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 | The poetical works of Edmund Clarence Stedman |  |
Just at sunrise, when the land-breeze cooled the fevered air once more,
From a restless couch I wandered to the sounding ocean shore;
Strolling down through furrowed sand-hills, while the splendor of the day
Flashed across the trembling waters to the West and far away.
There I saw, in distant moorings, many an anchored vessel tall;
Heard with cheery morning voices sailor unto sailor call.
Crowned with trailing plumes of sable, right afront my standing-place
Moved a swarthy ocean-steamer in her storm-resisting grace.
Prophet-like, she clove the waters toward the ancient mother-land,
And I heard her clamorous engine and the echo of command,
While the long Atlantic billows to my feet came rolling on,
With the multitudinous music of a thousand ages gone.
From a restless couch I wandered to the sounding ocean shore;
Strolling down through furrowed sand-hills, while the splendor of the day
Flashed across the trembling waters to the West and far away.
There I saw, in distant moorings, many an anchored vessel tall;
Heard with cheery morning voices sailor unto sailor call.
Crowned with trailing plumes of sable, right afront my standing-place
Moved a swarthy ocean-steamer in her storm-resisting grace.
Prophet-like, she clove the waters toward the ancient mother-land,
And I heard her clamorous engine and the echo of command,
While the long Atlantic billows to my feet came rolling on,
With the multitudinous music of a thousand ages gone.
There I stood, with careless ankles half in sand and half in spray,
Till the baleful mist of midnight from my being passed away;
Then, with eager inhalations opening all my mantle wide,
Felt my spirit rise exultant with the rising of the tide;
Felt the joyous morning breezes run afresh through every vein,
Till the natural pulse of manhood beat the call-to-arms again.
Then came utterance self-condemning,—oh, how wild with sudden scorn
Of the chain that held me circling in a little round forlorn!
Of the sloth which, like a vapor, hugs the dull, insensate heart,
That can act in meek submission to the lowness of its part,—
In the broad terrestrial drama play the herald or the clown,
While the warrior wins his garlands and the monarch wears his crown!
Till the baleful mist of midnight from my being passed away;
Then, with eager inhalations opening all my mantle wide,
31
Felt the joyous morning breezes run afresh through every vein,
Till the natural pulse of manhood beat the call-to-arms again.
Then came utterance self-condemning,—oh, how wild with sudden scorn
Of the chain that held me circling in a little round forlorn!
Of the sloth which, like a vapor, hugs the dull, insensate heart,
That can act in meek submission to the lowness of its part,—
In the broad terrestrial drama play the herald or the clown,
While the warrior wins his garlands and the monarch wears his crown!
“Shame” I said, “upon the craven who can rest, content to save
Paltry handfuls of the riches that his guardian-angel gave!
Shame upon all listless dreamers early hiding from the strife,
Sated with some little gleaning of the harvest-fields of life!
Shame upon God's toiling thinkers, who make profit of their brains,
Getting store of scornful pittance for their slow-decaying pains!
Give me purpose, steadfast purpose, and the grandeur of a soul
Born to lead the van of armies or a people to control.
Let me float away and ever, from this shore of bog and mire,
On the mounting waves of effort, buoyed by the soul's desire!
Would that it were mine to govern yon large wonder of our time:
Such a life were worth the living! thus to sail through every clime,
From a hundred spicy shorelands bearing treasures manifold;
Foremost to achieve discovery of the peerless lands of gold;
Or to thrid the crashing hummocks for the silent Northern Pole,
And those solemn open waters that beyond the iceplains roll,—
Cold and shining sea of ages! like a silver fillet set
On the Earth's eternal forehead, for her bridal coronet.
Or to close with some tall frigate, for my country and the right,
Gunwale grinding into gunwale through the rolling cloud of fight.
When the din of cannonading and the jarring war should cease,
From the lion's mouth of battle there should flow the sweets of peace.
I should count repose in cities from my seventy years a loss,—
Resting only on the waters, like the dusk-winged albatross.
I should lay the wire-wrought cable—a ghostly depth below—
Along the marly summit of the plummet-found plateau;
To the old Antipodes with the olive branch should roam,
Joining swart Mongolian races to the ranks of Christendom.
Oftentimes our stately presence in a tyrant's port should save
Captives, rash in freedom-loving, from the dungeon and the grave;
And a hymn should greet our coming, far across the orient sea,
Like the glad apostles' anthem, when an angel set them free.
Paltry handfuls of the riches that his guardian-angel gave!
Shame upon all listless dreamers early hiding from the strife,
Sated with some little gleaning of the harvest-fields of life!
Shame upon God's toiling thinkers, who make profit of their brains,
Getting store of scornful pittance for their slow-decaying pains!
Give me purpose, steadfast purpose, and the grandeur of a soul
Born to lead the van of armies or a people to control.
Let me float away and ever, from this shore of bog and mire,
32
Would that it were mine to govern yon large wonder of our time:
Such a life were worth the living! thus to sail through every clime,
From a hundred spicy shorelands bearing treasures manifold;
Foremost to achieve discovery of the peerless lands of gold;
Or to thrid the crashing hummocks for the silent Northern Pole,
And those solemn open waters that beyond the iceplains roll,—
Cold and shining sea of ages! like a silver fillet set
On the Earth's eternal forehead, for her bridal coronet.
