of thyme and water-cress, Bay leaf and parsley, savouries to dress Shad roes and sweetbreads broiling on the grids. And then in diamond, square, crescent and star, Hors d’oeuvres were fashioned from the toasted bread, With paste of anchovy and caviare, Paprika sprinkled and pimento spread, All ready, for the hour was seven! Meanwhile, Rivalling the engines with their steady tread, Thousands of feet were taking overhead The fourth lap round the deck to make the mile. Squash racquet, shuffle board and quoits; the cool Tang of the plunge in the gymnasium pool, The rub, the crisp air of the April night, The salt of the breeze made by the liner’s rate, Worked with an even keel to stimulate Saliva for an ocean appetite; And like storm troops before a citadel, At the first summons of a bugle, soon The army massed the stairs towards the saloon, And though twelve courses on the cards might well Measure themselves against Falstaffian juices, But few were found presenting their excuses, When stewards offered on the lacquered trays The Savoy chasers and the canapés. The dinner gave the sense that all was well: That touch of ballast in the tanks; the feel Of peace from ramparts unassailable, Which, added to her seven decks of steel, Had constituted the _Titanic_ less A ship than a Gibraltar under heel. And night had placed a lazy lusciousness Upon a surfeit of security. Science responded to a button press. The three electric lifts that ran through tiers Of decks, the reading lamps, the brilliancy Of mirrors from the tungsten chandeliers, Had driven out all phantoms which the mind Had loosed from ocean closets, and assigned To the dry earth the custody of fears. The crowds poured through the sumptuous rooms and halls, And tapped the tables of the Regency; Smirked at the caryatids on the walls; Talked Jacobean-wise; canvassed the range Of taste within the Louis dynasty. Gray-templed Cæsars of the world’s Exchange Swallowed liqueurs and coffee as they sat Under the Georgian carved mahogany, Dictating wireless hieroglyphics that Would on the opening of the Board Rooms rock The pillared dollars of a railroad stock. A group had gathered round a mat to watch The pressure of a Russian hammerlock, A Polish scissors and a German crotch, Broken by the toe-hold of Frank Gotch; Or listened while a young Y.M.C.A. Instructor demonstrated the left-hook, And that right upper-cut which Jeffries took From Johnson in the polished Reno way. By midnight in the spacious dancing hall, Hundreds were at the Masqueraders’ Ball, The high potential of the liner’s pleasures, Where mellow lights from Chinese lanterns glowed Upon the scene, and the _Blue Danube_ flowed In andantino rhythms through the measures. By three the silence that proceeded from The night-caps and the soporific hum Of the engines was far deeper than a town’s: The starlight and the low wash of the sea Against the hull bore the serenity Of sleep at rural hearths with eiderdowns. The quiet on the decks was scarcely less Than in the berths: no symptoms of the toil Down in the holds; no evidence of stress From gears drenched in the lubricating oil. She seemed to swim in oil, so smooth the sea. And quiet on the bridge: the great machine Called for laconic speech, close-fitting, clean, And whittled to the ship’s economy. Even the judgment stood in little need Of reason, for the Watch had but to read Levels and lights, meter or card or bell To find the pressures, temperatures, or tell Magnetic North within a binnacle, Or gauge the hour of docking; for the speed Was fixed abaft where under the Ensign, Like a flashing trolling spoon, the log rotator Transmitted through a governor its fine Gradations on a dial indicator. Morning of Sunday promised cool and clear, Flawless horizon, crystal atmosphere; Not a cat’s paw on the ocean, not a guy Rope murmuring: the steamer’s columned smoke Climbed like extensions of her funnels high Into the upper zones, then warped and broke Through the resistance of her speed—blue sky, Blue water rifted only by the wedge Of the bow where the double foam line ran Diverging from the beam to join the edge Of the stern wake like a white unfolding fan. Her maiden voyage was being sweetly run, Adding a half-knot here, a quarter there, Gliding from twenty into twenty-one. She seemed so native to her thoroughfare, One turned from contemplation of her size, Her sixty thousand tons of sheer flotation, To wonder at the human enterprise That took a gamble on her navigation— Joining the mastiff strength with whippet grace In this head-strained, world-watched Atlantic race: Her less than six days’ passage would combine Achievement with the architect’s design. A message from _Caronia: advice_ _From ships proceeding west; sighted field ice_ _And growlers; forty-two north; forty-nine_ _To fifty-one west longitude. S.S._ _Mesaba of Atlantic Transport Line_ _Reports encountering solid pack: would guess_ _The stretch five miles in width from west to east,_ _And forty-five to fifty miles at least_ _In length._ _Amerika_ obliged to slow Down: warns all steamships in vicinity Presence of bergs, especially of three Upon the southern outskirts of the floe. The _Baltic_ warns _Titanic_: so _Tourraine_; Reports of numerous icebergs on the Banks, The floe across the southern traffic lane. The _Californian_ and _Baltic_ again Present their compliments to Captain. _Thanks._ “That spark’s been busy all the afternoon— Warnings! The Hydrographic charts are strewn With crosses showing bergs and pack-ice all Along the routes, more south than usual For this time of the year.” “She’s hitting a clip Instead of letting up while passing through This belt. She’s gone beyond the twenty-two.” “Don’t worry—Smith’s an old dog, knows his ship, No finer in the mercantile marine Than Smith with thirty years of service, clean Record, honoured with highest of all commands, _Majestic_, than _Olympic_ on his hands, Now the _Titanic_.” “’Twas a lucky streak That at Southampton dock he didn’t lose her, And the _Olympic_ had a narrow squeak Some months before rammed by the British Cruiser, The _Hawke_.” “Straight accident. No one to blame: ’Twas suction—Board absolved them both. The same With the _Teutonic_ and _New York_. No need To fear she’s trying to out-reach her speed. There isn’t a sign of fog. Besides by now The watch is doubled at crow’s nest and bow.” “People are talking of that apparition, When we were leaving Queenstown—that head showing Above the funnel rim, and the fires going! A stoker’s face—sounds like a superstition. But he was there within the stack, all right; Climbed up the ladder and grinned. The explanation Was given by an engineer last night— A dummy funnel built for ventilation.” “That’s queer enough, but nothing so absurd As the latest story two old ladies heard At a rubber o’ bridge. They nearly died with fright; Wanted to tell the captain—of all things! The others sneered a bit but just the same It did the trick of breaking up the game. A mummy from The Valley of the Kings Was brought from Thebes to London. Excavators Passed out from cholera, black plague or worse. Egyptians understood—an ancient curse Was visited on all the violators. One fellow was run over, one was drowned, And one went crazy. When in time it found Its way to the Museum, the last man In charge—a mothy Aberdonian— Exploding the whole legend with a laugh, Lost all his humour when the skeleton Appeared within the family photograph, And leered down from a corner just like one Of his uncles.” “Holy Hades!” “The B.M. Authorities themselves were scared and sold It to New York. That’s how the tale is told.” “The joke is on the Yanks.” “No, not on them, Nor on The Valley of the Kings. What’s rummy About it is—we’re carrying the mummy.” _Green Turtle!_ _Potage Romanoff!_ “White Star Is out this time to press Cunarders close, Got them on tonnage—fifty thousand gross. Preferred has never paid a dividend. The common’s down to five—one hundred par. The double ribbon—size and speed—would send Them soaring.” “Speed is not in her design, But comfort and security. The Line Had never advertised it—’twould be mania To smash the record of the _Mauretania_.” _Sherry!_ “The rumour’s out.” “There’s nothing in it.” “Bet you she docks on Tuesday night.” “I’ll take it.” “She’s hitting twenty-two this very minute.” “That’s four behind—She hasn’t a chance to make it.” _Brook Trout!_ _Fried Dover Sole!_ “Her rate will climb From twenty-two to twenty-six in time. The Company’s known never to rush their ships At first or try to rip the bed-bolts off. They run them gently half-a-dozen trips, A few work-outs around the track to let Them find their breathing, take the boiler cough Out of them. She’s not racing for a cup.” _Claret!_ “Steamships like sprinters have to get Their second wind before they open up.” “That group of men around the captain’s table, Look at them, count the aggregate—the House Of Astor, Guggenheim, and Harris, Strauss, That’s Frohman, isn’t it? Between them able To halve the national debt with a cool billion! Sir Hugh is over there, and Hays and Stead. That woman third from captain’s right, it’s said, Those diamonds round her neck—a quarter million!” _Mignon of Beef!_ _Quail!_ “I heard Phillips say He had the finest outfit on the sea; The new Marconi valve; the range by day, Five hundred miles, by night a thousand. Three Sources of power. If some crash below Should hit the engines, flood the dynamo, He had the batteries: in emergency, He could switch through to the auxiliary On the boat deck.” _Woodcock and Burgundy!_ “Say waiter, I said _rare_, you understand.” _Escallope of Veal!_ _Roast Duckling!_ _Snipe!_ More _Rhine!_ “Marconi made the sea as safe as land: Remember the _Republic_—White Star Line— Rammed off Nantucket by the _Florida_, One thousand saved—the _Baltic_ heard the call. Two steamers answered the _Slavonia_, Disabled off the Azores. They got them all, And when the _Minnehaha_ ran aground Near Bishop’s Rock, they never would have found Her—not a chance without the wireless. Same Thing happened to that boat—what was her name? The one that foundered off the Alaska Coast— Her signals brought a steamer in the nick Of time. Yes, sir—Marconi turned the trick.” The _Barcelona salad_; no, _Beaucaire_; That _Russian dressing_; _Avocado pear_; “They wound her up at the Southampton dock, And then the tugs gave her a push to start Her off—as automatic as a clock.” _Moselle!_ “For all the hand work there’s to do Aboard this liner up on deck, the crew Might just as well have stopped ashore. Apart From stokers and the engineers, she’s run By gadgets from the bridge—a thousand and one Of them with a hundred miles of copper wire. A filament glows at the first sign of fire, A buzzer sounds, a number gives the spot, A deck-hand makes a coupling of the hose. That’s all there’s to it; not a whistle; not A passenger upon the ship that knows What’s happened. The whole thing is done without So much as calling up the fire brigade. They don’t need even the pumps—a gas is sprayed, Carbon dioxide—and the blaze is out.” _A Cherry Flan!_ _Champagne!_ _Chocolate parfait!_ “How about a poker crowd to-night? Get Jones, an awful grouch—no good to play, But has the coin. Get hold of Larry.” “Right.” “You fetch Van Raalte; I’ll bring in MacRae. In Cabin D, one hundred seventy-nine. In half-an-hour we start playing.” “Fine.” The sky was moonless but the sea flung back With greater brilliance half the zodiac. As clear below as clear above, the Lion Far on the eastern quarter stalked the Bear: Polaris off the starboard beam—and there Upon the port the Dog-star trailed Orion. Capella was so close, a hand might seize The sapphire with the silver Pleiades. And further to the south—a finger span, Swam Betelgeuse and red Aldebaran. Right through from east to west the ocean glassed The billions of that snowy caravan Ranging the highway which the Milkmaid passed. _I say, old man, we’re stuck fast in this place,_ _More than an hour. Field ice for miles about._ _Say, Californian, shut up, keep out,_ _You’re jamming all my signals with Cape Race._ A group of boys had gathered round a spot Upon the rail where a dial registered The speed, and waiting each three minutes heard The taffrail log bell tallying off a knot. First act to fifth act in a tragic plan, Stage time, real time—a woman and a man, Entering a play within a play, dismiss The pageant on the ocean with a kiss. Eleven-twenty curtain! Whether true Or false the pantomimic vows they make Will not be known till at the _fifth_ they take Their mutual exit twenty after two. Position half-a-mile from edge of floe, Hove-to for many hours, bored with delay, The _Californian_ fifteen miles away, And fearful of the pack, has now begun To turn her engines over under slow Bell, and the operator, his task done, Unclamps the ’phones and ends his dullest day. The ocean sinuous, half-past eleven; A silence broken only by the seven Bells and the look-out calls, the log-book showing Knots forty-five within two hours—not quite The expected best as yet—but she was going With all her bulkheads open through the night, For not a bridge induction light was glowing. Over the stern zenith and nadir met In the wash of the reciprocating set. The foam in bevelled mirrors multiplied And shattered constellations. In between, The pitch from the main drive of the turbine Emerged like tuna breaches to divide Against the rudder, only to unite With the converging wake from either side. Under the counter, blending with the spill Of stars—the white and blue—the yellow light Of Jupiter hung like a daffodil. “Ace full! A long time since I had a pot.” “Good boy, Van Raalte. That’s the juiciest haul To-night. Calls for a round of roodles, what? Let’s whoop her up. Double the limit. All In.” (Jones, heard muttering as usual, Demurs, but over-ruled.) “Jones sore again.” “Ten dollars and all in! The sea’s like glass To-night. That fin-keel keeps her steady.” “Pass.” (Not looking at his hand.) “Pass.” “Open for ten.” (Holding a pair of aces.) “Say, who won The sweep to-day?” “A Minnesota guy With olive-coloured spats and a mauve tie. Five hundred and eighty miles—Beat last day’s run.” “My ten.” (Taking a gamble on his four Spades for a flush) “I’ll raise the bet ten more.” (Two queens) “_And_ ten.” (Discovering three kings) “Raise you to forty” (face expressing doubt.) (Looking hard at a pair of nines) “I’m out.” (Flirts for a moment with his aces, flings His thirty dollars to the pot.) (The same.) “My twenty. Might as well stay with the game.” “I’m in. Draw! Jones, how bloody long you wait.” (Withholds an eight) “One.” (And then draws an eight.) “Three.” (Gets another pair.) “How many, Mac?” “Guess I’ll take two, no, three.” (Gets a third Jack.) “One.” (Draws the ace of spades.) “Dealer takes three.” (Throws in a dollar chip.) (The same.) “I’ll raise You ten.” “I’ll see you.” (Hesitates, surveys The chips.) “Another ten.” “I’ll call you.” “See.” “White livers! Here she goes to thirty.” “Just The devil’s luck.” (Throws cards down in disgust.) “Might as well raise.” (Counts twenty sluggishly, Tosses them to the centre.) “Staying, Cripps?” “No, and be damned to it.” “My ten.” (With groans.) (Looks at the pyramid and swears at Jones, Then calls, pitching ten dollars on the chips.) (Cards down.) “A full house tops the flush.” (He spreads His arms around the whites and blues and reds.) “As the Scotchman once said to the Sphinx, I’d like just to know what he thinks, I’ll ask him, he cried, And the Sphinx—he replied, It’s the hell of a time between drinks.” “Time? Eleven forty-four, to be precise.” “Jones—that will fatten up your pocket-book. My throat’s like charcoal. Ring for soda and ice.” “Ice: God! Look—take it through the port-hole—look!” A signal from the crow’s nest. Three bells pealed: The look-out telephoned—_Something ahead,_ _Hard to make out, sir; looks like . . . . iceberg dead_ _On starboard bow!_ _Starboard your helm_: ship heeled To port. From bridge to engine-room the clang Of the telegraph. _Danger. Stop._ A hand sprang To the throttle; the valves closed, and with the churn Of the reverse the sea boiled at the stern. Smith hurried to the bridge and Murdoch closed The bulkheads of the ship as he supposed, But could not know that with those riven floors The electro-magnets failed upon the doors. No shock! No more than if something alive Had brushed her as she passed. The bow had missed. Under the vast momentum of her drive She went a mile. But why that ominous five Degrees (within five minutes) of a list? “What was that, steward?” “Seems like she hit a sea, sir.” “But there’s no sea; calm as a landlocked bay It is; lost a propeller blade?” “Maybe, sir.” “She’s stopped.” “Just cautious like, feeling her way, There’s ice about. It’s dark, no moon to-night, Nothing to fear, I’m sure, sir.” For so slight The answer of the helm, it did not break The sleep of hundreds: some who were awake Went up on deck, but soon were satisfied That nothing in the shape of wind or tide Or rock or ice could harm that huge bulk spread On the Atlantic, and went back to bed. “We’ve struck an iceberg—glancing blow: as yet Don’t know extent; looks serious; so get Ready to send out general call for aid; I’ll tell you when—having inspection made.” A starboard cut three hundred feet or more From foremast to amidships. Iceberg tore Right at the bilge turn through the double skin: Some boiler rooms and bunkers driven in; The forward five compartments flooded—mail Bags floating. Would the engine power avail To stem the rush? _Titanic, C.Q.D._ _Collision: iceberg: damaged starboard side:_ _Distinct list forward._ (Had Smith magnified The danger? Over-anxious certainly.) The second (joking)—“Try new call, maybe Last chance you’ll have to send it.” _S.O.S._ Then back to older signal of distress. On the same instant the _Carpathia_ called, The distance sixty miles—_Putting about,_ _And heading for you; Double watch installed_ _In engine-room, in stokehold and look-out._ _Four hours the run, should not the ice retard_ _The speed; but taking chances: Coming hard!_ As leaning on her side to ease a pain, The tilted ship had stopped the captain’s breath: The inconceivable had stabbed his brain, This thing unfelt—her visceral wound of death? Another message—this time to report her Filling, taxing the pumps beyond their strain. Had that blow rent her from the bow to quarter? Or would the aft compartments still intact Give buoyancy enough to counteract The open forward holds? The carpenter’s Second report had offered little chance, And panic—heart of God—the passengers, The fourteen hundred—seven hundred packed In steerage—seven hundred immigrants! Smith thought of panic clutching at their throats, And feared that Balkan scramble for the boats. No call from bridge, no whistle, no alarm Was sounded. Have the stewards quietly Inform the passengers: no vital harm, Precautions merely for emergency; Collision? Yes, but nature of the blow Must not be told: not even the crew must know: Yet all on deck with life-belts, and boats ready, The sailors at the falls, and all hands steady. The lilac spark was crackling at the gap, Eight ships within the radius of the call From fifteen to five hundred miles, and all But one answering the operator’s tap. _Olympic_ twenty hours away had heard; The _Baltic_ next and the _Virginian_ third; _Frankfurt_ and _Burma_ distant one-half day; _Mount Temple_ nearer, but the ice-field lay Between the two ships like a wall of stone; The _Californian_ deaf to signals though Supreme deliverer an hour ago: The hope was on _Carpathia_ alone. So suave the fool-proof sense of life that fear Had like the unforeseen become a mere Illusion—vanquished by the towering height Of funnels pouring smoke through thirty feet Of bore; the solid deck planks and the light From a thousand lamps as on a city street; The feel of numbers; the security Of wealth; the placid surface of the sea, Reflecting on the ship the outwardness Of calm and leisure of the passengers; Deck-hands obedient to their officers; Pearl-throated women in their evening dress And wrapped in sables and minks; the silhouettes Of men in dinner jackets staging an act In which delusion passed, deriding fact Behind the cupped flare of the cigarettes. Women and children first! Slowly the men Stepped backward from the rails where number ten, Its cover off, and lifted from the chocks, Moved outward as the Welin davits swung. The new ropes creaking through the unused blocks, The boat was lowered to B deck and hung There while her load of sixty stepped inside, Convinced the order was not justified. _Rockets, one, two_, God! Smith—what does he mean? The sounding of the bilges could not show This reason for alarm—the sky serene And not a ripple on the water—no Collision. What report came from below? No leak accounts for this—looks like a drill, A bit of exhibition play—but still Stopped in mid-ocean! and those rockets—_three!_ More urgent even than a tapping key And more immediate as a protocol To a disaster. _There!_ An arrow of fire, A fourth sped towards the sky, its bursting spire Topping the foremast like a parasol With fringe of fuschia,—more a parody Upon the tragic summons of the sea Than the real script of unacknowledged fears Known to the bridge and to the engineers. Midnight! The Master of the ship presents To the Master of the Band his compliments, Desiring that the Band should play right through; No intermission. “Bad?” “Yes, bad enough, The half not known yet even to the crew; For God’s sake, cut the sentimental stuff, The _Blue Bells_ and Kentucky lullabies. Murdoch will have a barrel of work to do, Holding the steerage back, once they get wise; They’re jumpy now under the rockets’ glare; So put the ginger in the fiddles—Zip Her up.” “Sure, number forty-seven:” _E-Yip_ _I Addy-I-A, I Ay . . . I don’t care_ . . . Full noon and midnight by a weird design Both met and parted at the median line. Beyond the starboard gunwale was outspread The jet expanse of water islanded By fragments of the berg which struck the blow. And further off towards the horizon lay The loom of the uncharted parent floe, Merging the black with an amorphous gray. On the port gunwale the meridian Shone from the terraced rows of decks that ran From gudgeon to the stem nine hundred feet; And as the boat now tilted by the stern, Or now resumed her levels with the turn Of the controlling ropes at block and cleat, How easy seemed the step and how secure Back to the comfort and the warmth—the lure Of sheltered promenade and sun decks starred By hanging bulbs, amber and rose and blue, The trellis and palms lining an avenue With all the vista of a boulevard: The mirror of the ceilings with festoon Of pennants, flags and streamers—and now through The leaded windows of the grand saloon, Through parted curtains and the open doors Of vestibules, glint of deserted floors And tables, and under the sorcery Of light excelling their facsimile, The periods returning to relume The panels of the lounge and smoking room, Holding the mind in its abandonment During those sixty seconds of descent. _Lower away!_ The boat with its four tons Of freight went down with jerks and stops and runs Beyond the glare of the cabins and below The slanting parallels of port-holes, clear Of the exhaust from the condenser flow: But with the uneven falls she canted near The water line; the stern rose; the bow dipped; The crew groped for the link-releasing gear; The lever jammed; a stoker’s jack-knife ripped The aft ropes through, which on the instant brought her With rocking keel though safe upon the water. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—three Full knots beyond her running limit, she Was feeling out her port and starboard points, And testing rivets on her boiler joints. The needle on the gauge beyond the red, The blow-offs feathered at the funnel head. The draught-fans roaring at their loudest, now The quarter-master jams the helm hard-over, As the revolving searchlight beams uncover The columns of an iceberg on the bow, Then compensates this loss by daring gains Made by her passage through the open lanes. _East side, West side, all around the town,_ _The tots sang “Ring-a-Rosie”_ _“London Bridge is falling down”,_ _Boys and girls together_ . . . . The cranks turn and the sixth and seventh swing Over and down, the “tiller” answering “Aye, Aye, sir” to the shouts of officers— “Row to the cargo ports for passengers.” The water line is reached, but the ports fail To open, and the crews of the boats hail The decks; receiving no response they pull Away from the ship’s side, less than half full. The eighth caught in the tackle foul is stuck Half-way. With sixty-five capacity, Yet holding twenty-four goes number three. The sharp unnatural deflection, struck By the sea-level with the under row Of dipping port-holes at the forward, show How much she’s going by the head. Behind The bulkheads, sapping out their steel control, Is the warp of the bunker press inclined By many thousand tons of shifting coal. The smoothest, safest passage to the sea Is made by number one—the next to go— Her space is forty—twelve her company: “Pull like the devil from her—harder—row! The minute that she founders, not a boat Within a mile around that will not follow. What nearly happened at Southampton? So Pull, pull, I tell you—not a chip afloat, God knows how far, her suction will not swallow.” _Alexander’s rag-time band_. . . . _It’s the best band in the land_. . . . “There goes the Special with the toffs. You’ll make New York to-night rowing like that. You’ll take Your death o’ cold out there with all the fish And ice around.” “Make sure your butlers dish You up your toddies now, and bring hot rolls For breakfast.” “Don’t forget the finger bowls.” The engineering staff of thirty-five Are at their stations: those off-duty go Of their free will to join their mates below In the grim fight for steam, more steam, to drive The pressure through the pumps and dynamo. Knee-deep, waist-deep in water they remain, Not one of them seen on the decks again. The under braces of the rudder showing, The wing propeller blades began to rise, And with them, through the hawse-holes, water flowing— The angle could not but assault the eyes. A fifteen minutes, and the fo’c’sle head Was under. And five more, the sea had shut The lower entrance to the stairs that led From C deck to the boat deck—the short cut For the crew. Another five, the upward flow Had covered the wall brackets where the glow Diffusing from the frosted bulbs turned green Uncannily through their translucent screen. White Star—Cunarder, forty miles apart, Still eighteen knots! From coal to flame to steam— Decision of a captain to redeem Errors of brain by hazards of the heart! Showers of sparks danced through the funnel smoke, The firemen’s shovels, rakes and slice-bars broke The clinkers, fed the fires, and ceaselessly The hoppers dumped the ashes on the sea. As yet no panic, but none might foretell The moment when the sight of that oblique Breath-taking lift of the taffrail and the sleek And foamless undulation of the swell Might break in meaning on those diverse races, And give them common language. As the throng Came to the upper decks and moved along The incline, the contagion struck the faces With every lowering of a boat and backed Them towards the stern. And twice between the hush Of fear and utterance the gamut cracked, When with the call for women and the flare Of an exploding rocket, a short rush Was made for the boats—fifteen and two. ’Twas nearly done—the sudden clutch and tear Of canvas, a flurry of fists and curses met By swift decisive action from the crew, Supported by a quartermaster’s threat Of three revolver shots fired on the air. But still the fifteenth went with five inside, Who, seeking out the shadows, climbed aboard And, lying prone and still, managed to hide Under the thwarts long after she was lowered. _Jingle bells, jingle bells,_ _Jingle all the way,_ _O what fun_. . . . “Some men in number two, sir!” The boat swung Back. “Chuck the fellows out.” Grabbed by the feet, The lot were pulled over the gunwale and flung Upon the deck. “Hard at that forward cleat! A hand there for that after fall. Lower Away—port side, the second hatch, and wait.” With six hands of his watch, the bosun’s mate, Sent down to open up the gangway door, Was trapped and lost in a flooded alley way, And like the seventh, impatient of delay, The second left with room for twenty more. The fidley leading from a boiler room Lay like a tortuous exit from a tomb. A stoker climbed it, feeling by the twist From vertical how steep must be the list. He reached the main deck where the cold night airs Enswathed his flesh with steam. Taking the stairs, He heard the babel by the davits, faced The forward, noticed how the waters raced To the break of the fo’c’sle and lapped The foremast root. He climbed again and saw The resolute manner in which Murdoch’s rapped Command put a herd instinct under law; No life-preserver on, he stealthily Watched Phillips in his room, bent at the key, And thinking him alone, he sprang to tear The jacket off. He leaped too soon. “Take that!” The second stove him with a wrench. “Lie there, Till hell begins to singe your lids—you rat!” But set against those scenes where order failed, Was the fine muster at the fourteenth where, Like a zone of calm along a thoroughfare, The discipline of sea-worn laws prevailed. No women answering the repeated calls, The men filled up the vacant seats: the falls Were slipping through the sailors’ hands. When a steerage group of women, having fought Their way over five flights of stairs, were brought Bewildered to the rails. Without commands Barked from the lips of officers; without A protest registered in voice or face, The boat was drawn up and the men stepped out Back to the crowded stations with that free Barter of life for life done with the grace And air of a Castilian courtesy. _I’ve just got here through Paris,_ _From the sunny Southern shore,_ _I to Monte Carlo went_. . . . At the sixteenth—a woman wrapped her coat Around her maid and placed her in the boat; Was ordered in but seen to hesitate At the gunwale, and more conscious of her pride Than of her danger swiftly took her fate With open hands, and without show of tears Returned unmurmuring to her husband’s side; “We’ve been together now for forty years, Whither you go, I go.” A boy of ten, Ranking himself within the class of men, Though given a seat, made up his mind to waive The privilege of his youth and size, and piled The inches on his stature as he gave Place to a Magyar woman and her child. And men who had in the world’s run of trade, Or in pursuit of the professions, made Their reputation, looked upon the scene Merely as drama in a life’s routine: Millet was studying eyes as he would draw them Upon a canvas; Butt, as though he saw them In the ranks; Astor, social, debonair, Waved “Good-bye” to his bride—“See you to-morrow”, And tapped a cigarette on a silver case; Men came to Guggenheim as he stood there In evening suit, coming this time to borrow Nothing but courage from his calm, cool face. And others unobserved, of unknown name And race, just stood behind, pressing no claim Upon priority but rendering proof Of their oblation, quiet and aloof Within the maelstrom towards the rails. And some Wavered a moment with the panic urge, But rallied to attention on the verge Of flight as if the rattle of a drum From quarters faint but unmistakable Had put the stiffening in the blood to check The impulse of the feet, leaving the will No choice between the life-boats and the deck. The four collapsibles, their lashings ripped, Half-dragged, half-lifted by the hooks, were slipped Over the side. The first two luckily Had but the forward distance to the sea. Its canvas edges crumpled up, the third Began to fill with water and transferred Its cargo to the twelfth, while number four, Abaft and higher, nose-dived and swamped its score. The wireless cabin—Phillips in his place, Guessing the knots of the Cunarder’s race. Water was swirling up the slanted floor Around the chair and sucking at his feet. _Carpathia’s_ call—the last one heard complete— _Expect to reach position half-past four_. The operators turned—Smith at the door With drawn incredulous face. “Men, you have done Your duty. I release you. Everyone Now for himself.” They stayed ten minutes yet, The power growing fainter with each blue Crackle of flame. Another stammering jet— _Virginian_ heard “a tattering C.Q.” Again a try for contact but the code’s Last jest had died between the electrodes. Even yet the spell was on the ship: although The last life-boat had vanished, there was no Besieging of the heavens with a crescendo Of fears passing through terror into riot— But on all lips the strange narcotic quiet Of an unruffled ocean’s innuendo. In spite of her deformity of line, Emergent like a crag out of the sea, She had the semblance of stability, Moment by moment furnishing no sign, So far as visible, of that decline Made up of inches crawling into feet. Then, with the electric circuit still complete, The miracle of day displacing night