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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6270.txt b/6270.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..26d59b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/6270.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1669 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook Embers, by Gilbert Parker, Volume 3. +#97 in our series by Gilbert Parker + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: Embers, Volume 3. + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6270] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on November 21, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMBERS, BY PARKER, V3 *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + + + + + +EMBERS + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 3. + + +CONTENTS + +IN CAMDEN TOWN +JEAN +A MEMORY +IN CAMP AT JUNIPER COVE +JUNIPER COVE TWENTY YEARS AFTER +LISTENING +NEVERTHELESS +ISHMAEL +OVER THE HILLS +THE DELIVERER +THE DESERT ROAD +A SON OF THE NILE +A FAREWELL FROM THE HAREM +AN ARAB LOVE SONG +THE CAMEL-DRIVER TO HIS CAMEL +THE TALL DABOON +THERE IS SORROW ON THE SEA +THE AUSTRALIAN STOCBRIDER +THE BRIDGE OF THE HUNDRED SPANS +NELL LATORE + + + + + + IN CAMDEN TOWN + + How many years of sun and snow + Have come to Camden Town, + Since through its streets and in its shade, + I wandered up and down. + + Not many more than to you here + These verses hapless flung, + Yet of the Long Ago they seem + To me who am yet young. + + We strive to measure life by Time, + And con the seasons o'er, + To find, alas! that days are years, + And years for evermore. + + The joys that thrill, the ill that thralls, + Pressed down on heart and brain- + These are the only horologues, + The Age's loss or gain. + + And I am old in all of these, + And wonder if I know + The man begotten of the boy, + Who loved that long ago. + + A lilac bush close to the gate, + A locust at the door, + A low, wide window flower-filled, + With ivy covered o'er. + + A face--O love of childhood dreams, + Lily in form and name-- + It comes back now in these day-dreams, + The same yet not the same. + + My childhood's friend! Well gathered are + The sheaves of many days, + But this one sheaf is garnered in, + Bound by my love always. + + Where have you wandered, child, since when + Together merrily, + We gathered cups of columbine + By lazy Rapanee? + + The green spears of the flagflower, + Down by the old mill-race, + Are weapons now for other hands, + Who mimic warfare chase. + + You were so tender, yet so strong, + So gentle, yet so free, + Your every word, whenever heard, + Seemed wondrous wise to me. + + You marvelled if the dead could hear + Our steps, that passed at will + Their low green houses in the elm- + Crowned churchyard on the hill. + + And I, whom your sweet childhood's trust, + Esteemed as most profound, + Thought that they heard, as in a dream, + The shadow of a sound. + + We drew the long, rank grass away + From tombstones mossy grown, + To read the verses crude and quaint, + And make the words our own. + + One tottering marble, willow-spread, + I well remember yet, + With only this engraved thereon, + "By Joseph to Jeanette." + + It held us wondering oft, as we + Peeped through the pickets old: + There was some mystery, we knew, + Some history untold. + + Well, better far those simple words, + Where weeping phrase is not, + Than burdened tablet, and the rest + Forgetting and forgot. + + And Lily Minden, do you lie + In some forgotten grave, + Where only strangers' feet pass o'er + Your temple's architrave? + + Or, by some hearthstone, have you learned + The worst and best of life, + And found sweet greetings in the name + Of mother and of wife? + + I cannot tell: I know you but + As bee the clover bloom, + That sips content, and straightway builds + Its mansion and its tomb. + + So took I in child-innocence, + So build the House of Life, + And in low tone to thee alone, + As dead or maid or wife, + + I sing this song, borne all along + A space of wasted breath; + And build me on from room to room + Unto the House of Death, + + Where portals swing forever in + To weary pilgrim guest, + And hearts that here were inly dear + Shall find a Room of Rest. + + + + + + + JEAN + + Three times round has the sun gone, Jean, + Since on your lips I pressed + Mute farewells; if that pain was keen + Fair were you in your nest. + + Smiling, sweetheart, I left you there; + You had no word to say; + One last touch to your brow and hair, + Then I went on my way. + + Time it was when the leaves were grown + Your rose-colour, my queen; + Ere the birds to the south had flown, + While yet the grass was green. + + Eyes demure, do you ever yearn, + Bird-wise to summer lands? + Is it to meet your look I turn, + Saying, "She understands," + + Saying, "She waits in her quiet place + Patient till I shall come, + The old sweet grace in her dreaming face + That made a Heav'n her home"? + + No! She is there 'neath Northern skies, + And no word does she send; + But near to my heart her image lies, + And shall lie there to the end. + + Come what will I am not