Part 6
Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart As fits a man to play a royal part. Not his the pride that honours as a trust The right to rule, the duty to be just: Not his the dignity that bends to bear The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care, And labours like the peasant at his gate, To serve the people and protect the State. Another pride was his, and other joys: To him the crown and sceptre were but toys, With which he played at glory's idle game, To please himself and win the wreaths of fame. The throne his fathers held from age to age, To his ambition seemed a fitting stage Built for King Martin to display at will, His mighty strength and universal skill. No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries At every step to win admiring eyes, No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws From gaping crowds the thunder of applause, Was vainer than the King: his only thirst Was to be hailed, in every race, the first. When tournament was held, in knightly guise The King would ride the lists and win the prize; When music charmed the court, with golden lyre The King would take the stage and lead the choir; In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar; In hawking, see his falcon highest soar; In painting, he would wield the master's brush; In high debate,--"the King is speaking! Hush!" Thus, with a restless heart, in every field He sought renown, and made his subjects yield. But while he played the petty games of life His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife; Corruption through the court unheeded crept, And on the seat of honour justice slept. The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor Groaned under burdens grievous to endure; The nation's wealth was spent in vain display, And weakness wore the nation's heart away.
Yet think not Earth is blind to human woes-- Man has more friends and helpers than he knows; And when a patient people are oppressed, The land that bore them feels it in her breast. Spirits of field and flood, of heath and hill, Are grieved and angry at the spreading ill; The trees complain together in the night, Voices of wrath are heard along the height, And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand, To bring the tyrant low and free the land.
But little recked the pampered King of these; He heard no voice but such as praise and please. Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport, One day he wandered idly with his court Beside the river, seeking to devise New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes. There in the stream a patient angler stood, And cast his line across the rippling flood. His silver spoil lay near him on the green: "Such fish," the courtiers cried, "were never seen! Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard shaft-- This man must be the master of his craft!" "An easy art!" the jealous King replied: "Myself could learn it better, if I tried, And catch a hundred larger fish a week-- Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!" The angler turned, came near, and bent his knee: "'Tis not for kings to strive with such as me; Yet if the King commands it, I obey. But one condition of the strife I pray: The fisherman who brings the least to land Shall do whate'er the other may command." Loud laughed the King: "A foolish fisher thou! For I shall win, and rule thee then as now."
Then to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate And slow, King Martin left the helm of State, While to the novel game with eager zest He all his time and all his powers addressed. Sure such a sight was never seen before! In robe and crown the monarch trod the shore; His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine, His jewelled reel ran out a silken line. With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream; Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam; Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain. On Friday, when the week was almost spent, He scanned his empty creel with discontent, Called for a net, and cast it far and wide, And drew--a thousand minnows from the tide! Then came the angler to conclude the match, And at the monarch's feet spread out his catch-- A hundred salmon, greater than before. "I win!" he cried: "the King must pay the score." Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down: "Rather than lose this game I'd lose my crown!" "Nay, thou hast lost them both," the angler said; And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed Around his form; he dropped his garments mean, And in his place the River-god was seen. "Thy vanity has brought thee in my power, And thou must pay the forfeit at this hour: For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool, Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule, Eager to win in every trivial strife,-- Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!" Wrathful, the King the magic sentence heard; He strove to answer, but he only _chirr-r-ed_: His royal robe was changed to wings of blue, His crown a ruby crest,--away he flew!
So every summer day along the stream The vain King-fisher darts, an azure gleam, And scolds the angler with a mocking scream.
April, 1904.
THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE
_A tale that the poet Rückert told To German children, in days of old; Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme Like a merry mummer of ancient time, And sent, in its English dress, to please The little folk of the Christmas trees._
A little fir grew in the midst of the wood Contented and happy, as young trees should. His body was straight and his boughs were clean; And summer and winter the bountiful sheen Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root, In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit.