Had worked its fascination to beguile Direction of the hours and cheat the sight. Inside the recreation rooms the gold From Arab lamps shone on the burnished tile. What hindered the return to shelter while The ship clothed in that irony of light Offered her berths and cabins as a fold? And, was there not the _Californian_? Many had seen her smoke just over there, But two hours past—it seemed a harbour span— So big, so close, she could be hailed, they said; She must have heard the signals, seen the flare Of those white stars and changed at once her course. There under the _Titanic’s_ foremast head, A lamp from the look-out cage was flashing Morse. No ship afloat unless deaf, blind and dumb To those three sets of signals but would come. And when the whizz of a rocket bade men turn Their faces to each other in concern At shattering facts upon the deck, they found Their hearts take reassurance with the sound Of the violins from the gymnasium, where The bandsmen in their blithe insouciance Discharged the sudden tension of the air With the fox-trot’s sublime irrelevance. The fo’c’sle had gone under the creep Of the water. Though without a wind, a lop Was forming on the wells now fathoms deep. The seventy feet—the boat deck’s normal drop, Was down to ten. Rising, falling, and waiting, Rising again, the swell that edged and curled Around the second bridge, over the top Of the air-shafts, backed, resurged and whirled Into the stokehold through the fidley grating. Under the final strain the two wire guys Of the forward funnel tugged and broke at the eyes: With buckled plates the stack leaned, fell and smashed The starboard wing of the flying bridge, went through The lower, then tilting at the davits crashed Over, driving a wave aboard that drew Back to the sea some fifty sailors and The captain with the last of the bridge command. Out on the water was the same display Of fear and self-control as on the deck— Challenge and hesitation and delay, The quick return, the will to save, the race Of snapping oars to put the realm of space Between the half-filled life-boats and the wreck. The swimmers whom the waters did not take With their instant death-chill struck out for the wake Of the nearer boats, gained on them, hailed The steersmen and were saved: the weaker failed And fagged and sank. A man clutched at the rim Of a gunwale, and a woman’s jewelled fist Struck at his face: two others seized his wrist, As he released his hold, and gathering him Over the side, they staunched the cut from the ring. And there were many deeds envisaging Volitions where self-preservation fought Its red primordial struggle with the “ought”, In those high moments when the gambler tossed Upon the chance and uncomplaining lost. Aboard the ship, whatever hope of dawn Gleamed from the _Carpathia’s_ riding lights was gone, For every knot was matched by each degree Of list. The stern was lifted bodily When the bow had sunk three hundred feet, and set Against the horizon stars in silhouette Were the blade curves of the screws, hump of the rudder. The downward pull and after buoyancy Held her a minute poised but for a shudder That caught her frame as with the upward stroke Of the sea a boiler or a bulkhead broke. Climbing the ladders, gripping shroud and stay, Storm-rail, ringbolt or fairlead, every place That might befriend the clutch of hand or brace Of foot, the fourteen hundred made their way To the heights of the aft decks, crowding the inches Around the docking bridge and cargo winches. And now that last salt tonic which had kept The valour of the heart alive—the bows Of the immortal seven that had swept The strings to outplay, outdie their orders, ceased. Five minutes more, the angle had increased From eighty on to ninety when the rows Of deck and port-hole lights went out, flashed back A brilliant second and again went black. Another bulkhead crashed, then following The passage of the engines as they tore From their foundations, taking everything Clean through the bows from ’midships with a roar Which drowned all cries upon the deck and shook The watchers in the boats, the liner took Her thousand fathoms journey to her grave. * * * * * And out there in the starlight, with no trace Upon it of its deed but the last wave From the _Titanic_ fretting at its base, Silent, composed, ringed by its icy broods, The gray shape with the palaeolithic face Was still the master of the longitudes. THE 6000 For creatures of this modern breed, Reared from the element of flame, Designed to match a storm for speed, Ionia would have found a name, Like Mercury or Bucephalus— Some picturesque immortal label That lifts a story into fable, Out of the myths of Uranus; Then changed its root to demonize The nature of its strength and size With fictions out of Tartarus. Those giants of Vulcan, leather-skinned, Whose frightful stare monocular Made mad the coursers of the wind, And chased the light of the morning star Away from the Sicilian shore, Would have been terror-blind before This forehead which, had it been known In Greek or Scandinavian lore, Had turned the hierarchs to stone, Had battered down the Martian walls, Reduced to dust Jove’s arsenals, Or rammed the battlements of Thor. His body black as Erebus Accorded with the hue of night; His central eye self-luminous Threw out a cone of noon-day light, Which split the gloom and then flashed back The diamond levels of the track. No ancient poet ever saw Just such a monster as could draw The Olympian tonnage of a load Like this along an iron road; Or ever thought that such a birth— The issue of an inventor’s dream— With breath of fire and blood of steam, Could find delivery on this earth. In his vast belly was a pit, Which even Homer would admit, Or Dante, searching earth and hell, Possessed no perfect parallel. Evolved from no Plutonian forge, The tender, like a slave, that followed, Conveyed bitumen to his gorge, Which on the instant it was swallowed Ran black through crimson on to white. Above the mass floated a swirl Of crystal shapes, agate and pearl And rose, like imps a-chase, and light As thistledown, while the blast roared With angry temperatures that soared To seven hundred Fahrenheit. Outside, the engine’s dorsal plate, Above the furnace door ajar, Revealed the boiler’s throbbing rate, By dial fingers animate, Like pulses at the jugular. For every vital inch of steel, A vibrant indicator read Two hundred pounds plus twenty-five, Waiting for the hour to drive Their energy upon the wheel In punches from the piston head. And there another one supplied The measure of the irrigation, Whereby the lubricating tide, Through linear runs and axle curves, Made perfect his articulation. And ramifying copper wire Made up the system of his nerves, In keeping with his lungs of fire. Now with his armoured carapace On head and belly, back and breast, The Taurian prepared to face The blurring stretches of the west. To him it was of no concern The evening gale was soon to turn To the full stature of a storm That would within an hour transform The ranges for a thousand miles, Close up all human thoroughfares, Sweep down through canyons and defiles, And drive the cougars to their lairs. A lantern flashed out a command, A bell was ringing as a hand Clutched at a throttle, and the bull, At once obedient to the pull, Began with bellowing throat to lead By slow accelerating speed Six thousand tons of caravan Out to the spaces—there to toss The blizzard from his path across The prairies of Saskatchewan. THE BRAWLER IN _WHO’S WHO_ The doctors claimed they never had A case to handle quite so bad— A record weight, abnormal girth, And such disturbance at a birth. The infant murdered his twin brother And shortly after that his mother, To celebrate his debut on the earth. Defying pedagogic rules, He made a Bedlam of his schools, And wrecked them from the floor to rafter, As one by one, with insane laughter, Harrowed in soul and gaunt in feature, His nurse, his father, and his teacher Wasted, and passed into the great Hereafter. Then came the War! and soon his name Was but a synonym for fame; The allied armies and their foes Alike were stricken by his blows. And, peace declared, he took the thanks Of both; returned high in the ranks— Lieutenant-Colonel with two D.S.O.s. He married and his three young wives In quick succession lost their lives— A Gaul, a Teuton, and a Briton. Just how those marital blooms were smitten, The colonel never would confess: They say the tale, now with the Press, Remains by order of the Court unwritten. Thence to a fortress—whereupon He rounded up the garrison, Heading that great historic riot Concerning roaches in the diet. A witness swore a brigadier Gave him the bayonet from the rear Which laid the brawler flat and strangely quiet. For one whole day an undertaker Worked hard upon this mischief-maker To soften down the muscle twists, Then called in two evangelists Who managed somehow to erase The indentations of his face But failed to straighten out his knotted fists. They buried him. That very night With his left hook and lethal right He put a dozen shades to rout. The devil refereed the bout And spread the rumour—so I’m told, That Death failing to get him cold, Had fouled him with a technical knock-out. THE DYING EAGLE A light had gone out from his vanquished eyes; His head was cupped within the hunch of his shoulders; His feathers were dull and bedraggled; the tips Of his wings sprawled down to the edge of his tail. He was old, yet it was not his age Which made him roost on the crags Like a rain-drenched raven On the branch of an oak in November. Nor was it the night, for there was an hour To go before sunset. An iron had entered His soul which bereft him of pride and of realm, Had struck him to-day; for up to noon That crag had been his throne. Space was his empire, bounded only By forest and sky and the flowing horizons. He had outfought, outlived all his rivals, And the eagles that now were poised over glaciers Or charting the coastal outlines of clouds Were his by descent: they had been tumbled Out of their rocky nests by his mate, In the first trial of their fledgeling spins. Only this morning the eyes of the monarch Were held in arrest by a silver flash Shining between two peaks of the ranges— A sight which galvanized his back, Bristled the feathers on his neck, And shot little runnels of dust where his talons Dug recesses in the granite. Partridge? Heron? Falcon? Eagle? Game or foe? He would reconnoitre. Catapulting from the ledge. He flew at first with rapid beat, Level, direct: then with his grasp Of spiral strategy in fight, He climbed the orbit With swift and easy undulations, And reached position where he might Survey the bird—for bird it was; But such a bird as never flew Between the heavens and the earth Since pterodactyls, long before The birth of condors, learned to kill And drag their carrion up the Andes. The eagle stared at the invader, Marked the strange bat-like shadow moving In leagues over the roofs of the world, Across the passes and moraines, Darkening the vitriol blue of the mountain lakes. Was it a flying dragon? Head, Body and wings, a tail fan-spread And taut like his own before the strike; And there in front two whirling eyes That took unshuttered The full blaze of the meridian. The eagle never yet had known A rival that he would not grapple, But something in this fellow’s length Of back, his plated glistening shoulders, Had given him pause. And did that thunder Somewhere in his throat not argue Lightning in his claws? And then The speed—was it not double his own? But what disturbed him most, angered And disgraced him was the unconcern With which this supercilious bird Cut through the aquiline dominion, Snubbing the ancient suzerain With extra-territorial insolence, And disappeared. So evening found him on the crags again, This time with sloven shoulders And nerveless claws. Dusk had outridden the sunset by an hour To haunt his unhorizoned eyes. And soon his flock flushed with the chase Would be returning, threading their glorious curves Up through the crimson archipelagoes Only to find him there— Deaf to the mighty symphony of wings, And brooding Over the lost empire of the peaks. THE _ROOSEVELT_ AND THE _ANTINOE_ Her high freeboard towering above the pier, She lay beneath the lift of spars and blocks: Her port life month by month and year by year Knew nothing but the humdrum of the docks;— The rumble of trucks along the warehouse floors, The blare of sirens, shout of stevedores, The play of tackle under the gruff mood Of winches, clatter of hooks and booms, subdued To the credit balance that must never fail The ledgers of Hoboken Lines—so she, Built for the tides of commerce on the sea, Was under schedule in an hour to sail. In the Commissioner’s room it was agreed _Between the Master and the mariners_, That as the men received _per month or run_ Their wage in dollars and were guaranteed By statutes of the State that they might draw Their scale of rations—_bread and meat and water,_ _Lemon and lime_ and such _prescribed by law_, With _means of warmth in weather_; they, the crew, Should pledge themselves to conduct, _faithful, true,_ _And orderly, in honest, sober manner;_ _At all times in their duties diligent;_ _To the Master’s lawful word obedient,_ _In everything relating to the vessel—_ _Safety of passengers, cargo and store,_ _Whether on board, in boats, or on the shore._ And with the reading thus concluded, both The parties to the contract gave their oath Of signature. Items of birthplace, age, Height and description then were written in, Each sailor’s time of service with his wage- Allotment, and address of Next-of-Kin. So, with their sea-bags on their backs, the crew Went up the gangway to the foc’s’le; threw Their dunnage on the bunks; soon to be lined, Two hundred of them, on the deck; assigned Stations and duties, as the bos’n drew The _likeliest_ man, his mate the next; and then, Alternately the Watches claimed the men, In that renowned and tacit lottery Full of the hoary savour of the sea. The mooring cables splashing from the bollards, Three stern and bow tugs moved her to the stream, And slowly swung her head round with the ebb-tide; Were cast off; when the liner on her steam Proceeded down the channels of the Hudson, Into the outer harbour, to the sea, And on past Sandy Hook where finally She set her course which led her to the _Great_ _Circle Track_ for Queenstown, Plymouth, Cherbourg (Service of passenger and mail), thence straight To Bremen with the body of her freight. Thursday morning rose without a sun, Sleet in the air: the wind was westerly: The river breeze of Wednesday had begun To stiffen to a whole gale on the sea. By noon the stations at the coast were flashing Warnings, making smaller ships delay Their date of sailing. Vessels under canvas, Attempting shorter trips in gulf or bay, Crawled back to harbour double-reefed, while others, Still further to the east, that could not make Return,—sails blown to ribbons from the gaskets— Were forced to scud under bare poles to take The luck ahead. Long threat lay in the signals. The charts traced not a cyclone’s come-and-go,— The fury soon begun and as soon ended— But those broad areas on which storms grow, Northern and Oceanic, where each hour, Feeding on the one before, transmits In turn its own inheritance of power Unto the next until the hammer hits A hemisphere. Along the eastern sea-board, And inland to one-half the continent, Thousands of dials in studio and station Were “off the air” by an ungrudged consent— That the six-hundred-metre-wave might keep Upon the sea that night its high command For the great business that was nigh at hand, With deep already calling unto deep. Friday evening, with Cape Race reporting Big seas with thickening fog followed by snow, Barometer still falling, very low. Morning of Saturday! the gale now rising To the dimensions of a hurricane, With gusts that boxed the compass of a vane, Sweeping around the headlands to contest The arrogated highway from the West. Evening again, and in its power to smite The snowy cordon with its warning light, The Cape’s revolving beacon was as sick As the guttering limit of a candle-wick. And never—it was claimed—had tides so climbed A slope of shoal from such a depth to feed The tumult of the upper waves; so timed Direction with their volume and their speed, To meet both wave and wind that all might lock In foam above so high a line of rock. South of this Cape within these hours, the _Roosevelt_ Was driving East by North, with her decks stripped; Her lower ventilator cowls unshipped, The shafts plugged; battened and wedged the hatches; Bell-mouths full-bore discharging from the bilge-pumps Under the straining hull; thirty degrees Measuring her roll within the heavier seas. The facing of the ’midship house was spattered At seventy feet. Captain and quarter-master Saw nothing legible upon the face Of day or night: the sextant in its case, The navigators guessed the ship’s position. Abaft—the smoke came out, to be driven back In eddies low and fierce against the white Salt crust upon the surface of the stack, Then, split in billows to the left and right, Dispersed before it found a line of flight. The double lines of life-boats lay like rows Of mastodons asleep in polar snows. Ahead—appeared under the steamer’s light Truncated day between two walls of night. Sometimes the for’ard derrick-posts were blotted Out; the hooded shapes of winches squatted Upon the deck; and with each long roll, patches Of white laggin’ from the steampipes swirled And blended with the foam around the hatches. The sea itself was gone save when it hurled The body of a wave across the bow; Soon even this was lost to the bridge, and now Behind the weather-cloth it seemed the world Was carried with the last gust to the void. Fried stepped inside the Pilot House to get Another reading from the aneroid. An hour ago the adjusting hand was set At twenty-nine—the low foul weather mark, And the indicator for that hour had stood Directly underneath as though it were glued To the card. He came nearer, full of dark Conjecture, tapped the glass, and the hand fell, The barest fraction but perceptible. Entering by slow, inexorable rate, The tragic ranges of the _twenty-eight_. Later he returned; the oracle Yielded this time a record to appal The heart. Muttering “twenty-eight (point) three,” He shot a glance to the right where on the wall He found, in confirmation, the line drawn To the same level on the mercury. ’Twas four o’clock on a North Atlantic sea, Three hours before a January dawn. The wind having slipped the gale’s leash was soon To match the wing-shod speed of a typhoon: The storm of nineteen twenty-six was on. Somewhere far-off in that unwavering gloom, Cramped in the quarters of a wireless room, A boy was seated, tapping at a key. Water ran along the floor: his knee Was braced against a table to resist The dangerous angle of a starboard list. Upon his right a wireless log-chart lay With many entries for so young a day. He reached and pushed a button and the drone Of a generator started. A switch thrown, He rapped the key, then instantly transferred To the receiving set; listened with keen Thrust of his face; and with no answer heard, Changed over, going through the same routine. But once when on the panel a blue flame, Crackling like tearing linen at the gap, Responded to a more than hectic tap Of the finger, dumb and drowsy symbols came To life. Through aerials screaming like curlews, Magnetic messengers carried the name Of a disabled vessel with the news Of water in the stokehold and a crew’s Vigil upon a flooded deck. Legions Unnumbered moving at the rate of light, Pushed out beyond all navigated regions, Exploring every cranny of the night, Reaching out through dusky corridors Above the sea to uninhabited shores, Or taking undecoded human cries Below the keel to the Atlantic crypts. And millions undulated to the skies, Through snow and vapour and the cloud eclipse, Past day and night and the terrestrial air, To add their wasted sum to a plethora Of speed and power in those void spaces where Light-years go drifting by Andromeda. And yet in all that sterile plenitude A few were harnessed to a human mood. The cabin of the _Roosevelt_ radio! Three dots, three dashes, and the dots again— (The call sign) _British freighter, Antinoe._ _Don’t know position. Sixteen hours ago,_ _Rough latitude—North forty-six and ten,_ _Rough longitude—thirty-nine, five-eight._ _Been hove-to ever since; the present rate_ _Of drift to East, two knots (approximate)._ Fried took the message, reading nothing more Than that a ship was sending out a call For help, and that since noon the day before She had not known her bearings. This was all The cryptogram surrendered for a clue. A fresh despatch was brought two minutes later, The _Aquitania_ calling—“Which of two Should undertake location of the freighter?” Their own positions given, ’twas agreed— Cunarder farther off by hours, pressed To the muzzle of the storm and moving West,— The job might therefore be assigned to Fried. Orders were given to the wireless chief To bring the direction-finder into play, Capture the signals and report at brief Periods—and the ship was on her way. Taking his station at the binnacle, The head-phones on, he listened while he swung The handwheel slowly to the right until The loop above the Pilot House that hung The wires came broadside to the signal cry. The sounds grew fainter, faded out, came back With further revolution but to die Again with the reversal of the track. Underneath, the hair-line on the face Of the dummy compass card had kept its pace With every move, faithful to every trial, And like a dogma that might take denial From neither sense nor reason, pointed _There_, At a figure stamped in black upon the dial: For when it moved to either side with the wheel, It came back ever with the aerial square To the source of the signal like a steadying keel Demanding its position. How far? Where, Along this line, now tossing like a chip Upon those crests and hollows, lay the ship, It could not tell—one hundred miles or two It might have been for all the seamen knew. Back in the wireless room the call came in With the staccato of a bulletin; Triads of notes spare and reiterant, A whistle shot with burr and sibilant— The international prelude which the sea Beats out in storm from human veins to express The fever pulses of its own distress. Whether it was the sharp economy Of pauses in the breaks, or some known trick Of the ear to catch the timbre of a click, A pressure or a crotchet in the tapping, The operator felt someone was rapping A message out with white intensity, In life-death finger action on a key, Within the cabin of the _Antinoe_. _Tarpaulins ripped. Another hatch let go._ _Bad list. Grain swelling fast. Seams loosening now._ _All life-boats gone from starboard davits. How_ _Many knots are you making? How far away_ _Do you reckon you are?_ _Ten knots: now eight:_ _Now ten—top speed allowed by sea._ _You say_ _That we sound nearer to you? Cannot wait_ _Much longer._ _Twelve._ _Find it hard to steer,_ _Ice-chest has crashed into the steering gear._ _Coming._ Six o’clock. Now seven. The dots Of the freighter answered by the liner’s knots, Followed by danger when the sea would turn And test the rivets from the stem to stern With longitudinal blows, hurling cascades Upon the bow, till with a burial wave The engines instantly would stop to save The tail-shaft from the racing of the blades. A longer silence; and a deep suspicion. Destruction of the ship? or loss of power? Blindness was coming with the light of morning, Ten minutes, twenty, now a half-an-hour. _Where are you, Antinoe?_—The keys kept rapping, But the receiving phones were dumb to space, And in the Pilot House there came no signal, The hand lay palsied on the compass face. The operator meantime on the wreck Had left his room and crossed a slushing deck, Reporting to his captain. When he tried Return, a wave upon the weather side Reached and caught the last port life-boat; smashed It from the davits down the incline; crashed The forward wall of the wireless cabin; sheared It clean. Matching death with strategy, The sailors took their chance with each spent sea; The fragments were removed; the way was cleared; The set put in emergency repairs And human speech again was on the air. Eleven o’clock. Fried knowing that he neared The ship’s position by the growing power Of the signals slowed the _Roosevelt_ down to scour The closer plotted area, fighting squall On top of storm, boring through a pall Of snow, till at the heart of the wave-zone, With Jack reversed, the freighter like a lone Sea-mallard with a broken wing was seen Ahead, lee-rail awash, taking it green At the bow. _Do you wish to abandon?_ _Not just yet;_ _Endeavouring to fix steering gear, and get_ _Hatches secured. Water in stokehold. Grain_ _Cargo shifted. Trying to maintain_ _Sufficient steam to heave-to and survive_ _Till weather moderate. Crew twenty-five._ _Can you spread oil to windward? Please stand-by._ But hard as the three engineers might try, The leaks outraced the pumps. The daylight grew To dusk, the hatches opened and the crew Signalled for rescue. Fried, a quarter mile To windward, poured his fuel oil on the sea. Giving, that distance, what the _Roosevelt_ lee Afforded, edging in and backing while He waited for a sign of the wind’s subsiding, Watching the scud of the waves, the darkening sky, The drifting snow and the freighter heavily riding. Then suddenly at nine as the squall increased, With a smother of black hail the _Roosevelt’s_ light Could not pierce through, the bridge look-out lost sight Of the _Antinoe_ and the wireless contact ceased. _Dead Slow!_ The _Roosevelt_ took a risk as great As if the air shook with the roar of reefs. The wireless and the navigating chiefs Fried summoned to the flying bridge to debate The course. What with the hammer of the sea To windward, and that anvil on the lee, Judgment and will were warped by doubt. Suspend Pursuit? Keep steerage-way and just hold on? For at this hour with sight and hearing gone, All felt within their blood they could depend On nothing but an elemental trust In bulkheads; in the physics of a dark Equation, where with each remorseless thrust Down to the starboard limits of the arc, The ship should take under unheard commands The port recoil, a pivoted keel, and then, At the crux of the port roll find again The firm up-heave of Atlantean hands. On such a faith, borne in by night and snow, Rested the riddle of the _Antinoe_. Was she beyond that scurrying barricade, To come back on a wave-lift, as a score Of doubtful moments she had done before When gusts had passed? Or had the _Roosevelt_ strayed Beyond the vernier of her calculation, Caught suddenly by a winter vertigo, After reaching the _Antinoe’s_ location By a straight miracle of navigation? But why no message? Flooded dynamo? Followed by exhausted batteries? The wireless room demolished by the seas? Or aerials blown off like a wind-swept kite From a wallowing ship beam-to and rudderless? Or had she foundered? This the likelier guess. The ship with unremitting search despite The chances stacked against her, steamed on far Into the night, past midnight and the slow Hours, blindly heading into snow; Not a sextant reading off a star; No radio now with subtle fingering Untied the snarl of the freighter’s wayward course. Nothing but log and the dead reckoning, And the _Roosevelt’s_ instruments stating the force Of wind, direction and the tidal stress, Nothing but these and the wheel’s luck to trail her,— Unless there might be added to the sum Of them an unexplored residuum— The bone-and-marrow judgment of a sailor. But all this time signals were streaming through The ship’s antennae; _Solvang in collision,_ _Bulkheads crushed, and sinking; the Curlew_ _A-leak, and under jury-rig, Carlstad_ _Searching; Carlotta helping Orebro;_ _The Bremen hastening to the Laristan,_ _Engine trouble, serious, twenty-two_ _Aboard._ No record of the _Antinoe_. Each hour the searchlight moving on its swivel, Traced but a wide circumference of yeast, Bounding the clash of forces on the ocean, With endless lorries heading for the east. At times the sea would snow the _Roosevelt_ under, As shearing a wave, her bow came to the luff, Or as she turned with sharp careening angle To avoid a shadow, putting beam to trough. The scent was cold by now. Few words were spoken Between the officer-on-watch and captain; The _Antinoe_ was sunk by every token And every law known to the wind and weather. “With such a list, no shift or pumps could right her.” “A dollar flashlight! All she’s got to signal.” “If she’s afloat, ’twould take a hawk to sight her.” “A flash upon the weather quarter?” “No. Her power gone, that handlight wouldn’t show A hundred yards.” “A dog’s chance for a boat To get across . . . assuming she’s afloat.” “What do you reckon her drift?” “Port easy! Hold her! Let her take that one on her starboard shoulder.” Feeling her shifted courses over-run, And yet uncertain whether she should tack Upon a chosen port or starboard track, The baffled liner like a water-dog Would dip her nose to the sea and then up-rear Her head with black hawse nostrils keen to flair A flying quarry covered by a fog. Dawn and noon and now the afternoon. “We picked her up”—so ran the captain’s log— “One point upon the starboard bow at four O’clock, with nineteen hours of delay, And sixty miles from her last known position.” Her navigating bridge was swept away; Flooded, steam off, lights out, a closing day,— The time again awaited Fried’s decision. To pour fuel upon the sea to assuage Its fury; make a high-decked vessel ride Steady; maintain sufficient weather gage, Four hundred tons of pressure at the side, To avoid the crisis when a wave should toss Her like a dinghy on the smaller ship, Beam against beam, or stem to rail, to rip The plates like cardboard to a double loss; And yet mindful of this first charge, to crawl Within a narrow margin to the hulk, To take advantage of the liner’s bulk, As windbreak for a life-boat, and forestall The second disappearance in a squall Of the _Antinoe_;—in fine, to run a race For a crew’s life with the storm laps in advance; To outstare Death to his salt countenance, Made up the grim agenda on his face. Fried took a turn upon the weather deck, Saw little of assurance in the sky, Came back to the lee-wing, gauging with his eye The span his boat must cover to the wreck; Made up his mind alone on the degree Of risk; issued a call; in such a sea And cause the order needed no command, Only the heart’s assent unto the hand. The men answering the summons with a will, Came aft; were picked for hardihood and skill. Their names as on the shipping register:— Robert Miller, the first officer, Commanding; Ernest Heitman, bos’n’s mate, No relative; Uno Wertanen, Master-at-arms, aged twenty-eight, a Finn, His mother (Helsingfors), the next of kin; Sam Fisher; Franelich, an Austrian; Bauer, a naturalized American; Maurice Jacobowitz of New York State; And a Dane named Alexander Fugelsang— Made up the life-boat complement of eight. A dozen orders from the bos’n rang— “Stand by and clear the falls for running; man The cranks; let go the gripes.” Winch ropes began To move, winding through the leading blocks; Slowly the boat was lifted from the chocks. The crew holding suspended lines that ran Along the spring-stay, freeboards from the stern To bow were jacked to gunwales; at a turn Of the quadrant screw both boat and davit swung Outboard. The oars and boat-hooks kept her free. With painters taut at fore and aft, she hung For her sixty feet of journey to the sea. Below, like creatures of a fabled past, From their deep hidings in unlighted caves, The long processions of great-bellied waves Cast forth their monstrous births which with grey fang Appeared upon the leeward side, ran fast Along the broken crests, then coiled and sprang For the boat impatient of its slow descent Into their own inviolate element. A shout or instant gesture of the hand Was answered by the double roar of winches. The ropes ran through the iron cleats by inches, Straining, checking, running on demand Of the fore-and-after levels. “Lower away!” A steady longer roar, then a moment clear. Of the side. “Avast! Let go releasing gear!” The blocks shot from the slip-links evenly, And number one had settled on the sea. Here was a trial far beyond her training; Her tests had been accorded her in weather, And in blue water where there was no danger,— Where, governed by the stroke, all pull together, And every rhythmic blade falls to the feather Against the breeze. Now like a colt untried, She bucked control and though she carried well The lop of the shorter waves, she plunged and shied The moment that she reached the top of a swell, And went down sidling to the trough and flung The crew in the water. Under discipline Of many a drill, they struggled back and clung To the running loops and cork-grips, clambered in, And started for the wreck; but with recall From the bridge, they brought