The New Morning Part 15

EARLY POEMS

(_Not Published Hitherto in America_)

THE PHANTOM FLEET (1904)

The sunset lingered in the pale green West: In rosy wastes the low soft evening star Woke; while the last white sea-mew sought for rest; And tawny sails came stealing o'er the bar.

But, in the hillside cottage, through the panes The light streamed like a thin far trumpet-call, And quickened, as with quivering battle-stains, The printed s.h.i.+ps that decked the parlour wall.

From oaken frames old admirals looked down: They saw the lonely slumberer at their feet: They saw the paper, headed _Talk from Town; Our rusting trident, and our phantom fleet_:

And from a neighbouring tavern surged a song Of England laughing in the face of war, With eyes unconquerably proud and strong, And lips triumphant from her Trafalgar.

But he, the slumberer in that glimmering room, Saw distant waters glide and heave and gleam; Around him in the softly coloured gloom The pictures cl.u.s.tered slowly to a dream.

He saw how England, resting on her past, Among the faded garlands of her dead, Woke; for a whisper reached her heart at last, And once again she raised her steel-clad head.

Her eyes were filled with sudden strange alarms; She heard the westering waters change and chime; She heard the distant tumult of her arms Defeated, not by courage, but by Time.

Knowledge had made a deadlier pact with death, Nor strength nor steel availed against that bond: Slowly approached--and Britain held her breath-- The battle booming from the deeps beyond.

O, then what darkness rolled upon the wind, Threatening the torch that Britain held on high?

Where all her navies, baffled, broken, blind, Slunk backward, snarling in their agony!

_Who guards the gates of Freedom now?_ The cry Stabbed heaven! _England, the shattered ramparts fall!_ Then, like a trumpet s.h.i.+vering through the sky O, like white lightning rending the black pall Of heaven, an answer pealed: _Her dead shall hear that call._

Then came a distant light of great waves breaking That brought the sunset on each crumbling crest, A rumour as of buried ages waking, And mighty spirits rising from their rest; Then ghostly clouds arose, with billowing breast, White clouds that turned to sails upon their way, Red clouds that burned like flags against the West, Till even the conquering fleet in silence lay Dazed with that strange old light, and night grew bright as day.

_We come to fight for Freedom!_ The great East Heard, and was rent asunder like a veil.

Host upon host out of the night increased Its towering clouds and crowded zones of sail: _England, our England, canst thou faint or fail?

We come to fight for Freedom yet once more!_ This, this is ours at least! Count the great tale Of all these dead that rise to guard thy sh.o.r.e By right of the red life they never feared to pour.

_We come to fight for Freedom!_ On they came, One cloud of beauty sweeping the wild sea; And there, through all their thousands, flashed like flame That star-born signal of the Victory: _Duty_, that deathless lantern of the free; _Duty_, that makes a G.o.d of every man.

And there was Nelson, watching silently As through the phantom fleet the message ran; And his tall frigate rushed before the stormy van.

Nelson, our Nelson, frail and maimed and blind, Stretched out his dead cold face against the foe: And England's Raleigh followed hard behind, With all his eager fighting heart aglow; Glad, glad for England's sake once more to know The old joy of battle and contempt of pain; Glad, glad to die, if England willed it so, The traitor's and the coward's death again; But hurl the world back now as once he hurled back Spain.

And there were all those others, Drake and Blake, Rodney and Howard, Byron, Collingwood; With deathless eyes aflame for England's sake, As on their ancient decks they proudly stood,-- Decks washed of old with England's purplest blood; And there, once more, each rus.h.i.+ng oaken side Bared its dark-throated, thirsty, gleaming brood Of cannon, watched by laughing lads who died Long, long ago for England and her ancient pride.

_We come to fight for England!_ The great sea In a wild light of song began to break Round that tall phantom of the Victory And all the foam was music in her wake: s.h.i.+p after phantom s.h.i.+p, with guns a-rake And shot-rent flags a-stream from every mast Moved in a deepening splendour, not to make A s.h.i.+eld for England of her own dead past; But, with a living dream to arm her soul at last.