bereft + Of the memory of that time, + When in her hands my heart I left + There, in a colder clime. + + And to my eyes no face is fair, + For one face comes between; + And if a song has a low sweet air, + Through it there whispers, "Jean." + + Better for me the world would say, + If I had broke the charm, + Set in the circle she one day + Made by her round white arm. + + Never a king in days of eld + Gathered about his throat + Such a circlet; no queen e'er held + Necklace so clear of mote. + + It sufficeth the charm was set; + And if it chance that one + Still remembers, though one forget, + Then is the worst thing done-- + + Done, and I still can say "Let be; + I have no word of blame; + Though her heart is no more for me, + Mine shall be still the same." + + I have my life to live and she-- + Well, if it be so--so; + She may welcome or banish me + And if I go, I go. + + Friend, I pray you repress those tears, + Comfort from this derive: + I am a score--and more-of years + And Jean is only five. + + + + + + + A MEMORY + + From buckwheat fields the summer sun + Drew honeyed breezes over + The lanes where happy children run + With bare feet in the clover. + + The schoolhouse stood with pines about + Upon the hill, and ever + A creek, where hid the speckled trout, + Ran past it to the river. + + And rosy faces gathered there, + With rustic good around them; + With breath of balm blown everywhere, + Pure, ere the world had found them. + + Behind sweet purple ambuscades + Of lilacs, laws were broken; + And here a desk with knives was frayed, + There passed forbidden token. + + One slipped a butternut between + His pearly teeth; a maiden + Dove-eyed, caressed her cheek; 'twas e'en + With maple sugar laden-- + + A flock that caught at wiles, because + The shepherd's hand that drove them, + Reached little toward wise human laws, + And less to God above them. + + With eyebrows bent and surly look + He only saw before him, + The rule, the lesson, and the book, + Not nature brooding o'er him. + + One day through drone of locusts fell + The wood-bird's fitful tapping, + And in his chair at "dinner-spell," + The teacher grim sat napping. + + An urchin creeping in beholds + The tyrant slumber-smitten, + And in his pocket's ample folds + He thrusts the school-yard kitten. + + At length the master waked, and clanged + His bell with anger fitting; + His sleep had made it double-fanged, + And crossed like needles knitting. + + Slow to their seats the children file, + And wait "Prepare for classes," + A score of lads across the aisle + From twice a score of lasses. + + But two within the throng betray + A mirth suppressed; the sinner, + And Rafe Ridall, the chief at play, + At books the easy winner: + + The wildest boy in all the school, + In mischief first and ever, + His daily seat the penance-stool, + Disgraced for weeks together. + + Just sound of bone and strong of heart, + Staunch friend and noble foeman; + In life to play the kingly part, + True both to man and woman. + + Joe's secret now he holds; a deed + With just enough of danger, + To win his--ah, what's that? 'Tis freed, + The pocket-prisoned stranger! + + A moment's riot laughter-filled, + Then fear, white-visaged, follows; + And through the silence there is trilled + The shrill note of the swallows. + + And now a fierce form fronts them all, + Two fierce eyes search their faces, + Then flash their fire on Rafe Ridall, + Whose mirth no peril chases. + + "You did it, sir!" "Not I!" "You did!" + "No!" "You've one chance for showing + Who in my coat the kitten hid, + Or be well thrashed for knowing." + + The master paused, the birch he grasped + Against his trousers flicking; + Rafe said, with hands behind him clasped, + "I'd rather take the licking." + + Full many a year has passed since then, + The lilacs still are blooming, + Awaiting childish hands again, + But they are long in coming. + + Now wandering swallows build their nests + Where doors and roofs decaying, + No more shut in the master's zest, + Nor out the children's playing. + + All, all are gone who gathered there; + Some toil among the masses, + Some, overworn with pain and care, + Wait Death's "Prepare for classes." + + And some--the sighing pines sway on + Above them, dreamless lying; + And 'mong them sleeps the master, gone + His anger and their crying. + + And Rafe Ridall, brave then, brave now, + Amid the jarring courses + Of man's misrule, still takes the blow + For those of weaker forces. + + + + + + + IN CAMP AT JUNIPER COVE + + A little brown sparrow came tripping + Across the green grass at my feet; + A kingfisher poised, and was peering + Where current and calm water meet; + + The clouds hung in passionless clusters + Above the green hills of the south; + A bobolink fluttered to leeward + With a twinkle of bells in its mouth. + + Ah, the morning was silver with glory + As I lay by my tent on the shore; + And the soft air was drunken with odours, + And my soul lifted up to adore. + + Is there wonder I took me to dreaming + Of the gardens of Greece and old Rome, + Of the fair watered meadows of Ida, + And the hills where the gods made their home? + + Of the