her to the wind and tried Over a wave-barrel to reach the side Of the ship when, twenty feet away, a squall Combined with tide-rip caught the boat and threw The men back to the waves. Six of the crew Clutching ladders and lines which might afford A toe or finger hold were drawn aboard. Heitman, crushed between the ship and boat, Slipped from a life-buoy and was seen to float Senseless away, down by the liner’s stern, Where he was lost under the wave and churn Of the propeller. Wertanen, who twice And willingly released his own firm grip To take within his teeth a rope eye-splice, Swam fifteen yards to leeward of the ship To help an exhausted mate, and paid his price In drifting past the adventure of return. By help of current and by desperate swim, A wave pitched him against the life-boat stern. He clutched the running-line and then the rim Of the gunwale; tried to get his weight athwart, But oil had greased his hands and he fell short. The crew could see him grab and plunge and cling, Using his legs as rudders so to swing Her head around to the wreck and with the sheer Abandon of his youth to try to steer His open, wilful, single-handed craft So close to the side that wind might bear it aft, And round the freighter’s stern to where he knew Life-belts and lines were waiting, with the crew Gathered at the lee taffrail. Jockeying the boat Within three fathoms length he tried to grip A belt, but oil had made his fingers slip, And oil was in his eyes and in his throat, And the last thing sighted from the liner’s deck, Near to the close of an hour’s futile searching, Were tossing oars and a frenzied life-boat lurching From wave to wave, a gunshot from the wreck, And here and there as far as might be scanned Within the spindrift, a tide-revolving speck— A belt perhaps or human head or hand. From every quarter came the night confounding The unhorizoned sea with sky and air, And to the crew of the _Antinoe_—despair. At ten o’clock the _Roosevelt_ bugle sounding From the saloon stairway a call to prayer! With separated phrase and smothered word An immemorial psalm became a blurred Bulwark under erosion by the sea. Beneath the maddening crashes of the wind Crumbled the grammar of the liturgy. _God of all comfort . . . ._ _humbly beseeching thee . . ._ _We do acknowledge . . . . . . . . sinned . . ._ _Most merciful . . . confess . . . grievously . . ._ _Who spreadest out the heavens, crownest the years._ _. . . . . Grant us we pray thee . . . . ._ _Who commandest the seas and they do obey thee._ _Nigh unto all . . . . . . . . ._ _. . . . . . . . our distresses and fears._ _. . . . . . . A father to the fatherless._ Followed the fragments of great passages: _I am the Resurrection . . . . . . . . We_ _. . . . commit . . . . bodies to the deep . . ._ _Corruptible . . . . . . . Of those who sleep . . ._ _. . . . . . . shall put on immortality._ And then brief tributes to the seamen drowned, While Miller and his men were ranged around, Bandaged in head and wrist, with arms in sling, And others who had come, despite the warning, To take their places were envisaging The job that lay before them in the morning. Meanwhile outside, echoing the ritual— _Now unto Him who is able to do . . . ._ _Exceeding abundantly_ . . . a wild antiphonal Of shriek and whistle from the shrouds broke through, Blending with thuds as though some throat had laughed In thunder down the ventilating shaft; And the benediction ended with the crack Of a stanchion on the starboard beam, the beat Of a loose block, with the fast run of feet, Where a flying guy careered about the stack; Then following the omen of a lull, The advent of a wave which like a wall Crashed down in volleys flush against the hull, Lifting its white and shafted spume to fall Across the higher decks; and through it all, As on the dial of the telegraph, Governed by derelict and hurricane, Rang _Stop, Full Speed Astern_ or _Slow_ or _Half_, The irregular pulse and cough of the engine strain, The quick smite of the blades against a wave, And always threat, escape, threat, then the brave Lift of the keel, and still that breathless sink, Dividing up the seconds, nearing the brink Of a grey, unplumbed precipice and grave. Within this hour a priest clothed with the whole Habiliment and dignity of office— Black cassock, surplice white and purple stole— Feeling that from an older faith would come The virtue of a rubric yet unspoken For the transition of a soul, a crumb Of favour from a cupboard not bereft Of all by the night’s intercessions, left His room; climbed up the stairs; pushed through a door Storm-wedged, and balancing along the floor Of the deck to where a davit stood, he placed His grip securely on a guy rope there. Lifting up a crucifix, he faced The starboard quarter, looking down the waste Of the waters casting back the flickering light Of the steamer, where two bodies without wrap Of shroud, deprived of their deck funeral rite, Swung to the rune of the sea’s stern foster-lap. _Ego vos absolvo . . . . . . ab omnibus_ _Peccatis et censuris . . . . ._ _. . . . . . . . . . . in nomine_ _Patris et Filii et Spiritus . . . . ._ _Sancti . . . . . . . . . . . . Attende Domine_ . . . . . . . . . . _et miserere_ _Hear . . . O stella maris . . . Mary._ But no Gennesaret of Galilee Conjured to its level by the sway Of a hand or a word’s magic was this sea, Contesting with its iron-alien mood, Its pagan face, its own primordial way, The pale heroic suasion of a rood. And the absolving Father, when the ship Righted her keel between two giant rolls, Recrossed himself, and letting go his hold, Returned to berth, murmuring _God rest their souls_. And now throughout the middle of the night, The _Roosevelt_ took the hurricane, hove-to. Into her own defence the captain knew Must enter all the sinews of her fight— Her searchlight ripping fissures as through dark Parchment where at times the freighter, set In a frame of tossing silver, showed the stark And streaming edges of her silhouette, Battered but yet miraculously afloat, Heaving, subsiding with her lathered flank, Like a bison smitten from the loin to shank, Surrendering to the wolves about her throat. And every hour in the wireless room, The shards of cries as by an incantation, Were joined to an Atlantic orchestration; Epic and drama rising to illume Disaster—now the call and now reply; The _Bremen_ radio—“still standing by The _Laristan_. Six rescued. Will resume At daylight.” “_Solvang_ lost. All saved but two.” “_Sparta_ reported foundering. Left no clue.” Daylight and wreckage. _Bremen_ calling still— “The _Laristan_ gone down with rest of crew.” With every tap of key, the _Roosevelt_ knew How little would the game depend on skill Of hand or resolution of the will, How much would all the morrow’s gain and loss Turn on the unknown chances of a toss. At four o’clock the _Roosevelt_ moved to windward, And drew again upon her fuel tanks; Only the whitened edges left the combers, Like a growth of harvest stubble from the banks Of rolling prairies that a fire had gleaned. Still black and dangerous stretches intervened. At six o’clock the flag at the mast-head Was lowered half-high in token of her dead, And the Red Ensign on the freighter went To the same place in mute acknowledgement. Then back to their full height the flags were run, To snap out like the folds of a toreador: With so much on the boards still to be done, ’Twas fitting that they should, in that same breath With which the storm took the salute, restore The colours to their stations, baiting death. At noon the starboard list began to assume The final margin for the _Antinoe_, The signal flags reporting that below The sea was filling up the engine room. The next attempt was with the Lyle gun. Fried edged his vessel nearer to the wreck, Trying for the safest, shortest run To get a line across the after-deck. But once again an adverse hand conspired Against the chance, checkmated the design, For at the muzzle as the gun was fired, The steel projectile snapped the messenger line. The second did the same, the third, and so The fourth; the six succeeding carriers trailed Their lines midway; the last, the eleventh failed; Only the iron passed the _Antinoe_. The store of rockets next—but what availed Their slender shafts and powder charges scaled Against the weight of vapour, wind and snow? An empty cask was lowered with the hope The wind might carry it to the ship’s side. It sank beneath its sagging weight of rope. Another stroke of rescue was devised. A life-boat was trailed off without a crew; It climbed, zigzagged and floundered, plunging through, But pitched against the freighter and capsized. Fried tried again, placing his ship to _looard_ Less than a hundred yards. The next boat moored By a line rove through the high block of the kingpost On the quarter-deck, was towed close to the stern Of the _Antinoe_, but with the luff of the _Roosevelt_ To the weather side, the rope sagged at the turn; Went underneath and fouled, and number three Started to drift beyond recovery. Another night, the third, confronted Fried, When the last remnant of the sky was blown Out, with the ocean like a pampas stirred To the confusion of a great stampede— Riot of lariat and hoof, of spurred Horses, and the _Antinoe_ a thrown Spent rider overtaken by the herd. Wednesday morning! and the twenty-five Huddled on the aft deck—still alive. One hundred hours had passed since the men had known The wool-warmth of a bunk, or stood the cold With nourished veins; and sleep had taken hold Of tired bodies salt-drugged to the bone. And in that hundred hours eternity Had ticked its lazy seconds on the sea, Timing the wind and surge and the defeat Of day by night; of night by day; the slow Unreasoned alternation of the sleet With hurrying phantoms of the hail and snow, The same rotation on the deck—the grey Sterility of hope with each life-boat gone, Dusk followed by the night, and every dawn A slattern offering dust instead of day. During the night the fact was plain the gun Would by such lavish firing soon outrun The standard stock of carriers and consume The packing cord; so in the engine room A humming lathe was making up arrears, In cutting blocks of steel; in fashioning Projectiles and their rods; and engineers, Following a passenger’s design, Were busy in construction of a spring, A spiral coil to graduate the strain Of the steel rod upon the carrying line At the initial instant of the shots. And knowing how the day ahead would drain Resources, men began to overhaul The cordage, making loops for arms and knots For hand-grips, culling big stuff from the small For nets and heaving-lines and ladders,—all Which might be spared out of the essential store, From cargo-slings to the stout rope from the fall Of a wrecked life-boat davit. Others toiled For hours, whaler-fashion, over the four Containing tubs, undid the twists, and coiled The messenger line many thousand feet, From vertical core to the end-loop with neat Precision. So when morning came it seemed Defaulted effort now might be redeemed, For though the seventh shot burst free and sped Away beyond the wreck, it carried true, Trailing sufficient line to lay it dead On the poop deck in centre of the crew. A heavier rope made fast was pulled aboard, And when the _Roosevelt’s_ boat was safely lowered, Another paying off through fair-leads gave What help it could to the wavering bow control. The boat without a load mounted each wave, Righting herself from every plunge and roll, Covered the stretch of water like a gull, Until within five fathoms of the hull, She turned broadside in an attempt to scale A sea, the bow line chafed against the rail And snapped, the stern line gave, and number four Followed her sisters of the day before. And so the latter half of the fourth day Came with the ocean well astride its prey: The storm in front like a shifty pugilist, Watching for some slight turn of luck to slay The rescuer with an iron-knuckled fist. ’Twas useless for the _Roosevelt_ to await The issue of the struggle by debate. For nothing in those skies favoured a sign That by manoeuvre could the fight be won— By floating cask or breeches-buoy or line, Mere parleying with rockets and a gun. The hour had called for argument more rife With the gambler’s sacrificial bids for life, The final manner native to the breed Of men forging decision into deed— Of getting down again into the sea, And testing rowlocks in an open boat, Of grappling with the storm-king bodily, And placing Northern fingers on his throat. The call again, and number five was ready. The men were chosen and the davits swung; The boat moved outward easily and hung Level and snug to leeward but unsteady In the capricious pockets of the squall. Another order and the falls began To move—eight men inside her; Alfred Wall, Araneda, Diaz, Albertz, Hahn, Upton, Roberts, Miller in command. The gunwale fended off with oar and hand At every lurch, she managed luckily To clear the steamer’s side, covering the steep Descent, and then undamaged took the sea. Three oars aside and with a steering sweep, The boat pulled out from the immediate lee Into the eddies where the waters met From stern and bow,—where the last ounces put On the oars, even with the wind abaft, could yet Advance them only by the inch and foot. They followed down the beam-path of the searchlight, The _Roosevelt_ all the while manoeuvring, Now drawing in, now clawing off, and now Dead close, beam to the wind, just shadowing The brute drive of the freighter, to allow The boat with heavy lateral drift to steer With wider berth into the wind and clear The danger of the surge around the bow. A swamping moment caught her, but each blade Flexed to the curve of snapping, Miller made The turn and came down sharp broadside to gain A point amidships that he might obtain Such shelter as this windbreak could afford. But the wells were under water and the lee Was like the surf of breakers, for the sea, Contemptuous of this man-made sunken mole, Threatened each time to hurl the boat aboard, And reach the funnel with resurgent roll. Escaping this disaster, Miller drew His boat back in the sea, and tried to creep Forward to higher freeboard where the crew Near the First Hatch might have the shortest leap. Backwatering and staving off the hull, And crawling in again with a slight lull Of the wind, or with recession of the surge, He took three men who on the perishing verge Of sleep fell from the rail to the thwarts and slumped To the floor-boards. Out and back once more With slow manoeuvring, and another four Secure. Others of tougher sinew jumped To the stern sheets from the rail. The task was done With sudden moves and checks like a strange play Which starts, is forced to stop, and then begun Afresh on unknown ground but under sway Of old Olympian rules. So one by one The lives were scored, and those who missed their aim, And fell into the sea, were grabbed and pulled Over the gunwale; counted with the same Slow chalking up as of advances bulled Out of the fiery scrimmage of a game. Miller tried to close again but failed. With water shipped as fast as it was bailed, Seams leaking, twelve half-dead men barely stowed, And with his crew of eight he did not dare To give his boat a more unstable load; So pushed away and with the wind and tide In favour, forced her water-logged to where The _Roosevelt_, now round to leeward, showed A maze of lines and ladders on her side. The first instalment of the crew too numb To lay their hands on heaving-lines were placed Within the cargo-nets and drawn up plumb; The others taking ropes, with their feet braced Against the hull went up with the sheer lift Of their mates, till all were safe aboard, and now The life-boat number five with damaged bow And broken hoisting hooks was cast adrift. The pitch of the storm, late night and still the snow, Two hundred yards between of yawning space, And thirteen sailors on the _Antinoe_. Three nights upon the bridge behind the shield Of the canvas dodger, his accustomed place, Fried doubtful, peering with his blizzard face. Now one o’clock, and a slight rift revealed A spatter of light above the running seas— The freighter’s lantern jabbing out in Morse That the ship’s list had reached fifty degrees. The last hour was on with no recourse Except another summons to the crew. Miller commanding for the third time drew From the line-up of forty volunteers Of every rank—deck-hand to passenger, His four uninjured veterans and five new Hands: Thomas Sloan, the third officer; Reidel; Wilke; Deck Yeoman Wilson Beers; And Caldwell, messman to the engineers. The sixth life-boat was ready on the lee. The others stood a moment in review; Three hundred passengers, two hundred crew; The cut was getting near the artery. The men, lowered without mishap, once more Brought round the boat to the lee bow of the freighter, And ranged her off the First Hatch as before. The risk this time for boat and ship was greater; The growing list could take no steeper verge, And all the boatmanship could not avail At first against the backwash of the surge; For there was peril in the sunken rail, When at uncertain moments the ship tried For balance, lifting up a wounded side To ease a wave that struck amidships, cleaving Her port; and peril in those hours of doubt For strengthless men that watched their comrades leaving, And long the galley fires had been out. Fried shortened up his weather gage to try To give a double shelter to the life-boat: The message later read—“Had to rely Upon the final power of my engines, For had a revolution failed,—’twas either _Roosevelt_ or _Antinoe_ with odds on neither.” The revolution did not fail, and Miller Secured his men, and though with cracked air-tank, And all the spare oars rent in hull-collision, The boat came down the wind to the lee flank Of the liner where the remnant with their clothes Sodden and shrunk were, like drowsed children, gathered To the cargo hammocks, twelve of them, then Tose, The captain, who had worn his buttons well. His bread had now returned upon the waters, For ten years back, as later stories tell, He had while master of another vessel, Rescued a Philadelphian bark in seas And winds only less full of death than these. Now open throttles! Now my lads, YOHO! The _twenty-five_, by Neptune, every one! Captain to deck-hand, every mother’s son Aboard! GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE, The _ANTINOE_! The sea had closed on forward deck and bow; Let flag and mast and funnel settle now. Frost-bitten, thinned in blood, gnarled to the bone, But everyone surviving. All were brought Below where ocean miracles are wrought, Where the hearts’ furnaces are stoked and blown, Where men are shepherded in the old way Of the sea, where drowned men come to life, they say. Under such calls to breathe as never come To those that roam the uplands of this earth:— The hearty comradeship of a foc’s’le berth, With treble-folded blankets on their numb Bodies, with balsam thawing out the brain, Hot milk and coffee piping down their dumb Constricted throats and mustard scattering pain,— When cold half-foundered bellies steam again Under the red authority of rum. The siren! Never did a whistle blow Upon a ship at sea like this before. The notes came from a silver throat aglow With life and triumph. Steady blast to roar Rising to pitch and volume that would crow The daybreak in. A shorter blast, A mimic of halloo, followed by fast Merry little runs in tremolo, And then again with open throat the long Insistent call with pauses, trills and strong Leaping crescendos. Vital, sound and steady, For the first hour in days was heard to start The normal rhythm of the liner’s heart; Her bearings bathed, her boilers breathed and ready For the ports of England. The fifth morning found her With high gales still and white seas all around her, But clean in every valve and with the main Play of her steam free on each turbine-vane. Another day and the back of the storm was broken. The snow and hail had ceased; the clouds rode high; And though the wind remained, the glass gave token Of fairer weather. Through a rift of sky A level shaft, the first one for the week, Quivered on an edge of cloud, then struck A line of foam making for the grey peak Of a kingpost, then to water-line from truck, Till from the starboard taffrail up the span Of the hull, it reached the lettering where it ran In crimson coronation of her name, As if a god might thus salute the deed, And ratify the venture with the screed Of an aurora milled in solar flame. The Lizard Point, and now the Eddystone! Meanwhile a nation which was never spared The discipline of waters, had prepared Her subjects’ hearts from foc’s’le to throne With this Atlantic record to attest The valour of the eagle from the west, In bringing home her brood of castaways. For there had come through radiogram and wire As high romance as any since the days, When Grecian sails and the triremes of Tyre Hailed Carthaginian ships upon the bays Of the Aegean. So she entered Plymouth, With crusted funnel, twisted rails, scoured clean By salt on every deck, and overdue; Yet with the bearing of a Viking Queen,— Prerogative of life within her hand. She anchored in the roadstead, while the crew Of the wrecked ship were taken to the land. The nation gave its thanks on board; and she, Soon ready for completion of her run, Swung out the Sound, with her day’s work well done, And in an hour was on the Channel sea. NEWFOUNDLAND REMINISCENCES NEWFOUNDLAND Here the tides flow, And here they ebb; Not with that dull, unsinewed tread of waters Held under bonds to move Around unpeopled shores— Moon-driven through a timeless circuit Of invasion and retreat; But with a lusty stroke of life Pounding at stubborn gates, That they might run Within the sluices of men’s hearts, Leap under throb of pulse and nerve, And teach the sea’s strong voice To learn the harmonies of new floods, The peal of cataract, And the soft wash of currents Against resilient banks, Or the broken rhythms from old chords Along dark passages That once were pathways of authentic fires. _Red is the sea-kelp on the beach,_ _Red as the heart’s blood,_ _Nor is there power in tide or sun_ _To bleach its stain._ _It lies there piled thick_ _Above the gulch-line._ _It is rooted in the joints of rocks,_ _It is tangled around a spar,_ _It covers a broken rudder,_ _It is red as the heart’s blood,_ _And salt as tears._ Here the winds blow, And here they die, Not with that wild, exotic rage That vainly sweeps untrodden shores, But with familiar breath Holding a partnership with life, Resonant with the hopes of spring, Pungent with the airs of harvest. They call with the silver fifes of the sea, They breathe with the lungs of men, They are one with the tides of the sea, They are one with the tides of the heart, They blow with the rising octaves of dawn, They die with the largo of dusk, Their hands are full to the overflow, In their right is the bread of life, In their left are the waters of death. _Scattered on boom_ _And rudder and weed_ _Are tangles of shells;_ _Some with backs of crusted bronze,_ _And faces of porcelain blue,_ _Some crushed by the beach stones_ _To chips of jade;_ _And some are spiral-cleft_ _Spreading their tracery on the sand_ _In the rich veining of an agate’s heart;_ _And others remain unscarred,_ _To babble of the passing of the winds._ Here the crags Meet with winds and tides— Not with that blind interchange Of blow for blow That spills the thunder of insentient seas; But with the mind that reads assault In crouch and leap and the quick stealth, Stiffening the muscles of the waves. Here they flank the harbours, Keeping watch On thresholds, altars and the fires of home, Or, like mastiffs, Over-zealous, Guard too well. _Tide and wind and crag,_ _Sea-weed and sea-shell_ _And broken rudder—_ _And the story is told_ _Of human veins and pulses,_ _Of eternal pathways of fire,_ _Of dreams that survive the night,_ _Of doors held ajar in storms._ THE CACHALOT I A thousand years now had his breed Established the mammalian lead; The founder (in cetacean lore) Had followed Leif to Labrador; The eldest-born tracked all the way Marco Polo to Cathay; A third had hounded one whole week The great Columbus to Bahama; A fourth outstripped to Mozambique The flying squadron of de Gama; A fifth had often crossed the wake Of Cortez, Cavendish and Drake; The great grandsire—a veteran rover— Had entered once the strait of Dover, In a naval fight, and with his hump Had stove a bottom of Van Tromp; The grandsire at Trafalgar swam At the _Redoubtable_ and caught her, With all the tonnage of his ram, Deadly between the wind and water; And his granddam herself was known As fighter and as navigator, The mightiest mammal in the zone From Baffin Bay to the Equator. From such a line of conjugate sires Issued his blood, his lumbar fires, And from such dams imperial-loined His Taurian timbers had been joined, And when his time had come to hasten Forth from his deep sub-mammary basin, Out on the ocean tracts, his mama Had, in a North Saghalien gale, Launched him, a five-ton healthy male, Between Hong Kong and Yokohama. Now after ninety moons of days, Sheltered by the mammoth fin, He took on adolescent ways And learned the habits of his kin; Ransacked the seas and found his mate, Established his dynastic name, Reared up his youngsters, and became The most dynamic vertebrate (According to his Royal Dame) From Tonga to the Hudson Strait. And from the start, by fast degrees, He won in all hostilities; Sighted a hammerhead and followed him, Ripped him from jaw to ventral, swallowed him; Pursued a shovelnose and mangled him; Twisted a broadbill’s neck and strangled him; Conquered a rorqual in full sight Of a score of youthful bulls who spurred Him to the contest, and the fight Won him the mastery of the herd. Another ninety moons and Time Had cast a marvel from his hand, Unmatched on either sea or land— A sperm whale in the pitch of prime. A hundred feet or thereabout He measured from the tail to snout, And every foot of that would run From fifteen hundred to a ton. But huge as was his tail or fin, His bulk of forehead, or his hoists And slow subsidences of jaw, He was more wonderful within. His iron ribs and spinal joists Enclosed the sepulchre of a maw. The bellows of his lungs might sail A herring skiff—such was the gale Along the wind-pipe; and so large The lymph-flow of his active liver, One might believe a fair-sized barge Could navigate along the river; And the islands of his pancreas Were so tremendous that between ’em A punt would sink; while a cart might pass His bile-duct to the duodenum Without a peristaltic quiver. And cataracts of red blood stormed His heart, while lower down was formed That fearful labyrinthine coil Filled with the musk of ambergris; And there were reservoirs of oil And spermaceti; and renal juices That poured in torrents without cease Throughout his grand canals and sluices. And hid in his arterial flow Were flames and currents set aglow By the wild pulses of the chase With fighters of the Saxon race. A tincture of an iron grain Had dyed his blood a darker stain; Upon his coat of toughest rubber A dozen cicatrices showed The place as many barbs were stowed, Twisted and buried in his blubber, The mute reminders of the hours Of combat when the irate whale Unlimbered all his massive powers Of head-ram and of caudal flail, Littering the waters with the chips Of whaleboats and vainglorious ships. II Where Cape Delgado strikes the sea, A cliff ran outward slantingly A mile along a tossing edge Of water towards a coral ledge, Making a sheer and downward climb Of twenty fathoms where it ended, Forming a jutty scaur suspended Over a cave of murk and slime. A dull reptilian silence hung About the walls, and fungus clung To knots of rock, and over boles Of lime and basalt poisonous weed Grew rampant, covering the holes Where crayfish and sea-urchins breed. The upper movement of the seas Across the reefs could not be heard; The nether tides but faintly stirred Sea-nettles and anemones. A thick festoon of lichens crawled From crag to crag, and under it Half-ridden in a noisome pit Of bones and shells a kraken sprawled. Moveless, he seemed, as a boulder set In pitch, and dead within his lair, Except for a transfixing stare From lidless eyes of burnished jet, And a hard spasm now and then Within his viscous centre, when His scabrous feelers intertwined Would stir, vibrate, and then unwind Their ligatures with easy strength To tap the gloom, a cable length; And finding no life that might touch The mortal radius of their clutch, Slowly relax, and shorten up Each tensile tip, each suction cup, And coil again around the head Of the mollusc on its miry bed, Like a litter of pythons settling there To shutter the Gorgonian stare. But soon the squid’s antennæ caught A murmur that the waters brought— No febrile stirring as might spring From a puny barracuda lunging At a tuna’s leap, some minor thing, A tarpon or a dolphin plunging— But a deep consonant that rides Below the measured beat of tides With that vast, undulating rhythm A sounding sperm whale carries with him. The kraken felt that as the flow Beat on his lair with plangent power, It was the challenge of his foe, The prelude to a fatal hour; Nor was there given him more than time, From that first instinct of alarm, To ground himself in deeper slime, And raise up each enormous arm Above him, when, unmeasured, full On the revolving ramparts, broke The hideous rupture of a stroke From the forehead of the bull. And when they interlocked, that night— Cetacean and cephalopod— No Titan with Olympian god Had ever waged a fiercer fight; Tail and skull and teeth and maw Met sinew, cartilage, and claw, Within those self-engendered tides, Where the Acherontic flood Of sepia, mingling with the blood Of whale, befouled Delgado’s sides. And when the cachalot out-wore The squid’s tenacious clasp, he tore From frame and socket, shred by shred, Each gristled, writhing tentacle, And with serrated mandible Sawed cleanly through the bulbous head; Then gorged upon the fibrous jelly Until, finding that six tons lay Like Vulcan’s anvil in his belly, He left a thousand sharks his prey, And with his flukes, slow-labouring, rose To a calm surface, where he shot A roaring geyser, steaming hot, From the blast-pipe of his nose. One hour he rested, in the gloom Of the after-midnight; his great back Prone with the tide, and, in the loom Of the Afric coast, merged with the black Of the water; till a rose shaft, sent From Madagascar far away, Etched a ripple, eloquent Of a freshening wind and a fair day. Flushed with the triumph of the fight, He felt his now unchallenged right To take by demonstrated merit What he by birth-line did inherit— The lordship of each bull and dam That in mammalian waters swam, As Maharajah of the seas From Rio to the Celebes. And nobly did the splendid brute Leap to his laurels, execute His lineal functions as he sped Towards the Equator northwards, dead Against the current and the breeze; Over his back the running seas Cascaded, while the morning sun Rising in gold and beryl, spun Over the cachalot’s streaming gloss, And from the foam, a fiery floss Of multitudinous fashionings, And dipping downward from the blue, The sea-gulls from Comoro flew, And brushed him with their silver wings; Then at the tropic hour of noon He slackened down; a drowsy spell Was creeping over him, and soon He fell asleep upon the swell. III The cruising ships had never claimed So bold a captain, so far-famed Throughout the fleets a master-whaler— New England’s pride was Martin Taylor. ’Twas in this fall of eighty-eight, As skipper of the _Albatross_, He bore South from the Behring Strait, Down by the China Coast, to cross The Line, and with the fishing done To head her for the homeward run Around the Cape of Storms, and bring Her to Nantucket by the Spring. She had three thousand barrels stowed Under the hatches, though she could, Below and on her deck, have stood Four thousand as her bumper load. And so to try his final luck, He entered Sunda Strait and struck Into the Indian Ocean where, According to reports that year, A fleet had had grand fishing spells Between the Cocos and Seychelles. Thither he sailed; but many a day Passed by in its unending way, The weather fair, the weather rough, With watch and sleep, with tack and reef, With swab and holystone, salt beef And its eternal partner, duff; Now driving on with press of sail, Now sweaty calms that drugged the men, Everything but sight of whale, Until one startling midday, when A gesture in the rigging drew The flagging tension of the crew. In the cross-trees at the royal mast, Shank, the third mate, was breathing fast, His eyes stared at the horizon clouds, His heels were kicking at the shrouds, His cheeks were puffed, his throat was dry, He seemed to be bawling at the sky. “Hoy, you windjammer, what’s the matter? What’s this infernal devil’s clatter?” “She blows, sir, there she blows, by thunder, A sperm, a mighty big one, yonder.” “Where-a-way?” was Taylor’s scream. “Ten miles, sir, on the looard