The Ontario Readers: Fourth Book Part 24

Archibald Lampman

For manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature and of n.o.ble mind.

Tennyson

AN ELIZABETHAN SEAMAN

Some two miles above the port of Dartmouth, once among the most important harbours in England, on a projecting angle of land which runs out into the river at the head of one of its most beautiful reaches, there has stood for some centuries the Manor House of Greenaway. The water runs deep all the way to it from the sea, and the largest vessels may ride with safety within a stone's throw of the windows. In the latter half of the sixteenth century there must have met, in the hall of this mansion, a party as remarkable as could have been found anywhere in England. Humfrey and Adrian Gilbert, with their half-brother, Walter Raleigh, here, when little boys, played at sailors in the reaches of Long Stream, in the summer evenings doubtless rowing down with the tide to the port, and wondering at the quaint figure-heads and carved prows of the s.h.i.+ps which thronged it; or climbing on board, and listening, with hearts beating, to the mariners' tales of the new earth beyond the sunset. And here in later life, matured men, whose boyish dreams had become heroic action, they used again to meet in the intervals of quiet, and the rock is shown underneath the house where Raleigh smoked the first tobacco. Another remarkable man could not fail to have made a fourth at these meetings. A sailor-boy of Sandwich, the adjoining parish, John Davis, showed early a genius which could not have escaped the eye of such neighbours, and in the atmosphere of Greenaway he learned to be as n.o.ble as the Gilberts, and as tender and delicate as Raleigh.

In 1585 John Davis left Dartmouth on his first voyage into the Polar Seas; and twice subsequently he went again, venturing in small, ill-equipped vessels of thirty or forty tons into the most dangerous seas. These voyages were as remarkable for their success as for the daring with which they were accomplished, and Davis' epitaph is written on the map of the world, where his name still remains to commemorate his discoveries. Brave as he was, he is distinguished by a peculiar and exquisite sweetness of nature, which, from many little facts of his life, seems to have affected every one with whom he came in contact in a remarkable degree. We find men, for the love of Master Davis, leaving their firesides to sail with him, without other hope or motion; we find silver bullets cast to shoot him in a mutiny; the hard, rude natures of the mutineers being awed by something in his carriage which was not like that of a common man. He has written the account of one of his northern voyages himself; and there is an imaginative beauty in it, and a rich delicacy of expression, which is called out in him by the first sight of strange lands and things and people.

We have only s.p.a.ce to tell something of the conclusion of his voyage north. In lat.i.tude sixty-three degrees, he fell in with a barrier of ice, which he coasted for thirteen days without finding an opening. The very sight of an iceberg was new to all his crew; and the ropes and shrouds, though it was midsummer, becoming compa.s.sed with ice,--

"The people began to fall sick and faint-hearted--whereupon, very orderly, and with good discretion, they entreated me to regard the safety of mine own life, as well as the preservation of theirs; and that I should not, through over-boldness, leave their widows and fatherless children to give me bitter curses.

"Whereupon, seeking counsel of G.o.d, it pleased His Divine Majesty to move my heart to prosecute that which I hope shall be to His glory and to the contentation of every Christian mind."

He had two vessels--one of some burden, the other a pinnace of thirty tons. The result of the counsel which he had sought was, that he made over his own large vessel to such as wished to return, and himself, "thinking it better to die with honour than to return with infamy," went on with such volunteers as would follow him, in a poor leaky cutter, up the sea now in commemoration of that adventure called Davis' Strait. He ascended four degrees north of the furthest known point, among storms and icebergs, when the long days and twilight nights alone saved him from being destroyed, and, coasting back along the American sh.o.r.e, he discovered Hudson Strait, supposed then to be the long desired entrance into the Pacific. This exploit drew the attention of Walsingham, and by him Davis was presented to Burleigh, "who was also pleased to show him great encouragement." If either these statesmen or Elizabeth had been twenty years younger, his name would have filled a larger s.p.a.ce in history than a small corner of the map of the world; but, if he was employed at all in the last years of the century, no _vates sacer_ has been found to celebrate his work, and no clew is left to guide us. He disappears; a cloud falls over him. He is known to have commanded trading vessels in the Eastern seas, and to have returned five times from India. But the details are all lost, and accident has only parted the clouds for a moment to show us the mournful setting with which he, too, went down upon the sea.