Argonauts sung to by Sirens, + Of Andromache, Helen of Troy, + Of Proserpine, Iphigenia, + And the Fates that build up and destroy? + + Of the phantom isle, green Theresea, + And the Naiads and Dryads that give + To the soul of the poet, the dreamer, + The visions of fancy that live + + In the lives and the language of mortals + Unconscious, but sure as the sea, + And that make for great losses repayment + To wandering singers like me? + + But a little brown sparrow came tripping + Across the green grass at my feet; + And a kingfisher poised, and was peering + Where current and calm water meet; + + And Alice, sweet Alice, my neighbour, + Stands musing beneath the pine tree; + And her look says--"I have a lover + Who sails on the turbulent sea: + + Does he dream as I dream night and daytime + Of a face that is tender and true; + Will he come to me e'en as he left me?" + Yes, Alice, sweet Alice, for you, + + Is the sunlight, and not the drear shadow, + The gentle and fortunate peace: + But he who thus revels in rhyming + Has shadows that never shall cease. + + + + + + + JUNIPER COVE TWENTY YEARS AFTER + + The bay gleams softly in the sun, + The morning widens o'er the world: + The bluebird's song is just begun, + And down the skies white clouds are furled. + + The boat lies idly by the shore, + The shed I built with happy care + Is fallen; and I see no more + The white tents in the eager air. + + The goldenrod holds up its plumes + In the long stretch of meadow grass, + The briarrose shakes its sweet perfumes, + In coverts where the sparrows pass. + + Far off, above, the sapphire gleams, + Far off, below, the sapphire flows, + And this, my place of morning dreams, + The bank where my vain visions rose! + + Sweet Alice, he came back again, + Across the waste of summer sea, + What time the fields were full of grain, + But not to thee; but not to thee. + + She comes no more when evening falls, + To watch the stars wheel up the sky; + Then love and light were over all; + Alas! that light and love should die. + + I feel her hand upon my arm, + I see her eyes shine through the mist; + Her life was passionate and warm + As the red jewels at her wrist. + + Hearts do not break, the world has said, + Though love lie stark and light be flown; + But still it counts its lost and dead, + And in the solitudes makes moan. + + We school our lips to make our hearts + Seem other than in truth they are; + Before the lights we play our part, + And paint the flesh to hide the scar. + + Masquers and mummers all, and yet + The slaves of some dead passion's fires, + Of hopes the soul can ne'er forget + Still sobbing in life's trembling wires. + + Fate puts our dear desires in pawn, + Youth passes, unredeemed they lie; + The leaves drop from our rose of dawn, + And storms fall from the mocking sky. + + I shall come back no more; my ship + Waits for me by the sundering sea; + A prayer for her is on my lip-- + And the old life is dead to me. + + + + + + + LISTENING + +I have lain beneath the pine trees just to hear the thrush's calling, +I have waited for the throstle where the harvest fields were brown, +I have caught the lark's sweet trilling from the depths of cloud-land + falling +And the piping of the linnet through the willow branches blown. + +But you have some singing graces, you who sing because you love it, +That are higher than the throstle, or the linnet, or the lark; +And, however far my soul may reach, your song is far above it; +And I falter while I follow as a child does in the dark. + +In elder days, when all the world was silent save the beating +Of the tempest-gathered ocean 'gainst the grey volcanic walls, +When the light had met the darkness and the mountains sent their greeting +To each other in sharp flashes as the vivid lightning falls, + +Then the high gods said, "In token that we love the earth we fashioned, +We will set the white stars singing, and teach man the art of song": +And there rose up from the valleys sounds of love and life impassioned, +Till men cried, with arms uplifted, "Now from henceforth we are strong!" + +Adown the ages there have come the sounds of that first singing, +Lifting up the weary-hearted in the fever of the time; +And I, who wait and wander far, felt all my soul upspringing, +To but touch those ancient forces and the energies sublime, + +When I heard you who had heard it--that first song--perhaps in dreaming, +Till it filled you with fine fervour and the hopes of its refrain; +And I knew that God was gracious and had led me in the gleaming +Of a song-shine that is holy and that quiets all my pain. + +Though the birds sing in the meadows and fill all the air with sweetness, +They sing only in the present, and they sing because they must; +They are wanton in their pureness, and in all their fine completeness, +They trill out their lives forgotten to the silence of the dust. + +But if you should pass to-morrow where your songs could never reach us, +There would still be throbbing through us all the music of your voice; +And your spirit would speak through the chords, as though it would + beseech us +To remember that the noblest ends have ever noblest