The Coast of Bohemia Part 2

Who knew so well his shepherd's watch to keep, Driving the Spanish wolves with n.o.ble rage: Forsaking Pomp and Power and Beds-of-ease To herd his mighty flock through every Deep And make of every sea their common pasturage.

SLEEP

IN MEMORIAM: A. B. P.

Thou best of all: G.o.d's choicest blessing, Sleep; Better than Earth can offer--Wealth, Power, Fame: They change, decay; thou always art the same; Through all the years thy freshness thou dost keep; Over all lands thine even pinions sweep.

The sick, the worn, the blind, the lone, the lame, Hearing thy tranquil footsteps, bless thy name; Anguish is soothed, Sorrow forgets to weep.

Thou ope'st the captive's cell and bid'st him roam; Thou giv'st the hunted refuge, free'st the slave, Show'st the outcast pity, call'st the exile home; Beggar and king thine equal blessings reap.

We for our loved ones Wealth, Joy, Honors crave; But G.o.d, He giveth his beloved--Sleep.

TO A LADY AT A SPRING

Long aeons since, in leafy woodlands sweet, Diana, weary with the eager chase, Was wont to seek full oft some trysting-place Loved of her rosy train; some cool retreat Of crystal springs, deep-verdured from the heat Of sultry noon, wherein each subtle grace Of snowy form and radiant flower-face, Narcissus-like, G.o.ddess and nymph might greet.

Diana long hath fleeted 'yond the main; The founts which erst she loved are all bereft; No more 'mid violet-banks her feet are set; Silent her silvern bugle, fled her train; One spot alone of all she loved is left: This poplar-shaded spring is G.o.ddess-haunted yet.

UNFORGOTTEN

Oh! do not think that thee I can forget: Though all the Centuries should o'er me roll-- Though s.p.a.ce should spread more far than Pole from Pole, Or star from furthest star betwixt us; yet, I still would hold thee in my heart's core set: More rare than rarest Queens whom Kings extol When Death hath throned them high above regret.

Through endless Time when Memory the stone Rolls back from silent years long sepulchred, To call the Past forth from the sullen tomb, Howe'er far 'yond her voice all else hath flown, Shalt thou appear--her living summons heard-- Fresh as Eternal Spring in all thy radiant bloom.

THE OLD LION

"THE WHELPS OF THE LION ANSWER HIM"

The Old Lion stood in his lonely lair: The sound of the hunting had broken his rest: He scowled to the Eastward: Tiger and Bear Were harrying his Jungle. He turned to the west; And sent through the murk and mist of the night A thunder that rumbled and rolled down the trail; And Tiger and Bear, the Quarry in sight, Crouched low in the covert to cower and quail; For deep through the midnight like surf on a sh.o.r.e, Pealed Thunder in answer resounding with ire.

The Hunters turn'd stricken: they knew the dread roar: The Whelp of the Lion was joining his Sire.

THE DRAGON OF THE SEAS

APRIL, 1898

They say the Spanish s.h.i.+ps are out To seize the Spanish Main; Reach down the volume, Boy, and read The story o'er again:

How when the Spaniard had the might, He drenched the Earth, like rain, With Saxon blood and made it Death To sail the Spanish Main.

With torch and steel; with stake and rack He trampled out G.o.d's Truce Until Queen Bess her leashes slip't And let her sea-dogs loose.

G.o.d! how they sprang and how they tore!

The Gilberts, Hawkins, Drake!

Remember, Boy, they were your sires: They made the Spaniard quake.

d.i.c.k Grenville with a single s.h.i.+p Struck all the Spanish line: One Devon knight to the Spanish Dons: One s.h.i.+p to fifty and nine.

When Spain in San Ulloa's Bay Her sacred treaty broke, Stout Hawkins fought his way through fire And gave her stroke for stroke.

A bitter malt Spain brewed that day, She drained it to the lees: The thunder of her guns awoke The Dragon of The Seas.

From coast to coast he ravaged far, A scourge with flaming breath: Where'er the Spaniard sailed his s.h.i.+ps, Sailed Francis Drake and Death.

No coast was safe against his ire; Secure no furthest sh.o.r.e; The fairest day oft sank in fire Before the Dragon's roar.

He made th' Atlantic surges red Round every Spanish keel, Piled Spanish decks with Spanish dead, The n.o.blest of Castile.

From Del Fuego's beetling coast To sleety Hebrides He hounded down the Spanish host And swept the flaming seas.

He fought till on Spain's inmost lakes 'Mid Orange bowers set, La Mancha's maidens feared to sail Lest they the Dragon met.*

King Philip, of his ravin' reft, Called for "the Pirate's" head; The great Queen laughed his wrath to scorn And knighted Drake instead.

And gave him s.h.i.+ps and sent him forth To sweep the Spanish Main, For England and for England's brood, And sink the fleets of Spain.

And well he wrought his mighty work, Till on that fatal day He met his only conqueror, In Nombre Dios Bay.

There in his shotted hammock swung Amid the surges' sweep, He waits the look-out's signal cry Across the quiet deep,

And dreams of dark Ulloa's bar, And Spanish treachery, And how he tracked Magellan far Across the unknown sea.

But if Spain fire a single shot Upon the Spanish Main, She 'll come to deem the Dragon dead Has waked to life again.

*Note. It is related that King Philip one day invited a lady to sail with him on a lake, and she replied that she was afraid they might meet "the Dragon."

THE BENT MONK

Ever along the way he goes, With eyes cast down as in despair, And shoulders stooped with weight of woes And lips from which unceasing flows An agonized prayer.

His form is bent; his step is slow; His hands with fasting long are thin; And wheresoe'er his footsteps go, Men hear his muttered prayer and know He weeps for deadly sin.

This monk was once the knightliest Of knights who ever sat in hall: With wondrous might and beauty blest; And whoso met him lance-in-rest Had need on Christ to call.

Men say this monk with hair so h.o.a.r, And eye where grief hath quenched the flame, Once loved a maiden fair and pure, And for she would not wed him swore He 'd bring her down to Shame.