Or to close with some tall frigate, for my country and the right,
Gunwale grinding into gunwale through the rolling cloud of fight.
When the din of cannonading and the jarring war should cease,
From the lion's mouth of battle there should flow the sweets of peace.
I should count repose in cities from my seventy years a loss,—
Resting only on the waters, like the dusk-winged albatross.
I should lay the wire-wrought cable—a ghostly depth below—
Along the marly summit of the plummet-found plateau;
To the old Antipodes with the olive branch should roam,
Joining swart Mongolian races to the ranks of Christendom.
33
Captives, rash in freedom-loving, from the dungeon and the grave;
And a hymn should greet our coming, far across the orient sea,
Like the glad apostles' anthem, when an angel set them free.
Such the nobler life heroic! life which ancient Homer sung
Of the sinewy Grecian worthies, when the blithesome Earth was young,
And a hundred marvellous legends lay about the misty land
Where the wanton Sirens carolled and the cliffs of Scylla stand.
How their lusty strokes made answer, when Ulysses held the helm,
And with subtle words of wisdom spake of many a wondrous realm!
Neither Circè, nor the languor of enchanted nights and days
Soothed their eager-eyed disquiet,—tamed their venturous, epic ways;
And the dread Sicilian monster, in his cavern by the shore,
Felt the shadow of their coming, and was blind for evermore.
Of the sinewy Grecian worthies, when the blithesome Earth was young,
And a hundred marvellous legends lay about the misty land
Where the wanton Sirens carolled and the cliffs of Scylla stand.
How their lusty strokes made answer, when Ulysses held the helm,
And with subtle words of wisdom spake of many a wondrous realm!
Neither Circè, nor the languor of enchanted nights and days
Soothed their eager-eyed disquiet,—tamed their venturous, epic ways;
And the dread Sicilian monster, in his cavern by the shore,
Felt the shadow of their coming, and was blind for evermore.
So lived all those stalwart captains of the loyal Saxon blood,
Grasping morsels of adventure as an eagle grasps his food;
Fought till death for queen and country, hating Anti-christ and Spain;
Sacked the rich Castilian cities of the glittering western main;
Hacked and hewed the molten idols of each gray cathedral pile,
And with Carthaginian silver dowered the virgin English isle.
Up and down the proud Antilles still the ringing echoes go:
Ho! a Raleigh! Ho! a Drake!—and, forever, Westward Ho!
Grasping morsels of adventure as an eagle grasps his food;
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Sacked the rich Castilian cities of the glittering western main;
Hacked and hewed the molten idols of each gray cathedral pile,
And with Carthaginian silver dowered the virgin English isle.
Up and down the proud Antilles still the ringing echoes go:
Ho! a Raleigh! Ho! a Drake!—and, forever, Westward Ho!
Why should not my later pæan catch the swell of that refrain,
And, with bursts of fresh endeavor, send it down the age again?
But I know, that, while the mariner wafts along the golden year,
Broader continents of action open up in every sphere.
And I deem those noble also, who, with strong persuasive art,
Strike the chords of aspiration in a people's lyric heart.
If in mine—of all republics the Atlantis and supreme—
There be little cause for mouthing on the old, undying theme—
Yet I falter while I say it:—ours of every crime the worst!
For the long revenge of Heaven crying loud and calling first:
But if fiery Carolina and all the sensual South,
Like the world before the deluge, laugh to scorn the warning mouth,—
In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest,
Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West;
Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, wait
Till the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state.
Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face,
Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place,
Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divine
As the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine.
I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led,
To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead.
It were better than to conquer—from the light of life to go
With such words as once were uttered, off the isle of Floreo:
Here die I, Sir Richard Grenvile, of a free and joyful mood:
Ending earth for God and honor, as a valiant soldier should!
But my present life—what is it? mated, housed, like other men;
Thoughtful of the cost of feeding, valiant only with the pen;
Lying, walled about with custom, on an iron bed of creeds;
Peering out through grated windows at the joy my spirit needs.
And I hear the sound of chanting,—mailed men are passing by;
Crumble, walls, and loosen, fetters! I will join them, ere I die!”
And, with bursts of fresh endeavor, send it down the age again?
But I know, that, while the mariner wafts along the golden year,
Broader continents of action open up in every sphere.
And I deem those noble also, who, with strong persuasive art,
Strike the chords of aspiration in a people's lyric heart.
If in mine—of all republics the Atlantis and supreme—
There be little cause for mouthing on the old, undying theme—
Yet I falter while I say it:—ours of every crime the worst!
For the long revenge of Heaven crying loud and calling first:
But if fiery Carolina and all the sensual South,
Like the world before the deluge, laugh to scorn the warning mouth,—
35
Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West;
Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, wait
Till the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state.
Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face,
Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place,
Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divine
As the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine.
I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led,
To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead.
It were better than to conquer—from the light of life to go
With such words as once were uttered, off the isle of Floreo:
Here die I, Sir Richard Grenvile, of a free and joyful mood:
Ending earth for God and honor, as a valiant soldier should!
But my present life—what is it? mated, housed, like other men;
Thoughtful of the cost of feeding, valiant only with the pen;
Lying, walled about with custom, on an iron bed of creeds;
Peering out through grated windows at the joy my spirit needs.
36
Crumble, walls, and loosen, fetters! I will join them, ere I die!”
| The poetical works of Edmund Clarence Stedman | |