NUNC DIMITTIS

Highlands of Navesink, By the blue ocean's brink, Let your gray bases drink Deep of the sea.

Tide that comes flooding up, Fill me a stirrup cup, Pledge me a parting sup, Now I go free.

Wall of the Palisades, I know where greener glades, Deeper glens, darker shades, Hemlock and pine, Far toward the morning lie Under a bluer sky, Lifted by cliffs as high, Haunts that are mine.

Marshes of Hackensack, See, I am going back Where the Quinnipiac Winds to the bay, Down its long meadow track, Piled with the myriad stack, Where in wide bivouac Camps the salt hay.

Spire of old Trinity, Never again to be Sea-mark and goal to me As I walk down; Chimes on the upper air, Calling in vain to prayer, Squandering your music where Roars the black town:

Bless me once ere I ride Off to G.o.d's countryside, Where in the treetops hide Belfry and bell; Tongue of the steeple towers, Telling the slow-paced hours-- Hail, thou still town of ours-- Bedlam, farewell!

BEAVER POND MEADOW

Thou art my Dismal Swamp, my Everglades: Thou my Campagna, where the bison wades Through shallow, steaming pools, and the sick air Decays. Thou my Serbonian Bog art, where O'er leagues of mud, black vomit of the Nile, Crawls in the sun the myriad crocodile.

Or thou my Cambridge or my Lincoln fen Shalt be--a lonely land where stilted men Stalking across the surface waters go, Casting long shadows, and the creaking, slow Ca.n.a.l-barge, laden with its marshy hay, Disturbs the stagnant ditches twice a day.

Thou hast thy crocodiles: on rotten logs Afloat, the turtles swarm and bask: the frogs, When come the pale, cold twilights of the spring, Like distant sleigh-bells through the meadows ring.

The school-boy comes on holidays to take The musk-rat in its hole, or kill the snake, Or fish for bull-heads in the pond at night.

The hog-snout's swollen corpse, with belly white, I find upon the footway through the sedge, Trodden by tramps along the water's edge.

Not thine the breath of the salt marsh below Where, when the tide is out, the mowers go Shearing the oozy plain, that reeks with brine More tonic than the incense of the pine.

Thou art the sink of all uncleanliness, A drain for slaughter-pens, a wilderness Of trenches, pockets, quagmires, bogs where rank The poison sumach grows, and in the tank The water standeth ever black and deep Greened o'er with sc.u.m: foul pottages, that steep And brew in that dark broth, at night distil Malarious fogs bringing the fever chill.

Yet grislier horrors thy recesses hold: The murdered peddler's body five days old Among the yellow lily-pads was found In yonder pond: the new-born babe lay drowned And throttled on the bottom of this moat, Near where the negro hermit keeps his boat; Whose wigwam stands beside the swamp; whose meals It furnishes, fat pouts and mud-sp.a.w.ned eels.

Even so thou hast a kind of beauty, wild, Unwholesome--thou the suburb's outcast child, Behind whose grimy skin and matted hair Warm nature works and makes her creature fair.

Summer has wrought a blue and silver border Of iris flags and flowers in triple order Of the white arrowhead round Beaver Pond, And o'er the milkweeds in the swamp beyond Tangled the dodder's amber-colored threads.

In every fosse the bladderwort's bright heads Like orange helmets on the surface show.

Richer surprises still thou hast: I know The ways that to thy penetralia lead, Where in black bogs the sundew's sticky bead Ensnares young insects, and that rosy la.s.s, Sweet Arethusa, blushes in the gra.s.s.

Once on a Sunday when the bells were still, Following the path under the sandy hill Through the old orchard and across the plank That bridges the dead stream, past many a rank Of cat-tails, midway in the swamp I found A small green mead of dry but spongy ground, Entrenched about on every side with sluices Full to the brim of thick lethean juices, The filterings of the marsh. With line and hook Two little French boys from the trenches took Frogs for their Sunday meal and gathered messes Of pungent salad from the water-cresses.

A little isle of foreign soil it seemed, And listening to their outland talk, I dreamed That yonder spire above the elm-tops calm Rose from the village chestnuts of La Balme.

Yes, many a pretty secret hast thou shown To me, O Beaver Pond, walking alone On summer afternoons, while yet the swallow Skimmed o'er each flaggy plash and gravelly shallow; Or when September turned the swamps to gold And purple. But the year is growing old: The golden-rod is rusted, and the red That streaked October's frosty cheek is dead; Only the sumach's garnet pompons make Procession through the melancholy brake.

Lo! even now the autumnal wind blows cool Over the rippled waters of thy pool, And red autumnal sunset colors brood Where I alone and all too late intrude.

HIGH ISLAND

Pleasant it was at shut of day, When wind and wave had sunk away, To hear, as on the rocks we lay, The fog bell toll; And grimly through the gathering night The horn's dull blare from Faulkner's Light, Snuffed out by ghostly fingers white That round it stole.

Somewhere behind its curtain, soon The mist grew conscious of a moon: No more we heard the diving loon Scream from the spray; But seated round our drift-wood fire Watched the red sparks rise high and higher, Then, wandering into night, expire And pa.s.s away.

Down the dark wood, the pines among, A lurid glare the firelight flung; So for a while we talked and sung, And then to sleep; And heard in dreams the light-house bell, As all night long in solemn swell The tidal waters rose and fell With soundings deep.

LOTUS EATING

Come up once more before mine eyes, Sweet halcyon days, warm summer sea, Faint orange of the morning skies And dark-lined sh.o.r.es upon the lee!