choice. + + + + + + + NEVERTHELESS + + In your onward march, O men, + White of face, in promise whiter, + You unsheathe the sword, and then + Blame the wronged as the fighter. + + Time, ah, Time, rolls onward o'er + All these foetid fields of evil, + While hard at the nation's core + Eat the burning rust and weevil! + + Nathless, out beyond the stars + Reigns the Wiser and the Stronger, + Seeing in all strifes and wars + Who the wronged, who the wronger. + + + + + + + ISHMAEL + + "No man cared for my soul." + + Blind, Lord, so blind! I wander far + From Thee among the haunts of men, + Most like some lone, faint, flickering star + Gone from its place, nor knoweth when + The sun shall give it shining dole + Lord! no man careth for my soul. + + Blind, Lord, so blind! In loneliness + By crowded mart or busy street, + I fold my hands and feel how less + Am I to any one I meet, + Than to Thee one lost billow's roll: + Lord! no man careth for my soul. + + Blind, Lord, so blind! And I have knelt + 'Mong myriads in Thy house of prayer; + And still sad desolation felt, + Though heavy freighted was the air + With litanies of love: one ghoul + Cried, "No man careth for thy soul!" + + Blind, Lord, so blind! The world is blind; + It feeds me, fainting, with a stone: + I cry for bread. Before, behind, + Are hurrying feet; yet all alone + I walk, and no one points the goal + Lord! no man careth for my soul. + + Blind, Lord, Oh very blind am I! + If sin of mine sets up the wall + Between my poor sight and Thy sky, + O Friend of man, Who cares for all, + Send sweet peace ere the last bell toll-- + Yea, Lord, Thou carest for my soul! + + + + + + + OVER THE HILLS + + Over the hills they are waiting to greet us, + They who have scanned all the ultimate places, + Fathomed the world and the things that defeat us-- + Evils and graces. + + They have no thought for the toiling or spinning, + Striving for bread that is dust in the gaining, + They have won all that is well worth the winning-- + Past all distaining. + + Now they have done with the pain and the error, + Nevermore here shall the dark things assail them, + Void man's devices and dreams have no terror-- + Shall we bewail them? + + They have cast off all the strife and derision, + They have put on all the joy of our yearning; + We falter feebly from vision to vision, + Never discerning. + + Faint light before us, and shadows to grope in, + Stretching out hands to the starbeams to guide us, + Finding no place but our life's loves to hope in, + Doubt to deride us-- + + So we climb upward with eyes growing dimmer, + Looking back only to sigh through our smiling, + Wondering still if the palpitant glimmer + Leads past defiling. + + They whom we loved have gone over the mountains, + Hands beckon to us like wings of the swallow, + Voices we knew from delectable fountains + Cry to us, "Follow!" + + Some were so young when they left us, that morning + Seemed to have flashed and then died into gloaming, + Leaving us wearier 'neath the world's scorning, + Blinder in roaming. + + Some, in the time when the manhood is bravest, + Strongest to bear and the hands to endeavour, + When all the life is the firmest and gravest, + Left us for ever. + + Some, when the Springtime had grown to December, + Said, "It is done: now the last thing befall me; + I shall sleep well--ah! dear hearts but remember: + Farewell, they call me!" + + So the tale runs, and the end, who shall fear it? + Is it not better to sleep than to sorrow? + Tokens will come from the bourne as we near it-- + Time's peace, to-morrow. + + + + + + + THE DELIVERER + + How has the cloud fallen, and the leaf withered on the tree, + The lemontree, that standeth by the door? + The melon and the date have gone bitter to the taste, + The weevil, it has eaten at the core-- + The core of my heart, the mildew findeth it; + My music, it is but the drip of tears, + The garner empty standeth, the oven hath no fire, + Night filleth me with fears. + O Nile that floweth deeply, hast thou not heard his voice? + His footsteps hast thou covered with thy flood? + He was as one who lifteth up the yoke, + He was as one who taketh off the chain, + As one who sheltereth from the rain, + As one who scattereth bread to the pigeons flying. + His purse was at his side, his mantle was for me, + For any who passeth were his mantle and his purse, + And now like a gourd is he withered from our eyes. + His friendship, it was like a shady wood-- + Whither has he gone?