Wild across the Breton country,
Fabled centuries ago,
Riding from the black sea border,
Came the squadrons of the snow.
Piping dread at every latch-hole,
Moaning death at every sill,
The white Yule came down in vengeance
Upon Ys, and had its will.
Walled and dreamy stood the city,
Wide and dazzling shone the sea,
When the gods set hand to smother
Ys, the pride of Brittany.
Morning drenched her towers in purple;
Light of heart were king and fool;
Fair forebode the merrymaking
Of the seven days of Yule.
Laughed the king, "Once more, my mistress,
Time and place and joy are one!"
Bade the balconies with banners
Match the splendor of the sun;
Eyes of urchins shine with silver,
And with gold the pavement ring;
Bade the war-horns sound their bravest
In The Mistress of the King.
Mountebanks and ballad-mongers
And all strolling traffickers
Should block up the market corners
With none other name than hers.
Laughed the fool, "To-day, my Folly,
Thou shalt be the king of Ys!"
O wise fool! How long must wisdom
Under motley hold her peace?
Then the storm came down. The valleys
Wailed and ciphered to the dune
Like huge organ pipes; a midnight
Stalked those gala streets at noon;
And the sea rose, rocked and tilted
Like a beaker in the hand,
Till the moon-hung tide broke tether
And stampeded in for land.
All day long with doom portentous,
Shreds of pennons shrieked and flew
Over Ys; and black fear shuddered
On the hearthstone all night through.
Fear, which freezes up the marrow
Of the heart, from door to door
Like a plague went through the city,
And filled up the devil's score;
Filled her tally of the craven,
To the sea-wind's dismal note;
While a panic superstition
Took the people by the throat.
As with morning still the sea rose
With vast wreckage on the tide,
And their pasture rills, grown rivers,
Thundered in the mountain side,
"Vengeance, vengeance, gods to vengeance!"
Rose a storm of muttering;
And the human flood came pouring
To the palace of the king.
"Save, O king, before we perish
In the whirlpools of the sea,
Ys thy city, us thy people!"
Growled the king then, "What would ye?"
But his wolf's eyes talked defiance,
And his bearded mouth meant scorn.
"O our king, the gods are angry;
And no longer to be borne
"Is the shameless face that greets us
From thy windows, at thy side,
Smiling infamy. And therefore
Thou shall take her up, and ride
"Down with her into the sea's mouth,
And there leave her; else we die,
And thy name goes down to story
A new word for cruelty."
Ah, but she was fair, this woman!
Warm and flaxen waved her hair;
Her blue Breton eyes made summer
In that bleak December air.
There she stood whose burning beauty
Made the world's high roof tree ring,
A white poppy tall and wind-blown
In the garden of the king.
Her throat shook, but not with terror;
Her eyes swam, but not with fear;
While her two hands caught and clung to
The one man they had found dear.
"Lord and lover,"—thus she smiled him
Her last word,—"it shall be so,
Only the sea's arms shall hold me,
When from out thine arms I go."
Swore he, "By the gods, my mistress,
Thou shall have queen's burial.
Pearls and amber shall thy tomb be;
Shot with gold and green thy pall.
"And a million-throated chorus
Shall take up thy dirge to-night;
Where thy slumber's starry watch-fires
Shall a thousand years be bright."
Then they brought the coal-black stallion,
Chafing on the bit. Astride
Sprang the young king; shouted, "Way there!"
Caught the girl up to his side;
And a path through that scared rabble
Rode in pageant to the sea.
And the coal-black mane was mingled
With gold hair against his knee.
Sure as the wild gulls make seaward,
From the west gate to the beach
Rode these two for whom now freedom
Landward lay beyond their reach.
And the great horse, scenting peril,
Snorted at the flying spume,
Flicked with courage, as how often,
When the tides were racing doom,
Ridden, he had plunged to rescue
From that seething icy hell
Some poor sailor wrecked a-fishing
On the coast. What fears should quell
That high spirit? Knee to shoulder,
King and stallion reared and sprang
Clear above the long white combers
And that turmoil's iron clang.
What a launching! For a moment,
While the tempest held its breath
And a thousand eyes looked wonder,
Swimming in that trough of death,
Steering seaward through the welter,
Ere they settled out of sight,
Waved above them one gold streamer.
Valor, bid the world good-night!...
Not a trace, while the long summers
Warm the heart of Brittany,
Save one stone of Ys, as remnant,
For a white mark in the sea.
