Poems and Sonnets :: :: University of Virginia Library

At Last, thank God, the watchers on the mountains
Tell us that far off flush the streaks of dawn,
Again are flowing long-forgotten fountains,
From out the ether long-lost sounds are born,
On all sides round about us are appearing
Signs, and faint flowers of Thought not seen before,
And hope there is that we at last are steering
Our Planet Vessel to the looked-for shore,
That all these weary centuries of waiting
At last, it may be, quicken to an end,
And rolls the Race towards its final state in
That groove in which its way it has to wend
Through all the glorious future harvest years
When tree of life of ours its blossom bears;

228

When sons of men who long have been enduring,
Waiting the sunrise, bound in bitter thrall,
Eyes bent upon the ground, their heads obscuring
With poured-out ashes, faces to the wall,
These, who endured the agony of anguish,
And all the strain and struggle of the fight,
Sweet pale girl faces, prisoners who languish
Peeping between the prison bars of night,
And all that mighty host in tribulation
Now longing, well nigh hopeless, for the morn,
Shall feel at last a thrill of jubilation
As sounds from out the foremost watcher's horn
Signal that in the east the morning sun
To assail the realms of darkness has begun;

229

Shall raise their heads, and looking each to other,
Each holding out to each a happy hand,
Say, “Dreams of ours are over, sister, brother,
At last upon the continent we stand,
Awake, firm-footed, finding things we dreamed of
In daylight wear an even happier hue,
Finding the things our hearts the surer seemed of
Are verily the truest of the true,
Finding that better after all is daylight
And pale blue skies and breezes of the morn
Than dreams engendered by the broken stray light
From clouded moon-rays o'er the ocean borne
To us the humble watchers upon earth
For the Great Planet of the Future's birth;

230

“The higher were the thoughts of us aforetime
The purer and the truer now they seem,
The sorrows undergone in our sad sore time
Like smoking torches far behind us gleam
Just marking the old margin of the darkness
And making clearer light in which we stand,
Of agony if we had had one spark less
Our lanterns had not lasted to the land
And we had lingered on, for ever moaning
Across the billows of an angry sea,
Wind blowing off the foam of our strong groaning
Without a haven into which to flee,
But now, secure upon the Sacred Shore,
We laugh at waves that mocked at us before;

231

“And ah God! how we love our friends and brothers
Who, hand in hand together, sailed the seas,
Not resting on the land, content as others
By deputy to inhale the ocean breeze,
But strong to sail alone the ocean spaces
Ploughing the deep blue furrows flecked with foam,
Not crying, like children lost in lonely places,
‘We are lost—where are we—find us—take us home,’
But crying rather, ‘helmsman, we will forward
Where most of all are dangers that devour,
We are not landsmen to be frightened shoreward
In terror at mere mention of a shower,
Where waves are deep, and flies the fiercest spray
There, helmsman, lies for us our lonely way;’”

232

—Dark nights for these, and long lone hours of watching,
Cold hands upon the tiller through the night,
Like schoolboys counting hours, their knives notching
Slow spaces of approach of morning light,
And backward looking o'er the ocean-spaces
To hearts of friends who stay at home on shore,
And dreary midnight thoughts of lost embraces,
And weary pulling at the weary oar,
And doubts if after all the labour boots them
And wiser after all are those at home,
Doubts which arise though mouth of no man moots them,
Mouths tightly set with stern resolve to roam
Onward, aye ever onward to the end,
Though arms wax feeble, and strong oar-blades bend;

233

Bend wearily, as bend above the handles
Bowed breasts of the once eager-hearted band,
Faint light upon them thrown from lantern candles
That here and there among the benches stand,
Just making visible the outer ocean
Flinging on all sides angry spots of spray,
And shadows, as it were, of hands in motion
To rend the boat in splinters as a prey,
Great giant shadows, flung from out the blackness
Hanging around them, heavy, like a pall,
And walls of water right across their track, less
Easy to climb than cliffs of granite tall,
All these, and other horrors bar the way
Of passengers from twilight unto day;

234

But unto these few, in that they still trusted,
And bore their heads up 'mid the seas of scorn,
And kept their helmets bright, and swords not rusted,
And shields untarnished, neither banners torn,
To these is given to see the first faint flushing
Of sunrise ushering in the future day,
And bright cloud-clusters o'er the ether rushing—
Eyes strained to catch the first faint rosy ray,
And lips apart, and nostrils all expanded,
Strung to inhale the savour of the breeze
From off the hay-fields, sweet to men new-landed
From over barren breadths of scentless seas,
Odours of home that bring the hot salt tears
To hardy eyes that have not wept for years;

235

For all the old loves in the sweet new morning
Seem stronger still, and better than before,
Besides that many a new love has been born in
The dreary long time since we left the shore,
Loves now are wingèd that before were wingless,
And lips are rosy that were pale of old,
Dost think that any bird of song would sing less
If broken down were bars of cage that hold,
That cheek of maiden would not bloom the fairer
For keen embraces of the rough salt sea,
That rosy flowers of flesh would be the rarer
If torn from out hot flower-pots, fresh and free,
Full free themselves to wander, and explore
Dim visions only seen as yet from shore?

236

The birds are free, and all the fields and flowers,
And flying clouds, and spaces of the air,
And foam-bells flung from off the seas in showers,
And seaweed floating, like long waving hair,
The insects all are free, the world of creatures
That underlies our own on every side
Have faces fair, with no distorted features,
On wings of nature, fetterless, they ride,
And hard it is to see why man, the noblest,
Should tie himself by senseless iron chains,
Man, who, of all the creatures ought to know best
That Liberty is, truly, She who reigns,
While all the other queens are fitful shades
Their worship only a fond dream that fades;

237

Around us, yesterday, the skies were raining,
And we were all enswathed in driving mist,
And eyes were sore, and heavy hearts were straining,
To-day by happiness our souls are kissed;
We stand upon the summit of the mountain,
And see the fair green valleys far below,
And many a silver stream, and many a fountain,
And many a league of blossom white as snow,
Bright spots are here and there, laburnum clusters,
Whose slender fingers drip with yellow rain,
And red and white horse-chestnuts, stalwart musters,
And sheets of purple lilac strew the plain,
For face of morning that upon us gleams
Is wreathed with smiles of spring-time as it seems;

238

The world then, after all, is not a medley,
A chaos of twisted snakes that intertwine,
A seething mass of human heads, a deadly
Fermenting flask of every kind of wine
Mixed at haphazard, but a fair great picture,
Complete in every part from side to side,
Open to keenest glance, severest stricture,
Of men within it—many-coloured, wide
Enough to satisfy the largest craving,
With many a nook and corner for the small,
Its floor with inlaid land and water paving,
And roof of ether, stainless, over all,
On all sides round about, beneath, above,
Clasping the whole in soft strong arms of love.