beam!” “Hard up and let her go like hell!” With heeling side and heady toss, Smothered in spray, the _Albatross_ Came free in answer to his yell And corked off seven with a rout Of roaring canvas crowding her, Her jibs and royals bellying out, With studsail, staysail, spinnaker. The barque came to; the first mate roared His orders, and the davits swung, The block-sheaves creaked, and the men sprung Into the boats as they were lowered. With oars unshipped, and every sail, Tub and harpoon and lance in trim, The boats payed off before the gale, Taylor leading; after him, Old Wart, Gamaliel, and Shank— Three mates in order of their rank. The day was fine; ’twas two o’clock, And in the north, three miles away, Asleep since noon, and like a rock, The towering bulk of the cachalot lay. “Two hundred barrels to a quart,” Gamaliel whispered to Old Wart. “A bull, by gad, the biggest one I’ve ever seen,” said Wart, “I’ll bet’ee, He’ll measure up a hundred ton, And a thousand gallons of spermaceti.” “Clew up your gab!” “Let go that mast! There’ll be row enough when you get him fast.” “Don’t ship the oars!” “Now, easy, steady; You’ll gally him with your bloody noise.” The four harpooners standing ready Within the bows, their blades in poise, Two abaft and two broadside, Arched and struck; the irons cut Their razor edges through the hide And penetrated to the gut. “Stern all! and let the box-lines slip. Stern! Sheer!” The boats backed up. “Unship That mast. Bend to and stow that sail, And jam the pole under the thwart.” With head uplifted the sperm whale Made for the starboard boat of Wart, Who managed with a desperate swing To save his skiff the forehead blow, But to be crushed with the backward swing Of the flukes as the giant plunged below; On this dead instant Taylor cleft His line; the third mate’s iron drew, Which, for the sounding trial, left But one boat with an iron true,— The one that had Gamaliel in it. The tubs ran out, Gamaliel reckoned Two hundred fathoms to the minute; Before the line had cleared the second, He tied the drugg and quickly passed The splice to Shank who made it fast, And with ten blistering minutes gone, Had but a moment left to toss It to the fifth boat rushing on With Hall fresh from the _Albatross_, Who when his skiff, capsizing, lay So low he could no longer bail her, Caught up the end for its last relay, And flung it to the hands of Taylor. With dipping bow and creaking thwart, The skipper’s whaleboat tore through tunnels Of drifting foam, with listing gunwales, Now to starboard, now to port, The hemp ran through the leaden chock, Making the casing searing hot; The second oarsman snatched and shot The piggin like a shuttlecock, Bailing the swamping torrent out, Or throwing sidelong spurts to dout The flame when with the treble turn The loggerhead began to burn. A thousand fathoms down the lug Or rope, harpoon, of boat and drugg, Began, in half a breathless hour, To get his wind and drain his power; His throbbing valves demanded air, The open sky, the sunlight there; The downward plunging ceased, and now, Taylor feeling the tarred hemp strand Slackening that moment at the bow, Began to haul hand over hand, And pass it aft where it was stowed Loose in the stern sheets, while the crew After the sounding respite threw Their bodies on the oars and rowed In the direction of the pull. “He blows!” The four whaleboats converged On a point to southward where the bull In a white cloud of mist emerged— Terror of head and hump and brawn, Silent and sinister and gray, As in a lifting fog at dawn Gibraltar rises from its bay. With lateral crunching of his jaw, And thunderous booming as his tail Collided with a wave, the whale Steamed up immediately he saw The boats, lowered his cranial drum And charged, his slaughterous eye on Shank; The mate—his hour had not yet come— Parried the head and caught the flank With a straight iron running keen Into the reaches of his spleen. The other boats rushed in; when Taylor backed, Gamaliel leaped in and lodged A thrust into his ribs, then dodged The wallowing flukes when Hall attacked. As killers bite and swordfish pierce Their foes, a score of lances sank Through blubber to the bone and drank His blood with energy more fierce Than theirs; nor could he shake them off With that same large and sovereign scoff, That high redundancy of ease With which he smote his enemies. He somersaulted, leaped, and sounded; When he arose the whaleboats hounded Him still; he tried gigantic breaches, The irons stuck to him like leeches; He made for open sea but found The anchors faithful to their ground, For, every surface run, he towed The boat crews faster than they rowed. Five hectic hours had now passed by, Closing a tropic afternoon, Now twilight with a mackerel sky, And now a full and climbing moon. ’Twas time to end this vanity— Hauling a puny batch of men, With boat and cross-boards out to sea, Tethered to his vitals, when The line would neither break nor draw. Where was his pride, too, that his race Should claim one fugitive in a chase? His teeth were sound within his jaw, His thirty feet of forehead still Had all their pristine power to kill. He swung his bulk round to pursue This arrogant and impious crew. He took his own good time, not caring With such persistent foes to crush Them by a self-destroying rush, But blending cunning with his daring, He sought to mesh them in the toil Of a rapid moving spiral coil, Baffling the steersmen as they plied Their oars now on the windward side, Now hard-a-lee, forcing them dead Upon the foam line of his head. And when the narrowing orbit shrank In width to twice his spinal length, He put on all his speed and strength And turned diagonally on Shank. The third mate’s twenty years of luck Were ended as the cachalot struck The boat amidship, carrying it With open sliding jaws that bit The keel and sawed the gunwales through, Leaving behind him as he ploughed His way along a rising cloud, Fragments of oars and planks and crew. Another charge and the death knell Was rung upon Gamaliel; At the same instant Hall ran foul Of the tail sweep, but not before A well directed iron tore Three feet into the lower bowel. Two foes were now left on the sea— The _Albatross_ with shortened sail Was slatting up against the gale; Taylor manoeuvring warily Between the rushes and the rough Wave hazards of the crest and trough, Now closed and sent a whizzing dart Underneath the pectoral fin That pierced the muscle of the heart. The odds had up to this been equal— Whale and wind and sea with whaler— But, for the sperm, the fighting sequel Grew darker with that thrust of Taylor. From all his lesser wounds the blood That ran from him had scarcely spent A conscious tithe of power; the flood That issued from this fiery rent, Broaching the arterial tide, Had left a ragged worm of pain Which crawled like treason to his brain,— The worm of a Titan’s broken pride! Was he—with a toothless Bowhead’s fate, Slain by a thing called a second mate— To come in tow to the whaler’s side? Be lashed like a Helot to the bitts While, from the cutting stage, the spade Of a harpooner cut deep slits Into his head and neck, and flayed Him to the bone; while jesters spat Upon his carcass, jeered and wrangled About his weight, the price his fat Would bring, as with the heavy haul Of the blocks his strips of blubber dangled At every click of the windlass pawl? An acrid torture in his soul Growing with the tragic hurry Of the blood stream through that widening hole Presaged a sperm whale’s dying flurry— That orgy of convulsive breath, Abhorred thing before the death, In which the maniac threads of life Are gathered from some wild abysm, Stranded for a final strife Then broken in a paroxysm. Darkness and wind began to pour A tidal whirlpool round the spot, Where the clotted nostrils’ roar Sounded from the cachalot A deep bay to his human foes. He settled down to hide his track, Sighted the keels, then swiftly rose, And with the upheaval of his back, Caught with annihilating rip The boat, then with the swelling throes Of death levied for the attack, Made for the port bow of the ship. All the tonnage, all the speed, All the courage of his breed, The pride and anger of his breath, The battling legions of his blood Met in that unresisted thud, Smote in that double stroke of death. Ten feet above and ten below The water-line his forehead caught her, The hatches opening to the blow His hundred driving tons had wrought her; The capstan and the anchor fled, When bolts and stanchions swept asunder, For what was iron to that head, And oak—in that hydraulic thunder? Then, like a royal retinue, The slow processional of crew, Of inundated hull, of mast, Halliard and shroud and trestle-cheek, Of yard and topsail to the last Dank flutter of the ensign as a wave Closed in upon the skysail peak, Followed the Monarch to his grave. OLD HARRY A long the coast the sailors tell The superstition of its fame— Of how the sea had faceted The Rock into a human head And given it the devil’s name. And much there was that would compel A wife or mother of a seaman To find a root in the belief The rock that jutted from the reef Was built to incarnate a demon. But there’s a story that might well Receive a share of crediting, And make the title fit the look Of vacancy the boulder took Under the ocean’s battering. Within that perforated shell Of basalt worn by wave and keel The demon ruler of the foam One night upon returning home Was changed into an imbecile, Ordered to stay within his cell, Clutch at the spectres in the air, Listen to shrieks of drowning men, And stare at phantom ribs and then Listen again and clutch and stare. So like a sea-crazed sentinel, Weary of sailors and their ships, Old Harry stands with salt weed spread In matted locks around his head, And foam forever on his lips. THE DRAG-IRONS He who had learned for thirty years to ride The seas and storms in punt and skiff and brig, Would hardly scorn to take before he died His final lap in Neptune’s whirligig. But with his Captain’s blood he did resent, With livid silence and with glassy look, This fishy treatment when his years were spent— To come up dead upon a grapnel hook. IN LANTERN LIGHT I could not paint, nor could I draw The look that searched the night; The bleak refinement of the face I saw In lantern light. A cunning hand might seize the crag, Or stay the flight of a gull, Or the rocket’s flash; or more—the lightning jag That lit the hull. But as a man born blind must steal His colours from the night By hand, I had to touch that face to feel It marble white. GREAT TIDES Great Tides! You filled the reaches up Under the North’s wild blow; Yet could not spare this smaller cup Its salter overflow. Huge hands! You rear our bulwarks up With power to none akin; Yet cannot lift a door-latch up That a lad may enter in. ON THE SHORE Come home! the year has left you old; Leave those grey stones; wrap close this shawl Around you for the night is cold; Come home! he will not hear your call. No sign awaits you here but the beat Of tides upon the strand, The crag’s gaunt shadow with gull’s feet Imprinted on the sand, And spars and sea-weed strewn Under a pale moon. Come home! he will not hear your call; Only the night winds answer as they fall Along the shore, And evermore Only the sea-shells On the grey stones singing, And the white foam-bells Of the North Sea ringing. IN ABSENTIA Erect and motionless he stood, His face a hieroglyph of stone, Stopped was his pulse, chilled was his blood, And stiff each sinew, nerve and bone. The spell an instant held him, when His veins were swept by tidal power, And then life’s threescore years and ten Were measured by a single hour. The world lay there beneath his eye; The sun had left the heavens to float A hand-breadth from him, and the sky Was but an anchor for his boat. Fled was the class-room’s puny space— His eye saw but a whirling disk; His old and language-weathered face Shone like a glowing asterisk! What chance had he now to remember The year held months so saturnine As ill-starred May and blank September, With that brute tugging at his line? THE SHARK He seemed to know the harbour, So leisurely he swam; His fin, Like a piece of sheet-iron, Three-cornered, And with knife-edge, Stirred not a bubble As it moved With its base-line on the water. His body was tubular And tapered And smoke-blue, And as he passed the wharf He turned, And snapped at a flat-fish That was dead and floating. And I saw the flash of a white throat, And a double row of white teeth, And eyes of metallic grey, Hard and narrow and slit. Then out of the harbour, With that three-cornered fin Shearing without a bubble the water Lithely, Leisurely, He swam— That strange fish, Tubular, tapered, smoke-blue, Part vulture, part wolf, Part neither—for his blood was cold. THE FOG It stole in on us like a foot-pad, Somewhere out of the sea and air, Heavy with rifling Polaris And the Seven Stars. It left our eyes untouched, But took our sight, And then, Silently, It drew the song from our throats, And the supple bend from our ash-blades; For the bandit, With occult fingering, Had tangled up The four threads of the compass, And fouled the snarl around our dory. THE BIG FELLOW A huge six-footer, Eyes bay blue, And as deep; Lower jaw like a cliff, Tongue silent, As hard and strong as a husky. A little man, In a pressed suit, Standing before him, Had dug a name out of the past, And flung it at him Under cover of law. The big fellow Leaned over him, Like a steel girder, Just for a moment, Then swung around on his heel Without striking. And I thought of the big Newfoundland I saw, asleep by a rock The day before, That was galvanized by a challenge, But eyeing a cur, He turned, Yawned, Closed one eye, Then the other, And slept. SEA-GULLS For one carved instant as they flew, The language had no simile— Silver, crystal, ivory Were tarnished. Etched upon the horizon blue, The frieze must go unchallenged, for the lift And carriage of the wings would stain the drift Of stars against a tropic indigo Or dull the parable of snow. Now settling one by one Within green hollows or where curled Crests caught the spectrum from the sun, A thousand wings are furled. No clay-born lilies of the world Could blow as free As those wild orchids of the sea. THE WAY OF CAPE RACE Lion-hunger, tiger-leap! The waves are bred no other way; It was their way when the Norseman came, It was the same in Cabot’s day: A thousand years will come again, When a thousand years have passed away— Galleon, frigate, liner, plane, The muster of the slain. They have placed the light, fog-horn and bell Along the shore: the wardens keep Their posts—they do not quell The roar; they shorten not the leap. The waves still ring the knell Of ships that pass at night, Of dreadnought and of cockle-shell: They do not heed the light, The fog-horn and the bell— Lion-hunger, tiger-leap! THE FLOOD-TIDE He paused a moment by the sea, Then stooped, and with a leisured hand He wrote in casual tracery Her name upon the flux of sand. The waves beat up and swiftly spun A silver web at every stride; He watched their long, thin fingers run The letters back into the tide. But she had written where the tide Could never its grey waters fling; She watched the longest wave subside Ere it could touch the lettering. THE DROWNING The rust of hours, Through a year of days, Has dulled the edge of the pain; But at night A wheel in my sleep Grinds it smooth and keen. By day I remember A face that was lit With the softness of human pattern; But at night It is changed in my sleep To a bygone carved in chalk. A cottage inland Through a year of days Has latched its doors on the sea; But at night I return in my sleep To the cold, green lure of the waters. OVERHEARD BY A STREAM Here is the pool, and there the waterfall; This is the bank; keep out of sight, and crawl Along the side to where that alder clump Juts out. ’Twas there I saw a salmon jump, A full eight feet, not fifteen minutes past. Bend low a bit! or else the sun will cast Your shadow on the stream. Still farther; stop! Now joint your rod; reel out your line, and drop Your leader with the “silver doctor” on it, Behind that rock that’s got the log upon it. There’s nothing here; the water is too quiet; You need a pool with rapids flowing by it; Plenty of rush and motion, heave and roar, To turn their thoughts from things upon the shore; The day’s too calm—I told you that before. Just mind your line! I tell you that he’s there. I saw him spring up ten feet in the air— Twelve pounder, if an ounce! Great Mackinaw! Look! Quick! He’s on! The “doctor” in his jaw. . . Snapped! Gone! You big fool: worse than any fool! What did you think to find here in this pool— A minnow or a shiner—that you tried With such a jerk to land him on the side Of this high bank? That was a salmon—fool! The biggest one that swam within this pool; The one I saw that jumped twelve feet—not lower; Would tip the scales at fourteen pounds or more. Lost—near that rock that’s got the log upon it, Gone—with the leader and the “doctor” on it. THE HISTORY OF JOHN JONES The sun never shone, The rain could not fall On a steadier man than John. A holy man was John, And honest withal. His mates had never heard Drop from his guarded lip An idle word, But twice—first, while on board his ship, When he had lost his pipe, he swore, Just a mild damn, and nothing more; And once he cursed The government; but then he reckoned The Lord forgave him for the first, And justified the second. And he was temperate in all his ways, Was John; He never drank, but when Thanksgiving days Came on; Never in summer on a fishing trip Would he allow the smell on board his ship; Only in winter or in autumn, When a cramp or something caught him, Would he take it, for he prized it, Not for its depraved abuses, But for its discreeter uses, As his Church had authorized it. The sun had never shone On a kinder man than John, Nor upon A better Christian than was John. He was good to his dog, he was good to his cat, And his love went out to his horse; He loved the Lord and his Church, of course, For righteous was he in thought and act; And his neighbours knew, in addition to that, He loved his wife, as a matter of fact. Now, one fine day it occurred to John, That his last great cramp was on; For nothing that the doctor wrote Could stop that rattle in his throat. He had broken his back upon the oar, He had dried his last boat-load of cod, And nothing was left for John any more, But to drift in his boat to the port of God. TO ANGELINA, AN OLD NURSE She lingers in our memory even yet, Like an aroma or an anecdote, Chipped from the ’nineties with her silhouette Begemmed with buttons from the shoes to throat; Her paper curls, her parlour pompadour, Her leg-o’-mutton sleeves, the shawl she wore; So trussed with cord and whalebone that she faced The near annihilation of her waist. Stark as a rampike under winter skies, She brooded on us with her deep-set eyes That never slept: mournful and thin was she, Like something borrowed from eternity. She never tucked us in our beds at night, But feared we should not see the next day’s light; And when in course of time the morning broke, She could not understand it that we woke. She watched for every sneeze, for every whoop, And even breadcrumbs in our throats was croup. A lengthy spell of laughter was a fit, And she could always put a stop to it. Though healthy and as active as young beavers, She always saw in us a soil for fevers. When we were sound asleep within our cots, She’d listen to our breathing, bending down With many a murmur, many an anxious frown, And turn us over on the search for spots, Spots on the back and chest and diaphragm, Spots on the tongue and throat _ad nauseam_— It might have been a sunburn or the glow Left over from a joy-ride in the snow, But measles, chicken-pox or scarlatina Was always present there to Angelina. And when, our stomachs full, we went to bed, Heavy with purloined cake instead of bread, And gave a bilious scream within our sleep, Or called her name—Lord, how her blood would creep! This was delirium—her greatest fear, The last of all the mortal ills that shocked her, She knew that the eternal imps were near, And sent at once for clergyman and doctor. That town of ours had no apothecary, And faith, for us he was not necessary. For Angelina had the cupboards stacked With every known and unknown medicine— Hundreds of bottles, till the household smacked Of things malodorous, day out, day in; Powders and pills for every malady, Goose oil and turkey rhubarb, turpentine, And still more oil, pine syrup, senna tea, Sulphur and blackstrap, tonics for the spring, Liquids unnamed—acid and alkaline, And all most pungent and disquieting. She used not only standard remedies By which all mothers classify the seasons: She improvised for all emergencies And filled us up for most fictitious reasons Before the meals or after, on retiring, Or any time when chilled or just perspiring; The moment that we felt unduly merry, It was our failing appetite, she said— She touched our temples, charted out the head, And reached at once for essence of wild cherry. But then, her first and last line of defence, The utmost limit of her confidence, Was what she kept upon the highest board. ’Twas there her rancid Dead Sea salts were stored. This saturated brine she daily poured With senna down our throats in fixed routine. What mattered it to her that we should go At any time into the world unseen, With spirits unprepared or hearts unclean; It satisfied her conscience quite to know That if we died, we died at least saline. And yet, we know, that failing Angelina, Our infancy and childhood would have been a Most dull and unheroic sort of thing. She gave to life its deepest flavouring, She taught us tastes, improved our deglutition. We loved her with a pale sardonic love— The way she kept our thoughts on things above, Etherialized our bodies by attrition, The way she proved, despite our apprehensions, That all she did was with the best intentions. It’s twenty-seven years ago to-day, That sainted Angelina passed away, Answering the summons of an evening bell. Her soul or wraith or whatsoe’er it be, That’s left from her corporeality, Spun out upon its voyage. Whither? Well, It matters not: but this one thing we know, That most unhappy would the old nurse be, If somehow she were not allowed to go Throughout the nurseries of the nebulae, Stalking at will, administrative, grim, With spoon or cup in hand full to the brim With oil designed for the felicity Of young and fever-spotted cherubim. THE ICE-FLOES Dawn from the Foretop! Dawn from the Barrel! A scurry of feet with a roar overhead; The master-watch wildly pointing to Northward, Where the herd in front of _The Eagle_ was spread! Steel-planked and sheathed like a battleship’s nose, She battered her path through the drifting floes; Past slob and growler we drove, and rammed her Into the heart of the patch and jammed her. There were hundreds of thousands of seals, I’d swear, In the stretch of that field—“white harps” to spare For a dozen such fleets as had left that spring To share in the general harvesting. The first of the line, we had struck the main herd; The day was ours, and our pulses stirred In that brisk, live hour before the sun, At the thought of the load and the sweepstake won. We stood on the deck as the morning outrolled On the fields its tissue of orange and gold, And lit up the ice to the north in the sharp, Clear air; each mother-seal and its “harp” Lay side by side; and as far as the range Of the patch ran out we saw that strange, And unimaginable thing That sealers talk of every spring— The “bobbing-holes” within the floes That neither wind nor frost could close; Through every hole a seal could dive, And search, to keep her brood alive, A hundred miles it well might be, For food beneath that frozen sea. Round sunken reef and cape she would rove, And though the wind and current drove The ice-fields many leagues that day, We knew she would turn and find her way Back to the hole, without the help Of compass or log, to suckle her whelp— Back to that hole in the distant floes, And smash her way up with her teeth, and nose, But we flung those thoughts aside when the shout Of command from the master-watch rang out. Assigned to our places in watches of four— Over the rails in a wild carouse, Two from the port and starboard bows, Two from the broadsides—off we tore, In the breathless rush for the day’s attack, With the speed of hounds on a caribou’s track. With the rise of the sun we started to kill, A seal for each blow from the iron bill Of our gaffs. From the nose to the tail we ripped them, And laid their quivering carcasses flat On the ice; then with our knives we stripped them For the sake of the pelt and its lining of fat. With three fathoms of rope we laced them fast, With their skins to the ice to be easy to drag, With our shoulders galled we drew them, and cast Them in thousands around the watch’s flag. Then, with our bodies begrimed with the reek Of grease and sweat from the toil of the day, We made for _The Eagle_, two miles away, At the signal that flew from her mizzen peak. And through the night, as inch by inch She reached the pans with the “harps” piled high, We hoisted them up as the hours filed by To the sleepy growl of the donkey-winch. Over the bulwarks again we were gone, With the first faint streaks of a misty dawn; Fast as our arms could swing we slew them, Ripped them, “sculped” them, roped and drew them To the pans where the seals in pyramids rose Around the flags on the central floes, Till we reckoned we had nine thousand dead By the time the afternoon had fled; And that an added thousand or more Would beat the count of the day before. So back again to the patch we went To haul, before the day was spent, Another load of four “harps” a man, To make the last the record pan. And not one of us saw, as we gaffed, and skinned, And took them in tow, that the north-east wind Had veered off-shore; that the air was colder; That the signs of recall were there to the south, The flag of _The Eagle_, and the long, thin smoulder That drifted away from her funnel’s mouth. Not one of us thought of the speed of the storm That hounded our tracks in the day’s last chase (For the slaughter was swift, and the blood was warm), Till we felt the first sting of the snow in our face. We looked south-east, where, an hour ago, Like a smudge on the skyline, someone had seen _The Eagle_, and thought he had heard her blow A note like a warning from her sirene. We gathered in knots, each man within call Of his mate, and slipping our ropes, we sped, Plunging our way through a thickening wall Of snow that the gale was driving ahead. We ran with the wind on our shoulder; we knew That the night had left us this only clue Of the track before us, though with each wail That grew to the pang of a shriek from the gale, Some of us swore that _The Eagle_ screamed Right off to the east; to others it seemed On the southern quarter and near, while the rest Cried out with every report that rose From the strain and the rend of the wind on the floes That _The Eagle_ was firing her guns to the west. And some of them turned to the west, though to go Was madness—we knew it and roared, but the notes Of our warning were lost as a fierce gust of snow Eddied, and strangled the words in our throats. Then we felt in our hearts that the night had swallowed All signals, the whistle, the flare, and the smoke To the south; and like sheep in a storm we followed Each other; like sheep we huddled and broke. Here one would fall as hunger took hold Of his step; here one would sleep as the cold Crept into his blood, and another would kneel Athwart the body of some dead seal. And with knife and nails would tear it apart, To flesh his teeth in its frozen heart. And another dreamed that the storm was past, And raved of his bunk and brandy and food, And _The Eagle_ near, though in that blast The mother was fully as blind as her brood. Then we saw, what we feared from the first—dark places Here and there to the left of us, wide, yawning spaces Of water; the fissures and cracks had increased Till the outer pans were afloat, and we knew, As they drifted along in the night to the east, By the cries we heard, that some of our crew Were borne to the sea on those pans and were lost. And we turned with the wind in our faces again, And took the snow with its lancing pain, Till our eye-balls cracked with the salt and the frost; Till only iron and fire that night Survived on the ice as we stumbled on; As we fell and rose and plunged—till the light In the south and east disclosed the dawn, And the sea heaving with floes—and then, _The Eagle_ in wild pursuit of her men. And the rest is as a story told, Or a dream that belonged to a dim, mad past, Of a March night and a north wind’s cold, Of a voyage home with a flag half-mast; Of twenty thousand seals that were killed To help to lower the price of bread; Of the muffled beat . . . of a drum . . . that filled A nave . . . at our count of sixty dead. TOLL OF THE BELLS I We gave them at the harbour every token— The ritual of the guns, and at the mast The flag half-high, and as the cortege passed, All that remained by our dumb hearts unspoken. And what within the band’s low requiem, In footfall or in head uncovered fails Of final tribute, shall at altar-rails Around a chancel soon be offered them. And now a throbbing organ-prelude dwells On the eternal story of the sea; Following in undertone, the Litany Ends like a sobbing wave; and now begins A tale of life’s fore-shortened days; now swells The tidal triumph of Corinthians. II But neither trumpet-blast, nor the hoarse din Of guns, nor the drooped signals from those mute Banners, could find a language to salute The frozen bodies that the ship brought in. To-day the vaunt is with the grave. Sorrow Has raked up faith and burned it like a pile Of driftwood, scattering the ashes while Cathedral voices anthemed God’s To-morrow. Out from the belfries of the town there swung Great notes that held the winds and the pagan roll Of open seas within their measured toll, Only the bells’ slow ocean tones, that rose And hushed upon the air, knew how to tongue That Iliad of Death upon the floes. THE GROUND SWELL Three times we heard it calling with a low, Insistent note; at ebb-tide on the noon; And at the hour of dusk, when the red moon Was rising and the tide was on the flow; Then, at the hour of midnight once again, Though we had entered in and shut the door And drawn the blinds, it crept up from the shore And smote upon a bedroom window-pane; Then passed away as some dull pang that grew Out of the void before Eternity Had fashioned out an edge for human grief; Before the winds of God had learned to strew His harvest-sweepings on a winter sea To feed the primal hungers of a reef. TIME-WORN What magic long ago was in your footstep, That changed each night to day, And swung high noon to midnight every hour You went away. How long the time—is now beyond my telling, With days become as years, And that last pledge of your returning—seasons In arrears! I only know my heart is beating slowly: Come—and swift your feet! Or else there will be neither noon nor midnight When we meet. THE WEATHER GLASS There is no refuge from this wind to-night, Though sound the roof and double-latched the door, And though I’ve trimmed the wick, there is no light, Nor is there warmth although the tamaracks roar; Nor will the battery of those surges keep The hammering pulses silent in my sleep. But one alone might quell this storm to-night, And were he now this moment at the door, His eyes would clear the shadows from this light, His voice put laughter in the billets’ roar, And he would clasp me in his arms and keep The wheeling gulls from screaming through my sleep. THE LEE-SHORE Her heart cried out,—“Come home, come home,” When the storm beat in at the door, When the window showed a spatter of foam, And her ear rang with the roar Of the reef; and she called again, “Come home,” To the ship in reach of the shore. “But not to-night,” flashed the signal light From the Cape that guarded the bay, “No, not to-night,” rang the foam where the white Hard edge of the breakers lay; “Keep away from the crash of the storm at its height, Keep away from the land, keep away.” “Come home,” her heart cried out again, “For the edge of the reef is white.” But she pressed her face to the window-pane, And read the flash of the signal light; Then her voice called out when her heart was slain, “Keep away, my love, to-night.” THE RITUAL I She took her name beneath according skies, With ringing harbour cheers, and in the lee Of hills derived her birthright to the sea— The adoration of a thousand eyes. Each bulwark ran its way from stern to prow, With the slim tracery of a sea-gull’s wing, And—happy augury for the christening— The bottle broke in rainbows on her bow. Beyond the port in roll and leap and curl, In the rich hues of sunlight on the spray, And in the march of tides—swept down the bay The pageant of the morning, to the skirl Of merry pipers as the