In taking out Sir Edward Mich.e.l.lthorne to India, in 1604, he fell in with a crew of j.a.panese, whose s.h.i.+p had been burnt, drifting at sea, without provisions, in a leaky junk. He supposed them to be pirates, but he did not choose to leave them to so wretched a death, and took them on board; and in a few hours, watching their opportunity, they murdered him.

As the fool dieth, so dieth the wise, and there is no difference; it was the chance of the sea, and the ill reward of a humane action--a melancholy end for such a man--like the end of a warrior, not dying Epaminondas-like on the field of victory, but cut off in some poor brawl or ambuscade. But so it was with all these men. They were cut off in the flower of their days, and few of them laid their bones in the sepulchres of their fathers. They knew the service which they had chosen, and they did not ask the wages for which they had not laboured. Life with them was no summer holiday, but a holy sacrifice offered up to duty, and what their Master sent was welcome. Beautiful is old age--beautiful is the slow-dropping mellow autumn of a rich, glorious summer. In the old man, Nature has fulfilled her work; she loads him with her blessings; she fills him with the fruits of a well-spent life; and, surrounded by his children and his children's children, she rocks him softly away to a grave, to which he is followed with blessings. G.o.d forbid we should not call it beautiful. It is beautiful, but not the most beautiful. There is another life, hard, rough, and th.o.r.n.y, trodden with bleeding feet and aching brow; the life of which the cross is the symbol; a battle which no peace follows, this side the grave; which the grave gapes to finish, before the victory is won; and--strange that it should be so--this is the highest life of man. Look back along the great names of history; there is none whose life has been other than this. They to whom it has been given to do the really highest work in this earth--whoever they are, Jew or Gentile, Pagan or Christian, warriors, legislators, philosophers, priests, poets, kings, slaves--one and all, their fate has been the same--the same bitter cup has been given them to drink. And so it was with the servants of England in the sixteenth century. Their life was a long battle, either with the elements or with men; and it was enough for them to fulfil their work, and to pa.s.s away in the hour when G.o.d had nothing more to bid them do.

Froude: "Short Studies on Great Subjects."

THE SEA-KING'S BURIAL

"My strength is failing fast,"

Said the sea-king to his men; "I shall never sail the seas As a conqueror again.

But while yet a drop remains Of the life-blood in my veins, Raise, O raise me from the bed; Put the crown upon my head; Put my good sword in my hand, And so lead me to the strand, Where my s.h.i.+p at anchor rides Steadily; If I cannot end my life In the crimsoned battle-strife, Let me die as I have lived, On the sea."

They have raised King Balder up, Put his crown upon his head; They have sheathed his limbs in mail, And the purple o'er him spread; And amid the greeting rude Of a gathering mult.i.tude, Borne him slowly to the sh.o.r.e-- All the energy of yore From his dim eyes flas.h.i.+ng forth-- Old sea-lion of the north-- As he looked upon his s.h.i.+p Riding free, And on his forehead pale Felt the cold, refres.h.i.+ng gale, And heard the welcome sound Of the sea.

They have borne him to the s.h.i.+p With a slow and solemn tread; They have placed him on the deck With his crown upon his head, Where he sat as on a throne; And have left him there alone, With his anchor ready weighed And his snowy sails displayed To the favouring wind, once more Blowing freshly from the sh.o.r.e; And have bidden him farewell Tenderly, Saying, "_King of mighty men, We shall meet thee yet again, In Valhalla, with the monarchs Of the sea_."

Underneath him in the hold They have placed the lighted brand; And the fire was burning slow As the vessel from the land, Like a stag-hound from the slips, Darted forth from out the s.h.i.+ps.

