The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 342 : Between these somber purple hills That cool the sunset's molten bars, You will go

Between these somber purple hills That cool the sunset's molten bars, You will go on as the wind wills, Beneath the river's roof of stars.

You will toss onward toward the lights That spangle over the lonely pier, By hamlets glimmering on the heights, By level islands black and clear.

You will go on beyond the tide, Through br.i.m.m.i.n.g plains of olive sedge, Through paler shadows light and wide, The rapids piled along the ledge.

At evening off some reedy bay You will swing slowly on your chain, And catch the scent of dewy hay, Soft blowing from the pleasant plain.

Duncan Campbell Scott [1862-

CHRISTMAS AT SEA

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a nor'-wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.

We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared; But every tack we made brought the North Head close aboard; So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his gla.s.s against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longsh.o.r.e home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer; For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn, And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.

"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call.

"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.

"It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good, And the s.h.i.+p smelt up to windward, just as though she understood.

As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night, We cleared the weary headland, and pa.s.sed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE PORT O' HEART'S DESIRE

Down around the quay they lie, the s.h.i.+ps that sail to sea, On sh.o.r.e the brown-cheeked sailormen they pa.s.s the jest with me, But soon their s.h.i.+ps will sail away with winds that never tire, And there's one that will be sailing to the Port o' Heart's Desire.

The Port o' Heart's Desire, and it's, oh, that port for me, And that's the s.h.i.+p that I love best of all that sail the sea; Its hold is filled with memories, its prow it points away To the Port o' Heart's Desire, where I roamed a boy at play.

s.h.i.+ps that sail for gold there be, and s.h.i.+ps that sail for fame, And some were filled with jewels bright when from Cathay they came, But give me still yon white sail in the sunset's mystic fire, That the running tides will carry to the Port o' Heart's Desire.

It's you may have the gold and fame, and all the jewels, too, And all the s.h.i.+ps, if they were mine, I'd gladly give to you, I'd give them all right gladly, with their gold and fame entire, If you would set me down within the Port o' Heart's Desire.

Oh, speed you, white-winged s.h.i.+p of mine, oh, speed you to the sea, Some other day, some other tide, come back again for me; Come back with all the memories, the joys and e'en the pain, And take me to the golden hills of boyhood once again.

John S. McGroarty [1862-

ON THE QUAY

I've never traveled for more'n a day, I never was one to roam, But I likes to sit on the busy quay, Watchin' the s.h.i.+ps that says to me-- "Always somebody goin' away, Somebody gettin' home."

I likes to think that the world's so wide-- 'Tis grand to be livin' there, Takin' a part in its goin's on....

Ah, now ye're laughin' at poor old John, Talkin' o' works o' the world wi' pride As if he was doin' his share!

But laugh if ye will! When ye're old as me Ye'll find 'tis a rare good plan To look at the world--an' love it too!-- Though never a job are ye fit to do....

Oh! 'tisn't all sorrow an' pain to see The work o' another man.

'Tis good when the heart grows big at last, Too big for trouble to fill-- Wi' room for the things that was only stuff When workin' an' winnin' seemed more'n enough-- Room for the world, the world so vast, Wi' its peoples an' all their skill.

That's what I'm thinkin' on all the days I'm loafin' an' smokin' here, An' the s.h.i.+ps do make me think the most (Of readin' in books 'tis little I'd boast),-- But the s.h.i.+ps, they carries me long, long ways, An' draws far places near.

I sees the things that a sailor brings, I hears the stories he tells....

'Tis surely a wonderful world, indeed!

'Tis more'n the peoples can ever need!

An' I praises the Lord--to myself I sings-- For the world in which I dwells.

An' I loves the s.h.i.+ps more every day Though I never was one to roam.

Oh! the s.h.i.+ps is comfortin' sights to see, An' they means a lot when they says to me-- "Always somebody goin' away, Somebody gettin' home."

John Joy Bell [1871-1934]

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat now-- The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though, on the forge's brow, The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare, Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windla.s.s there.

The windla.s.s strains the tackle-chains--the black mold heaves below; And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe.

It rises, roars, rends all outright--O Vulcan, what a glow!

'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright--the high sun s.h.i.+nes not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show!