rising gale Sounded a challenge to her maiden sail. II She left her name under revolted skies, Before the break of day, upon a rock Whose long and sunken ledge met the full shock Of an Atlantic storm, and with the cries Of the curlews issuing from dark caves, Accompanied by the thud of wings from shags That veered down from their nests upon the crags To pounce on bulwarks shattered by the waves. And the birthright that was granted for a brief, Exultant hour with cheers and in the lee Of hills was now restored unto the sea, Amidst the grounded gutturals of the reef, And with the grind of timbers on the sides Of cliffs resounding with the march of tides. ONE HOUR OF LIFE This little face will never know Cut of wind or bite of snow: The sea will never wind its sheet Around those pallid hands and feet. Nor shall its sleeping heart, grown cold After a pulse of life, unfold That futile challenge on the face Of one who with a last embrace Could only cheat the earth to save The plunder for another grave: But in that hour of battle she Forgot the patience of the sea. EROSION It took the sea a thousand years, A thousand years to trace The granite features of this cliff, In crag and scarp and base. It took the sea an hour one night, An hour of storm to place The sculpture of these granite seams Upon a woman’s face. A REVERIE ON A DOG We know the symptoms well: that sudden stitch, We call it, in the side, and the cold rheum That fills the corners of the eyes; the twitch Of nerves, and those hot spasms that consume The strength which would endure the duller pains In creaking joints and knotted sinews. Time Accounts for it, pouring his chilling rime, Instead of blood, through arteries and veins And hardening up the walls. It’s just old age, Flying her tendon needles through and through, That knits the tangles in the cartilage. Easy to see why she should come to men Under the stress of threescore years and ten, But why to dogs and least of all to you. To-night it’s hard for me to understand You are the same great fellow that I knew, As free-born to the sea as to the land. There is the same wide forehead; the same wise Reflection in your brown and tolerant eyes; The deep curl lustre of your shaggy coat; The massive jet circumference of your throat; Your heave of shoulders, length of back—but these, Reminders of your prime, may not disguise That in the effort of that laboured thump Your tail declared lumbago in the rump; Nor make me disbelieve how ill at ease You feel placing your head upon my knees, For when I spoke your name, your forelegs told As plain as speech itself that you were old. Not years—but fifteen weeks—it seems to be: The span of a canine biography. We had you as a pup, a ball of fur, Without a bone in your anatomy. No leopard’s cub was ever livelier. I do not know the kind of lubrication that Was rendered to your gristle from your fat. You tied yourself in skeins and then untied, Or with your teeth into a stick you hung, Like a blood-leech to a swimmer, as we swung You over water from a schooner’s side. A whistle acted like a hidden spring, Releasing inward levers, wheels and traps; Your leaps were antics of a crazy thing, Your barks—a series of percussion caps. And you were brought up somewhat like a child: We teased and petted you and leathered you, And sent you to your kennel, tethered you, And put you on short rations for your wild And freakish ways; and often did we turn You with a broomstick out of doors To howl the livelong night that you might learn To have respect for kitchen mats and floors. You don’t forget the evening when you kept Your vigil waiting till the household slept, Crept up the stairs, entered the attic, stole Into a cupboard, and began to chew The life out of a silver-buckled shoe. You caught it like a muskrat without warning; You tore the clasp and uppers from the sole, And then slept on the carnage till the morning, When Aunt Marie with her keen tongue and keener Strap, sauntered in, and with a master-stroke That caught you flush upon the quarters, woke Your conscience to its first high misdemeanour. But when you grew to adult strength and size, We thought it most absurd to scandalize Your judgment with such capers as debase The minds of other dogs about the place. What greater training nonsense can be known Than this—to whistle for a full-grown dog, Especially if old and adipose, And bid him stand upon his two hind legs, Silent with forepaws drooping as he begs A lump of sugar placed upon his nose, While someone counted up to five or six; Or dress him up in scarlet coat and pants, And make him balance on one leg or dance As if he were a monkey: now, these tricks Might well pertain to Poms or Pekingese And other breeds of sofa pedigrees, But not to you who, scorning a command, The circus gesture of a whip or hand, But just for fun, would never hesitate To make a clear leap at a five-foot gate, Jump from the bow-sprit to the sea or take A two-mile morning swim across a lake; Or—what we thought the greatest sport of all— To fight your way out to the last high wall Of breakers, place your fine retrieving grip On anything we flung—a rope or chip; And what a sight as you emerged and laid It at our feet! and how the rainbows played Above the rising showers as you tried To drown us with salt water from your hide! You never fought with smaller dogs: your pride Regarded wrangling as undignified. But once when a half-bred conceited pup, A Dachshund or a poodle broke your nap One afternoon with his infernal yap; When for a solid hour he kept it up, Presuming on your patience—then we saw You lose your temper. Not being worth a bite, Much less the honour of a serious fight, He took a blow from your contemptuous paw Which drove him deep into a snow-drift where You held him without benefit of air, Until, at length released, he scrambled out With what was left to him of wind and limb, And disappeared in one vertiginous rout As if the devil himself were after him. Now in the course of years it came to pass This little strip of shoreline grew to fame, Merely as habitation for your name, When a great kennel of the ribbon class, Whose carriage of the head and vertebrae Announced but one—your own—paternity, Delivered to the world a score of males— Those champions that crashed the fairs, and made Competitors from other nations fade Into a group of sorry draggle-tails. So in these less known parts your blood prevails Over the mix of anonymity, For no one here may question dogs whose sires First drew from such a regal pedigree To fortify their biologic fires. And other habits that were bred within Required no hand of mine to discipline: Indeed our human sense lagged far behind The deep uncanny wisdom of your kind. Call it a second sight or just plain scent, A calculation or presentiment, You never were, as we have been, storm-blind, Nor felt our herded judgment when with head Bent down we followed hard where no one led, Circling upon our tracks with that arrest Of will when east was north and north was west, And when the winds lied in their throats to tell Us it was night before the evening fell. The way you hit direction was our wonder: Like a St. Bernard you could find your man And dig him out; or with the roads snowed under, Go out into the bush and fetch a span Of horses home. Blindfolded you could tell The folk from one another by their smell, Identify the owner by a sniff At a shoe-lace or a mitt, and when your tail Began to wag, we knew it without fail, That racing down the wind our herring skiff Was making for the cove—before an eye Could spot it from the fleet, or could descry The cut of jib or colour of the sail. How did it happen too that in default Of words you had a language all your own With many a modulation, many a tone? How much of tameless fury for assault Was held in the potential of your growl Awakened by a distant timber howl? Your notes ran the full gamut from a roar That fell only below the leonine Down to the soft insistence of a whine That begged admittance at the kitchen door. And, in between, varieties of bark Expressive of annoyance or delight, With those domestic gutturals that mark A mutual recognition and a fight. But this I know, however much I tried To give the tongue canine its shadings, yet The vocal meaning would be poor beside The drama of your silent alphabet. Here was the cipher in epitome Of all our human moods from “A” to “Z(ed)”. In your cocked ear and gently tilted head Attention had its perfect simile. What disciplined submission as you tried To feign indifference though your dilated Nostrils, sniffing the oven air, belied The patience in your haunches as you waited: And what oblivion when you lay curled Upon the flagstone in the summer shade; What drowsy misconception of a world Where stores are always full and bad debts paid! But tongue and ear and eye and nostril fail To measure the expression of the tail. For every curve and angle known to Science Lay in its lines—the one that stiffly barred A tramp’s suspicious entrance to the yard Looked like a level ramrod of defiance: Only one cause could make it deadlier straight— We saw it on occasions when you stood, Sniffing the wolf within the husky blood, When the grey fellow came too near the gate. And then that most abject configuration, The tail between the legs, which means disgrace To other dogs I know, but in your case The final symbol for complete damnation. That day—now let me recollect—I’ve long Forgotten the real nature of the deed, Some piece of mischief rather than a wrong Done with intent I’ll readily concede. But like a fool I hurled at you a word Hard as a granite fragment for it stirred The self-respect within your own dog soul; It made you slink away without a sound, With lowered flanks and head close to the ground, As though you searched for the last burial hole. And when I saw the way your tail became The figure of your mood, I had no doubt That even Adam when he was cast out Knew not such deep contrition in his shame. But I shall not attempt to picture all The many joyous movements when it curved In gentle oscillation at a call To those tremendous lateral sweeps reserved For high ecstatic moments when the ship Came into harbour from a five-months’ trip: For joining in our welcome to the crew Your tail out-did your bark in the halloo, And as it thudded on your sides, the slam Had power enough to flatten out a ram. Hanged be the man who first tried to defame An instrument of speech so eloquent As this—by dubbing it with such a name That from the dawn of monkeys it has meant A carry-over fussing at the end: For I am sure that when you greet a friend It is the tail itself that wags the dog, And not a vulgar spinal epilogue. Enough of this—I must reform my ways, And speak of acts which seven years ago Broke in upon the passage of our days, Doings of yours which stirred the village so, When from the wharf we watched you wondering What caused your frantic movements to and fro Behind the five young swimmers, shepherding Their strange and headlong struggle to the beach;— The way in which you criss-crossed on your track, Snapping at something that you could not reach, Dived and came up, swam forward and swam back, But ever at the youngsters’ plunging feet; Till someone pointed out in full retreat, A fin shaped like a cutlass, and we knew That underneath the furrow was a blue Torpedo shark making its baffled way Back to the deeper waters of the bay. Do you remember too your own wild fear You would not reach the children at their play Through the high palings of the field, the day You managed with that mighty spring to clear The fence, made for the charging Hereford, caught Him by the muzzle with four fangs, held on And worried him until his wind was gone, When with his nostrils clogged with blood, you brought Him to his knees? And many another deed There was of this like scale which would have won A barrow full of stars, had it been done By men, but being natural to your breed The acts have slipped your knowledge and concern; For who upon this troubled earth could earn Such wages for such service measureless And yet demand so little in return— A caribou-bone of marrow for your share At supper; a soft word, or the caress Of a child’s arms and the great debt was square. And there were other days of bitterness Whose salt was like the sea, but where no less Your royal kinship with our hearts was shown— The failures where the will was strong to save, As on that winter night you took that brave Dive through the ice-crack, but came up alone; No pulse next day beat slower than your own At the enigma of the open grave. So here you are, your head upon my knees; Your joints are stiff, your blood is running cold; How strange it is, in all these fantasies, I had forgotten that you had grown old. Old. . . Well! Here is your last great bond with men, This year will seal it fast, or perhaps another; Your fifteen years is our threescore and ten; Give me the paw, old chap—and now, the other. THE SEA-CATHEDRAL Vast and immaculate! No pilgrim bands, In ecstasy before the Parian shrines, Knew such a temple built by human hands, With this transcendent rhythm in its lines; Like an epic on the North Atlantic stream It moved, and fairer than a Phidian dream. Rich gifts unknown to kings were duly brought At dawn and sunset and at cloudless noons, Gifts from the sea-gods and the sun who wrought Cascades and rainbows; flung them in festoons Over the spires, with emerald, amethyst, Sapphire and pearl out of their fiery mist. And music followed when a litany, Begun with the ring of foam bells and the purl Of linguals as the edges cut the sea, Crashed upon a rising storm with whirl Of floes from far-off spaces where Death rides The darkened belfries of his evening tides. Within the sunlight, vast, immaculate! Beyond all reach of earth in majesty, It passed on southwards slowly to its fate— To be drawn down by the inveterate sea Without one chastening fire made to start From altars built around its polar heart. THE IRON DOOR (An Ode) Its features half-revealed in passing gleams Which had no origin in earthly light, Half-buried in a shifting mass of gloom Which had no kinship with the face of night, It had its station in the cliffs to stand Against the clamour of eternal storm. A giant hand Had wrought it cruciform, And placed deep shadows on the sunken panels, Then in ironic jest, Had carven out the crest Of death upon the lintel. Out of some Plutonian cave It had been brought, and hung Within its granite architrave. I saw no latch or knocker on the door; It seemed the smith designed it to be swung But once, then closed forevermore. The noise as of stubborn waters Came in from a distant tide To the beat of Time with slow, Immeasurable stride. From an uncharted quarter, A wind began to blow, And clouds to rise, And underneath I saw the forms of mortals Come and go, And heard their cries,— Fragments of speech, bewildered pleas, That rose upon the pauses of the wind, To hush upon the thunder of great seas. And I thought what vain credulities Should lure those human souls before This vast inexorable door. A music which the earth has only known In the drab hours of its emptiness, Or in the crisis of a fiery stress Fell on my ear In broken chord and troubled undertone. For in this scale were tragic dreams Awaiting unfulfilled decrees, Some brighter than the purest gleams Of seraphic ecstasies; And some with hopes and fears Which ran their paling way Beyond the boundaries of availing prayer, To dim-illumined reaches where the frore, Dumb faces of despair Gazed at their natural mirror in the door. Then with the intermittent lull Of wind and the dull Break of transitory light, Where rents in the shawl of the darkness Revealed star-bursts and clouds in flight, The cries were winged into language, And forms which were featureless grew Into the shapes of persons I knew Who had tasted of life and had died. Standing, anxious-eyed, So small against the drift of space, Enveloped by the gloom, A boy searched for his father’s face, With that unvoiced appeal, Which I remember, when he brought A water-spaniel home one day, Crushed beneath an engine-wheel; And could not, by a rational way, Be fully made to understand That the mending of a lifeless body lay Beyond the surgery of his father’s hand. A master mariner Stood looking at the dull Outline of a basalt spur, Which in the fall and lift of fog, Took on the shape of a gigantic hull. He was old and travel-stained, And his face grained With rebel questionings Urged with unsurrendered dignity; For he had lost three sons at sea, In a work of rescue known To the high Atlantic records of that year. Then as the crag took on the heaving motion Of the fog, and the roar beat in his ear Of surge afar off, he hallooed The unknown admiral of the unknown ocean:— _Ahoy! The latitude and longitude?_ _Within these parts do the stars fail?_ _Is the sextant in default?_ _What signals and what codes prevail?_ _And is the taste of the water salt_ _About your reefs? Do you bury your dead_ _In the national folds?_ _Is the blood of your sailors red_ _When songs are sung_ _At the capstan bars? Are davits swung_ _At a call from the bridge when the night is dark,_ _And life like wine is spilled at a word to retrieve_ _The ravage of gales? Do courage and honour receive_ _On the wastes of your realm, their fair name and title?_ _As they do at our sea gray altars,—by your leave._ The fog closed in upon the spur, The moving hull became a rock Beneath the undulations, and the shock Of winds from an unknown compass point cut short The seaman’s challenge till that sound again From the hinter-sea broke through, and the swart Impress on his face was stirred By that insurgent flash, It once had known when after the report Of his sons’ loss on the High Seas, he had heard With a throb of pride, The authentic word From the Captain’s lips, Of the way the lads had died. Another form appeared, One whom I knew so well,—endeared To me by all the natural ties which birth And life and much-enduring love impose. There was no trace Of doubt or consternation on her face, Only a calm reliance that the door Would open and disclose Those who by swifter strides had gone ahead. It was the same expression that she wore, One evening, when with life-work done, She went to bed, In the serene belief that she could borrow Sufficient strength out of the deep Resources of a final sleep, To overtake the others by the morrow. A young man struck against the door Demanding with his sanguine prime, If the eternal steward registered The unrecorded acts of time; Not for himself insisting, but for one,— A stranger at his side, For whom he had staked his life, And on the daring odds had died. No one had seen this young man go, Or watched his plunge, To save another whom he did not know. Men only guessed the grimness of the struggle, The body-tug, the valour of the deed, For both were wrapped in the same green winding-sheet, And blood-red was the colour of the weed, That lay around their feet. Life for a life! The grim equivalent Was vouched for by a sacred precedent; But why the one who should have been redeemed Should also pay the price In the mutual sacrifice, Was what he wished to know, And urged upon the iron, blow by blow. One who had sought for beauty all his days, In form and colour, symphony and phrase, Who had looked on gods made perfect by man’s hand, And Nature’s glories on the sea and land,— Now paused and wondered if the Creator’s power, Finding itself without a plan, was spent, Leaving no relic at this vacant hour, But a grave-stone and iron monument. One who had sought for truth, but found the world Outside the soul betray the one within, Knew beacon signals but as casual fires, And systems dead but for their power to spin, Laid deeply to his heart his discipline, Looked at the door where all the roadways closed, And took it as the clench of evidence, That the whole cosmic lie was predisposed, Yet faced it with a fine indifference. From somewhere near the threshold of the door, A sharp insistent cry, Above all other notes, arose,— A miserere flung out to the sky, Accompanied by a knocking So importunate, It might have been the great Crescendo from the world of human souls, Gathering strength to assail The unhearing ears of God, or else to hail His drowsy warders at the stellar poles. Then through a rift In a storm-cloud’s eddying, A grayness as of drift Of winter snow in a belated spring, Appeared upon a woman’s face, Eroded with much perishing. The same dark burden under which the race Reaches old age lay strapped upon her soul:— That which collects in silence all the shame, Through hidden passages of time and blood, Then puts the open stigma of the blame Upon a spotless name. Why all the purchase of her pain, And all her love could not atone For that incalculable stain: Why from that tortuous stream,— Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone,— Should issue forth a Cain; Were queries rained upon the iron plates. ’Twas not enough, it seemed, that her one gift To life should be returned To death, but that the Fates Should so conspire To have this one devoted offering burned At such an altar, and by such a fire! But what availed A woman’s cry against the arrest Of hope when every rubric paled Before the Theban mockery of the crest? And at this darkest moment, as I dreamed, The world with its dead weight of burdens seemed To pause before the door, in drifts of sand, And catacombs of rock and burial turf: For every wind that raged upon the land Had fled the nescient hollow of God’s hand. And all the music left upon its waters Lay in the gray rotation of the surf, With calls of seamen in great weariness At their unanswered signals of distress; And all the light remaining was bereft Of colour and design in full eclipse; No fragrance in the fields; no flowers left But poppies with their charred autumnal lips. Then with a suddenness beyond surprise, When life was sinking in its cosmic trial, And time was running down before my eyes, New lights and shadows leaped upon the dial. I have often heard it said that by some token, As fragile as a shell, Or a wish thrice-spoken, The direst spell, Though old and ringed of iron, might be broken; That a fool’s belief in the incredible, Joined to the sounding magic of a name, Makes up the stuff of miracle. From such a source, it well might be, Came this supreme authority. It may have been the young man’s claim On life; or the old captain calling stormily From sea to sea; Or that root faith within a woman’s heart; Perhaps it was the white face of the child; Or that last argument so wild Of wing, of such tumultuous breath, Its strange unreason might be made to prove The case for life before the throne of death, I do not know; But in the dream the door began to move. A light shot through the narrow cleft, And shattered into hurrying gleams that rode Upon the backs of clouds, and through deep hollows, Like couriers with weird, prophetic code. And as the door swung forward slowly, A sound was heard, now like the beat Of tides under the drive of winds, Now like the swift deck-tread of feet, Steadying to a drum Which marshalled them to quarters, or the hum Of multitudinous voices that would tell Of the move of life invincible. Then as the opening widened, And the sound became more clear, I tried With an insatiate hunger, to discover The fountain of that light and life inside; And with an exultation which outrode The vaunt of raw untutored strength, I cried;— _Now shall be read_ _The faded symbols of the page which keeps_ _This hoary riddle of the dead._ But something heavy and as old as clay, Which mires a human soul, Laid hold upon the quest so that it fell, Just baffled of its goal. Beyond the threshold of the door, I could not see; I only knew That those who had been standing, waiting there, Were passing through; And while it was not given me to know Whither their journey led, I had caught the sense Of life with high auroras and the flow Of wide majestic spaces; Of light abundant; and of keen impassioned faces, Transfigured underneath its vivid glow. Then the door moved to its close with a loud, Relentless swing, as backed by ocean power; But neither gird of hinges, nor the feel of air Returning with its drilled weight of cloud, Could cancel half the meaning of that hour,— Not though the vision passed away, And I was left alone, aware Of blindness falling with terrestrial day On sight enfeebled by the solar glare. A MISCELLANY A PRAIRIE SUNSET What alchemist could in one hour so drain The rainbow of its colours, smelt the ore From the September lodes of heaven, to pour This Orient magic on a Western plain, And build the miracle before our eyes Of castellated heights and colonnades, Carraran palaces, and cavalcades Trooping through a city in the skies! A northern cloud became a temple spire, A southern reach showed argosies on fire, And in the centre, with unhurried feet, Came priests and paladins, soon to descend To earth with swinging censers to attend The god of harvests down amidst his wheat. And scarcely less resplendent was the passing, When with the night winds rising on the land, The hosts were led by a Valkyrian hand To their abodes, accompanied by the massing Of amber clouds touched with armorial red, By thrones dissolving, and by spirals hurled From golden plinths, announcing to the world That Day, for all its blazonry, was dead. And when, like a belated funeral rite, The last pale torch was smothered by the night, The mind’s horizon like the sky was stripped Of all illusion but a fable told Of gods that died, of suns and worlds grown cold, In some extinct Promethean manuscript. OUT OF STEP (1931 A.D.) When the celestial dance was planned For star and constellation, A mighty baton took command Of perfect orchestration. We praised the Master of the skies For sun and moon and planet— The ellipse was lovely to our eyes, So gracefully he ran it. But when the human dancers met, This year—about two billion— They fumbled with their minuet, And CRASH went their pavilion! THE MAN AND THE MACHINE By right of fires that smelted ore Which he had tended years before, The man whose hands were on the wheel Could trace his kinship through her steel, Between his body warped and bent In every bone and ligament, And this “eight-cylinder” stream-lined, The finest model yet designed. He felt his lesioned pulses strum Against the rhythm of her hum, And found his nerves and sinews knot With sharper spasm as she climbed The steeper grades, so neatly timed From storage tank to piston shot— This creature with the cougar grace, This man with slag upon his face. THE PARABLE OF PUFFSKY Puffsky knew not how to live, But only how to sell, And strange it is—this truth to tell— That he was never known to give And never known to buy. Crack salesman of his time, He kept financiers wondering why He found such means to multiply His wealth yet never parted with a dime. He sold by night, he sold by day, Sold long, sold short, sold anyway; He’d sell his teeth, he’d sell his eyes: it made No difference to his trade No matter what he sold— Bottles, gases, oils or foods— The other fellow took the goods, But Puffsky took the gold. And yet alas! One night it came to pass That just the hour that Puffsky died, He still assumed the bargain-rôle, For, shambling up to God, he tried To dicker with his soul. And the good Lord sized him up and down, And looked him through and through, As he would a parvenu; And then replied with darkening frown, As Puffsky wedged his foot against the door, “Sirrah—you may think it strange, But on the floor Of this Exchange We neither barter, buy nor sell, And neither dime nor rusty sou Have we to offer you”: And whereupon the Lord adjusted well A glittering monocle, And said: “Hence—try thy game in hell.” So without further argument, Thither Puffsky went. Then Satan with a hoarse and bronchial laugh— Amazed that such a spirit could exist— Appointed a commission, Composed of two professors on his staff, A chemist and a pessimist, To make report upon the apparition; To estimate Its size and weight, Specific gravity, And value in Gehenna currency. And from the laboratory retort Came back this joint report— “Both size and weight Are indeterminate. It is a watered soul That hath a swollen diaphragm, Gaseous, but non-inflammable When mixed with coal, Therefore in hell Not worth a current damn.” OLD AGE So poor again—with all that plunder taken; Your mountain stride, your eagle vision—gone! And the _All Hail_ of your voice in a world forsaken Of song and curving wings and the laughter of dawn. So little is left; I cannot be persuaded It is your hand that shakes; your step that falls; Your will, once statured on the crags, now faded To the round of a wheel chair and four dull walk. And yet to-day as I watched your pale face yearning, When the sun’s warmth poured through the open door, And something molten in your soul was burning Memorial raptures life could not restore, I knew, by some high trick of sight and hearing, Your heart was lured beyond the window sills, Adventuring where the valley mists were clearing, And silver horns were blowing on the hills. BLIND It was your boast before the darkness fell, That you could measure all your love, and chart The return of mine so surely as to tell Both boundary and trespass in my heart. But when the dawn and the meridian Entered their sudden fusion with the night; When roses and anemones began To grow as winter rushes in your sight; I wondered by what navigator’s sign, By what vicarious starlight, you could trace Horizons which were never yours nor mine, Until your wistful fingers sought my face. A LEGACY The will she made contained no room for strife, For twisted words concerning gold or lands, For all the wealth that she had saved from life Was such as lay within her folded hands. She would have been less rich with other store, And we the poorer if she had not willed Only her heart, and then gone out the door, Leaving that cupboard on the latch and filled. THE DECISION (To L.R., a college athlete who died May, 1923.) You left the field and no one heard A murmur from you. We, With burning look and stubborn word, Challenged the Referee— Why he forbade you to complete The run, hailing you back Before your firm and eager feet Were half-way round the track; Unless he had contrived, instead, To start you on a race, With an immortal course ahead, And daybreak on your face. THE HIGHWAY What aeons passed without a count or name, Before the cosmic seneschal, Succeeding with a plan Of weaving stellar patterns from a flame, Announced at his high carnival An orbit—with Aldebaran! And when the drifting years had sighted land, And hills and plains declared their birth Amid volcanic throes, What was the lapse before the marshal’s hand Had found a garden on the earth, And led forth June with her first rose? And what the gulf between that and the hour, Late in the simian-human day, When Nature kept her tryst With the unfoldment of the star and flower— When in her sacrificial way Judaea blossomed with her Christ! But what made our feet miss the road that brought The world to such a golden trove, In our so brief a span? How may we grasp again the hand that wrought Such light, such fragrance, and such love, O star! O rose! O Son of Man? CHERRIES “I’ll never speak to Jamie again”— Cried Jennie, “let alone wed, No, not till blackbirds’ wings grow white, And crab-apple trees grow cherries for spite, But I’ll marry Percy instead.” But Jamie met her that self-same day, Where crab-apple trees outspread, And poured out his heart like a man insane, And argued until he became profane, That he never meant what he said. Now strange as it seems, the truth must be told, So wildly Jamie pled, That cherries came out where the crab-apples grew, And snow-winged blackbirds came down from the blue, And feasted overhead. A FELINE SILHOUETTE They faced each other, taut and still; Arched hickory, neck and spine; Heads down, tails straight, with hair of quill, The fence—the battleline. The slits within their eyes describe The nature of their feud; Each came to represent a tribe Which never was subdued. One minute just before they fought, Before their blood called—“Time”, One told the other what he thought In words I cannot rhyme. They hit each other in mid-air In one terrific bound, And even yet, as I’m aware, They have not struck the ground. THE CHILD AND THE WREN (To Claire) It took three weeks to make them friends— The wren in fear the maid molest Those six white eggs within the nest She built up at the gable-end. What fearful language might be heard (If only English she could speak) On every day of the first week, All from the throat of that small bird! The scolding died away, and then The fear was followed by surprise At such sky-blue within the eyes, That travelled from the girl to wren. But that third week! I do not know— It’s neither yours to tell nor mine— Some understanding glance or sign Had passed between them to and fro; For never was her face so flushed, Never so brilliant blue her eye At any gift that I could buy, As at the news when in she rushed To tell us that