The Finding of The Book and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I stood upon yon Bridge, 'neath which
The murmuring Foyle so nobly flows.
The winter made the sunset rich
With brass that in the sunset glows,
With vast and visionary rose,

Born sudden, tremulously dead,
Fading in blue and golden grain—
And westward far one's eye was led
Where the great river's wrinkled lane
Of glory dusk'd and shone again.

On the right bank the frosty mist
Wrapt street and church,—but up far higher
What sacred pointing finger is 't?
The cross on the cathedral spire,
White under a wild stretch of fire,

As if to teach that everywhere
O'er task of toil and field of fate,
Whatever be the sky or air,
Are signs that tell our low estate
Of gentleness that makes us great.

Then I looked next with lifted heart—
Lo! a barge on the far-lit line.
Galley or argosy thou art
For all that night-dark sail of thine,
Part of some dim old song divine.

Down-stream thou droppest with no stir,—
On such as thee in golden days
Some credulous old chronicler,
His finger on his lips, did gaze
Childlike in credulous amaze;

Waited to carry home with him
Some story it was well to ponder,
Looking, while heaven grew half dim,
Now musing and now smiling, under
A sky whose light was one of wonder.

A traveller told him on the quay,
And swore that he on board had shipp'd—
Who could doubt one with beard so gray?
So from the chronicler it slipp'd
Richly into his manuscript.

O traveller! whose golden hap
Found wild seas foaming far from us
Ungirt by the insult of a map.
(His ample stories broadened thus
Mandeville or Herodotus.)

Ship!—he averr'd that thou didst pass
With gum wept from Arabian trees
To burn at Christmas midnight mass
—And some suspicion faint of these
Sweet cargoes stole out on the seas;

As when the first Epiphany sent
Those kings (than whom were wiser none)
Westward to find the Orient,
Star-led all day to make the one
Star-lit discovery of the Sun;

Or else thou borest over-sea
The rare stone that enricheth so
Gem-gravel of Taprobane,
That hath the blood-drop's delicate glow
On the white pigeon's wing of snow.

Or, an it liketh you, a tale
Of a young king in battle slain—
His queen bid hoist such night-black sail—
Upon the deck is a red stain,
And on his white cheek is a rain.

O'er his closed lids a gold veil rare,
And a voice on the river cries—
The pale gold is a woman's hair,
The rain falls from a woman's eyes
Under the January skies.

Or else, O ship! 'twas told that thou
Some holy missioner had on board—
God's love lay gently on his brow—
Who came to tell some heathen horde
Of the Incarnation of the Lord.

Pointing so gently to the rood
That irresistible sweetness lay
Upon it—and the men of blood
Asked for the holy font that day
To wash the stains of sin away.

Silence!—yon barge is but a boat
Where poor men carry day by day
—Not gems and gums from isles remote.
Not kings from battles far away,
But gravel to the city-quay.

Yet those we see not looking on,
Better than poesy in their glance,
Ere further homeward they are gone,
May deem that bearing loads perchance
Is earth's poor nearest to romance.

Suggested to the writer upon Derry Bridge in January 1888.