--Who shall speak for us? + Who shall save us from the kourbash and the stripes? + Who shall proclaim us in the palace? + Who shall contend for us in the gate? + The sakkia turneth no more; the oxen they are gone; + The young go forth in chains, the old waken in the night, + They waken and weep, for the wheel turns backward, + And the dark days are come again upon us-- + Will he return no more? + His friendship was like a shady wood, + O Nile that floweth deeply, hast thou not heard his voice? + Hast thou covered up his footsteps with thy flood? + The core of my heart, the mildew findeth it! + When his footsteps were among us there was peace; + War entered not the village, nor the call of war: + Now our homes are as those that have no roofs. + As a nest decayed, as a cave forsaken, + As a ship that lieth broken on the beach, + Is the house where we were born. + Out in the desert did we bury our gold, + We buried it where no man robbed us, for his arm was strong. + Now are the jars empty, gold did not avail + To save our young men, to keep them from the chains. + God hath swallowed his voice, or the sea hath drowned it, + Or the Nile hath covered him with its flood; + Else would he come when our voices call. + His word was honey in the prince's ear-- + Will he return no more? + + + + + + + THE DESERT ROAD + + In the sands I lived in a hut of palm, + There was never a garden to see; + There was never a path through the desert calm, + Nor a way through its storms for me. + + Tenant was I of a lone domain; + The far pale caravans wound + To the rim of the sky, and vanished again; + My call in the waste was drowned. + + The vultures came and hovered and fled; + And once there stole to my door + A white gazelle, but its eyes were dread + With the hurt of the wounds it bore. + + It passed in the dusk with a foot of fear, + And the white cold mists rolled in; + And my heart was the heart of a stricken deer, + Of a soul in the snare of sin. + + My days they withered like rootless things, + And the sands rolled on, rolled wide; + Like a pelican I, with broken wings, + Like a drifting barque on the tide. + + But at last, in the light of a rose-red day, + In the windless glow of the morn, + From over the hills and from far away, + You came-ah, the joy of the morn! + + And wherever your footsteps fell there crept + A path--it was fair and wide; + A desert road which no sands have swept, + Where never a hope has died. + + I followed you forth, and your beauty held + My heart like an ancient song, + By that desert road to the blossoming plains + I came, and the way was long. + + So, I set my course by the light of your eyes; + I care not what fate may send; + On the road I tread shine the love-starred skies, + The road with never an end. + + + + + + + A SON OF THE NILE + + Oh, the garden where to-day we, sow and to-morrow we reap; + Oh, the sakkia turning by the garden walls; + Oh, the onion-field and the date-tree growing, + And my hand on the plough--by the blessing of God; + Strength of my soul, O my brother, all's well! + + + + + + + A FAREWELL FROM THE HAREM + + Take thou thy flight, O soul! Thou hast no more + The gladness of the morning: ah, the perfumed roses + My love laid on my bosom as I slept! + How did he wake me with his lips upon mine eyes, + How did the singers carol, the singers of my soul, + That nest among the thoughts of my beloved! + All silent now, the choruses are gone, + The windows of my soul are closed; no more + Mine eyes look gladly out to see my lover come. + There is no more to do, no more to say + Take flight, my soul, my love returns no more! + + + + + + + AN ARAB LOVE SONG + + The bed of my love I will sprinkle with attar of roses, + The face of my love I will touch with the balm, + With the balm of the tree from the farthermost wood, + From the wood without end, in the world without end. + My love holds the cup to my lips, and I drink of the cup, + And the attar of roses I sprinkle will soothe like the evening dew, + And the balm will be healing and sleep, and the cup I will drink, + I will drink of the cup my love holds to my lips. + + + + + + + THE CAMEL-DRIVER TO HIS CAMEL + + Fleet is thy foot: thou shalt rest by the etl tree; + Water shalt thou drink from the blue-deep well; + Allah send his gard'ner with the green bersim, + For thy comfort, fleet one, by the etl tree. + As the stars fly, have thy footsteps flown-- + Deep is the well, drink, and be still once more; + Till the pursuing winds, panting, have found thee + And, defeated, sink still beside thee-- + By the well and the etl tree. + + + + + + + THE TALL DAKOON + + The Tall Dakoon, the bridle rein he shook, and called aloud, + His Arab steed sprang down the mists which wrapped them like a + shroud; + But up there rang the clash of steel, the clanking silver chain, + The war-cry of the Tall Dakoon, the moaning of the slain. + + And long they fought--the Tall Dakoon, the children of the mist, + But he was swift with lance and shield, and supple of the wrist, + Yet if he rose, or if he fell, no man hath proof to show-- + And wide the world beyond the mists, and deep the vales below! + + For when a man, because of love, hath wrecked and burned his ships, + And when a man for hate of love hath curses on his lips, + Though he should be the peasant born, or be the Tall Dakoon, + What matters then, of hap, or place, the mist comes none too soon! + + + + + + + THERE IS SORROW ON THE SEA + + Our ship is a beautiful lady, + Friendly and ready and fine; + She runs her race with the storm in her face, + Like a sea-bird over the brine. + + In her household work no hand does shirk,-- + No need of belaying-pins,-- + And the captain dear and the engineer, + They both look after the Twins: + + The Twins that drive her to do her best + Where the Roaring Forties rage + From the