THE KELPIE RIDERS
I
Buried alive in calm Rochelle,
Six in a row by a crystal well,
All Summer long on Bareau Fen
Slumber and sleep the Kelpie men;
By the side of each to cheer his ghost,
A flagon of foam with a crumpet of frost.
Hear me, friends, for the years are fleet;
Soon I leave the noise and the street
For the silent uncompanioned way
Where the inn is cold and the night is gray.
But noon is warm and the world is still
Where the Kelpie riders have their will.
For never a wind dare stir or stray
Over those marshes salt and gray;
No bit of shade as big as your hand
To traverse or trammel the sleeping land,
Save where a dozen poplars fleck
The long gray grass and the well's blue beck.
Yet you mark their leaves are blanched and sear,
Whispering daft at a nameless fear.
While round the hole of one is a rune,
Black in the wash of the bleaching noon.
"Ride, for the wind is awake and away.
Sleep, for the harvest grain is gray."
No word more. And many a mile,
A ghostly bivouac rank and file,
They sleep to-day on the marshes wide;
Some far night they will wake and ride.
Once they were riders hot with speed,
"Kelpie, Kelpie, gallop at need!"
With hills of the barren sea to roam,
Housing their horses on the foam.
But earth is cool and the hush is long
Beneath the lull of the slumber song
The crickets falter and strive to tell
To the dragon-fly of the crystal well;
And love is a forgotten jest,
Where the Kelpie riders take their rest,
And blossoming grasses hour by hour
Burn in the bud and freeze in the flower.
But never again shall their roving be
On the shifting hills of the tumbling sea,
With the salt, and the rain, and the glad desire
Strong as the wind and pure as fire.
II
One doomful night in the April tide
With riot of brooks on the mountain side,
The goblin maidens of the hills
Went forth to the revel-call of the rills.
Many as leaves of the falling year,
To the swing of a ballad wild and clear
They held the plain and the uplands high;
And the merry-dancers held the sky.
The Kelpie riders abroad on the sea
Caught sound of that call of eerie glee,
Over their prairie waste and wan;
And the goblin maidens tolled them on.
The yellow eyes and the raven hair
And the tawny arms blown fresh and bare,
Were more than a mortal might behold
And live with the saints for a crown of gold.
The Kelpie riders were stricken sore;
They wavered, and wheeled, and rode for the shore.
"Kelpie, Kelpie, treble your stride!
Never again on the sea we ride.
"Kelpie, Kelpie, out of the storm;
On, for the fields of earth are warm!"
Knee to knee they are riding in:
"Brother, brother,—the goblin kin!"
The meadows rocked as they clomb the scaur;
The pines re-echo for evermore
The sound of the host of Kelpie men;
But the windflowers died on Bareau Fen.
Over the marshes all night long
The stars went round to a riding song:
"Kelpie, Kelpie, carry us through!"
And the goblin maidens danced thereto.
Till dawn,—and the revel died with a shout,
For the ocean riders were wearied out.
They looked, and the grass was warm and soft;
The dreamy clouds went over aloft;
A gloom of pines on the weather verge
Had the lulling sound of their own white surge;
A whip-poor-will, far from their din,
Was saying his litanies therein.
Then voices neither loud nor deep:
"Tired, so tired; sleep! ah, sleep!
"The stars are calm, and the earth is warm,
But the sea for an earldom is given to storm.
"Come now, inherit the houses of doom;
Your fields of the sun shall be harried of gloom."
They laid them down; but over long
They rest,—for the goblin maids are strong.
The sun goes round; and Bareau Fen
Is a door of earth on the Kelpie men,—
Buried at dawn, asleep, unslain,
With not a mound on the sunny plain,
Hard by the walls of calm Rochelle,
Row on row by the crystal well.
And never again they are free to ride
Through all the years on the tossing tide,
Barred from the breast of the barren foam,
Where the heart within them is yearning home,—
For one long drench of the surf to quell
The cursing doom of the goblin spell.
Only, when bugling snows alight
To smother the marshes stark and white,
Or a low red moon peers over the rim
Of a winter twilight crisp and dim,
With a sound of drift on the buried lands,
The goblin maidens loose their hands;
A wind comes down from the sheer blue North;
And the Kelpie riders get them forth.
III
Twice have I been on Bareau Fen,
But the son of my son is a man since then.
Once as a lad I used to bear
St. Louis' cross through the chapel square,
Leading the choristers' surpliced file
Slow up the dusk Cathedral aisle.
