Ballads of Lost Haven Part 4

But my roving heart is seaward With the s.h.i.+ps of gray St. John.

Fair the land lies, full of August, Meadow island, s.h.i.+ngly bar, Open barns and breezy twilight, Peace and the mild evening star.

Gently now this gentlest country The old habitude takes on, But my wintry heart is outbound With the great s.h.i.+ps of St. John.

Once in your wide arms you held me, Till the man-child was a man, Canada, great nurse and mother Of the young sea-roving clan.

Always your bright face above me Through the dreams of boyhood shone; Now far alien countries call me With the s.h.i.+ps of gray St. John.

Swing, you tides, up out of Fundy!

Blow, you white fogs, in from sea!

I was born to be your fellow; You were bred to pilot me.

At the touch of your strong fingers, Doubt, the derelict, is gone; Sane and glad I clear the headland With the white s.h.i.+ps of St. John.

Loyalists, my fathers, builded This gray port of the gray sea, When the duty to ideals Could not let well-being be.

When the breadth of scarlet bunting Puts the wreath of maple on, I must cheer too,--slip my moorings With the s.h.i.+ps of gray St. John.

Peerless-hearted port of heroes, Be a word to lift the world, Till the many see the signal Of the few once more unfurled.

Past the lighthouse, past the nunbuoy, Past the crimson rising sun, There are dreams go down the harbor With the tall s.h.i.+ps of St. John.

In the morning I am with them As they clear the island bar,-- Fade, till speck by speck the midday Has forgotten where they are.

But I sight a vaster sea-line, Wider lee-way, longer run, Whose discoverers return not With the s.h.i.+ps of gray St. John.

THE KING OF YS

Wild across the Breton country, Fabled centuries ago, Riding from the black sea border, Came the squadrons of the snow.

Piping dread at every latch-hole, Moaning death at every sill, The white Yule came down in vengeance Upon Ys, and had its will.

Walled and dreamy stood the city, Wide and dazzling shone the sea, When the G.o.ds set hand to smother Ys, the pride of Brittany.

Morning drenched her towers in purple; Light of heart were king and fool; Fair forebode the merrymaking Of the seven days of Yule.

Laughed the king, "Once more, my mistress, Time and place and joy are one!"

Bade the balconies with banners Match the splendor of the sun;

Eyes of urchins s.h.i.+ne with silver, And with gold the pavement ring; Bade the war-horns sound their bravest In _The Mistress of the King_.

Mountebanks and ballad-mongers And all strolling traffickers Should block up the market corners With none other name than hers.

Laughed the fool, "To-day, my Folly, Thou shalt be the king of Ys!"

O wise fool! How long must wisdom Under motley hold her peace?

Then the storm came down. The valleys Wailed and ciphered to the dune Like huge organ pipes; a midnight Stalked those gala streets at noon;

And the sea rose, rocked and tilted Like a beaker in the hand, Till the moon-hung tide broke tether And stampeded in for land.

All day long with doom portentous, Shreds of pennons shrieked and flew Over Ys; and black fear shuddered On the hearthstone all night through.

Fear, which freezes up the marrow Of the heart, from door to door Like a plague went through the city, And filled up the devil's score;

Filled her tally of the craven, To the sea-wind's dismal note; While a panic superst.i.tion Took the people by the throat.

As with morning still the sea rose With vast wreckage on the tide, And their pasture rills, grown rivers, Thundered in the mountain side,

"Vengeance, vengeance, G.o.ds to vengeance!"

Rose a storm of muttering; And the human flood came pouring To the palace of the king.

"Save, O king, before we perish In the whirlpools of the sea, Ys thy city, us thy people!"

Growled the king then, "What would ye?"

But his wolf's eyes talked defiance, And his bearded mouth meant scorn.

"O our king, the G.o.ds are angry; And no longer to be borne

"Is the shameless face that greets us From thy windows, at thy side, Smiling infamy. And therefore Thou shall take her up, and ride

"Down with her into the sea's mouth, And there leave her; else we die, And thy name goes down to story A new word for cruelty."

Ah, but she was fair, this woman!

Warm and flaxen waved her hair; Her blue Breton eyes made summer In that bleak December air.

There she stood whose burning beauty Made the world's high roof tree ring, A white poppy tall and wind-blown In the garden of the king.

Her throat shook, but not with terror; Her eyes swam, but not with fear; While her two hands caught and clung to The one man they had found dear.

"Lord and lover,"--thus she smiled him Her last word,--"it shall be so, Only the sea's arms shall hold me, When from out thine arms I go."

Swore he, "By the G.o.ds, my mistress, Thou shall have queen's burial.

Pearls and amber shall thy tomb be; Shot with gold and green thy pall.

"And a million-throated chorus Shall take up thy dirge to-night; Where thy slumber's starry watch-fires Shall a thousand years be bright."

Then they brought the coal-black stallion, Chafing on the bit. Astride Sprang the young king; shouted, "Way there!"

Caught the girl up to his side;

And a path through that scared rabble Rode in pageant to the sea.

And the coal-black mane was mingled With gold hair against his knee.

Sure as the wild gulls make seaward, From the west gate to the beach Rode these two for whom now freedom Landward lay beyond their reach.

And the great horse, scenting peril, Snorted at the flying spume, Flicked with courage, as how often, When the tides were racing doom,