Cornish Catches Part 7

Shadows, the pale grey wings of night, Sweep over the sky, And low in the west the lingering light Wanes--like a sigh From the fervent heart of the day Pa.s.sing away: Then afar s.h.i.+neth a star.

Shadows, the pale grey wings of Death, Sweep over my heart; And far in the dark a voice calleth, "Come ye, depart."

There lingers no light from the day Pa.s.sing away, But afar s.h.i.+neth a Star!

WHEN I WAS A LAD

When I was a lad in Petherick I often lay me down And built a beautiful city And called it London Town.

I filled its streets with heroes Beautiful strong and wise, Men who were kings and princes, Women with kindly eyes.

I spent the gold of the charlock For paving the city street; I saw bright flags awaving Over the billowing wheat; And loud in the brown bee's buzzing I heard the far-off hum Of the mart and the busy merchants, And the wharves where the big s.h.i.+ps come.

When I was a lad in Petherick I often lay me down, And built this wonderful city, And called it London Town.

Now I'm a man in London-- Golden dreams I had Of a golden city of London Long since when I was a lad.

Here on the long grey pavement I seek that city still But there isn't much gold in Fleet Street, Or glamour on Ludgate Hill.

For the hurrying men look haggard, And the women have weary eyes, And the voices of pale-faced children Mingle in fretful cries.

There's gold in the field of charlock, There's gold on the billowing wheat, And the bee sucks golden honey In lanes where the flowers are sweet.

And small s.h.i.+ps sail in the distance To a golden bourne in the west, And the gentle peace of twilight Is the purest gold of rest.

Dreams of the man in London!

Useless dreams and sad, Of the far-off village of Petherick And the far-off Cornish lad.

A CALL

Let us go out to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing; Let us go out where the ancient hills mother the rivers that run to the sea; Let us go out where the wind wanders, tuning amid the trees swaying, Let us go out to the wider world where the thoughts of men are free.

There on the hills the eye may see the changeless Beauty changing On sun-splashed gra.s.s and wavering corn, verdant valley and rolling down, Clouds steal up from a far-off tryst, like t.i.tans into battalions ranging, And the splendid Sun-G.o.d marching on to crown the world with a golden crown.

Here in the City the voices are hoa.r.s.e. Here is calling and crying, l.u.s.t and longing for pride of place, vanity, pomp, and the strain of strife; Here in the City sobs arise from the battered hosts of the falling and dying, Who know not Peace, nor the End of Peace; who know not Life, nor the End of Life.

Let us away from the webbed town-tangle, where monstrous Mammon is reigning Over the small cheap souls of slaves, sudden to cringe and swift to serve; Let us go out from the clanging Gates, the squalour of strife and the sordid straining, Let us go out by the open road with feet that falter not nor swerve.

Come! and away to the Garden of Pan, and hear what the Pipes are playing!

Hark to the Voice of a splendid Peace calling from hill and river and sea!

Come! and away to the old Earth Mother, giver of gifts without the praying, There, in the hills Her throne is set, and the thoughts of men are free.

THE RETURN

I must go down to the little grey port that watches the western sea, And wander again in the winding street that climbs the windy hill, There I shall find in a jasmined porch a door set wide for me, There I shall have my will.

For a little window looks out by day on a blue unsleeping tide, Where brown-sailed boats sweep up and down for the harvest of the deep; And nightly beacons a twinkling light to wanderers scattered wide, And guides them home to sleep.

And the flowing tide comes flooding in and chants around the quay A roaring song from the Ocean's heart of the lands that are fair and far; And the ebbing tide goes sobbing out, murmuring wistfully Over the harbour bar.

There I shall stand among men who are strong with the strength of the wind and the wave, And hold simple talk with men who are wise with the wisdom of sky and sea; There I shall find in a patient endurance the sure-set faith of the brave, There shall my heart be free.

IN THE BAY

The schooner swells its sails for the far-off seas, The steamer pounds proudly far away, But I'd sooner be ascudding in a ten-knot breeze In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.

The schooner sings the wind's song from Bristol to Brazil, The steamer knows the whole World's way, But I can see a cottage on a windy hill From my little lug and mizzen in the bay.

The schooner's up to hatches with her pig-iron, coal, and mud, The steamer, plugged with cargo, heaves away, But I can whiffle mackerel as through the waves I scud In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.

O! living in a schooner is like living in a tree, And a steamer's like a big hotel to-day, If I had my choice of sailing, I know I'd soonest be In my little lug and mizzen in the bay.

SEA-FOAM

The once-flashed beauty borne on a breaking wave Dies to a requiem sung on the sounding sh.o.r.e; Beyond all reach of mortal power to save In spray-crowned glory it pa.s.ses for evermore.

Would that the heart could capture and hold and keep The glory of beauty, sped in a moment's s.p.a.ce!

Could fix for ever the splendour and strength and sweep Of the wind-wild wave, in its riotous rapturous race!

Brave brief hopes, are you not sped as the wave-- Sped to a requiem sighed on a wreck-strewn sh.o.r.e?

While memory murmurs in dreams that you once were brave, And sadness softly sighs that you are no more.

ECHOES

By the way of blowing roses, in the laughter-laden years, Happy lads and lightsome la.s.ses tripped the song-sweet lanes with me; Gladness woke the hillside echoes in the sound of ringing cheers, Rapture rippled on the breezes sweeping from the rippled sea.

Happy lads have left the hillside for a bourne beyond the bay, Lightsome la.s.ses know not laughter hid beneath enduring stone; Echoes of a strangled sorrow in the sea mist far away, Haunt the lanes where song is silent and the roses all are blown.