Songs of Travel | Page 5

the past, O my love!
We
have lived of yore,
O, we have loved of yore.
XIII - MATER TRIUMPHANS
SON of my woman's body, you go, to the drum and fife,
To taste the
colour of love and the other side of life -
From out of the dainty the
rude, the strong from out of the frail, Eternally through the ages from
the female comes the male.
The ten fingers and toes, and the shell-like nail on each,
The eyes
blind as gems and the tongue attempting speech;
Impotent hands in
my bosom, and yet they shall wield the sword! Drugged with slumber
and milk, you wait the day of the Lord.
Infant bridegroom, uncrowned king, unanointed priest,
Soldier, lover,
explorer, I see you nuzzle the breast.
You that grope in my bosom
shall load the ladies with rings, You, that came forth through the doors,
shall burst the doors of kings.
XIV
BRIGHT is the ring of words
When the right man rings them,
Fair
the fall of songs
When the singer sings them.
Still they are carolled
and said -
On wings they are carried -
After the singer is dead

And the maker buried.
Low as the singer lies
In the field of heather,
Songs of his fashion
bring
The swains together.
And when the west is red
With the
sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings
And the maid
remembers.
XV

IN the highlands, in the country places,
Where the old plain men have
rosy faces,
And the young fair maidens
Quiet eyes;
Where
essential silence cheers and blesses,
And for ever in the hill-recesses

Her more lovely music
Broods and dies.
O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are
bird-enchanted,
And the low green meadows
Bright with sward;

And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and
planets glinted,
Lo, the valley hollow
Lamp-bestarred!
O to dream, O to awake and wander
There, and with delight to take
and render,
Through the trance of silence,
Quiet breath;
Lo! for
there, among the flowers and grasses,
Only the mightier movement
sounds and passes;
Only winds and rivers,
Life and death.
XVI (To the tune of Wandering Willie)
HOME no more home to me, whither must I wander?
Hunger my
driver, I go where I must.
Cold blows the winter wind over hill and
heather;
Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.
Loved of
wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.
The true word of welcome
was spoken in the door -
Dear days of old, with the faces in the
firelight,
Kind folks of old, you come again no more.
Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,
Home was home
then, my dear, happy for the child.
Fire and the windows bright
glittered on the moorland;
Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the
wild.
Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,
Lone
stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.
Lone let it stand,
now the friends are all departed,
The kind hearts, the true hearts, that
loved the place of old.
Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,
Spring shall
bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and
flowers;

Red shall the

heather bloom over hill and valley,
Soft flow the stream through the
even-flowing hours;
Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood -

Fair shine the day on the house with open door;
Birds come and
cry there and twitter in the chimney -
But I go for ever and come
again no more.
XVII - WINTER
IN rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in
vain
For hips and haws,
Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane

The silver pencil of the winter draws.
When all the snowy hill
And the bare woods are still;
When snipes
are silent in the frozen bogs,
And all the garden garth is whelmed in
mire,
Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs -
More fair than
roses, lo, the flowers of fire!
Saranac Lake.
XVIII
THE stormy evening closes now in vain,
Loud wails the wind and
beats the driving rain,
While here in sheltered house
With
fire-ypainted walls,
I hear the wind abroad,
I hark the calling
squalls -
'Blow, blow,' I cry, 'you burst your cheeks in vain!
Blow,
blow,' I cry, 'my love is home again!'
Yon ship you chase perchance but yesternight
Bore still the precious
freight of my delight,
That here in sheltered house
With
fire-ypainted walls,
Now hears the wind abroad,
Now harks the
calling squalls.
'Blow, blow,' I cry, 'in vain you rouse the sea,
My
rescued sailor shares the fire with me!'
XIX - TO DR. HAKE (On receiving a Copy of Verses)
IN the beloved hour that ushers day,
In the pure dew, under the

breaking grey,
One bird, ere yet the woodland quires awake,
With
brief reveille summons all the brake:
Chirp, chirp, it goes; nor waits
an answer long;
And that small signal fills the grove with song.
Thus on my pipe I breathed a strain or two;
It scarce was music, but
'twas all I knew.
It was not music, for I lacked the art,
Yet what but
frozen music filled my heart?
Chirp, chirp, I went, nor hoped a