I was the boy of all Rochelle
The pure old father trusted well.
But one clear night in the winter's heart,
I wandered out to that place apart.
The shafts of smoke went up to the stars,
Straight as the Northern Streamer spars,
From the town's white roofs, so still it was.
The night in her dream let no word pass,
Nor ever a breath that one could feel;
Only the snow shrieked under my heel.
Yet it seemed when I reached the poplar hole,
The ghost of a voice was crying, "Skoal!
"Rouse thee and drink, for the well is sweet,
And the crystal snow is good to eat!"
I heeded little, but stooped on my knee,
And ate of a handful dreamily.
'Twas cool to the mouth and slaking at first,
But the lure of it was ill for thirst.
The voice cried, "Soul of the mortal span,
Art thou not of the Kelpie clan?"
"What are you doing there in the ground,
Kelpie rider, and never a sound
"To roam the night but the ghost of a cry?"
Ringing and swift there came reply,
"He is asleep where thou art afraid,
In the tawny arms of a goblin maid!"
Then I knew the voice was the voice of a girl,
And I marvelled much (while a little swirl
Of snow leaped up far off on the plain
Of sparkling dust and died again),
For what do the cloisters know, think ye,
Of women's ways? They be hard to see.
Again the voice cried, "Kin of my kin,
The child of the Sun shall win, shall win!"
'Twas an evil weird that so befell;
Yet I leaned and drank of the bubbling well.
I looked for my face in the crystal spring,
But the face that flickered there was a thing
To make the nape of your neck grow chill,
And every vein surge back and thrill
With a passion for something not their own—
In a life their life has never known.
For raven hair and eyes like the sun
Are merry but dour to look upon.
She smiled through her lashes under the wave,
And my soul went forth her bartered slave.
I swore, "By St. Louis, I'll come to thee,
Though I ride to my doom in the gulfs of the sea!
"Thy Kelpie rider shall wake and rue
His ruined life in the loss of you."
Then I fled in the start of a terror of joy,
O'er leagues where a legion might deploy;
For the acres of snow were level and hard,
Every flake like a crystal shard.
I was the runner of all Rochelle,
Could run with the hounds on Haric Fell;
And something stark as a gust of the sea
Had a grip of the whimsy boy in me.
I ran like the drift on the ice low curled
When the winds of Yule are abroad on the world.
Sudden, the beat of a throbbing sound
Lost in the core of the blue profound:
"Kelpie, Kelpie, Kelpie, come!"
Was it my heart?—But my heart was numb.
"Kelpie, Kelpie!" Was it the sea?
Far on, at the verge of Bareau lea,
I saw like an army, shield and casque,
The breakers roll in the Roads of Basque.
"Kelpie, Kelpie!" Was it the wolves?
In the dusk of pines where night dissolves
To streamers and stars through the mountain gorge,
I heard the blast of a giant forge.
Then I knew the wind was awake from the North,
And the ocean riders were freed and forth.
Time, there is time (now gallop, my heart!)
Ere the black riders disperse and depart.
The dawn is late, but the dawn comes round,
And Fleetfoot Jean has the wind of a hound.
The hue and cry of the Kelpie horde
Was growing and grim on that white seaboard.
It rolled and gathered and died and grew
Far off to the rear; a smile thereto
I turned; a fathom behind my ear
A rider rode with a shadowy leer.
I sickened and sped. He laughed aloud,
"Wind for a mourner, snow for a shroud!"
On and on, half blown, half blind,
Shadow and self, and the wind behind!
I slackened, he slackened; I fled, he flew;
In a swirl of snow-drift all night through
I scoured along the gusty fen,
A quarry for hunting Kelpie men.
But only one could hold at my side:
"Brother, brother, I love thy stride.
"Wilt thou follow thy whim to win
My merry maid of the goblin kin?"
I swerved from my trail, for he haunted my ear
With his moaning jibe and his shadowy leer.
So by good hap as we sped it fell,
I fetched a circuit back for the well.
Like a spilth of spume on the crest of the bore
When the combing tides make in for shore,
That runner ran whose love was a wraith;
But the rider rode with revenge in his teeth.
Another league, and I touch the goal,—
The mystic rune on the poplar bole,—
When the dusky eyes and the raven hair
And the lithe brown arms shall greet me there.
I ran like a harrier on the trace
In the leash of that ghoul, and the wind gave chase.