But a trouble came into his heart one day, When he saw that the other trees were gay In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves: He looked at his needles so stiff and small, And thought that his dress was the poorest of all. Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind, And he said to himself, "It was not very kind To give such an ugly old dress to a tree! If the fays of the forest would only ask me, I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed,-- In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!" So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad. When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad; For every leaf that his boughs could hold Was made of the brightest beaten gold. I tell you, children, the tree was proud; He was something above the common crowd; And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say To a pedlar who happened to pass that way, "Just look at me! Don't you think I am fine? And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?" "Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress." So he picked the golden leaves with care, And left the little tree shivering there.
"Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?" The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves Would be sure to rob me in passing by. If the fairies would give me another try, I'd wish for something that cost much less, And be satisfied with glass for my dress!" Then he fell asleep; and, just as before, The fairies granted his wish once more. When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear, The tree was a crystal chandelier; And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light, That his branches were covered with jewels bright. "Aha!" said the tree. "This is something great!" And he held himself up, very proud and straight; But a rude young wind through the forest dashed, In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed The delicate leaves. With a clashing sound They broke into pieces and fell on the ground, Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail, And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale.
Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas For my beautiful leaves of shining glass! Perhaps I have made another mistake In choosing a dress so easy to break. If the fairies only would hear me again I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain: It wouldn't cost much to grant my request,-- In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!" By this time the fairies were laughing, I know; But they gave him his wish in a second; and so With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet, The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet. "I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find The sort of a suit that would be to my mind. There's none of the trees has a prettier dress, And none as attractive as I am, I guess." But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk, By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk. So he came up close for a nearer view;-- "My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too! You're the most attractive kind of a tree, And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea." So he ate them all without saying grace, And walked away with a grin on his face; While the little tree stood in the twilight dim, With never a leaf on a single limb.
Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak-- He was so ashamed that he could not speak. He knew at last he had been a fool, To think of breaking the forest rule, And choosing a dress himself to please, Because he envied the other trees. But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late, He must make up his mind to a leafless fate! So he let himself sink in a slumber deep, But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep, Till the morning touched him with joyful beam, And he woke to find it was all a dream. For there in his evergreen dress he stood, A pointed fir in the midst of the wood! His branches were sweet with the balsam smell, His needles were green when the white snow fell. And always contented and happy was he,-- The very best kind of a Christmas tree.
"GRAN' BOULE"
A SEAMAN'S TALE OF THE SEA
We men hat go down for a livin' in ships to the sea,-- We love it a different way from you poets that 'bide on the land. We are fond of it, sure! But, you take it as comin' from me, There's a fear and a hate in our love that a landsman can't understand.
Oh, who could help likin' the salty smell, and the blue Of the waves that are lazily breathin' as if they dreamed in the sun? She's a Sleepin' Beauty, the sea,--but you can't tell what she'll do; And the seamen never trust her,--they know too well what she's done!
She's a wench like one that I saw in a singin'-play,-- Carmen they called her,--Lord, what a life her lovers did lead! She'd cuddle and kiss you, and sing you and dance you away; And then,--she'd curse you, and break you, and throw you down like a weed.
You may chance it awhile with the girls like that, if you please; But you want a woman to trust when you settle down with a wife; And a seaman's thought of growin' old at his ease Is a snug little house on the land to shelter the rest of his life.
So that was old Poisson's dream,--did you know the Cap'? A brown little Frenchman, clever, and brave, and quick as a fish,-- Had a wife and kids on the other side of the map,-- And a rose-covered cottage for them and him was his darlin' wish.
"I 'ave sail," says he, in his broken-up Frenchy talk, "Mos' forty-two year; I 'ave go on all part of de worl' dat ees wet. I'm seeck of de boat and de water. I rader walk Wid ma Josephine in one garden; an' eef we get tire', we set!
"You see dat _bateau_, _Sainte Brigitte_? I bring 'er dh'are From de Breton coas', by gar, jus' feefteen year bifore. She ole w'en she come on Kebec, but _Holloway Frères_ Dey buy 'er, an' hire me run 'er along dat dam' Nort' Shore.