There was music in her sail As it swelled before the gale, And a das.h.i.+ng at her prow As it cleft the waves below, And the good s.h.i.+p sped along, Scudding free; As on many a battle morn In her time she had been borne, To struggle and to conquer On the sea.

And the king, with sudden strength, Started up and paced the deck, With his good sword for his staff And his robe around his neck: Once alone, he raised his hand To the people on the land; And with shout and joyous cry Once again they made reply, Till the loud, exulting cheer Sounded faintly on his ear; For the gale was o'er him blowing Fresh and free; And ere yet an hour had pa.s.sed, He was driven before the blast, And a storm was on his path On the sea.

"So blow, ye tempests, blow, And my spirit shall not quail: I have fought with many a foe, I have weathered many a gale; And in this hour of death, Ere I yield my fleeting breath-- Ere the fire now burning slow Shall come rus.h.i.+ng from below, And this worn and wasted frame Be devoted to the flame-- I will raise my voice in triumph, Singing free;-- To the great All-Father's home I am driving through the foam, I am sailing to Valhalla, O'er the sea.

"So blow, ye stormy winds-- And, ye flames, ascend on high;-- In the easy, idle bed Let the slave and coward die!

But give me the driving keel, Clang of s.h.i.+elds and flas.h.i.+ng steel; Happy, happy, thus I'd yield, On the deck or in the field, My last breath, shouting: 'On To victory.'

But since this has been denied, They shall say that I have died Without flinching, like a monarch Of the sea."

And Balder spoke no more, And no sound escaped his lip;-- Neither recked he of the roar, The destruction of his s.h.i.+p, Nor the fleet sparks mounting high, Nor the glare upon the sky; Scarcely heard the billows dash, Nor the burning timber crash: Scarcely felt the scorching heat That was gathering at his feet, Nor the fierce flames mounting o'er him Greedily.

But the life was in him yet, And the courage to forget All his pain, in his triumph On the sea.

Once alone a cry arose, Half of anguish, half of pride, As he sprang upon his feet With the flames on every side.

"I am coming!" said the king, "Where the swords and bucklers ring-- Where the warrior lives again With the souls of mighty men-- I am coming, great All-Father, Unto Thee!

Unto Odin, unto Thor, And the strong, true hearts of yore-- I am coming to Valhalla, O'er the sea."

Charles Mackay

Reading enables us to see with the keenest eyes, to hear with the finest ears, and listen to the sweetest voices of all time.

Lowell

MY CASTLES IN SPAIN

I am the owner of great estates. Many of them lie in the west, but the greater part in Spain.

You may see my western possessions any evening at sunset when their spires and battlements flash against the horizon. But my finest castles are in Spain. It is a country famously romantic, and my castles are all of perfect proportions and appropriately set in the most picturesque situations.

I have never been in Spain myself, but I have naturally conversed much with travellers to that country; although, I must allow, without deriving from them much substantial information about my property there.

The wisest of them told me that there were more holders of real estate in Spain than in any other region he had ever heard of, and they are all great proprietors.

Every one of them possesses a mult.i.tude of the stateliest castles. It is remarkable that none of the proprietors have ever been to Spain to take possession and report to the rest of us the state of our property there, and it is not easy for me to say how I know so much about my castles in Spain.

The sun always s.h.i.+nes upon them. They stand lofty and fair in a luminous, golden atmosphere, a little hazy and dreamy, perhaps, like the Indian summer, but in which no gales blow and there are no tempests.

All the sublime mountains and beautiful valleys and soft landscapes that I have not yet seen are to be found in the grounds.

I have often wondered how I should reach my castles. I have inquired very particularly, but n.o.body seemed to know the way. It occurred to me that Bourne, the millionaire, must have ascertained the safest and most expeditious route to Spain; so I stole a few minutes one afternoon and went into his office.

He was sitting at his desk, writing rapidly, and surrounded by files of papers and patterns, specimens, boxes,--everything that covers the tables of a great merchant.

"A moment, please, Mr. Bourne." He looked up hastily, and wished me good-morning, which courtesy I attributed to Spanish sympathy.