the wren had come, With flutter and hop and gurgling sound, From gable to tree, to shrub, to ground, Right to her hand to get a crumb. FROST The frost moved up the window-pane Against the sun’s advance, In line and pattern weaving there Rich scenes of old romance— Armies on the Russian snows, Cockade, sword, and lance. It spun a web more magical, Each moment creeping higher, For marble cities crowned the hills With turret, fane and spire, Till when it struck the flaming sash, The Kremlin was on fire. COMRADES You—that could not stand the dust Of a day’s dry weather, Nor in high winds Shoulder a load together, Without a faith that was broken, And a love consumed By the hot marl of words That were spoken— Do you not know that a hemlock root Will enfold you together, Though fair be the sky Or foul be the weather? To that same bed you shall come, When the ear shall be deaf And the lips be dumb; Where under the turf, Not a note shall be heard, From the cry of a wren To the thunder of surf. JOCK O’ THE LINKS Ah Jock! I’m sure that as a right Good honest friend I ken ye, And damned be he that would indite A scornful word agen’ ye: A self-controlled God-fearin’ Scot, You fight with all that’s evil, But every time you top your shot The odds are with the devil. A softer heart in human breast I do not know another, And many a time, in many a test, You’ve proved yourself a brother. That man, I’ll swear, is not alive More temperate in speech, But every time you fan your drive I get beyond your reach. That God is partial to the plaid, Long-suffering, too, I’ve heard; I hope He was the day I had You stymied on the third; I cannot vouch for rumour, but One thing I trust is clear, That when He saw you miss your putt, He turned His one deaf ear. I’m thankful, too, that when you dub Your spoon, it’s not on me You break your new steel-shafted club, But on your Highland knee. And wise I have been to abstain From comments on your stance, With pibrochs crashing through your brain, Culloden through your glance. THE CONVICT HOLOCAUST (Columbus, Ohio, 1930) Waiting their turn to be identified, After their fiery contact with the walls, Three hundred pariahs ranged side by side Upon the floors along the cattle stalls! The fires consumed their numbers with their breath, Charred out their names: though many of the dead Gave proof of valour, just before their death, That Caesar’s legions might have coveted. But these, still subject to the law’s commands, Received the last insignia of the cell: The guards went through them, straightened out their hands, And with the ink-brush got the thumb-prints well. THE EPIGRAPHER His head was like his lore—antique, His face was thin and sallow-sick, With god-like accent he could speak Of Egypt’s reeds or Babylon’s brick Or sheep-skin codes in Arabic. To justify the ways divine, He had travelled Southern Asia through— Gezir down in Palestine, Lagash, Ur and Eridu, The banks of Nile and Tigris too. And every occult Hebrew tale He could expound with learned ease, From Aaron’s rod to Jonah’s whale. He had held the skull of Rameses— The one who died from boils and fleas. Could tell how—saving Israel’s peace— The mighty Gabriel of the Lord Put sand within the axle-grease Of Pharaoh’s chariots; and his horde O’erwhelmed with water, fire and sword. And he had tried Behistun Rock, That Persian peak, and nearly _clomb_ it; His head had suffered from the shock Of somersaulting from its summit— Nor had he quite recovered from it. From that time onward to the end, His mind had had a touch of gloom; His hours with jars and coins he’d spend, And ashes looted from a tomb,— Within his spare and narrow room. His day’s work done, with the last rune Of a Hammurabi fragment read, He took some water spiced with prune And soda, which imbibed, he said A Syrian prayer, and went to bed. * * * * * * * * * And thus he trod life’s narrow way,— His soul as peaceful as a river— His understanding heart all day Kept faithful to a stagnant liver. L’ENVOI. When at last his stomach went by default, His graduate students bore him afar To the East where the Dead Sea waters are, And pickled his bones in Eternal Salt. LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER Helen, Deirdre, Héloïse, Laura, Cleopatra, Eve! The knight-at-arms is on his knees, Still at your altars—by your leave. The magic of your smiles and frowns Had made you goddesses by right, Divorced the monarchs from their crowns, And changed world empires over-night. You caught the _male_ for good or ill, And locked him in a golden cage, Or let him out at your sweet will— A prince or peasant, lord or page. But do not preen your wings and claim That when you passed away, the keys— The symbols of your charm and fame— Were buried with your effigies. For, wild and lovely are your broods That stole from you the ancient arts; In tender or tempestuous moods, They storm the barrens of our hearts. Amy, Hilda, Wilhelmine, Golden Marie and slim Suzette, Viola, Claire and dark Eileen, Brown-eyed Mary, blue-eyed Bett. Daughters are ye of those days When Troy and Rome and Carthage burned: Ye cannot mend your mothers’ ways Or play a trick they hadn’t learned. But whether joy or whether woe— Lure of lips or scorn of eyes— We bless you either way we go, In or out of Paradise. EXTRAVAGANZAS THE WITCHES’ BREW (In celebration of a fifth wedding anniversary) Perched on a dead volcanic pile, Now charted as a submerged peak, Near to a moon-washed coral isle, A hundred leagues from Mozambique, Three water-witches of the East, Under the stimulus of rum, Decided that the hour had come To hold a Saturnalian feast, In course of which they hoped to find For their black art, once and for all, The true effect of alcohol Upon the cold, aquatic mind. From two Phœnicians who were drowned, The witches three (whose surnames ran Lulu, Ardath, Maryan) Had by an incantation found A cavern near the coast of Crete, And saw, when they had entered in, A blacksmith with a dorsal fin, Whose double pectorals and webbed feet Proved—while his dusky shoulders swung— His breed to be of land and water, Last of great Neptune’s stock that sprung From Vulcan’s union with his daughter. The sisters’ terms accepted, he, Together with his family, Left his native Cretan shore To dig the witches’ copper ore Out of their sub-aquaceous mines In the distant Carolines, And forge a cauldron that might stand, Stationary and watertight, A thousand cubits in its height, Its width a thousand breadths as spanned By the smith’s gigantic hand, So that each fish, however dry, Might have, before the Feast was through, His own demonstrable supply Of this Pan-Oceanic brew. A thousand leagues or so away Down the Pacific to Cape Horn, And Southwards from Magellan lay A table-land to which was borne This cauldron from the Carolines, For here, as well the sisters knew, The Spanish conquerors of Peru Had stored their rich and ancient wines, About the time the English burst Upon their galleons under Drake, Who sank or captured them to slake A vast Elizabethan thirst. With pick and bar the Cretan tore His way to the interior Of every sunken ship whose hold Had wines almost four centuries old. Upon the broad Magellan floors, Great passage-way from West to East, Were also found more recent stores, The products of a stronger yeast. For twenty years or thereabout, The Bacchanals of Western nations, Scenting universal drought, Had searched the ocean to find out The most secluded ports and stations, Where unmolested they might go “To serve their god while here below,” With all the strength of their libations. So to the distant isles there sailed, In honour of the ivy god, Scores of log-loaded ships that hailed From Christiania to Cape Cod With manifests entitled _ham_, _Corn beef_, _molasses_, _chamois milk_, _Cotton_, _Irish linen_, _silk_, _Pickles_, _dynamite_ and _jam_, And myriad substances whose form Dissolved into quite other freights, Beneath the magic of a storm That scattered them around the Straits; For this is what the blacksmith read, While raking up the ocean bed:— _Budweiser_, _Guinness_, _Schlitz_ (in kegs), _Square Face Gin_ and _Gordon’s Dry_, _O’Brien’s_, _Burke’s_ and _Johnny Begg’s_, _Munich_, _Bock_, and _Seagram’s Rye_, _Dewar’s_, _Hennessey’s 3 Star_, _Glenlivet_, _White Horse_ and _Old Parr_, With _Haig and Haig_, _Canadian Club_, _Jamaica Rum_, and other brands Known to imbibers in all lands That stock from Brewery or Pub. All these the Cretan, with the aid Of his industrious progeny, Drew to the cauldron, and there laid, By order of the witches three, The real foundation for the spree. OTHER INGREDIENTS To make a perfect fish menu, The witches found they had to place Upon this alcoholic base Great stacks of food and spices too. Of all the things most edible On which the souls of fish have dined, That fish would sell their souls to find, Most gracious to their sense of smell, Is flesh exotic to their kind;— Cold-blooded things yet not marine, And not of earth, but half-between, That live enclosed within the sand Without the power of locomotion, And mammal breeds whose blood is hot, That court the sea but love it not, That need the air but not the land,— The Laodiceans of the ocean. So in this spacious cauldron went Cargoes of food and condiment. Oysters fished from Behring Strait Were brought and thrown in by the crate; Spitzbergen scallops on half-shell, Mussels, starfish, clams as well, Limpets from the Hebrides, Shrimps and periwinkles, these, So celebrated as a stew, Were meant to flavour up the brew. Then for the more substantial fare, The curried quarter of a tail Hewn from a stranded Greenland whale, A liver from a Polar bear, A walrus’ heart and pancreas, A blind Auk from the coast of Java, A bull moose that had died from gas While eating toadstools near Ungava, One bitter-cold November day; Five sea-lion cubs were then thrown in, Shot by the Cretan’s javelin In a wild fight off Uruguay; With flippers fresh from the Azores, Fijian kidneys by the scores, Together with some pollywogs, And kippered hocks of centipedes, And the hind legs of huge bull frogs Raked by the millions from the reeds Of slimy Patagonian bogs. Then before the copper lid Was jammed upon the pyramid, The sisters scattered on the top Many a juicy lollipop; Tongues from the Ganges crocodile, Spawn from the delta of the Nile, Hoofs of sheep and loins of goats, Raised from foundered cattle-boats— Titbits they knew might blend with hops, Might strengthen rum or season rye, From Zulu hams and Papuan chops To filets mignons from Shanghai. Now while volcanic fires burned, Making the cauldron fiercely hot, Lulu with her ladle churned The pungent contents of the pot, From which distinctive vapours soon Rose palpably before the view. Then Ardath summoned a typhoon Which as it swooped upon the stew, And swept around the compass, bore To every sea and every shore The tidings of the witches’ Feast. And from the West and from the East, And from the South and from the North, From every bay and strait and run, From the Tropics to the Arctic sun, The Parliament of fish came forth, Lured by a smell surpassing far The potencies of boiling tar, For essences were in this brew Unknown to blubber or to glue, And unfamiliar to the nose Of sailors hardened as they are To every unctuous wind that blows From Nantucket to Baccalieu. The crudest oil one ever lit Was frankincense compared to it. It entered Hades, and the airs Resuscitated the Immortals; It climbed the empyrean stairs And drove St. Peter from the portals. DEFENSIVE MEASURES According to the witches’ plan, All life whose blood did not run true Must be excluded from the brew; Each earthly thing from snail to man, And every mammal of the sea Was for that night an enemy. And so the smith from ocean hoards Had gathered masts and spars and boards Of ships, with cutlasses and swords, And countless pikes and spears, and made With them a towering palisade. And to the top thereof was sent, To guard the brew, a warrior,— The bravest of the ranks of war, And deaf to bribe or argument. To neither shark nor swordfish fell The honours of the sentinel, For of all fighters there, the star Was Tom the cat from Zanzibar. THE SEA-CAT It’s not for us to understand How life on earth began to be, How forms that lived within the sea Should leave the water for the land; Or how—(Satan alone may trace The dark enigma of this race) When feline variants, so far Removed as tabs and tigers are, Preferred, when they had left the shore, The jungle and the kitchen floor— That this uncouth, primordial cat Should keep his native habitat. Yet here he was, and one might find In crouch and slink and instant spring Upon a living, moving thing, The common genus of his kind. But there were qualities which he Derived not from his family tree. No leopard, lynx or jaguar Could match this cat from Zanzibar For whiskers that from ear to chin Ran round to decorate his grin. And something wilder yet than that Lay in the nature of this cat. It’s said that mariners by night, When near a dangerous coast-line, might Recover bearings from the light Of some strange thing that swam and gleamed; A Salamander it might be, They said, or Lucifer that streamed His fiery passage through the sea. But in this banquet place not one Of all the revellers could fail To solve the riddle when Tom spun A vast ecliptic as his tail, A fiery comet, and his fur Electrified each banqueter. So the three beldams there agreed No alien could invade the hall If one of such a fighting breed Were placed upon the fortress wall; For who, they asked, of mortal creatures Could claim more fearful derivation Than Tom with his Satanic features And his spontaneous conflagration? THE FLIGHT OF THE IMMORTALS Close to the dunnest hour of night, Sniffing the odour of the brew, Their bat-wings oiled for water flight, The Devil and his legions flew, Smashing the record from Hell’s Gates By plumbline to Magellan Straits. Far in their wake, but hurrying fast For fear the odour might not last Till morning, came a spectral band Weary from Hades—that dry land. INVENTORY OF HADES 1. Statesmen and apothecaries, Poets, plumbers, antiquaries, Premiers with their secretaries, Home and foreign missionaries, And writers of obituaries. 2. Mediæval disputants Mystics in perpetual trance, Philosophers in baggy pants, Puritans to whom the chance Had never come in life to dance Save when the dreadful circumstance Of death removed their maiden aunts. 3. Scribes with wide phylacteries, Publicists and Sadducees, Scholars, saints and Ph.D.’s. 4. Doctors, auctioneers and bakers, Dentists, diplomats and fakirs, Clergymen and undertakers. 5. Rich men, poor men, fools and sots, Logicians, tying Shades in knots, Pagans, Christians, Hottentots, Deacons good and bad in spots, Farmers with their Wyandots. AN HOUR LATER Not since the time the sense of evil Caught our first parents by surprise, While eating fruit in Paradise, One fateful morning, had the Devil, Used as he was to steam and smoke, Beheld such chaos as now broke Upon his horny, bloodshot eyes. Prince of the Power of the air, Lord of terrestrial things as well As subterranean life in Hell, He had till now not been aware How this great watery domain Might be enclosed within his reign; Such things as fish, cold-blooded, wet, Had served no end of his as yet. The serpent could be made to lie, And hence fit agent to deceive A trustful female such as Eve; But he, though cold, at least was dry. For all his wily strategy Since time began, the Devil saw No way to circumvent the sea. The fish transgressed no moral law, They had no principles, no creed, No prayers, no Bibles, and no Church, No Reason’s holy light to read The truth and no desire to search. Hence from Dame Nature’s ancient way Their fins had never learned to stray. They ate and drank and fought, it’s true, And when the zest was on they slew; But yet their most tempestuous quarrels Were never prejudiced by morals; As Nature had at the beginning Created them, so they remained— Fish with cold blood no skill had trained To the warm arts of human sinning. THE MIDNIGHT REVELS AS OBSERVED BY THE SHADES “The witches’ device for the equitable distribution of the liquor consisted in the construction of tens of thousands of stopcocks and bungs which were fitted into the perforations of the cauldron, and graded so nicely in calibre that every species of fish from a sardine to a shark might find perfect oral adjustment. To provide against all contingencies they had, in addition, furnished each amphibious member of the Cretan family with a ladle so that the weaker fish, unable to reach the taps and bung-holes, might be supplied at the surface of the water. But notwithstanding all their powers of divination, the scheme came very near to being wrecked, first, by the tremendous congregation of fish, and secondly, by the advent of the wild hordes from Hades. Now it was not within the counsels of either the witches or the Devil that the test should be prejudiced by the Shades. If they arrived at all, their rôle would be severely restricted to that of an audience. But the momentum of their rush carried them up against the sides of the cauldron with such a terrific impact that a vertical crack, one hundred cubits long, was made near the top. Fortunately, however, for the experiment, the Shades were immediately driven back to the rear by a battalion of imps, and the crack served the purpose of allowing sufficient liquor to trickle through into the sea to account for the inebriation of such fish as those whose nervous constitution could not stand the undiluted draughts.” _Byron_: Now what the devil can be hid In whisky straight, or punch or sherbet, To give the doldrums to that squid, Or plant the horrors in that turbot? I never dreamed a calamary Could get so dead stiff on Canary. _Wolsey_: I’ve watched the effect of many a dram On Richmond and on Buckingham; And with good reasons have I mourned To see my Royal Henry corned; And many a noble prelate losing His benefice by one night’s boozing. But till this hour I never knew What alcoholic draughts could do To change a salmon or a hake Into a paralytic rake; Or how a drunken sturgeon felt When fever burned inside his pelt. _Campeggio_: Now by my Hat and Clement’s foot, What kind of devil must have dwelt Inside a liquor that could put Delirium tremens in a smelt? _Pepys_: What maddening impulse makes that shark, Which ought, by its own nature, choose a Mate of its own kind, to spark With that gelatinous Medusa? _Paracelsus_: They say that mortals may go mad Beneath thy beams, Divinest Luna; But how canst thou debauch a shad, Create an epileptic tuna? _Gulliver_: I saw a sardine just now glut His hunger on a halibut. _Samuel Butler_: How could a thing like rye or hops stir The turgid corpus of a lobster? And thus induce an inflammation Within the shell of a crustacean? _Samson_: I saw a small phlegmatic mullet Holding a dog-fish by the gullet. _Saint Patrick_: Such crimes as from the sea arise Beat out the days of old Gomorrah; Had I not seen it with my eyes I would not have believed, begorra! THE CHARGE OF THE SWORDFISH Now when, beneath the riotous drinking, The witches found the liquor sinking So low their ladles couldn’t reach it, The blacksmith with a blazing larynx Organized a swordfish phalanx And charged the cauldron plate to breach it. Back from its copper flanks they fell, The smith had done his work too well. _A Greek_: From such a race of myrmidons Our heroes and our Marathons. _Fabius Maximus_: It’s but the fury of despair. _A French General_: Magnifique! mais ce n’est pas la guerre. _Napoleon_: By some such wild demonic means My astral promise was undone. _Nelson_: By spirits like to such marines Trafalgar and the Nile were won. _Carlyle_: Full ten feet thick that plate was wrought, And yet those swordfish tried to ram it; Unthinking fools! I never thought The sea so full of numskulls, dammit! _Satan_: Now by my hoof, this recipe Is worth a million souls to me; But lo! what mortal creature there Grins, haunched upon the parapet, Whose fierce, indomitable stare I long have dreamed of, but not met? _Maryan_: Most sovereign and most sulphurous lord! We, with the help of Cretans, made This circumambient palisade Of this great height and strength, to ward Off such invaders as might mar Our feast, and then as sentinel— Chief vigilante out of hell— We stationed HIM from Zanzibar. _Satan_: Good! From such audacious seed Sprang Heaven’s finest, fallen breed, Maryan! Ardath! Lulu! Try out upon this cat, the brew. THE SUPREME TEST Now it was clear to every Shade That some great wonder was before them, As Tom upon the palisade Emptied, as fast as Lulu bore them, The flasks upon the ocean wagon. And clear it was when Tom had cleaned The liquor from the hundredth flagon, The Shades then saw Hell’s darkest fiend,— A sea-cat with an awful jag-on. Up to this time, he did not see Upon the wide expanse of grey A single thing approach his way Which he might call his enemy. He spent the hours upon the rim, Leaping, dancing, rarely sitting, Always grinning, always spitting, Waiting for a foe to swim Within his range, but through the night Not a walrus offered fight,— A most unusual night for him. But with the hundredth flagon drink, He spat at his inactive fate, And moving closer to the brink, Began more madly to gyrate. Upon his face, ironic, grim, A resolution was ingrained, If fish would not come unto him To offer battle, what remained But that his lighting blood would freeze Unless he were allowed to go, Ranging at will upon the seas, To fight and conquer every foe? With that, into the cavernous deep He took a ghastly, flying leap. Gaping, breathless, every Shade Watched the course of the wild-cat’s raid; And never was an errand run With means and end so much at one. For from his birth he was imbued With hatred of his racial kind; A more inveterate, blasting feud Within the world one could not find. His stock were traitors to the sea, Had somehow learned the ways of earth, The need of air, the mystery Of things warm-blooded, and of birth. To avenge this shameful derogation, He had, upon his final flask, Resolved to carry out his task,— To wit:—the full extermination, First, of his nearest order, male And female, then the breed cetacean; Grampus, porpoise, dolphin, whale,— Humpback, Rorqual, Black and White; Then the walrus, lion, hood, Seals of all orders; these he would Just as they came, in single fight, Or in the fortunes of mêlée, Challenge as his lawful prey. _The Blacksmith_: I never knew an ocean steed Develop such demonic speed. _Sir Isaac Newton_: How he maintains that lightning rate, Now in air and now in water, And carries on such heavy slaughter, Is more than I can formulate. _Blake_: The tiger, though in stretch of limb And heft of bone is larger; still, For straight uxoricidal will Is but a lamb compared to him. _Bottom_: What humour is it makes him flail His tawny quarters with that tail? _Owen Glendower_: Did any electrician mark The explosive nature of that spark? _Benjamin Franklin_: I did in truth, but cannot quite See, on the basis of my kite, How such a flame should always sit Upon a wild-cat’s caudal tip. _Æsop_: Or what blind fury makes him whip His smoking sides to capture it— An ignis fatuus that eludes The cat’s most sanguinary moods. _Euclid_: The reasons for the circles lie Within the nature of the thing; This cat must run around a ring If he would catch his tail. But why So bloodily he chaseth it Is past the compass of my wit. _Johnny Walker_: Just why this wild-cat should revolve, Leaving his nether tip uncaught, And spend his energy for naught, The denser Shades will never solve; But (granting that the speed is quicker) All we discerning spirits know It’s just the way a man would go, Grant the night and grant the liquor. _Calvin_: If I had known that such mad brutes Had found, before the world began, A place within the cosmic plan, They would have dished my Institutes. THE RETURN OF THE CAT TIME—MORNING A half-point Nor’ard from the West, A bluish-tinted spot of light, Now deep below, now on the crest Of a high wave, hove into sight; And by the curves and speed it made, Conviction came to every Shade That here the monster was returning With all those inner fires burning That no destruction could assuage; Though through the hours of the night The floating victims of the fight Showed how the wild-cat could engage His foes; achieve his victories; For those he could not kill outright Had either died from heart-disease Or passed out through a hæmorrhage. An unexpected wonder met His rolling, unabated eye— For when he reached the parapet He found the witches’ cauldron dry. And there was something which surprised Him even more; the drunken riot Was followed by a holy quiet; The fish lay dead or paralysed; No witch this time came forth to serve His inbred hunger for assault With either rum or wine or malt. The thing told heavily on his nerve, That near that massive banquet place Not one lone member of his race, Outside the fortress or within, Survived to give him grin for grin, Or swish a tail across his face. And so this wild-cat, now bereft Of all of life’s amenities, Took one blood-curdling leap and left Magellan’s for the vacant seas. Sullen and dangerous he ripped A gleaming furrow through the water, Magnificently still equipped For combat with rapine and slaughter. Now with his tail electro-tipped, Swiftly but leisurely he made Around the steaming palisade A blazing spiral which outshone The fiercest glow of Acheron. Then suddenly, as if aware, By a deep ferment in his soul Or something psychic in his hair, Of some ulterior, mystic goal, He sharply turned, began a lonely Voyage pregnant of immortal raids And epic plunder. But the Shades Saw him no more in the flesh. Only To Satan and the witches three (In touch with his galvanic tail, By more occulted masonry) Appeared a phosphorescent trail That headed for the Irish Sea. THE GREAT FEUD (_A Dream of a Pleiocene Armageddon_) Like a quarter moon the shoreline curled Upon the neck of the ancient world, Where, as the modern Magians say, In one cool morning of the Earth, Australasia had its birth, And vertebrated with Malay. Monsoons from Arafura Seas Had played their native energies Full upon the western tip, Until the vast recessional Of scourging wash and tidal rip Had made a stubborn littoral Take on a deep indented shape,— A hundred leagues, to the eastern Cape, Of broken bays with narrow reaches, Deltas and gulfs bulwarked by steep Eroded headlands, with a sweep Of fifty miles of central beaches, And rich alluvial flats where luscious Grasses, ferns and milk bulrushes Made up the original nursery For fauna of the land and sea. Stretching from the water line By gentle slope and sharp incline, Past many an undulating plain, The land ran southward to a chain Of heavy-wooded hills and rose Beyond them to the Black Sierras, Soaring aloft to where the snows That capped the ranging Guadeleras Were blackened by the brooding dread Outline of a volcano’s head,— Jurania, with her crater jaw, Her slanting forehead ancient-scarred, And breathing through her smoky maw, Lay like a dragon left to guard The Isthmian Scarps against the climb Of life that left the ocean slime, In far adventurous design, On footholds past the timber line. In such a place, at such a time, Long before the birth of man, This great Tellurian feud began. For ages which cannot be told The fish along the Isthmian border Had felt the invasion of their cold Blood by an unexplained disorder. It looked as if the destination, Of all life of the stock marine, Was doomed to be, through paths unseen, The most profound obliteration. Millions of youthful fins were led Far from their safe and watery bed, To sport along the tidal edge, Nosing for grubs and water-lice, For pickerel weed and shoots of rice That grew luxuriant within the sedge, And many feasting unawares Were drawn into relentless snares; Strange rasp-and-saw bills harried them, And swooping talons carried them Into the air, and many more Were stranded high and dry on shore, Where poisonous lizards, asps and adders Bit them, or where the solar fire Caught them at noon-tide in the mire, Curdled their blood and starched their bladders. And thousands that survived the heat Turned their backs upon their breed, Shed their fins and took on feet, And clambered far inland to feed On windy things like grass and roots, Bark and leaves and bitter sloes, Or, like those horrid jungle brutes With hairy pelts and horny toes, To quaff the warm blood of their foes; While many more that did return, After one æonian night, Come back contemptuous to spurn Their parents, like the trilobite, With stony back and stonier heart; Rolled up in balls and dwelt apart In sulky isolation; while others,— The mongrel water scorpions sprung From crabs and spiders,—came and stung Their little sisters and their brothers. And thus it was throughout the whole Sea-range of the Australian zone, The fear of racial doom was thrown Heavily upon the piscine soul. A futile anger like a curse Only made confusion worse. Their mad desire to strike back At their destroying coward-foe Turned all their fury of attack Into consuming vertigo. It broke their hearts and crushed their wills, It thinned the juices of their maws, Left them with gnashing of the jaws And deep prolapsis of the gills. And hitherto unsuffered pains, A ghastly brood, came in by legions, Rheumatic tremors in the veins, And palsy in the ventral regions. Now, not a single evening passed But an aquatic breathed its last Beneath the terrifying roar Of some dread plantigrade on shore; And so this strange insidious spark Of wild adventure carried sorrow To many a yearning matriarch With the drab dawning of the morrow. But worst of all the horrors which Enmeshed them was the galling sense That never would the recompense Of battle come; that primal itch For vengeance would expend its force, According to an adverse Fate, Running a self-destroying course Down the blind alley of their hate. But by some quirk that Nature flings Into the settled scheme of things,— That old beldame, she gets so grumpy, No mortal vision may foretell Her antics, when her nerves are jumpy— It happened that she broke the spell By a freak shifting of the odds Within the sea-lap of the gods. Vibrant calms unknown before Lay on the Australasian shore, And Silences, a hooded band, Like portents of catastrophe, Tip-toed expectant on the land, And mummed about the open sea. Neptune had resigned the trident, For months Aeolus had not spoken, Nor had the sea-waves heard the strident Trumpeter,—his conch was broken. From igneous fissures in the ground Blue wisps of smoke with eerie sound Curled on the air to indicate That some elaborate escapade Was on the point of being played By the royal clowns of Fate. Here and there through asphalt holes Was heard a most uncanny racket,— Charon, before the birth of souls Called for his modern Stygian packet, Was busy at enormous scows, Caulking them with walrus skin, Hammering, sawing to the din Of Cerberus with his gruff bow-wows, Together with the gird and clatter Of wheels and whiffletrees, the croak Of scranny throats, and the fast patter Of feet and flap of wings, that spoke Of straining, jostling ambulances; Of Hecate with a frightful brood Of harpies in a phantom wood, Rehearsing new macabre dances. Now all this strange activity Was radiating everywhere; It rapped the calms upon the sea, It shot through flumes of stagnant air, It tingled in the blood of brutes Of land and water; in the roots Of trees; and even stuff like rocks Felt the strong etheric shocks, Until all natural things that dwelt In the marine Australian belt Had come to feel, in a dumb way, That their protracted evil spell Might, with the birth of any day, Dissolve before a miracle. One vital morning when the tide Was out and the Scala flats were dried, The largest-livered, heaviest-brained, Most thoroughbred pedestrian Of all the tribes that had attained The rank of the amphibian, A green-back turtle left the sea. Her blood was changing and a scent, Unknown to her rude ancestry, Had charged her with presentiment Of some unfathomed destiny. She had her eyes upon a spot She long aspired to, but had not For lack of muscle, wind and time, Been able to effect the climb, To-day, with fast evolving legs, Urged by the lure of distant land, She struggled for this cone of sand, Proudly there to lay her eggs, And from this vantage point, some day, To take her young and wend her way, Far up into the hills, to view What kind of giant there might dwell Stretched asleep against the blue,— A turtle with a snow-white shell, Or inland whale, for aught she knew, Sending through a spiracle, Intermittent puffs of gray Cloud resembling ocean spray. But when after four dusty hours She reached the top of the sandy cone, A thrill her blood had never known Paralysed her laying powers, And concentrated all her thought Upon the scene the morning brought. An amphitheatre that held Valleys and cliffs and waterfalls, Gorges hewn like royal halls, Forests flanked by hills that swelled To mountains, these