Fastnet Height to the Liberty Light, + And the Customs landing-stage. + + Where the crank-shafts pitch in the iron ditch, + Where the main-shaft swims and glides, + Where the boilers keep, in the sullen deep, + A master-hand on the Tides; + + Where the reeking shuttle and booming bar + Keep time in the hum of the toiling hive,-- + The men of the deep, while the travellers sleep, + Their steel-clad coursers drive. + + And Davy Jones' locker is full + Of the labour that moves the world; + And brave they be who serve the sea + To keep our flags unfurled: + + The Union Jack and the Stripes and Stars, + Gallant and free and true, + In a world-wide trade, and a fame well made, + And humanity's work to do. + + Now list, ye landsmen, as ye roam, + To the voice of the men offshore, + Who've sailed in the old ship Never Return, + With the great First Commodore. + + They fitted foreign (God keeps the sea), + They stepped aboard (God breaks the wind). + And the babe that held by his father's knee, + He leaves, with his lass, behind. + + And the lad will sail as his father sailed, + And a lass she will wait again; + And he'll get his scrip in his father's ship, + And he'll sail to the Southern Main; + + And he'll sail to the North, and he'll make to the East, + And he'll overhaul the West; + And he'll pass outspent as his father went + From his landbirds in the nest. + + There are hearts that bleed, there are mouths to feed, + (Now one and all, ye landsmen, list) + And the rent's to pay on the quarter-day-- + (What ye give will never be missed) + + And you'll never regret, as your whistle you wet, + In Avenue Number Five, + That you gave your "quid" to the lonely kid + And the widow, to keep 'em alive. + + So out with your golden shilling, my lad, + And your bright bank-note, my dear! + We are safe to-night near the Liberty Light, + And the mariner says, What Cheer! + + + + + + + THE AUSTRALIAN STOCKRIDER + + I ride to the tramp and shuffle of hoofs + Away to the wild waste land, + I can see the sun on the station roofs, + And a stretch of the shifting sand; + The forest of horns is a shaking sea, + Where white waves tumble and pass; + The cockatoo screams in the myall-tree, + And the adder-head gleams in the grass. + + The clouds swing out from beyond the hills + And valance the face of the sky, + And the Spirit of Winds creeps up and fills + The plains with a plaintive cry; + A boundary-rider on lonely beat + Creeps round the horizon's rim; + He has little to do, and plenty to eat, + And the world is a blank to him. + + His friends are his pipe, and dog, and tea, + His wants, they are soon supplied; + And his mind, like the weeping myall-tree, + May droop on his weary ride, + But he lives his life in his quiet way, + Forgetting,--perhaps forgot,-- + Till another rider will come some day, + And he will have ridden, God wot! + + To the Wider Plains with the measureless bounds: + And I know, if I had my choice, + I would rather ride in those pleasant grounds, + Than to sit 'neath the spell of the voice + Of the sweetest seraph that you could find + In all the celestial place; + And I hope that the Father, whose heart is kind, + When I speak to Him face to face, + + Will give me something to do up there + Among all the folks that have died, + That will give me freedom and change of air, + If it's only to boundary ride: + For I somehow think, in the Great Stampede, + When the world crowds up to the Bar, + The unluckiest mortals will be decreed + To camp on the luckiest star. + + + + + + + THE BRIDGE OF THE HUNDRED SPANS + + It was the time that the Long Divide + Blooms and glows like an hour-old bride; + It was the days when the cattle come + Back from their winter wand'rings home; + Time when the Kicking Horse shows its teeth, + Snarls and foams with a demon's breath; + When the sun with a million levers lifts + Abodes of snow from the rocky rifts; + When the line-man's eyes, like the lynx's, scans + The lofty Bridge of the Hundred Spans. + + Round a curve, down a sharp incline, + If the red-eyed lantern made no sign, + Swept the train, and upon the bridge + That binds a canon from ridge to ridge. + Never a watchman like old Carew; + Knew his duty, and did it, too; + Good at scouting when scouting paid, + Saved a post from an Indian raid-- + Trapper, miner, and mountain guide, + Less one arm in a lumber slide; + Walked the line like a panther's guard, + Like a maverick penned in a branding-yard. + "Right as rain," said the engineers, + "With the old man working his eyes and ears." + + "Safe with Carew on the mountain wall," + Was how they put it, in Montreal. + Right and safe was it East and West + Till a demon rose on the mountain crest, + And drove at its shoulders angry spears, + That it rose from its sleep of a thousand years, + That its heaving breast broke free the cords + Of imprisoned snow as with flaming swords; + And, like a star from its frozen height, + An avalanche leaped one spring-tide night; + Leaped with a power not God's or man's + To smite the Bridge of the Hundred Spans. + + It smote a score of the spans; it slew + With its icy squadrons old Carew. + Asleep he lay in his