A furlong now; I caught the gleam
Of the bubbling well with its tiny stream;
An arrowy burst; I cleared the beck;
And—the Kelpie rider bestrode my neck.
Dawn, the still red winter dawn;
I awoke on the plain; the wind was gone;—
All gracious and good as when God made
The living creatures, and none was afraid.
I stooped to drink of the wholesome spring
Under the poplars whispering:
Face to my face in that water clear—
The Kelpie rider's jabbering leer!
Ah, God! not me: I was never so!
Sainted Louis, who can know
The lords of life from the slaves of death?
What help avail the speeding breath
Of the spirit that knows not self's abode,—
When the soul is lost that knows not God?
I turned me home by St. Louis' Hall,
Where the red sun burns on the windows tall.
And I thought the world was strange and wild,
And God with his altar only a child.
IV
Again one year in the prime of June,
I came to the well in the heated noon,
Leaving Rochelle with its red roof tiles
By the Pottery Gate before St. Giles,—
There where the flower market is,
Where every morning up from Duprisse
The flower girls come by the long white lane
That skirts the edge of Bareau plain;—
To the North, the city wall in the sun,
To the left, the fen where the eye may run
And have its will of the blazing blue.
The while I loitered the market through,
Halting a moment to converse
With old Babette who had been my nurse,
There passed through the stalls a woman, bright
With a kirtle of cinnabar and white
Among the kerseys blue; and I said,
"Who is it, Babette, with lifted head,
"And the startled look, possessed and strange,
Under the paint—secure from change?"
"Ah, 'Sieur Jean, do ye not ken
Of the eerie folk of Bareau Fen?"
I blenched, and she knew too well I wist
The fearsome fate of the goblin tryst.
"The street is a cruel home, 'Sieur Jean,
But a weird uncanny drives her on.
"'Tis a bitter tale for Christian folk,
How once she dreamed, and how she woke."
"Ay, ay!" I passed and reached the spring
Where the poplars kept their whispering,
Hid for an hour in the shade,
In the rank marsh grass of a tiny glade.
There crossed the moor from the town afar,
In kirtle of white and cinnabar,
A wanderer on that plain of tears,
Bowed with a burden not of the years,
As one that goeth sorrowing
For many an unforgotten thing.
To the crystal well as the sun drew low
There came that harridan of woe.
She stooped to drink; I heard her cry:
"Ah, God, how tired out am I!
"I called him by the dearest name
A girl may call; I have my shame.
"'Yet death is crueller than life,'
Once they said, 'for all the strife.'
"And so I lived; but the wild will,
Broken and bitter, drives to ill.
"And now I know, what no one saith,
That love is crueller than death.
"How I did love him! Is love too high,
My God, for such lost folk as I?"
Her tears went down to the grass by the well,
In that passion of grief, and where they fell
Windflowers trembled pale and white.
A craven I crept away from the sight;
And turned me home to St. Louis' Hall,
Where the sunflowers burn by the eastern wall.
The vesper frankincense that day
Rose to the rafters and melted away,
And was no more than a cloud that stirs
Among the spires of Norway firs.
And I said, "The holy solitude
Of the hoary crypt and the wild green wood
"Are one to the God I have never known,
Whose kingdom has neither bourn nor throne."
V
Now I am old, and the years delay;
But I know, I know, there will come a day,—
When April is over the Norland town.
And the loosened brooks from the hills go down,
When tears have quenched the sorrow of time,—
Wherein the earth shall rebuild her prime,
And the houses of dark be overthrown;
When the goblin maids shall love their own,—
Their arms forever unlaced from their hold
Of the earls of the sea on that alien wold,—
And the feckless light of their golden eyes
Shall forget the desire that made them wise;
When the hands of the foam shall beckon and flee.
And the Kelpie riders ride for the sea;
And the whip-poor-will the whole night long
Repeat his litanies of song,
Till morning whiten the world again,
And the flowers revive on Bareau Fen,
Over the acres of calm Rochelle
Fresh by the stream of the crystal well.
NOONS OF POPPY
Noons of poppy, noons of poppy,
Scarlet leagues along the sea;
Flaxen hair afloat in sunlight,
Love, come down the world to me!
There's a Captain I must ship with,
(Heart, that day be far from now!)
Wears his dark command in silence
With the sea-frost on his brow.
Noons of poppy, noons of poppy,
Purple shadows by the sea;
How should love take thought to wonder
What the destined port may be?
Nay, if love have joy for shipmate
For a night-watch or a year,
Dawn will light o'er Lonely Haven,
Heart to happy heart, as here.