"Dose engine one leetl' bit cranky,--too ole, you see,-- She roll and peetch in de wave'. But I lak' 'er pretty well; An' dat sheep she lak' 'er captaine, sure, dat's me! Wit' forty ton coal in de bunker, I tek' dat sheep t'rou' hell.
"But I don' wan' risk it no more; I had _bonne chance_: I save already ten t'ousan' dollar', dat's plenty I s'pose! Nex' winter I buy dat house wid de garden on France An' I tell _adieu_ to de sea, and I leev' on de lan' in ripose."
All summer he talked of his house,--you could see the flowers Abloom, and the pear-trees trained on the garden-wall so trim, And the Captain awalkin' and smokin' away the hours,-- He thought he had done with the sea, but the sea hadn't done with him!
It was late in the fall when he made the last regular run, Clear down to the Esquimault Point and back with his rickety ship; She hammered and pounded a lot, for the storms had begun; But he drove her,--and went for his season's pay at the end of the trip.
Now the Holloway Brothers are greedy and thin little men, With their eyes set close together, and money's their only God; So they told the Cap' he must run the "Bridget" again, To fetch a cargo from Moisie, two thousand quintals of cod.
He said the season was over. They said: "Not yet. You finish the whole of your job, old man, or you don't draw a cent!" (They had the "Bridget" insured for all they could get.) And the Captain objected, and cursed, and cried. But he _went_.
They took on the cargo at Moisie, and folks beside,-- Three traders, a priest, and a couple of nuns, and a girl For a school at Quebec,--when the Captain saw her he sighed, And said: "Ma littl' Fifi got hair lak' dat, all curl!"
The snow had fallen a foot, and the wind was high, When the "Bridget" butted her way thro' the billows on Moisie bar. The darkness grew with the gale, not a star in the sky, And the Captain swore: "We mus' make _Sept Isles_ to-night, by gar!"
He couldn't go back, for he didn't dare to turn; The sea would have thrown the ship like a mustang noosed with a rope; For the monstrous waves were leapin' high astern, And the shelter of Seven Island Bay was the only hope.
There's a bunch of broken hills half sunk in the mouth Of the bay, with their jagged peaks afoam; and the Captain thought He could pass to the north; but the sea kept shovin' him south, With her harlot hands, in the snow-blind murk, till she had him caught.
She had waited forty years for a night like this,-- Did he think he could leave her now, and live in a cottage, the fool? She headed him straight for the island he couldn't miss; And heaved his boat in the dark,--and smashed it against _Gran' Boule_.
How the Captain and half of the people clambered ashore, Through the surf and the snow in the gloom of that horrible night, There's no one ever will know. For two days more The death-white shroud of the tempest covered the island from sight.
How they suffered, and struggled, and died, will never be told; We discovered them all at last when we reached _Gran' Boule_ with a boat; The drowned and the frozen were lyin' stiff and cold, And the poor little girl with the curls was wrapped in the Captain's coat.
Go write your song of the sea as the landsmen do, And call her your "great sweet mother," your "bride," and all the rest; She was made to be loved,--but remember, she won't love you,-- The men who trust her the least are the sailors who know her the best.
HEROES OF THE "TITANIC"
Honour the brave who sleep Where the lost "Titanic" lies, The men who knew what a man must do When he looks Death in the eyes.
"Women and children first,"-- Ah, strong and tender cry! The sons whom women had borne and nursed, Remembered,--and dared to die.
The boats crept off in the dark: The great ship groaned: and then,-- O stars of the night, who saw that sight, Bear witness, _These were men!_
November 9, 1912.
THE STANDARD-BEARER
I
"How can I tell," Sir Edmund said, "Who has the right or the wrong o' this thing? Cromwell stands for the people's cause, Charles is crowned by the ancient laws; English meadows are sopping red, Englishmen striking each other dead,-- Times are black as a raven's wing. Out of the ruck and the murk I see Only one thing! The King has trusted his banner to me, And I must fight for the King."
II
Into the thick of the Edgehill fight Sir Edmund rode with a shout; and the ring Of grim-faced, hard-hitting Parliament men Swallowed him up,--it was one against ten! He fought for the standard with all his might, Never again did he come to sight-- Victor, hid by the raven's wing! After the battle had passed we found Only one thing,-- The hand of Sir Edmund gripped around The banner-staff of his King.