snow-bound grave, + While the train drew on that he could not save; + It would drop, doom-deep, through the trap of death, + From the light above, to the dark beneath; + And town and village both far and near + Would mourn the tragedy ended here. + + One more hap in a hapless world, + One more wreck where the tide is swirled, + One more heap in a waste of sand, + One more clasp of a palsied hand, + One more cry to a soundless Word, + One more flight of a wingless bird; + The ceaseless falling, the countless groan, + The waft of a leaf and the fall of a stone; + Ever the cry that a Hand will save, + Ever the end in a fast-closed grave; + Ever and ever the useless prayer, + Beating the walls of a mute despair. + Doom, all doom--nay then, not all doom! + Rises a hope from the fast-closed tomb. + Write not "Lost," with its grinding bans, + On life, or the Bridge of the Hundred Spans. + + See, on the canon's western ridge, + There stands a girl! She beholds the bridge + Smitten and broken; she sees the need + For a warning swift, and a daring deed. + See then the act of a simple girl; + Learn from it, thinker, and priest, and churl. + See her, the lantern between her teeth, + Crossing the quivering trap of death. + Hand over hand on a swaying rail, + Sharp in her ears and her heart the wail + Of a hundred lives; and she has no fear + Save that her prayer be not granted her. + Cold is the snow on the rail, and chill + The wind that comes from the frozen hill. + Her hair blows free and her eyes are full + Of the look that makes Heaven merciful-- + Merciful, ah! quick, shut your eyes, + Lest you wish to see how a brave girl dies! + Dies--not yet; for her firm hands clasped + The solid bridge, as the breach out-gasped, + And the rail that had held her downward swept, + Where old Carew in his snow-grave slept. + + Now up and over the steep incline, + She speeds with the red light for a sign; + She hears the cry of the coming train, + it trembles like lanceheads through her brain; + And round the curve, with a foot as fleet + As a sinner's that flees from the Judgment-seat, + She flies; and the signal swings, and then + She knows no more; but the enginemen + Lifted her, bore her, where women brought + The flush to her cheek, and with kisses caught + The warm breath back to her pallid lips, + The life from lives that were near eclipse; + Blessed her, and praised her, and begged her name + That all of their kindred should know her fame; + Should tell how a girl from a cattle-ranche + That night defeated an avalanche. + Where is the wonder the engineer + Of the train she saved, in half a year + Had wooed her and won her? And here they are + For their homeward trip in a parlour car! + Which goes to show that Old Nature's plans + Were wrecked with the Bridge of the Hundred Spans. + + + + + + + NELL LATORE + + Rebel? . . . I grant you,--my comrades then + Were called Old Pascal Dubois' Men + Half-breeds all of us . . . I, a scamp, + The best long-shot in the Touchwood Camp; + Muscle and nerve like strings of steel, + Sound in the game of bit and heel-- + There's your guide-book. . . . But, Jeanne Amray, + Telegraph-clerk at Sturgeon Bay, + French and thoroughbred, proud and sweet, + Sunshine down to her glancing feet, + Sang one song 'neath the northern moon + That changed God's world to a tropic noon; + And Love burned up on its golden floor + Years of passion for Nell Latore-- + Nell Latore with her tawny hair, + Glowing eyes and her reckless air; + Lithe as an alder, straight and tall-- + Pride and sorrow of Rise-and-Fall! + Indian blood in her veins ran wild, + And a Saxon father called her child; + Women feared her, and men soon found + When they trod on forbidden ground. + Ride! there's never a cayuse knew + Saddle slip of her; pistols, too, + Seemed to learn in her hands a knack + How to travel a dead-sure track. + Something in both alike maybe, + Something kindred in ancestry, + Some warm touch of an ancient pride + Drew my feet to her willing side. + My comrade, she, in the Touchwood Camp, + To ride, hunt, trail by the fire-fly lamp; + To track the moose to his moose-yard; pass + The bustard's doom through the prairie grass; + To hark at night to the crying loon + Beat idle wings on the still lagoon; + To hide from death in the drifting snow, + To slay the last of the buffalo. . . . + Ah, well, I speak of the days that were; + And I swear to you, I was kind to her. + I lost her. How are the best friends lost? + The lightning lines of our souls got crossed-- + Crossed, and could never again be free + Till Death should call from his midnight sea. + + One spring brought me my wedding day, + Brought me my bright-eyed Jeanne Amray; + Brought that night to our cabin door + My old, lost comrade, Nell Latore. + Her eyes swam fire, and her cheek was red, + Her full breast heaved as she darkly said: + "The coyote hides from the wind and rain, + The wild horse flies from the hurricane, + But who can flee from the half-breed's hate, + That rises soon and that watches late?" + Then went; and I laughed Jeanne's fears afar, + But I thought that wench was our evil star. + Be sure, when a woman's heart