_We come to die for England_: through the hush Of gathered nations rose that regal cry, From naked oaken walls one word could crush If those vast armoured throats dared to reply: But there the most implacable enemy Felt his eyes fill with gladder, prouder tears, As Nelson's calm eternal face went by, Gazing beyond all perishable fears To some diviner goal above the waste of years.

Through the hushed fleets the vision streamed away, Then slowly turned once more to that deep West, While voices cried, O, England, the new day Is dawning, but thy soul can take no rest.

Thy freedom and thy peace are only thine By right of toil on every land and sea And by that crimson sacrificial wine Of thine own heart and thine own agony.

Peace is not slumber. Peace, in every hour, Throbs like the heart of music. This alone Can save thy heritage and confirm that power Whereof the past is but the cus.h.i.+oned throne.

Look to the fleet! Again and yet again, Hear us who storm thy heart with this one cry.

Hear us, who cannot help, though fair and fain, To hold thy seas before thee, and to die.

Look to the fleet! Thy fleet, the first, last line: The sword of Liberty, her strength, her s.h.i.+eld, Her food, her life-blood! Britain, it is thine, Here, now, to hold that birth-right, or to yield.

So, through the dark, those phantom s.h.i.+ps of old Faded, it seemed, through mists of blood and tears.

Sails turned to clouds, and slowly westward rolled The sad returning pageant of the years.

On tides of light, where all our tumults cease, Through that rich West, the Victory returned; And all the waves around her whispered "peace,"

And from her mast no battle-message burned.

Like clouds, like fragments of those fading skies, The pageant pa.s.sed, with all its misty spars, While the hushed nations raised their dreaming eyes To that great light which brings the end of wars.

s.h.i.+p after s.h.i.+p, in some strange glory drowned, Cloud after cloud, was lost in that deep light Each with a sovran stillness haloed round.

Then--that high fleet of stars led on the night.

MICHAEL OAKTREE

Under an arch of glorious leaves I pa.s.sed Out of the wood and saw the sickle moon Floating in daylight o'er the pale green sea.

It was the quiet hour before the sun Gathers the clouds to prayer and silently Utters his benediction on the waves That whisper round the death-bed of the day.

The labourers were returning from the farms And children danced to meet them. From the doors Of cottages there came a pleasant clink Where busy hands laid out the evening meal.

From smouldering elms around the village spire There soared and sank the caw of gathering rooks.

The faint-flushed clouds were listening to the tale The sea tells to the sunset with one sigh.

The last white wistful sea-bird sought for peace, And the last fis.h.i.+ng-boat stole o'er the bar, And fragrant gra.s.ses, murmuring a prayer, Bowed all together to the holy west, Bowed all together thro' the golden hush, The breathing hush, the solemn scented hush, The holy, holy hush of eventide.

And, in among the ferns that crowned the hill With waving green and whispers of the wind, A boy and girl, carelessly linking hands, Into their golden dream drifted away.

On that rich afternoon of scent and song Old Michael Oaktree died. It was not much He wished for; but indeed I think he longed To see the light of summer once again Blossoming o'er the far blue hills. I know He used to like his rough-hewn wooden bench Placed in the sun outside the cottage door Where in the listening stillness he could hear, Across the waving gilly-flowers that crowned His crumbling garden wall, the long low sigh Of supreme peace that whispers to the hills The sacred consolation of the sea.

He did not hope for much: he longed to live Until the winter came again, he said; But on the last sweet eve of May he died.

I wandered sadly through the dreaming lanes Down to the cottage on that afternoon; For I had known old Michael Oaktree now So many years, so many happy years.

When I was little he had carried me High on his back to see the harvest home, And given me many a ride upon his wagon Among the dusty scents of sun and hay.

He showed me how to snare the bulky trout That lurked under the bank of yonder brook.

Indeed, he taught me many a country craft, For I was apt to learn, and, as I learnt, I loved the teacher of that homely lore.

Deep in my boyish heart he shared the glad Influence of the suns and winds and waves, Giving my childhood what it hungered for-- The rude earth-wisdom of the primal man.