Noons of poppy, noons of poppy,
Scarlet acres by the sea
Burning to the blue above them;
Love, the world is full for me.
LEGENDS OF LOST HAVEN
There are legends of Lost Haven,
Come, I know not whence, to me,
When the wind is in the clover,
When the sun is on the sea.
There are rumors in the pine-tops,
There are whispers in the grass;
And the flocking crows at nightfall
Bring home hints of things that pass
Out upon the broad dike yonder,
All day long beneath the sun,
Where the tall ships cloud and settle
Down the sea-curve, one by one.
And the crickets in fine chorus—
Every slim and tiny reed—
Strive to chord the broken rhythmus
Of the world, and half succeed.
There are myriad traditions
Treasured by the talking rain;
And with memories the moonlight
Walks the cold and silent plain.
Where the river tells his hill-tales
To the lone complaining bar,
Where the midgets thread their dances
To the yellow twilight star,
Where the blossom bends to hearken
To the bee with velvet bands,
There are chronicles enciphered
Of the yet uncharted lands.
All the musical marauders
Of the berry and the bloom
Sing the lure of soul's illusion
Out of darkness, out of doom.
But the sure and great evangel
Comes when half alone I hear,
At the rosy door of silence,
Love, the lord of speech, draw near.
Then for once across the threshold,
Darkling spirit, thou art free,—
As thy hope is every ship makes
Some lost haven of the sea.
THE SHADOW BOATSWAIN
Don't you know the sailing orders?
It is time to put to sea,
And the stranger in the harbor
Sends a boat ashore for me.
With the thunder of her canvas
Coming on the wind again,
I can hear the Shadow Boatswain
Piping to his shadow men.
Is it firelight or morning,
That red flicker on the floor?
Your good-by was braver, sweetheart,
When I sailed away before.
Think of this last lovely summer!
Love, what ails the wind to-night?
What's he saying in the chimney
Turns your berry cheek so white?
What a morning! How the sunlight
Sparkles on the outer bay,
Where the brig lies waiting for me
To trip anchor and away!
That's the Doomkeel. You may know her
By her clean run aft; and, then,
Don't you hear the Shadow Boatswain
Piping to his shadow men?
Off the freshening sea to windward,
Is it a white tern I hear
Shrilling in the gusty weather
Where the far sea-line is clear?
What a morning for departure!
How your blue eyes melt and shine!
Will you watch us from the headland
Till we sink below the line?
I can see the wind already
Steer the scurf marks of the tide,
As we slip the wake of being
Down the sloping world and wide.
I can feel the vasty mountains
Heave and settle under me,
And the Doomkeel veer and shudder,
Crumbling on the hollow sea.
There's a call, as when a white gull
Cries and beats across the blue;
That must be the Shadow Boatswain
Piping to his shadow crew.
There's a boding sound, like winter
When the pines begin to quail;
That must be the gray wind moaning
In the belly of the sail.
I can feel the icy fingers
Creeping in upon my bones;
There must be a berg to windward
Somewhere in these border zones.
Stir the fire.... I love the sunlight,—
Always loved my shipmate sun.
How the sunflowers beckon to me
From the dooryard one by one!
How the royal lady roses
Strew this summer world of ours!
There'll be none in Lonely Haven;
It is too far north for flowers.
There, sweetheart! And I must leave you.
What should touch my wife with tears?
There's no danger with the Master;
He has sailed the sea for years.
With the sea-wolves on her quarter,
And a white bone in her teeth,
He will steer the shadow cruiser,
Dark before and doom beneath,
Down the last expanse, till morning
Flares above the broken sea,
And the midnight storm is over,
And the Isles are close alee.
So some twilight, when your roses
Are all blown and it is June,
You will turn your blue eyes seaward
Through the white dusk of the moon,
Wondering, as that far sea-cry
Comes upon the wind again,
And you hear the Shadow Boatswain
Piping to his shadow men.
THE MASTER OF THE ISLES
There is rumor in Dark Harbor,
And the folk are all astir;
For a stranger in the offing
Draws them down to gaze at her,
In the gray of early morning,
Black against the orange streak,
Making in below the ledges,
With no colors at her peak.
Something makes their hearts uneasy
As they watch the long black hull,
For she brings the storm behind her
While before her there is lull.
With no pilot and unspoken,
Where the dancing breakers are,
Presently she veers and races
In across the roaring bar,—
Rounds and luffs and comes to anchor,
While the wharf begins to throng.