gets hard, + It works up war like a navy yard. + + Half-breed and Indian troubles came-- + The same old story--land and game; + And Dubois' Men were the first to feel + The bullet-sting and the clip of steel; + And last in battle 'gainst thousands sent, + With Gatling guns for our punishment. + Every cause has its traitor; then + How should it fare with Dubois' Men! + Beaten their cause was, and hunted down, + Like to a moose in the chase full blown, + Panting they stood; and a Judas sold + Their hiding-place for a piece of gold. + And while scouts searched for us night and day + Jeanne telegraphed on at Sturgeon Bay. + Picture her there as she stands alone, + Cold, in the glow of the afternoon; + Picture, I ask you, that patient wife, + Numb with fear for her husband's life, + When a sharp click-click awakes her brain + To life, with the needle-points of pain. + A message it was to Camp Pousette-- + One that the half-breeds think on yet: + "Dubois' gang are in Rocky Glen, + Take a hundred and fifty men; + Go by the next express," it said, + "Bring them up here, alive or dead!" . . . + + "Go by the next express!" and she, + Standing there by the silent key, + Said it over and over again, + Thinking of one of Dubois' Men + Thinking in anguish, heart and head, + Of him, brought up there alive or dead. + Save him, and perish to save him, yes! + But three hours more, and that next express + Would thunder by her, and she, alas! + Must stand there still and let it pass. + Duty was duty, and hers was clear; + God seemed far off, and no friend near. + But the truest friend and the swiftest horse + Must ride that ride on a breakneck course; + And with truest horse and swiftest friend, + To the fast express was the winning end! + And as if one pang was needed more, + There stood in the doorway, Nell Latore-- + Nell Latore, with her mocking face, + Restless eyes, and her evil grace; + Quick to read in the wife's sad eyes, + The deep, strange woe, and the hurt surprise. + Slow she said, with piercing breath, + "Rebel fighter dies rebel death!" + Said, and paused; for she seemed to see + Far through the other's misery, + Something that stilled her; triumph fled + Shamed and fast, as the young wife said-- + "He keeps his faith with an oath he swore, + For the half-breed's freedom, Nell Latore; + And, did he lie here, eyes death-dim, + You, if you spoke but truth of him, + Truth, truth only, should stand and say, + 'He never wronged me, Jeanne Amray.'" + Then, for a moment, standing there, + Hushed and cold as a dead man's prayer, + Nell Latore, with the woman now, + Scorching the past from her eyes and brow + "Trust me," she said, like an angel-call, + "Tell me his danger, tell me all." + + Quick resolve to a quick-told tale-- + Nell Latore, to the glistening rail + Fled, and on it a hand-car drew, + Seized the handles, and backward threw + One swift, farewell look, and said, + "You shall have him alive, not dead!" + Ah, well for her that her arms were strong, + And cord and nerve like a knotted thong, + And well for Jeanne in her sharp distress, + That Nell was racing the fast express + Her whole life bent to this one deed, + And, like a soul from its prison freed, + Rising, dilating, reached across + Hills of conquest from plains of loss. + Gorges echoed as she passed by, + Wild fowl rose with a plaintive cry; + On she sped; and the white steel rang-- + "Save him--save him for her!" it sang. + Once, a lad at a worn-out mine + Strove to warn her with awe-struck sign-- + Turned she neither to left nor right, + + Strained till the Rock Hills came in sight; + "But two miles more," to herself she said, + "Then she shall have him alive, not dead!" + The merciful gods that moment heard + Her promise, and helped her to keep her word; + For, when the wheels of the fast express + Slowed through the gates of that wilderness, + Round a headland and far away + Sailed the husband of Jeanne Amray. + While all that hundred-and-fifty then, + Hot on the trail of the Dubois Men, + Knew, as they stood by the pine-girt store, + The girl that had foiled them--Nell Latore. + Slow she moved from among them, turned + Where the sky to the westward burned; + Gazed for a moment, set her hands + Over her brow, so! drew the strands + Loose and rich of her tawny hair, + Once through her fingers, standing there; + Then again to the rail she passed. + One more look to the West she cast, + And into the East she drew away: + Backwards and forwards her brown arms play, + Forwards and backwards, till far and dim, + She grew one with the night's dun rim; + Backwards and forwards, and then, was gone + Into I know not what . . . alone. + She came not back, she may never come; + But a young wife lives in a cabin home, + Who prays each night that, alive or dead, + Come God's own rest for her lonely head: + And I--shall I see her then no more, + My comrade, my old love, Nell Latore? + + + + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMBERS BY PARKER, V3 *** + +***** This file should be named 6270.txt or 6270.zip **** + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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