Excerpt
GLOUCESTER MOORS A mile behind is Gloucester townWhere the fishing fleets put in,A mile ahead the land dips downAnd the woods and farms begin.Here, where the moors stretch freeIn the high blue afternoon,Are the marching sun and talking sea,And the racing winds that wheel and fleeOn the flying heels of June. Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,Blue is the quaker-maid,The wild geranium holds its dewLong in the boulder's shade.Wax-red hangs the cupFrom the huckleberry boughs,In barberry bells the grey moths sup,Or where the choke-cherry lifts high upSweet bowls for their carouse. Over the shelf of the sandy coveBeach-peas blossom late.By copse and cliff the swallows roveEach calling to his mate.Seaward the sea-gulls go,And the land-birds all are here;That green-gold flash was a vireo,And yonder flame where the marsh-flags growWas a scarlet tanager. This earth is not the steadfast placeWe landsmen build upon;From deep to deep she varies pace,And while she comes is gone.Beneath my feet I feelHer smooth bulk heave and dip;With velvet plunge and soft upreelShe swings and steadies to her keelLike a gallant, gallant ship. These summer clouds she sets for sail,The sun is her masthead light,She tows the moon like a pinnace frailWhere her phosphor wake churns bright.Now hid, now looming clear,On the face of the dangerous blueThe star fleets tack and wheel and veer,But on, but on does the old earth steerAs if her port she knew. God, dear God! Does she know her port,Though she goes so far about?Or blind astray, does she make her sportTo brazen and chance it out?I watched when her captains passed:She were better captainless.Men in the cabin, before the mast,But some were reckless and some aghast,And some sat gorged at mess. By her battened hatch I leaned and caughtSounds from the noisome hold,—Cursing and sighing of souls distraughtAnd cries too sad to be told.Then I strove to go down and see;But they said, "Thou art not of us!"I turned to those on the deck with meAnd cried, "Give help!" But they said, "Let be:Our ship sails faster thus." Jill-o'er-the-ground is purple blue,Blue is the quaker-maid,The alder-clump where the brook comes throughBreeds cresses in its shade.To be out of the moiling streetWith its swelter and its sin!Who has given to me this sweet,And given my brother dust to eat?And when will his wage come in? Scattering wide or blown in ranks,Yellow and white and brown,Boats and boats from the fishing banksCome home to Gloucester town.There is cash to purse and spend,There are wives to be embraced,Hearts to borrow and hearts to lend,And hearts to take and keep to the end,—O little sails, make haste! But thou, vast outbound ship of souls,What harbor town for thee?What shapes, when thy arriving tolls,Shall crowd the banks to see?Shall all the happy shipmates thenStand singing brotherly?Or shall a haggard ruthless fewWarp her over and bring her to,While the many broken souls of menFester down in the slaver's pen,And nothing to say or do?
GOOD FRIDAY NIGHT At last the bird that sang so longIn twilight circles, hushed his song:Above the ancient squareThe stars came here and there. Good Friday night! Some hearts were bowed,But some amid the waiting crowdBecause of too much youthFelt not that mystic ruth; And of these hearts my heart was one:Nor when beneath the arch of stoneWith dirge and candle flameThe cross of passion came, Did my glad spirit feel reproof,Though on the awful tree aloof,Unspiritual, dead,Drooped the ensanguined Head....