Ballads of Lost Haven Part 10

There was glamour with the Master; He had tales of far-off seas; But his habit and demeanor Were of other lands than these.

He had never made the Harbor But there sailed away with him Wife or child or friend or lover, Leaving eyes to strain and swim,--

Strain and wait for their returning; Yet they never had come back; For the pale wake of the Master Is a wandering, fading track.

Just beyond our utmost fathom Is the anchorage we crave, But the Master knows the soundings By the reach of every wave.

Just beyond the last horizon, Vague upon the weather-gleam, Loom the Faroff Isles forever, The tradition of a dream.

There a white and brooding summer Haunts upon the gray sea-plain, Where the gray sea-winds are quiet At the sources of the rain.

There where all world-weary dreamers Get them forth to their release, Lie the colonies of the kindred, In the provinces of peace.

Thither in the stormy sunset Will the Master sail to-night; And the village will be silent When he drops below the light.

Not a soul on all the hillside But will watch her when she clears, Dreaming of the Port o' Strangers In the roadstead of the years.

"Port o' Strangers, Port o' Strangers!"

"Where away?" "On the weather bow."

"Drive her down the closing distance!"...

That's to-morrow, but not now.

What imperial adventure Some wide morning it will be, Sweeping in to Lonely Haven From the chartless round of sea!

How imposing a departure, While this little harbor smiles, Steering for the outer sea-rim With the Master of the Isles!

THE LAST WATCH

Comrades, comrades, have me buried Like a warrior of the sea, With a flag across my breast And my sword upon my knee.

Steering out from vanished headlands For a harbor on no chart, With the winter in the rigging, With the ice-wind in my heart,

Down the bournless slopes of sea-room, With the long gray wake behind, I have sailed my cruiser steady With no pilot but the wind.

Battling with relentless pirates From the lower seas of Doom, I have kept the colors flying Through the roar of drift and gloom.

Scudding where the shadow foemen Hang about us grim and stark, Broken spars and shredded canvas, We are racing for the dark.

Sped and blown abaft the sunset Like a shriek the storm has caught; But the helm is lashed to windward, And the sails are sheeted taut.

Comrades, comrades, have me buried Like a warrior of the night.

I can hear the bell-buoy calling Down below the harbor light

Steer in sh.o.r.eward, loose the signal, The last watch has been cut short; Speak me kindly to the islesmen, When we make the foreign port.

We shall make it ere the morning Rolls the fog from strait and bluff; Where the offing crimsons eastward There is anchorage enough.

How I wander in my dreaming!

Are we northing nearer home, Or outbound for fresh adventure On the reeling plains of foam?

North I think it is, my comrades, Where one heart-beat counts for ten, Where the loving hand is loyal, And the women's sons are men;

Where the red auroras tremble When the polar night is still, Lighting home the worn seafarers To their haven in the hill.

Comrades, comrades, have me buried Like a warrior of the North.

Lower me the long-boat, stay me In your arms, and bear me forth;

Lay me in the sheets and row me, With the tiller in my hand, Row me in below the beacon Where my sea-dogs used to land.

Has your captain lost his cunning After leading you so far?

Row me your last league, my sea-kings; It is safe within the bar.

Shoulder me and house me hillward, Where the field-lark makes his bed, So the gulls can wheel above me, All day long when I am dead;

Where the keening wind can find me With the April rain for guide, And come crooning her old stories Of the kingdoms of the tide.

Comrades, comrades, have me buried Like a warrior of the sun; I have carried my sealed orders Till the last command is done.

Kiss me on the cheek for courage, (There is none to greet me home,) Then farewell to your old lover Of the thunder of the foam;

For the gra.s.s is full of slumber In the twilight world for me, And my tired hands are slackened From their toiling on the sea.

OUTBOUND

A lonely sail in the vast sea-room, I have put out for the port of gloom.

The voyage is far on the trackless tide, The watch is long, and the seas are wide.

The headlands blue in the sinking day Kiss me a hand on the outward way.

The fading gulls, as they dip and veer, Lift me a voice that is good to hear.

The great winds come, and the heaving sea, The restless mother, is calling me.

The cry of her heart is lone and wild, Searching the night for her wandered child.

Beautiful, weariless mother of mine, In the drift of doom I am here, I am thine.

Beyond the fathom of hope or fear, From bourn to bourn of the dusk I steer,

Swept on in the wake of the stars, in the stream Of a roving tide, from dream to dream.