Touched with the sunrise, sea and sky All still on Memory's canvas lie: The scattered isles with India ink Dot the wide back-ground's gold and pink: Unstirring in the Sunday calm, Their profile cedars, sharply drawn, Bold black against the flushing dawn, Take shape like clumps of tropic palm.

Night shadows still the distance dim (Ultra-marine) where ocean's brim Upholdeth the horizon-rim.

Once more in thought we seem to creep By lonely reefs where sea-birds scream, Ulysses-like, along the deep Borne onward in the ocean-stream.

The sea-floor spreadeth gla.s.sy still; No breath the idle sail doth fill; Our oar-blades smite the heavy seas; Under the world the morning breeze Treads with the sun the unknown ways.

Thus steer we o'er the solemn main Eating the Lotus-fruit again, Dreaming that time forever stays, Singing "Where, Absence, is thy sting?"

Listening to hear our echoes ring Through the far rocks where Sirens sing.

THE MERMAID'S GLa.s.s

'T was down among the Thimble Isles That strew for many "liquid miles"

The waters of Long Island Sound: Our yacht lay in a cove; around The rocky isles with cedars green And channels winding in between: And here a low, black reef was spread, And there a sunken "n.i.g.g.e.r-head"

Dimpled the surface of the tide.

From one tall island's cliffy side We heard the s.h.a.ggy goats that fed: The gulls wheeled screaming overhead Or settled in a snowy flock Far out upon the lonely rock Which, like a pillar, seemed to show Some drowned acropolis below.

Meanwhile, in the warm sea about, With many a plunge and jolly shout, Our crew enjoyed their morning bath.

The hairy skipper in his wrath Lay cursing on the gunwale's rim: He loved a dip but could not swim; So, now and then with plank afloat He'd struggle feebly round the boat And o'er the side climb puffing in, Sc.r.a.ping wide areas off his skin, Then lie and sun each hirsute limb Once more upon the gunwale's rim And shout, with curses unavailing, "Come out! There's wind: let's do some sailing."

A palm-leaf hat, that here and there Bobbed on the water, showed him where Some venturous swimmer outward bound Escaped beyond his voice's sound.

All heedless of their skipper's call, One group fought for the upset yawl.

The conqueror sat astride the keel And deftly pounded with his heel The hands that clutched his citadel, Which showed--at distance--like the sh.e.l.l Round which, unseen, the Naiad train Sport naked on the middle main.

Myself had drifted far away, Meanwhile, from where the sail-boat lay, Till all unbroken I could hear The wave's low whisper in my ear, And at the level of mine eye The blue vibration met the sky.

Sometimes upon my back I lay And watched the clouds, while I and they Were wafted effortless along.-- Sudden I seemed to hear a song: Yet not a song, but some weird strain As though the inarticulate main Had found a voice whose human tone Interpreted its own dull moan; Its foamy hiss; its surfy roar; Its gentle lapping on the sh.o.r.e; Its noise of subterranean waves That grumble in the sea-cliff caves; Its whish among the drifting miles Of gulf-weed from the Indian Isles:-- All--all the harmonies were there Which ocean makes with earth or air.

Turning I saw a sunken ledge Bared by the ebb, along whose edge The matted sea-weed dripped: thereon, Betwixt the dazzle of the sun And the blue shimmer of the sea, I saw--or else I seemed to see A mermaid, crooning a wild song, Combing with arm uplifted long The hair that shed its meshes black Down the slope whiteness of her back.

She held a mirror in her hand, Wherein she viewed sky, sea, and land, Her beauty's background and its frame.

But now, as toward the rock I came, All suddenly across the gla.s.s Some startling image seemed to pa.s.s; For her song rose into a scream, Over her shoulders one swift gleam Of eyes unearthly fell on me, And, 'twixt the flashing of the sea And the blind dazzle of the sun, I saw the rock, but thereupon She sat no longer 'gainst the blue; Only across the reef there flew One snow-white tern and vanished too.

But, coasting that lone island round, Among the slippery kelp I found A little oval gla.s.s that lay Upturned and flashing in the ray Of the down-looking sun. Thereto With scarce believing eyes I drew And took it captive A while there I rested in the mermaid's lair, And felt the merry breeze that blew, And watched the sharpies as they flew, And snuffed the sea's breath thick with brine, And basked me in the sun's warm shine; Then with my prize I made my way Once more to where the sail-boat lay.

I kept the secret--and the gla.s.s; By day across its surface pa.s.s The transient shapes of common things Which chance within its oval brings.

But when at night I strive to sound The darkness of its face profound, Again I seem to hear the breeze That curls the waves on summer seas; I see the isles with cedars green; The channels winding in between; The coves with beaches of white sand; The reefs where warning spindles stand; And, through the mult.i.tudinous shimmer Of waves and sun, again the glimmer Of eyes unearthly falls on me, Deep with the mystery of the sea.

A HOLIDAY ECLOGUE

ABOVE

_First Mason:_

Tink-a-link! Tink-a-link! Hear the trowels ring; Feel the merry breezes make the scaffold swing; See the skimming swallow brush us with her wing:-- Go it with your hammers, boys; time us while we sing.

BELOW.

_First Student:_

See the yellow sparkle of the Neckar in the gla.s.s, And through the cedar branches sparkles blue the sea; Hear the sweet piano--hear the German la.s.s Sing Freut" euch des Lebens--Oh! "I love I love the free!"