1914.
THE PROUD LADY
When Stävoren town was in its prime And queened the Zuyder Zee, Her ships went out to every clime With costly merchantry.
A lady dwelt in that rich town, The fairest in all the land; She walked abroad in a velvet gown, With many rings on her hand.
Her hair was bright as the beaten gold, Her lips as coral red, Her roving eyes were blue and bold, And her heart with pride was fed.
For she was proud of her father's ships, As she watched them gaily pass; And pride looked out of her eyes and lips When she saw herself in the glass.
"Now come," she said to the captains ten, Who were ready to put to sea, "Ye are all my men and my father's men, And what will ye do for me?"
"Go north and south, go east and west, And get me gifts," she said. "And he who bringeth me home the best, With that man will I wed."
So they all fared forth, and sought with care In many a famous mart, For satins and silks and jewels rare, To win that lady's heart.
She looked at them all with never a thought, And careless put them by; "I am not fain of the things ye brought, Enough of these have I."
The last that came was the head of the fleet, His name was Jan Borel; He bent his knee at the lady's feet,-- In truth he loved her well.
"I've brought thee home the best i' the world, A shipful of Danzig corn!" She stared at him long; her red lips curled, Her blue eyes filled with scorn.
"Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl, A loon thou art," she said. "Am I a starving beggar girl? Shall I ever lack for bread?"
"Go empty all thy sacks of grain Into the nearest sea, And never show thy face again To make a mock of me."
Young Jan Borel, he answered naught, But in the harbour cast The sacks of golden corn he brought, And groaned when fell the last.
Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail, And out to sea he bore; He passed the Helder in a gale And came again no more.
But the grains of corn went drifting down Like devil-scattered seed, To sow the harbour of the town With a wicked growth of weed.
The roots were thick and the silt and sand Were gathered day by day, Till not a furlong out from land A shoal had barred the way.
Then Stävoren town saw evil years, No ships could out or in, The boats lay rotting at the piers, And the mouldy grain in the bin.
The grass-grown streets were all forlorn, The town in ruin stood, The lady's velvet gown was torn, Her rings were sold for food.
Her father had perished long ago, But the lady held her pride, She walked with a scornful step and slow, Till at last in her rags she died.
Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town, When the midnight moon shines free, A woman walks in a velvet gown And scatters corn in the sea.
1917.
LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE
A MILE WITH ME
O who will walk a mile with me Along life's merry way? A comrade blithe and full of glee, Who dares to laugh out loud and free, And let his frolic fancy play, Like a happy child, through the flowers gay That fill the field and fringe the way Where he walks a mile with me.
And who will walk a mile with me Along life's weary way? A friend whose heart has eyes to see The stars shine out o'er the darkening lea, And the quiet rest at the end o' the day,-- A friend who knows, and dares to say, The brave, sweet words that cheer the way Where he walks a mile with me.
With such a comrade, such a friend, I fain would walk till journeys end, Through summer sunshine, winter rain, And then?--Farewell, we shall meet again!
THE THREE BEST THINGS
I
WORK
Let me but do my work from day to day, In field or forest, at the desk or loom, In roaring market-place or tranquil room; Let me but find it in my heart to say, When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; Of all who live, I am the one by whom This work can best be done in the right way."
Then shall I see it not too great, nor small, To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall At eventide, to play and love and rest, Because I know for me my work is best.
II
LOVE
Let me but love my love without disguise, Nor wear a mask of fashion old or new, Nor wait to speak till I can hear a clue, Nor play a part to shine in others' eyes, Nor bow my knees to what my heart denies; But what I am, to that let me be true, And let me worship where my love is due, And so through love and worship let me rise.
For love is but the heart's immortal thirst To be completely known and all forgiven, Even as sinful souls that enter Heaven: So take me, dear, and understand my worst, And freely pardon it, because confessed, And let me find in loving thee, my best.
III
LIFE