They sailed and sailed as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now not even G.o.d would know Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way, For G.o.d from these dread seas is gone.

Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say--"

He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night.

He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite!

Brave Admiral, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?"

The words leapt as a leaping sword: "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- A light! a light! a light! a light!

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.

He gained a world; he gave that world Its greatest lesson: "On! sail on!"

JOHN VANCE CHENEY AMERICA, 1848-

EVENING SONGS[1]

I

The birds have hid, the winds are low, The brake is awake, the gra.s.s aglow: The bat is the rover, No bee on the clover, The day is over, And evening come.

The heavy beetle spreads her wings, The toad has the road, the cricket sings: The bat is the rover, No bee on the clover, The day is over, And evening come.

II

It is that pale, delaying hour When nature closes like a flower, And on the spirit lies, The silence of the earth and skies.

The world has thoughts she will not own When shade and dream with night have flown; Bright overhead, a star Makes golden guesses what they are.

III

Now is Light, sweet mother, down the west, With little Song against her breast; She took him up, all tired with play, And fondly bore him far away.

While he sleeps, one wanders in his stead, A fainter glory round her head; She follows happy waters after, Leaving behind low, rippling laughter.

IV

Behind the hilltop drops the sun, The curled heat falters on the sand, While evening's ushers, one by one, Lead in the guests of Twilight Land.

The bird is silent overhead, Below the beast has laid him down; Afar, the marbles watch the dead, The lonely steeple guards the town.

The south wind feels its amorous course To cloistered sweet in thickets found; The leaves obey its tender force, And stir 'twixt silence and a sound.

[Footnote 1: From "Poems," published by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., Boston.]

BLISS CARMAN CANADA, 1861-

A VAGABOND SONG[1]

There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood-- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by.

And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of fame She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

[Footnote 1: From "Songs from Vagabondia," by Bliss Carman. Used by the courteous permission of the author and the publishers, Messrs. Small, Maynard, & Co.]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY AMERICA, 1852-

OLD GLORY[1]

Old Glory! say, who, By the ships and the crew, And the long, blended ranks of the gray and the blue-- Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear With such pride everywhere, As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air And leap out full length, as we're wanting you to?-- Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, And the honor and fame so becoming to you?

Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, With your stars at their glittering best overhead-- By day or by night Their delightfullest light Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue!

Who gave you the name of Old Glory--say, who-- Who gave you the name of Old Glory?

The old banner lifted and faltering then In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again.

Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear Is what the plain facts of your christening were,-- For your name--just to hear it, Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit As salt as a tear;-- And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye, And an aching to live for you always--or die, If, dying, we still keep you waving on high And so, by our love For you, floating above, And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory?

Then the old banner leaped like a sail in the blast, And fluttered an audible answer at last And it spake with a shake of the voice, and it said: By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red Of my bars and their heaven of stars overhead-- By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, As I float from the steeple or flap at the mast, Or droop o'er the sod where the long gra.s.ses nod,-- My name is as old as the glory of G.o.d So I came by the name of Old Glory.

[Footnote 1: This and the following poems are used by the courteous permission of the publishers, Messrs. Bobbs, Merrill, & Co., Indianapolis.]

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW AMERICA, 1807-1882

KAVANAGH

Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the spring!-- the great annual miracle of the blossoming of Aaron's rod, repeated on myriads and myriads of branches!

--the gentle progression and growth of herbs, flowers, trees,--gentle, and yet irrepressible,-- which no force can stay, no violence restrain, like love, that wins its way and cannot be withstood by any human power, because itself is divine power. If spring came but once a century, instead of once a year, or burst forth with a sound of an earthquake and not in silence, what wonder and expectation would there be in all hearts to behold the miraculous change!

But now the silent succession suggests nothing but necessity. To most men, only the cessation of the miracle would be miraculous, and the perpetual exercise of G.o.d's power seems less wonderful than its withdrawal would be. We are like children who are astonished and delighted only by the second-hand of the clock, not by the hour-hand.

In the fields and woods, meanwhile, there were other signs and signals of the summer. The darkening foliage; the embrowning grain; the golden dragonfly haunting the blackberry bushes; the cawing crows, that looked down from the mountain on the cornfield, and waited day after day for the scarecrow to finish his work and depart; and the smoke of far-off burning woods, that pervaded the air and hung in purple haze about the summits of the mountains, --these were the vaunt-couriers and attendants of the hot August.

The brown autumn came. Out of doors, it brought to the fields the prodigality of the golden harvest,-- to the forest, revelations of light,--and to the sky, the sharp air, the morning mist, the red clouds at evening. Within doors, the sense of seclusion, the stillness of closed and curtained windows, musings by the fireside, books, friends, conversation, and the long, meditative evenings. To the farmer, it brought surcease of toil,--to the scholar, that sweet delirium of the brain which changes toil to pleasure. It brought the wild duck back to the reedy marshes of the south; it brought the wild song back to the fervid brain of the poet. Without, the village street was paved with gold; the river ran red with the reflection of the leaves.

Within, the faces of friends brightened the gloomy walls; the returning footsteps of the long-absent gladdened the threshold; and all the sweet amenities of social life again resumed their interrupted reign.

The first snow came. How beautiful it was, falling so silently, all day long, all night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead! All white save the river, that marked its course by a winding black line across the landscape; and the leafless trees, that against the leaden sky now revealed more fully the wonderful beauty and intricacy of their branches!

What silence, too, came with the snow, and what seclusion! Every sound was m.u.f.fled, every noise changed to something soft and musical. No more trampling hoofs,--no more rattling wheels! Only the chiming sleigh bells, beating as swift and merrily as the hearts of children.