again to clouds From peaks of ice; and everywhere On ground, in trees and in the air, All forms of living things; dense crowds Of kites and gulls; vultures that hung Within the blue; and mangabees; Pig-tailed baboons that peered and swung From the liana of the trees; Wombats beneath acacias; Tasmanian tigers in the grass; Civets and sloths and bandicoots; High-standing elks in hollowed stumps Of redwood; tapirs in the clumps Of banyan, grubbing at the roots; And under eucalyptus trees, Flocks of emus and kiwis, With herds of skipping kangaroos, Antelopes and brindled gnoos;— All Earth’s delegates were sent, Blood relations, tribal foes, Bound by cordial entente, To this prodigious Parliament;— Lions and water-buffaloes, Clouded leopards, chamois droves, Side by side and cheek by nose, Rested in the myrtle groves; While pumas, rams and grizzly bears Stroked each other in their lairs. And central to this wild tableau, A white giraffe began to scale A scraggy monolith of shale, Standing on a high plateau. And when his neck had arched the summit, A female anthropoidal ape Climbed up, and settling on the nape, Surveyed the crowded congress from it. The comeliest of the Primate race, No one of all the Southern lands Could match her for arboreal grace, For hairy contour of her hands, For contemplation in her face, Or wisdom in her thyroid glands. To hide her young, to fight or climb, She was the cleverest of her time. She taught the family tribes to make A brier or a bamboo stake, Fashion an eolith and throw It deadly at a distant foe, To charge in serried ranks, or beat A hurried or prepared retreat, Showed them new uses for their paws In battle for the monkey cause. And faintly she had sniffed the raw Material of the moral law; She had observed, one windy night, The skull of an alligator cut Open by a cocoanut Falling from a lofty height,— An alligator that had torn And eaten up her youngest born. Then to a corner she had crept, And had not eaten, had not slept, But scratched her head and drummed her breast, And Reason entered as she wondered, Brooded in the trees and pondered On how the reptile was struck dead. And now on wide and just behalf Of all the land brutes of the world, She took the leadership and curled Around the neck of the giraffe; And all at once confusion ceased, As every hard raptorial beak And slanted eye of bird and beast Were strained upon the central peak,— And every lobe of every ear Was cocked that none might fail to hear The message when the ape unfurled Her simian marvel to the world. _All ye that dwell afar or nigh_ _Upon the plains or on the hills,_ _In valley caves or in the sky,_ _Feathers, and bristles, talons, quills,_ _Flesh-eating ones and herbivores_ _That roam inland or ramp the shores;_ _All ye with snouts that turn the furrow_ _For colonies of ants or burrow_ _For savoury roots and fattened worms;_ _And ye that carry on your sides_ _Impenetrable armour hides,_ _Slow-moving, ponderous pachyderms;_ _All ye that lie in wait and crouch_ _And gnashing leap upon your prey;_ _And those that at the breast or pouch_ _Suckle the young; all ye that lay,_ _And scratch the ant-hills with your claws;_ _And all that brotherhood that climb,_ _Cracking great nuts between the jaws;_ _Give ear and know ye that the time_ _Has come when he that slumbereth_ _Shall pay the penalty of death._ _Turn ye your gaze, a moment, far_ _Beyond the plain over the height_ _Of the palm trees where the white_ _Foam-line breaks upon the bar._ _There under the blue stretch of sea,_ _Living in darkness out of sight_ _Skulks our ancient enemy,_ _Devouring everything that passes_ _Along the great lagoons to feed_ _On clams and shrimps and rich swamp grasses_ _Growing beside the tidal weed._ _By right of conquest and of birth_ _We claim all footholds on this Earth;—_ _Those flats there steaming in the sun,_ _The coast-line to the salted edge_ _Where the coral foam is spun,_ _That long three-cornered, rocky wedge_ _On which the walrus warms his hide,_ _Where the dugong sleeps,—which the manatee_ _Claims as his dwelling when the sea_ _Sucks it from us at high tide._ _All ye that hail from foreign parts_ _Whose warm blood knocking at your hearts_ _Has led you to this southern place,_ _Attend upon my words! and know_ _What great disaster to our race_ _Befell us thirty years ago._ _You noticed as you cleared the height_ _Of the Aral range that, to the south,_ _Three juts of land came into sight,_ _Extending far out of the mouth_ _Of the Ravenna river;—these_ _Have ever been the nurseries_ _For the monkey tribe and kangaroo,_ _For gentle bears and wallabies,_ _For marmoset and wanderoo,_ _And for the crinkly-tail baboon._ _On one dread summer day—at noon—_ _A terror broke upon our eyes;_ _We saw the blazing sun go out,_ _And the level sea begin to rise_ _Under the breath of a typhoon,_ _And break with tidal water-spout,_ _Carrying with the general ruin_ _Of the palms, the aged and the young,_ _The mother bear and little bruin;_ _And wailing mandrill babes that clung_ _To the parental neck were flung_ _Into the watery abyss_ _To satisfy the avarice_ _And lust of every carrion foe_ _And devil-fish that dwelt therein._ _To-day that slaughter at the Delta_ _Remains the nightmare of the years;_ _Those death-cries of the apes could melt a_ _Stony crocodile to tears._ _Since then, their blood-thirst unappeased,_ _They’ve ventured up our quiet streams;_ _Gannets and herons have been seized,_ _Baboons have died with horrid screams,_ _And elephantine calves for miles_ _All along the water-courses,_ _Together with young water-horses,_ _Have been dragged down by crocodiles._ _For years reports have been received_ _From distant countries occupied_ _By furs, feathers and hairs allied_ _By blood, how they have been bereaved_ _And plunged in blackest misery_ _By that insane, consuming hate_ _Of ignorant, inarticulate_ _Cold-blood barbarians of the sea._ _All we observant ones have seen_ _That at high tides in clouded moons_ _The habits of the fish have been_ _To pass into the great lagoons,_ _To lie in wait throughout the course_ _Of night and morning to midday,_ _Then chase our swimming breeds and slay_ _Them with no feeling of remorse;_ _And then with foul-distended maw,_ _The cowards that they are withdraw_ _To their unlighted haunts, to shun_ _An open struggle in the sun._ _Therefore, let it now be known,_ _By tokens that can never err,—_ _By the marrow in the fox’s bone,_ _By the light growth of the ermine’s fur,_ _And by the camel’s drinking bout,_ _That the season’s blasting drought,_ _With lowering of the tides, will last_ _Till three up-tilted moons have passed._ _Then will the inland shallows be,_ _At all their gateways unexposed_ _To the waters of the open sea,_ _When the barrier reefs have closed._ _So if our hearts are resolute,_ _At the appointed hour we’ll match them_ _With our brave hosts in massed pursuit;_ _No quarter shall there be: we’ll catch them,—_ _From the smallest to the largest brute—_ _Throw them into consternation,_ _Hem them in the muddy places_ _And on the shoals, leaving no traces_ _Save of their damned annihilation._ _Before I close—just one word more._ _Oft have we seen a jealous raid_ _Grow into a great crusade;_ _Or end by internecine war,_ _When the blood of kindred drenched_ _The higher mountain snows and quenched_ _The jungle grass and arid moors._ _Therefore ye thirsty carnivores_ _Be ye adjured that till the hour_ _Of trial ye shall not devour_ _The flesh of either animal_ _Or bird upon the Earth; nor shall_ _Ye taste of blood; your daily food_ _Shall be the Earth’s fair yield of fruits,_ _Her store of plants and sappy roots,_ _The fresh rind of the sandalwood,_ _And willow bark, berries and beans,_ _Tussac grass and mangosteens,_ _Papaws and guavas and the sweet_ _Milk of the cocoanut, the meat_ _Of durian with celery,_ _The ripe fruit of the mango-tree;_ _Yea—all the natural plenitude_ _Of Earth shall henceforth be your food._ _Likewise ye herbivores, be ye_ _Adjured against all enmity._ _Ye shall not trample; shall not gore,_ _With hoof or horn, the carnivore;_ _But as their allies, ye shall spend,_ _In one grand consummating blow_ _Of death against the common foe,_ _Your strength to a triumphant end._ _Now hie ye to your lairs; sleep not;_ _Gather your hosts; abate no jot_ _Of this day’s wrath, and when the year_ _Is big with three up-tilted moons,_ _We’ll charge on the aquatics here,_ _And trap them in the great Lagoons._ She spoke: and every throat and lung Of herbivore and carnivore, In volleying symphonic roar, Rang with persuasion of her tongue. With vengeance firing up the breast, And with the speed of a monsoon blast, The keen dispersing hordes soon passed Beyond the skyline of the West. And the sultriness of peace again Brooded on valley, hill and plain, Shaken only when a cloud Of thick Juranian vapour, thrown In a dark spiral, burst with loud Echoes, like laughter from the cone. Scrambling from her hill of sand, The disillusioned, now unfertile, Amphibious and bilingual turtle Fled the spectre of the land; Crossed the muddy flats and sought her Endangered kindred of the water, Apprised them of their bloody fate; The congress vote; the rage and hate Of the ape; her story of the feud, And the news was borne at ether rate Throughout the ocean’s amplitude, And hailed with fierce, exultant mood, With wave of pectorals and high leap Into the air and foamy sweep Of tail and clutch of tentacle; Broken was the hoary spell! The hour for revenge, for daring, Had come for fin and scale and shell! For shark! swordfish! mackerel! Lobster! octopus! and herring! WITH THE PASSAGE OF THE MOONS THE MUSTER Black bucks whose distant ancestry Sprang from the (now) Westphalian hills; Wild boars with hair as stiff as quills, Or Brandenburgian pedigree; Wallachian elks, whose antlers spread A full five feet above the head, Trekked around the Caucasus, Sounding with defiant stare Their gutturals blent with blasphemous Umlauts upon the stricken air; And they were joined near Teheran By camels down from Turkestan, And elands from Trans-Caspian snows, Persian gazelles with harts and roes, Arabian antelopes and masses Of quaggas, zebras and wild asses; And on the eastern move, they met Horses following in the tracks Of ibexes and shaggy yaks From South Bokhara and Thibet And countries far-distributed; The thunderous Indian quadruped,— Rhinoceros and elephant, And every kind of ruminant, And non-cud chewing animals, Mammal and marsupial; From hill and valley, steppe and prairie, Peccary and dromedary, Bashan bull and Cashmir ram, The male spring-bok, chamois, gnoo, The reid-buck and the kangaroo Heading downwards through Siam. Likewise, with earth-shattering roars, Accompanied by the screams of birds, From the wide compass came the herds Of storming, hungry carnivores. On them the patriotic call Fell with the greatest sacrifice. A troop of tigers from Bengal, Full of caraway and rice, (In keeping with the simian pledge) Discovering early that their edge Of appetite was dulled enough By such ill-regulated stuff Upon a base of hops and oats, Attacked (although they did not slay) A flock of Himalayan goats Resting on a wooded height In their mid-journey to Malay; They drained their udders, bleached them white, And leaving them in awful plight, Prostrate and helpless for the fray, Passed on with energy renewed Into the Australasian feud. Through scorching plains and bleak defiles Of Northern India’s spacious miles, Spread a vast host of tawny, mad Lions from Allahabad. Oleanders, roots of taro With ginseng and dried kauri cones Had changed the substance of their marrow, And alternated growls with groans. Hyænas forced-fed on salt-bush With sago palms and tapioca Wailed so loudly that they woke a Pack of wolves from Hindu Kush, Whose tocsin cry antiphonal Was caught by every caracal Sleeping with his stomach full Of rhododendrons near Cabul; And this was followed by the blab Of jackals cursed with elderberry All the way from the Punjab As far South-East as Pandicherry. Over the stretch from Turkestan, From Shamo Desert to Hunan, From Shantung down to Singapore, Along the central isthmus, fell The mighty, myrmidonian roar, That ululant and choric yell Of leopards full of okra pods And lentils; cheetahs gagging hard At cascarilla spiced with nard; Polecats charged with cotton wads, And bears and civets overcome With stringent eucalyptus gum. All these in thousands numberless Had, with the triple lunar round, Arrived, in hot blood-thirstiness, Upon the Isthmian battle ground, Where, when the welter of their roars Had ceased along the littoral border, The hordes were disciplined to order, Divided into army corps, Brigades, battalions and platoons; Some were ambushed by the coast In heavy scrub and bush, but most Were stationed near the great lagoons Connected with the hostile beaches, And regimented into shape By the anthropoidal ape Who, by her rousing martial speeches, Kept up to fever heat their zeal For the imperilled commonweal. At last when the appointed week Had come; and when the final night Was over with the first faint streak Or orange in the Eastern light,— Just at the hour when every pad And hoof were tingling with the mad Moment of impending slaughter, A reeking, ghastly, unknown flair Compounded of the earth and water, Of subterranean clay and air, And like no other scent, arose And fell upon each roving nose. Over the top of the nearest alp A cliff-like head began to rise; A lizard’s skull with horny scalp, Dragon’s teeth and boa’s eyes; Covered with scales of greenish blue The lower jaw swung into view, And from the open mouth there came A lolling tongue of scarlet flame; A column of a neck whose reach Topped the high branches of a beech; Prehensile arms and girthy paunch Upheld by massive spine and haunch Are followed by unmeasured thighs; With hock and joint the inches rise, Until the monster in dread sight Of all, to the last claw, collects His stature on the Aral height, And lo,—TYRANNOSAUROS REX! Now let the sceptic disbelieve The truth I am about to state, And urge, with curling lip, I weave A legend that is out of date. Let him disgorge his lie; I claim That by a wanton twist of Fate, (To which I am by Hera sworn) A creature of this sounding name, Although three million years too late, Stood on that peak this awful morn. It came to pass, one day, before Mammals appeared upon the Earth, A dinosaurian mother bore Tyrannus in a tragic birth. Chasing a mighty stegosaur Into a bed of pitch, she tried, With huge success, before she died, To lay an egg that chanced to live Throughout its long bituminous night, Enveloped by this soft, air-tight Most excellent preservative; Until just fifty years ago, When the volcano underwent Her seismal periodic throe, The egg came bouncing through a rent. A moa passing by espied The object; sidled up, cock-eyed, And watched it with a mother’s pride. Like a beach-stone pumiced by the sea, It glowed with the full sunlight on it. She sniffed the thing excitedly, Walked around it, pecked and scratched The shell, then feathered down upon it. And in due course of time she hatched Her prodigy. At first she fed him On cotton-tails and unweaned lambs, On calves and badgers; then she led him To the higher ridges where she filled His stomach with the coarser hams Of pigs and short-horn mountain rams, Until he took on strength and killed All comers with their sires and dams. Now after fifty years, the bird Had, from a cassowary, heard About the Pan-cyclonic rally Of beasts in the Juranian Valley, And how at their great gastric session They swore to stand by the Food Concession. And so the moa felt she’d serve her Race the best, fanning the wild Instinct of her foster child With her strong patriotic fervour. She found _this_ lesson easy for A huge blood-quaffing dinosaur; The next one that she strove to teach,— To feed on rushes, roots and grass,— Seemed to this hungry ward, alas, Beyond his intellectual reach. Still, after days of bleats and pants, Of clucking at the balsam cones, Of digging graves for flesh and bones, And building pyramids of plants;— And after days of petulant scolding, She managed to convey, by holding Within her talons, cocoanuts And bread-fruit rather than the cuts From the sirloin of putrid cattle,— That fasting from all flesh and blood, And chewing, self-imposed, of cud, Was the condition of the battle. And so the fatal morning found Him bloated, angry and unsound Of wind and reeling down the height For flesh, his object of the fight. His skyward neck took on the form Of a pliant topmast in a storm. His headlong and unsteady gait Had been the more provoked, of late. By a yeasty alimentary state. For, on the day before, twitch grass With coarse buck wheat and sassafras Had formed the staple of his diet. A vinery of red grape then lay Before him; he resolved to try it; Which done, his head began to sway, The hot, fermenting liquor rose, And just before the charge was made, Had sluiced up through his neck, and played A geyser through his throat and nose, Until his body seemed to seethe With dragon foam on scale and claw, The scarlet dripping from his teeth, And fire issuing from his jaw. The ape had feared the monster’s coming Would cause a panic as the sound Of thunder from the infernal drumming Of Tyrannus’ feet upon the ground, Breaking like waves along the coast, Fell upon the affrighted host. And for a moment as he neared The rostral monolith and tossed His head for carnage it appeared As if the national cause was lost. So strong the impact as he hit A line of tigers near the centre It paralysed the simian’s wit And for a fearful second rent her Courage as the jungle mass Went floundering in a deep morass. But instant as a thunderclap The prescience of her soul awoke, For by that self-same tiger stroke Tyrannosauros filled the gap, And as the stress upon the line Was centrally towards the sea, She caught the panic’s energy Of flight in time, and flashed the sign Of battle from her lofty tower, Then launched the seething frenzied power Of tusk and claw. Blood red the Dawn! The die was cast! The fight was on! Now was seen the strategy Hidden in the stern decree Of the wise old anthropoid. The long-continued carnal void, With all its gastric irritation, Had raised their lust to slay and eat Raw flesh to the internal heat Of a universal conflagration. Just in from dry Allahabad, Farinaceous lions had Spied, upon an oozy bank, Five hundred head of walruses, Their hides of rubber steaming rank With odours oleaginous. Such was their fury when they smelled them, It seemed as if the nether air Were raining tails and brindled hair,— The way those brutes of India felled them; They had them stripped before the sun Arose to bleach each skeleton. Fifteen miles farther down the Coast, An angry and conglomerate host,— Inflammatory Bengalese, Starved with cherry bark and peas; With salicaceous jaguars, Leguminous leopards full of beans That murmured in their jugulars,— Swooped, with the speed of peregrines, Upon the red substantial meals Of dolphins hot and blubberous, And a large school of porpoises, Manatees and ursine seals, Until the sand-spit where they were Surrendered back unto the sea Not one shred of fat or fur But polished skulls and vertebrae. Down a sharp declivity Where the eastern skyline touched a plain, Wild cats of Burmese demonry Fell like a cloud of typhoon rain. Raisins had so alkalized them That the fur upon their necks had moulted, Soyas and poppies which they bolted Stuck in their throats and agonized them. So swift and vital was their spring When circling round a “Sulphur Bottom,” They drove him on the rocks and got ’im Like turkey buzzards on the wing, Pouncing on a carrion, Until beneath the morning sky His ribs were arching high and dry Like the frame of a stranded galleon. With the first hours of the day It seemed the battle fortunes lay In ample margins with the land. No courage of the sea could stand Against the all-consuming, savage Hunger springing from such a fast, Nor millions numberless outlast That crash of pyramidal ravage. But with the pangs of thirst abated, A temporary slackening of the drive Gave to the fish infuriated With loss a moment to revive Their ranks, when soon upon the air New cries of terror and despair Announced destruction for the land. Rounding the Roc peninsula, Sperm whales from Carpentaria Had reached the Dura bank of sand, And bellying round, began to blow Their challenge in contemptuous spout At any brute the earth could show Possessing horn or tusk or snout. Undaunted, a battalion Of bulling elephants from Canton, Directed by a jackass, tore Their ponderous course down to the shore, In answer to the loud defiance Of those humpbacked mammalian giants. Lured by the low ebb of the tide, And a hundred yards of bar, sun-dried, They plunged into the quicksands where, With roar of suction and the blare Of strained uplifted trunks, they died, Or slipping into weedy ground Off the silting edge, were drowned At leisure by the sweeping tails And jaw-tug of victorious whales. Down at the delta of Ravenna, The hardest struggle of the day For three long hours was under way, Wild as the tumult of Gehenna. A thousand tigers of the land Were fighting, under the command Of a Sumatran chimpanzee, Ten thousand tigers of the sea. The thirstier cats that formed the van Took the water, swimming far Beyond the shallows of the bar, Heedless of the risk they ran; Others of more tempered daring, Striking the water margin, kept Well within their depth but swept Along the muddy regions, tearing The placid surface into spray, Like a gale’s lash upon a bay. For those three hours the waters ran With every hue of the rainbow span,— Saffron lines and serpentine, Lurid darts of iris green, Mottled browns with dusky stripe, Eyeballs flashing streaks of red, Leaped and zigzagged to the gripe Of lamia and of hammerhead, Locking with inveterate teeth The tigers’ bellies underneath. Phantoms blue and ashen pale Followed white ones in the race Where blade of dorsal, scythe of tail Cut and ripped the water’s face, Curved and sank while in their place The vitreous glare of stomachs rose With flapping pectorals, as the claws Of tigers tore a bottle-nose Or bullet-head; or as their jaws, Just at the moment they were drowned: With paralysing seizure found Their last authentic tiger mark In the marble throat of a slate blue shark. And when the fierce dispute was over, And the tides were crimson in the sun, The splash of a ground shark or the dun, Lithe shadow of an ocean rover, Cutting across the backward spins Of settling eddies showed how vast Was the jungle ruin when at last The furs were conquered by the fins. Beyond the edge of the chalk canal, In the deeper part of the Skibo Run The tiger slaughter was outdone By a longer, bloodier carnival. There, neutral hippopotami, Spotted deer, mild-mannered sows, Milk-white mules and buffalo cows Had wandered with their young to lie And bathe beneath a peaceful sky, With antelopes and quagga mares, Soft gazelles and brown she-bears, Frightened by the roars that rent The rafters of the firmament; When suddenly as by design It seemed as if the whole Pacific Had yielded up her most terrific Monsters of the fighting line. Their long blades flashing in the sun, Sword-fish were swimming up the Run, Accompanied by flagitious things,— Saw-bills with their deadly pikes, Thornbacks with their poisoned spikes, Torpedo rays with scorpion stings; Most feared by everything that lives Above the ocean floor, they broke With full mortality of stroke On neutrals and on fugitives, Hemmed them backwards from the beaches Into the water’s deeper reaches, Where with rapiers lightning sped, They took the measure of their sides, Till all the antelopes were dead, And all the hippos’ leathery hides Transfixed and all the bears were drilled With holes and all the calves were killed. Now late within the afternoon Again the tide of battle changed. Fish from the Seven Seas were ranged Along the stretch of the Blue Lagoon That had beneath the withering spell Of three hot rainless moons been closed. There, lash-rays—the marines of hell— Had come with sharks,—the shovel-nosed, And sickle-finned; dog-fish, big jacks Gifted with prophetic smell,— All following in the conquering tracks Of threshers from the Hebrides, Of Greenland killers and those mailed, Tremendous rhinodons that hailed From the typhoons of the Indian seas. Against that swarming, heaving pack Was launched the raving, massed attack Of full-grown argali, and rams From South Afghanistan that mourned The swordfish slaughter of their dams; And fighting boars that would have scorned Brigades of tigers, with koodoos, Flanked by battalions of gnoos, And bull-head rhinos double-horned. Into that reeling, shapeless ruck, Scarce covered by the water poured This furious and avenging horde. . . . Surviving rhinodons that struck For ocean spaces through the ford Were caught fast in the mire, and gored To death by stag and water-buck. And as the dubious hours went by, Cormorants, in carrion mood, Ospreys and kestrels thronged the sky, Impatient, as the fiery feud Swung through such vicissitude As never, after or before, Was known within the files of War. Such acts of valour as were done Outshone the white flame of the sun;— Such hopeless sacrificial deeds And feats of strength as might belong To men or gods, when weaker breeds Wrecked their bodies on the strong. Reversals with the strangest luck, Unknown to contests in the sea, Took place where bulk and energy Matched themselves with skill and pluck. Mackerel and electric eels Drowned zebras, weighting down their thighs; Leonine and ursine seals Were killed by lemurs and aye-ayes. To rescue otters with their young From saw-fish and an instant slaughter, A scouting beaver party flung Themselves into the salted water, Were caught, outnumbered and were beaten, Run through by bayonet-bills, and eaten. But their assailants blown with greed Were seized, after the hottest chase, By hounds of an Eo-Irish race, And terriers of a Gallic breed. And the sun went down upon the sight Of bison worsted by becunas, Of foxes putting sharks to flight And weasels at the throats of tunas. Along the shore from tip to tip, This interlocking battle grip Relaxed only as either side Gave ground with flow and ebb of tide; For all were pledged, with teeth and claws, To racial blood and comradeship, Devoted to the national cause And loyal to the boundary strip. In one swift hour when the night Was far advanced, the Saurian, By some half-blinded route, began To scent the issue of the fight. Throughout the day he did not know Which was his ally or his foe; Beyond the blue lagoon he waded Where sluggish alligators hid Behind a sand-spit, and invaded The rocky strongholds of the squid. With his steep claws he rent apart Amphibia along the shore, And wandering farther out, he tore Pelagic mammals to the heart He followed up a narwhal, wedged Him dry upon the Gumra shoals, Left him with twenty streaming holes From twelve-inch canines double-edged. Then back upon his tracks he wheeled, Floundered through the littoral mud, Entered the battle zone and reeled Through mounting sloughs of flesh and blood, Scattering a full hyæna pack That hung all day upon his track Along the freshly swollen moors, Wondering how their nostrils missed The secret of those bloody spoors Left by the alien Atavist. Fish and land animals alike Were objects for his fangs to strike; Elephants and jungle cats Met the same fate as hares and rats; Beneath his horned, gigantic toes Camels went down and buffaloes; And wild cats were so many fleas That tickled him below the knees. But when the evening wore to night Gorillas under cover hit him With flying stones, and cave bears bit him; A flock of eagles bleared his sight With beak and claw; a downy pack Of monkeys in a sycamore Swung downward by their tails and tore The scaly armour from his back. The bravest lions in the ranks Buried their teeth into his hocks; From hemlock crotches and from rocks, Tigers leaping on his shanks Gouged deeply with insistent claws And dropped with flitches in their jaws. Then from this unremitting stress Came the sure touch of weariness; A pulse of apprehension dim Of what this struggle double-faced Might in the outcome mean to him. Perhaps some inland desert taste During the slaughter of the camels, Taught him his kinship with the lizard, His blood-removal from the mammals, And gave him nausea at the gizzard. Perhaps in some sharp way it sprang From the reminiscent tang Of salt sea water on his muzzle, The moment that he stooped and took The narwhal’s blood as from a brook With one inebriating guzzle. Something in his racial birth, At variance with the things of Earth,— A tidal call that beat like pain From spinal ganglion to brain— Now made him shake his foes aside, And leave the battle’s desperate zone, And wander off to climb alone A promontory where the tide Sounded its nocturnal flow A sheer three hundred feet below. He cleared the base, his body fagged, And clambered on from shard to shard, Pausing, jibbing, breathing hard. Under his weight his knee-caps sagged; Bleeding fast from fissures torn By tiger fang and rhino horn, He groped and stumbled up until He reached a level granite sill; Raw fillets hanging from his thighs, He sank a moment faint with pain; Chaos was closing on his eyes, When the voice of the sea-god called again, Far across the water,—“Ex— Saurian of the Pleiocene, Blind wanderer from the race marine, TYRANNOSAUROS REX!” Starting sharply from his swoon, He stood upright, his figure set Black like a poplar’s silhouette Against the orb of an inflamed moon. And once again from a crystal bell, Oceanus wove his spell; Sounding like a three-fold ring, Steepled in the crimson surge, It tolled . . . “TYRANNOSAUROS! TYRANNOSAUROS! TYRANNOSAUROS KING!” The lizard staggered to the verge, Looked into the water’s face, The rolling cradle of his race, Brooded a moment as he hung Over the crag-holds wearily, And with the final echo, flung His body to the Austral Sea. Wilder than the maddest rout, Madder than the wildest roar, A storm of rage unknown before Followed Tyrannus’ passing out. The dark unreason of his mind, Read in promiscuous assault Upon the land and ocean kind, Had placed the agreement in default. But through the day, the immediate sight Of a teeming and aggressive sea Enforced the covenantal right Against a mutual enemy; Kept in abeyance blood desires As veteran as Jurassic fires. Now under cover of the night When many of their ranks had died Of virus from the saurian’s bite, The leash of discipline was untied, And soon the full abyssmal sound Broke out in internecine notes From all the brutes on fighting ground Feeling for each other’s throats. So piercing was the central cry It carried to the southward high Over the foothills to the crests Of the snowy Guadeleras, waking The æries of the eagles; shaking The condors from their craggy nests. Then by a fierce contagion carried East and west to either tip Of the Isthmian sea-board, it was harried Into ten thousand shards;—the rip Of lion’s claws on buffalo hides; Of ivory through the lions’ sides; The grunt of a bush hog or the squeal Of a babyroussa with the pounce Of an infuriated ounce; Of leopards crushed beneath the kneel Of battle-wearied elephants; The growls of bears; the dissonance Of fleeing, howling allouattes Pursued by cheetahs; of wild cats Nine-lived and strung in endless knots Upon the backs of Cashmir ewes, Or arguing with ocelots The fallen bodies of kangaroos. And now and then the storm would rise To unimaginable cries, As though a stubborn racial note, Goaded to the bitter-full, Had baulked within the cosmic throat. And yet the scale, for all this woe, Had still a higher note to go. All through the day,—in throaty pant Of steam and pulmonary moan, Being full of slag, the stridulant Jurania, like a surly crone, Had growled about a deeper pain, Caused by an old Silurian sprain. By dusk, her fetid breath had grown Into a thick revolving cone. And as the minutes passed, a flash,— An incandescent fork of blue, And now of green would struggle through The smothering pall of smoke and ash, Until with undulating sheet Of multi-coloured flame that beat The blank face of the sky apart,— Just as the last convulsive stroke Unthrottled the volcano’s heart,— The storm flood of the lava broke. It shot a fifteen thousand feet Straight to the sky, then billowing higher, And outward, made as if to meet Its own maternal stellar fire With tenuous play of finger streaks; But failing in its vaunted leap, Returned with frenzied haste to sweep Across the Guadelera peaks; Inundate the valleys; glut The plains and canyons; rise and shut The higher gorges, rifts and caves Of the mountains; overflow and roll Seaward with tumbling lava waves Over the great Juranian bowl. It blazed the forest pines and passed The northern stretch of cliffs until, Clearing the summit and the last Excoriated ridge and hill, It poured its fury on the dead; Then the inexorable blast, Capping the horrors of the night, Pursued the living