Silence falls upon the women.
And misgiving stirs the strong.
Then with some obscure foreboding,
As a gray-haired watcher smiles,
They perceive the fearless captain
Is the Master of the Isles.
They recall the bleak December
Many streaming years ago,
When the stranger had been sighted
Driving shoreward with the snow;
When the Master came among them
With his calm and courtly pride,
And had sailed away at sundown
With pale Dora for his bride;
How again he came one summer
When the herring schools were late,
And had cleared before the morning
With old Alec's son for mate.
There was glamour with the Master;
He had tales of far-off seas;
But his habit and demeanor
Were of other lands than these.
He had never made the Harbor
But there sailed away with him
Wife or child or friend or lover,
Leaving eyes to strain and swim,—
Strain and wait for their returning;
Yet they never had come back;
For the pale wake of the Master
Is a wandering, fading track.
Just beyond our utmost fathom
Is the anchorage we crave,
But the Master knows the soundings
By the reach of every wave.
Just beyond the last horizon,
Vague upon the weather-gleam,
Loom the Faroff Isles forever,
The tradition of a dream.
There a white and brooding summer
Haunts upon the gray sea-plain,
Where the gray sea-winds are quiet
At the sources of the rain.
There where all world-weary dreamers
Get them forth to their release,
Lie the colonies of the kindred,
In the provinces of peace.
Thither in the stormy sunset
Will the Master sail to-night;
And the village will be silent
When he drops below the light.
Not a soul on all the hillside
But will watch her when she clears,
Dreaming of the Port o' Strangers
In the roadstead of the years.
"Port o' Strangers, Port o' Strangers!"
"Where away?" "On the weather bow."
"Drive her down the closing distance!" ...
That's to-morrow, but not now.
What imperial adventure
Some wide morning it will be,
Sweeping in to Lonely Haven
From the chartless round of sea!
How imposing a departure,
While this little harbor smiles,
Steering for the outer sea-rim
With the Master of the Isles!
THE LAST WATCH
Comrades, comrades, have me buried
Like a warrior of the sea,
With a flag across my breast
And my sword upon my knee.
Steering out from vanished headlands
For a harbor on no chart,
With the winter in the rigging,
With the ice-wind in my heart,
Down the bournless slopes of sea-room,
With the long gray wake behind,
I have sailed my cruiser steady
With no pilot but the wind.
Battling with relentless pirates
From the lower seas of Doom,
I have kept the colors flying
Through the roar of drift and gloom.
Scudding where the shadow foemen
Hang about us grim and stark,
Broken spars and shredded canvas,
We are racing for the dark.
Sped and blown abaft the sunset
Like a shriek the storm has caught;
But the helm is lashed to windward,
And the sails are sheeted taut.
Comrades, comrades, have me buried
Like a warrior of the night.
I can hear the bell-buoy calling
Down below the harbor light
Steer in shoreward, loose the signal,
The last watch has been cut short;
Speak me kindly to the islesmen,
When we make the foreign port.
We shall make it ere the morning
Rolls the fog from strait and bluff;
Where the offing crimsons eastward
There is anchorage enough.
How I wander in my dreaming!
Are we northing nearer home,
Or outbound for fresh adventure
On the reeling plains of foam?
North I think it is, my comrades,
Where one heart-beat counts for ten,
Where the loving hand is loyal,
And the women's sons are men;
Where the red auroras tremble
When the polar night is still,
Lighting home the worn seafarers
To their haven in the hill.
Comrades, comrades, have me buried
Like a warrior of the North.
Lower me the long-boat, stay me
In your arms, and bear me forth;
Lay me in the sheets and row me,
With the tiller in my hand,
Row me in below the beacon
Where my sea-dogs used to land.
Has your captain lost his cunning
After leading you so far?
Row me your last league, my sea-kings;
It is safe within the bar.
Shoulder me and house me hillward,
Where the field-lark makes his bed,
So the gulls can wheel above me,
All day long when I am dead;
Where the keening wind can find me
With the April rain for guide,
And come crooning her old stories
Of the kingdoms of the tide.
Comrades, comrades, have me buried
Like a warrior of the sun;
I have carried my sealed orders
Till the last command is done.
Kiss me on the cheek for courage,
(There is none to greet me home,)
Then farewell to your old lover
Of the thunder of the foam;
For the grass is full of slumber
In the twilight world for me,
And my tired hands are slackened
From their toiling on the sea.