remnants, bled To the final pulses with the fight, And caught them as they tried to flee To the drowning mercies of the sea. Far to the East,—from all this dire Titanic strife of claw and fire, The only fighter to escape,— The female anthropoidal ape! By subtle powers that placed her head Of land belligerents, she, alone, Had often turned to watch with dread The beat of catastrophic power, In cloud and thunder, as the cone Ticked off her last Aeonian hour. She sniffed the warning just in time, Before the extinction throe, to reach The forest heights that flanked the beach. She took the eastern headland climb, And then turned southwards from the sea, Shambling upward wearily, Ever on the chasing fringe Of the lava that, with hideous twist Of myriad anacondas, hissed And spat out fiery tongues to singe Her hair. Gaining the summit where Water breezes cooled the air, She paused a moment to endure The scene survived, her eyes aglow Held first by the mesmeric lure Of globes of vivid indigo That danced and burst as they were thrown From the deep labour of the cone, And then by that which choked her breath And dazed her brain,—the molten red Of plain and ridge on which were spread The incredulities of death, Riding on tumultuously In a gulf of fire to the sea. Under the shelter of the height, She gathered up her residue Of will to blot out from her view The awful fiction of the night, And take upon herself the strain Of the descent. By swinging, crawling, Running in little spurts and falling, Splay-footed, shoulders crooked with pain, She reached a shallow river-bed Winding through a moor which led Her to a grove of sandalwood. There, at the hollow of a tree, She found her lair, and brokenly She entered in, cuddling her brood To withered paps; and in the hush Of the laggard hours as the flush Of dawn burnt out the coppery tones That smeared the unfamiliar West, The heralds of the day were moans, And croons, and drummings of the breast. THE FABLE OF THE GOATS One half a continental span, The Aralasian mountains lay Like a Valkyrian caravan At rest along the Aryan Way. And central to the barrier, Rising in mottled columns, were The limestone ramparts of the heights— The Carolonian Dolomites. Over those scaffolds nothing passed But navigators of the sky: Those crags were taken only by The sun and moon and the wind’s blast, By clouds and by the eagles’ wings Out on their furthest venturings. So rooted in geography The natural frontier, it could be A theme for neither god nor beast To argue that one side was east And that the other side was west. Yet with this knowledge manifest, We must record a truth as strange As any fact or myth that can Inflict mortality on man. The middle section of this range For endless centuries had been Earth’s most dramatic _mise en scène_ For lawless indeterminate fights. Both avalanche and cataract With Time compounding had attacked The lowest of the Dolomites With spring’s recurrent cannonade; Had deepened crater and crevasse, Tom down the gorges and had laid The canyon of Saint Barnabas. Along this canyon’s northern edge, One hundred feet in length, a ledge Of schist, known as the Capra Pass, Projected from the mountain wall. This slippery stretch might well appal The tread of cloven-footed things In their most cautious pedallings, But as a ground on which to stage The fortunes of a battle rage, That ledge of Capra might reveal A tale which, for perversity, Could tame the Kyber Route or steal The title from Thermopylae. The country which those peaks divide Was noted for its rich terrains, Its sweeping uplands and its wide Deltas and undulating plains. Millions of hornèd ruminants Roebucks and elks and argalis Upon this vast inheritance Had founded aristocracies, Which ruled the commons till, between Their slaughterous feuds internecine And foreign raids, they lost their lead To a lusty more endurant breed— A new totalitarian horn Known as the genus capricorn. The Aralasian country west, Described as Carob, was possessed By a remarkable race of goats With lyrate horns and shaggy coats. Unyielding individualists At first by nature they had learned The folly of obstructionists Within their tribal ranks and turned To federal virtues for the wise Conduct of corporate enterprise. And of this wide domain the head Was Cyrus. It was he who led The bucks against the bulb in that Perfidious effort to profane The purity of the racial strain: ’Twas he, the high-born aristocrat, Who rounded up intransigeants, Drove out all civil disputants, And bent the proletariat Under a regimen of drill To his authoritarian will. And on the east there was a spot As fertile as the Carob land, Where goats likewise had won command— The ancient dynasty of Gott. Straight-horned those tribes, of wiry coat, They had outmatched their canine foes, Then turned upon the yaks and smote The harts and put to shame the does. Inebriated by success, With numbers vastly multiplied, They built a citadel of pride About a national consciousness, Outran their borders to possess The lush exotic harvest yields Of hitherto unvanquished fields, Until they had from that wild shore Of the Fallopian corridor Down to the grey Ovidian Sea Established their hegemony. Now when the veterans returned Flushed with their foreign victories, The hearts of all the generals burned With personal antipathies. All scrambled for the seats of power, Some wanted this, some wanted that, And some they knew not what—whereat Uprose the leader of the hour, A buck who by right of descent, As by his natural temperament, Had never recognized retreat. A scion of a Caliphate, He knew the strategy to beat The factions by a stroke of state And quell diversity of bleat, For of all lands, the realm of Gott Indubitably was polyglot. His stroke of state, his _coup d’état_ Was nature’s oldest formula. It was the leader’s bright idea To send them forth to find their grub On fetid moors and desert scrub Where tuber roots of Ipomoea Purga—the standard panacea For disaffections of the mind— Became their diet, which, combined With seeds of Croton Tiglium, Restored their equilibrium. The mightiest hybrid of his race Was this ballista of the herd; The orient frame-work of his face Had been through generations blurred By a gigantic Ural trek— For unlike Cyrus, Prince of Carob, The Gottite leader’s stream was stirred By elements from Turk and Arab: Tincture of Tartar, touch of Czech Lay in the great Abimelech. So with the martial banners furled At all the frontiers in debate, It seemed as if the caprine world Might manage to domesticate The gains imperial and release Their bucking energies for peace Under a wise duumvirate— Two cousins far removed but loined From the same root, the god-like Pan, Abimelech and Cyrus joined In a world reconstruction plan! But goats like men have never found Much standing room on neutral ground, Once let a point of honour rise And death stalks in on compromise. Those Gottites and the Carobites Stood pat upon their natural rights, And here we must at once admit Three rocks on which a League might split. It seemed that Nature had designed, When first she fixed a Gottite mind, Or pitched the Carob brain, and bent The bony bulwarks round about, Into a three-inch armament, That compromise should never find An alley either in or out. For when in any age was born A freak without a cloven hoof, Or with palmated frontal roof That blossomed points along the horn— Some civilized concessive goat Who carried democratic stripes Upon his softly textured coat— The uniformitarian types, Who strove to dominate the breed, Exiled him from the herds. Indeed, One had appeared like this to show Progressive softening of the brain By urging tolerance towards the foe At the finish of a great campaign? Now, inasmuch as he was not Pure Carob or acknowledged Gott, But some form of a large jerboa Derived from stray spermatozoa, They tore his carcase joint from joint And sheared him to the fourteenth point. That goats were laid down for dissent Was clearly, whether right or wrong, An architectural intent. Those picket horns were three feet long— What was their purpose but reproof? And what the skull’s, if not for shock? As axiomatic as the hoof For stance upon the mountain rock! Moreover, Nature—quirky dame— Had planted in their disposition A sacred but a smoky flame Of uncontrollable ambition. Nomads from zoologic time, The race grew conscious that they must Give to an aimless wanderlust The sublimation of a climb. Valleys and plains were nurseries Which full-grown goats might leave behind For the wild gully routes that wind Up to the mountain crags and screes— Places of habitation where Ancestral bands of satyrs shook Lascivious lightnings from their hair. They marvelled with exalted look At things that voyaged through the air; They worshipped clouds and glorified The golden eagles as they took The solar orbit in their stride. Joined with this instinct of ambition There was a problem called nutrition, A knotty, vexed consideration Not yet resolved by sublimation. Of all the animals that faced The question of a food supply, The goat had the most catholic taste That crops could ever satisfy. It could be proved by any test He had no rival at a feast. He craved the foliage of the west To vary pastures of the east, New barks and fresher rinds: the sight Of grasses inaccessible Was whetstone to the appetite. The more he had, the more he wanted; A taste unrecognized, a smell Still unappropriated, haunted The rumen like a ghostly spell. The eastern tribes had often stared Up at the peaks and wondered what Those vapours were their nostrils flared, What herbs and blossoms there might be— Was it goatleaf or bergamot, Red clover or sweet cicely? And likewise when the east wind blew Over the Carolonian summit, The herds from western uplands drew Intoxicating essence from it. Was that bay laurel, was it thyme That floated from the mountain span? Their eyes were fastened on the climb, Their noses quivered with the sniff, Yes, by the beard of the first Khan, There was no error in that whiff, They knew it, every buck and dam, ’Twas lavender and marjoram. On one crisp morning when the heights Were diamond brilliant with their snows, When Dawn had flushed with a deep rose The panels of the Dolomites, And atmospheric odours tart Made tonic impact on the heart, A common inspiration struck Concurrently each monarch buck: _It was the Ledge, the unconquered Ledge,_ _The sanguinary Capra Pass_, That sent its challenge from the edge Of the canyon of Saint Barnabas. Abimelech and Cyrus led Their troops up the opposing sides, Past fell and scaur and watershed, Over the small and great Divides. The marching bleat from every corps Combined into their battle roar, _Excelsior! Excelsior!_ Such stout morale, such fine _élan_ Was never seen since time began. By noon both tribes became aware Through subtle changes in the air Caused by the sharp reverberant sound Of hoofs upon untimbered ground, And by the Carob-Gottite smell, A mixture indescribable, That they might any moment close With their hereditary foes. They reached the hollow where the green Ledge like a boa lay between The twin peaks of the Dolomites. Massed by prophetic signals, kites And buzzards in a storm of wings Swept up and down the great ravine, Impatient for their scavengings. Upon that very ledge were fought Thousands of battles that had wrought The drama of a racial glory, With nothing in the strife more certain Than that each act of the long story Should close upon a carrion curtain. And yet—was there a goat dismayed In all that spiral cavalcade? No—not a buck, nor could there be From stock designed for battery And built like Carthaginian rams, Although that thousand feet of drop Sheer from the Carolonian top Put curds within the milcher dams. With pawing hoofs and sweating flanks, Each chieftain as the duellist Of his own herd stepped from the ranks To try the quarrel on the schist. Abimelech himself had seen His sires—grands and great-grands—fall, Locked with the lyrates, down the wall, Plumb to the crypts in the ravine, Dropping like frenzied bacchanals, Hitting their corrugated globes So bloodily, the frontal lobes Came out through their occipitals. But so intense the patriot fire, And so magnificent the roll, The youth had felt the same desire Kindle the torches of his soul. And had not Cyrus felt as well The potent ritual of the spell, The phobias of his spirit burn In the white heat of discipline, As he had watched his kith and kin In their inexorable turn Perish? How splendidly they fell! And how the witenagemot Would hallow this immortal spot! And had he not gone back to tell The nursing dams who would convey To generations then unborn The story? How they would portray That plunge! And had not Cyrus sworn Upon the blood script of the laws, That on some sacrificial day He would go forth his father’s way, Crusading downward to be torn By canyon jags and vulture claws, Maintaining to the end The Cause, The exaltation of The Horn? And now the fatal hour had struck. Abimelech, that eastern buck With all the pride of a Mogul, His anger rising in a storm Of snorts, superbly true to form, Moved to the centre, lowered his skull— The famous Gottite cranium— To meet the Carobite Defender, The noble Cyrus who had come To die but never to surrender. Come all ye hair-dividers, wise To ways of nature and of art, Who know how to anatomize The fine vagaries of the heart, Come bring your lore and make it plain— This riddle in the Carob brain. In that weird passage from the dark Matrix that shaped the Carobite And stratified his skull for fight, Up to this present hour, the spark Had never failed the dynamite. Ye cannot say that Cyrus knew Just what he was about to do. For nowhere in his long descent Was there a trace of one rehearsal Which might account for this reversal Of military precedent. Folly it is to speculate Upon the food that Cyrus ate, That inland buds of evergreen With valley shoots could mitigate A million years of feudal hate From Irish Moss and carrageen; Or that the Adriatic weed By working on the thyroid freed The activators in his blood; That something in the morning cud Gentled his lymph towards his foes,— A steadying digitalis flip To the heart when he paused to nip The foxglove. Tell us he that knows. Or failing every shibboleth Of blood or ductless glands or such, Did reason enter in to touch The senses with the thought of death, And flash across goat-leaden eyes Glimpse of futilitarian skies? The vultures with their ten-foot spread, Their hairless necks and crimson lids, Were at their business half-a-mile Below among the ancient dead Or roosting on the pyramids. And some were mounting the defile To flank the Pass of Capra where They lounged like lizards on the air; And one black wing had come so near The Rock, its tip had brushed the coat Of the Carob leader as it passed: And had that brush, so leisured, cast The only one acknowledged fear Within the history of the goat? Or was it fear? Did Cyrus know That neither courage, strength nor will Behind the battle urge to kill Was proof against a flying foe? That every time when honour wronged Secured revenge upon the peaks, Inevitably the spoils belonged To the swiftest wings and sharpest beaks— The harpies and the cormorants Who, compensating for their theft Of blood and flesh and fat, had left The glory to the ruminants? But do not reason why the mind Should save the soul or seek to find Within the evolutionary dream An optimistic phagocyte That cleaning up the corporate stream, Had scrubbed a conscience into light, The conscience of a Carobite— An Aryan working overtime Beating the Tartar to the climb! Ye cannot know what Cyrus felt; Ye only know that Cyrus knelt. _Knelt!_ Hocks and knees! The body lay Prone—lengthwise—on the Capra Pass, As if beside his dam—the way He went to sleep in summer grass. Now let pathologists explain What happened to the other brain. After a close look at the head, A momentary sniff at hoof And beard which gave Abimelech proof That Cyrus was by no means dead, A flash of understanding thrown Like a dagger of apocalypse, Had pierced the Gottite cranial bone And crashed his spiritual eclipse. Was it a glint of chivalry Nurtured under the eastern climes, A throw-back to the Gobi times, When someone in his ancestry Had set a fashion for the race, Made it a stigma of disgrace To foul a fallen enemy? Let him declare it who can tell Whether in Palestinian lands Some new conciliatory cell Had been evolved while roving bands Converged upon the desert sands To share the water from a well. The chieftain saw the road was thrown Wide open: it was his alone To take possession in his stride— ’Twas his alone, this flush of pride In a great conquest which would place Him as the hero of his race. But all the arrogance and scorn On which his tribal soul was bred, Spurn of the hoof, flaunt of the horn That was Abimelech’s, had fled, And in its place a strangely warm Infusion—a considerate care That would not harm a single hair. He sniffed once more the prostrate form Of Cyrus. Then as if he feared He might do violence to the head Or bring pollution to the beard, He stepped so lightly over, cleared Knees, hoofs and rump with that sure tread Which never yet had made him miss His foothold on a precipice. Clean over? Yes, beyond his foe! None could deny the deed was done, The Carolonian summit won, The Capra Pass without a blow! Cyrus looked up and in his eyes Was an incredulous surprise. He could not find his enemy. He shook himself and blinked awhile, Then straightened up and gingerly He made the perilous defile. Reaching the safety of the bend, He stopped and, curious, craned his neck, Only to see Abimelech Watching him at the other end. The eyes of those two hierarchs Were four interrogation marks. No record in the family tree Illumined this epiphany. Five minutes motionless and mute They stood with that hypnotic stare That only puzzled goats could wear; And then in reverent salute As though their eyes had shed their scales, And each had recognized a brother Bidding Good Morning to the other, They waved their beards and stubby tails, And turning took their downward trails, Accompanied by their retinue, Alive to the redemptive clue— Cyrus to where the wild thyme grew, And where he could at his sweet beck Tread acres of the cistus-tree And lavender; Abimelech To bergamot and barberry, And where he could, up to his neck, Crop billowing leagues of cicely. THE DEPRESSION ENDS If I could take within my hand The rod of Prospero for an hour, With space and speed at my command, And astro-physics in my power, Having no reason for my scheme Beyond the logic of a dream To change a world predestinate From the eternal loom of fate, I’d realize my mad chimera By smashing distaff and the spinner, And usher in the golden era With an apocalyptic dinner. I’d place a table in the skies No earthly mind could visualize: No instruments of earth could bound it— ’Twould take the light-years to go round it. And to this feast I would invite Only the faithful, the elect— The shabby ones of earth’s despite, The victims of her rude neglect, The most unkempt and motley throng Ever described in tale or song. All the good lads I’ve ever known From the twelve winds of sea and land Should hear my shattering bugle tone And feel its summoning command. No one should come who never knew A famine day of rationed gruel, Nor heard his stomach like a flue Roaring with wind instead of fuel: No self-made men who proudly claim To be the architects of fame; No profiteers whose double chins Are battened on the Corn-Exchange, While continental breadlines range Before the dust of flour-bins. These shall not enter, nor shall those Who soured with the sun complain Of all their manufactured woes, Yet never had an honest pain: Not these—the well-groomed and the sleeked, But all the gaunt, the cavern-cheeked, The waifs whose tightened belts declare The thinness of their daily fare; The ill-starred from their natal days, The gaffers and the stowaways, The road-tramps and the alley-bred Who leap to scraps that others fling, With luck less than the Tishbite’s, fed On manna from the raven’s wing. This dinner, now years overdue, Shall centre in a barbecue. Orion’s club—no longer fable— Shall fall upon the Taurus head. No less than Centaurs shall be led In roaring pairs forth from their stable And harnessed to the Wain to pull The mighty carcass of the bull Across the tundras to the table, Where he shall stretch from head to stern, Roasted and basted to a turn. I’d have the Pleiades prepare Jugged Lepus (to the vulgar _hare_), Galactic venison just done From the corona of the sun, Hoof jellies from Monoceros, Planked tuna, shad, stewed terrapin, And red-gut salmon captured in The deltas of the Southern Cross. Devilled shrimps and scalloped clams, Flamingoes, capons, luscious yams And cherries from Hesperides; And every man and every beast, Known to the stars’ directories For speed of foot and strength of back, Would be the couriers to this feast— Mercury, Atlas, Hercules, Each bearing a capacious pack. I would conscript the Gemini, Persuading Castor to compete With Pollux on a heavy wager, Buckboard against the sled, that he, With Capricornus could not beat His brother mushing Canis Major. And on the journey there I’d hail Aquarius with his nets and pail, And Neptune with his prong to meet us At some point on the shores of Cetus, And bid them superintend a cargo Of fresh sea-food upon the Argo— Sturgeon and shell-fish that might serve To fill the side-boards with _hors d’oeuvres_. And worthy of the banquet spread Within this royal court of night, A curving canopy of light Shall roof it myriad-diamonded. For high above the table head Shall sway a candelabrum where, According to the legend, dwelt a Lady seated in a chair With Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Busy braiding up her hair. Sirius, the dog-star, shall be put Immediately above the foot, And central from the cupola Shall hang the cluster—Auriga, With that deep sapphire-hearted stella, The loveliest of the lamps, Capella. For all old men whose pilgrim feet Were calloused with life’s dust and heat, Whose throats were arid with its thirst, I’d smite Jove’s taverns till they burst, And punch the spigots of his vats, Till flagons, kegs and barrels all Were drained of their ambrosial As dry as the Sahara flats. For toothless, winded ladies who, Timid and hesitating, fear They might not stand the barbecue (Being so near their obsequies), I’d serve purées fresh from the ear Of Spica with a mild ragout— To satisfy the calories— Of breast of Cygnus stiffened by The hind left leg of Aries, As a last wind-up before they die. And I would have no wardens there, Searching the platters for a reason To seize Diana and declare That venison is out of season. For all those children hunger-worn From drought or flood and harvest failing, Whether from Nile or Danube hailing, Or Yangtze or the Volga born, I’d communize the total yields Of summer in the Elysian fields, Gather the berries from the shrubs To crown souffles and syllabubs. Dumplings and trifles and _éclaires_ And roly-polies shall be theirs; Search as you may, you will not find One dash of oil, one dish of prunes To spoil the taste of the macaroons, And I would have you bear in mind No dietetic aunt-in-law, With hook-nose and prognathic jaw, Will try her vain reducing fads Upon these wenches and these lads. Now that these grand festivities Might start with holy auspices, I would select with Christian care, To offer up the vesper prayer, A padre of high blood—no white Self-pinched, self-punished anchorite, Who credits up against his dying His boasted hours of mortifying, Who thinks he hears a funeral bell In dinner gongs on principle. He shall be left to mourn this night, Walled in his dim religious light: Unto this feast he shall not come To breathe his gloom. No! rather some Sagacious and expansive friar, Who beams good-will, who loves a briar, Who, when he has his fellows with him Around a board, can make a grace Sonorous, full of liquid rhythm, Boom from his lungs’ majestic bass; Who, when requested by his host To do the honours to a toast, Calls on the clan to rise and hold Their glasses to the light a minute, Just to observe the mellow gold And the rare glint of autumn in it. Now even at this hour he stands, The benison upon his face, In his white hair and moulded hands, No less than in his spoken grace. “We thank thee for this table spread In such a hall, on such a night, With such unusual stores of bread, O Lord of love! O Lord of light! We magnify thy name in praise At what thy messengers have brought, For not since Galilean days Has such a miracle been wrought. The guests whom thou hast bidden come, The starved, the maimed, the deaf, and dumb, Were misfits in a world of evil, And ridden hard by man and devil. The seven years they have passed through Were leaner than what Israel knew. Dear Lord, forgive my liberty, In telling what thou mayst not know, For it must seem so queer to thee, What happens on our earth below: The sheep graze on a thousand hills, The cattle roam upon the plains, The cotton waits upon the mills, The stores are bursting with their grains, And yet these ragged ones that kneel To take thy grace before their meal Are said to be thy chosen ones, Lord of the planets and the suns! Therefore let thy favours fall In rich abundance on them all. May not one stomach here to-night Turn traitor on its appetite. Take under thy peculiar care The infants and the aged. Bestow Upon all invalids a rare Release of their digestive flow, That they, with health returned, may know A hunger equal to the fare, And for these mercies, Lord, we’ll praise Thee to the limit of our days.” He ended. The salubrious feast Began: with inundating mirth It drowned all memories of earth: It quenched the midnight chimes: nor ceased It till the wand of Prospero, Turning its magic on the east, Broke on a master charm, when lo! Answering the summons of her name, Fresh from the surf of Neptune came Aurora to the Portico. THE TRUANT “What have you there?” the great Panjandrum said To the Master of the Revels who had led A bucking truant with a stiff backbone Close to the foot of the Almighty’s throne. “Right Reverend, most adored, And forcibly acknowledged Lord By the keen logic of your two-edged sword! This creature has presumed to classify Himself—a biped, rational, six feet high And two feet wide; weighs fourteen stone; Is guilty of a multitude of sins. He has abjured his choric origins, And like an undomesticated slattern, Walks with tangential step unknown Within the weave of the atomic pattern. He has developed concepts, grins Obscenely at your Royal bulletins, Possesses what he calls a will Which challenges your power to kill.” “What is his pedigree?” “The base is guaranteed, your Majesty— Calcium, carbon, phosphorus, vapour And other fundamentals spun From the umbilicus of the sun, And yet he says he will not caper Around your throne, nor toe the rules For the ballet of the fiery molecules.” “His concepts and denials—scrap them, burn them— To the chemists with them promptly.” “Sire, The stuff is not amenable to fire. Nothing but their own kind can overturn them. The chemists have sent back the same old story— ‘With our extreme gelatinous apology, We beg to inform your Imperial Majesty, Unto whom be dominion and power and glory, There still remains that strange precipitate Which has the quality to resist Our oldest and most trusted catalyst. It is a substance we cannot cremate By temperatures known to our Laboratory.’” And the great Panjandrum’s face grew dark— “I’ll put those chemists to their annual purge, And I myself shall be the thaumaturge To find the nature of this fellow’s spark. Come, bring him nearer by yon halter rope: I’ll analyse him with the cosmoscope.” Pulled forward with his neck awry, The little fellow six feet short, Aware he was about to die, Committed grave contempt of court By answering with a flinchless stare The Awful Presence seated there. The ALL HIGH swore until his face was black. He called him a coprophagite, A genus _homo_, egomaniac, Third cousin to the family of worms, A sporozoan from the ooze of night, Spawn of a spavined troglodyte: He swore by all the catalogue of terms Known since the slang of carboniferous Time. He said that he could trace him back To pollywogs and earwigs in the slime. And in his shrillest tenor he began Reciting his indictment of the man, Until he closed upon this capital crime— “You are accused of singing out of key, (A foul unmitigated dissonance) Of shuffling in the measures of the dance, Then walking out with that defiant, free Toss of your head, banging the doors, Leaving a stench upon the jacinth floors. You have fallen like a curse On the mechanics of my Universe. “Herewith I measure out your penalty— Hearken while you hear, look while you see: I send you now upon your homeward route Where you shall find Humiliation for your pride of mind. I shall make deaf the ear, and dim the eye, Put palsy in your touch, make mute Your speech, intoxicate your cells and dry Your blood and marrow, shoot Arthritic needles through your cartilage, And having parched you with old age, I’ll pass you wormwise through the mire; And when your rebel will Is mouldered, all desire Shrivelled, all your concepts broken, Backward in dust I’ll blow you till You join my spiral festival of fire. Go, Master of the Revels—I have spoken.” And the little genus _homo_, six feet high, Standing erect, countered with this reply— “You dumb insouciant invertebrate, You rule a lower than a feudal state— A realm of flunkey decimals that run, Return; return and run; again return, Each group around its little sun, And every sun a satellite. There they go by day and night, Nothing to do but run and burn, Taking turn and turn about, Light-year in and light-year out, Dancing, dancing in quadrillions, Never leaving their pavilions. “Your astronomical conceit Of bulk and power is anserine. Your ignorance so thick, You did not know your own arithmetic. We flung the graphs about your flying feet, We measured your diameter— Merely a line Of zeros prefaced by an integer. Before we came You had no name. You did not know direction or your pace; We taught you all you ever knew Of motion, time and space. We healed you of your vertigo And put you in our kindergarten show, Perambulated you through prisms, drew Your _mumu’s_ through the Milky Way, Lassoed your comets when they ran astray, Yoked Leo, Taurus, and your team of Bears To pull our kiddy cars of inverse squares. “Boast not about your harmony, Your perfect curves, your rings Of _pure and endless light_—’Twas we Who pinned upon your Seraphim their wings, And when your brassy heavens rang With joy that morning while the planets sang Their choruses of archangelic lore, ’Twas we who ordered the notes upon their score Out of our winds and strings. Yes! all your shapely forms Are ours—parabolas of silver light, Those blueprints of your spiral stairs From nadir depth to zenith height, Coronas, rainbows after storms, Auroras on your eastern tapestries And constellations over western seas. “And when, one day, grown conscious of your age, While pondering an eolith, We turned a human page And blotted out a cosmic myth With all its baby symbols to explain The sunlight in Apollo’s eyes, Our rising pulses and the birth of pain, Fear, and that fern-and-fungus breath Stalking our nostrils to our caves of death— That day we learned how to anatomize Your body, calibrate your size And set a mirror up before your face To show you what you really were—a rain Of dull Lucretian atoms crowding space, A series of concentric waves which any fool Might make by dropping stones within a pool, Or an exploding bomb forever in flight Bursting like hell through Chaos and Old Night. “You oldest of the hierarchs Composed of electronic sparks, We grant you speed, We grant you power, and fire That ends in ash, but we concede To you no pain nor joy nor love nor hate, No final tableau of desire, No causes won or lost, no free Adventure at the outposts—only The degradation of your energy When at some late Slow number of your dance your sergeant-major Fate Will catch you blind and groping and will send You reeling on that long and lonely Lockstep of your wave-lengths towards your end. “We who have met With stubborn calm the dawn’s hot fusillades; Who have seen the forehead sweat Under the tug of pulleys on the joints, Under the liquidating tally Of the cat-and-truncheon bastinades; Who have taught our souls to rally To mountain horns and the sea’s rockets When the needle ran demented through the points; We who have learned to clench Our fists and raise our lightless sockets To morning skies after the midnight raids, Yet cocked our ears to bugles on the barricades, And in cathedral rubble found a way to quench A dying thirst within a Galilean valley— No! by the Rood, we will not join your ballet.” THE END TRANSCRIBER NOTES Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. Book cover is placed in the public domain. [The end of _Collected Poems_ by E. J. Pratt]