Gloucester Harbor North from the beautiful islands, North from the headlands and highlands, The long sea wall, The white ships flee with the swallow; The day-beams follow and follow, Glitter and fall. The brown ruddy children that fear not, Lean over the quay, and they hear not Warnings of lips; For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing, Out from the wharves and wailing After the ships. Nothing to them is the golden Curve of the sands, or the olden Haunt of the town; Little they reck of the peaceful Chiming of bells, or the easeful Sport of the down: The orchards no longer are cherished; The charm of the meadow has perished: Dearer, aye me! The solitude vast unbefriended, The magical voice and the splendid Fierce will of the sea. [End Page 58] Beyond them, by ridges and narrows The silver prows speed like the arrows Sudden and fair, Like the hoofs of Al Borak the wondrous, Lost in the blue and thund'rous Depths of the air; On to the central Atlantic, Where passionate, hurrying, frantic Elements meet; To the play and the calm and commotion Of the treacherous, glorious ocean, Cruel and sweet. In the hearts of the children forever The fashions their growing endeavor, The pitiless sea; Their sires in her caverns she slayeth, The spirits that love her she slayeth, And she laughts in her glee. Woe, woe, for the old fascination! The women make deep lamentation In starts and in slips; Here always is hope unavailing, Here always the dreamers are sailing After the ships. [End Page 59] An Epitaph for Wendell Phillips Of the voyagers of the right, here sleeps the last, his splendid light For lives oppressed benignly spent. All scom he dared, all sorrow bore: No hang your bays beside his door. Who shall in simple state endure Like him, thrice incorruptible? Who shame his valient voice and sure, The strength of all our citadel? Or turn tyrannic men That haughty, holy glance again? Here does he sleep; and hence in grief We heavily looked toward the sea, Nor with the passion of belief Descried one other such as he; Then shattered his great shield, and knew The king was dead, the kingdom, too. [End Page 60] Two Irish Peasant Songs I. In Leinster I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the while. Oh, I long to be alone, and walk abroad a mile; Yet if I walk alone, and think of naught at all, Why from me that's young should the wild tears fall? The shower-sodden earth, the earth-coloured streams, They breath on me awake, and moan to me in dreams, And yonder ivy fondling the broken castle wall, It pulls upon my heart till the wild tears fall. The cabin-door looks down a furze-lighted hill, And far as Leighlin Cross the fields are green and still; But once I hear the blackbird in the Leighlin hedges call, The foolishness is on me, and the wild tears fall. II. Ulster Tis the time o' the year, if the quicken bough be staunch, And surges in the spaces, and floods the trunk, and heaves In jets of angry spray that is the under-white of leaves; And from the thom in companies the foamy petals fall, And waves of jolly ivy wink along a windy wall. Tis the time o' the year the marsh is full of sound, And good and glorious it is to smell the living ground. The crimson-headed catkin shakes above the pasture-bars, The daisy takes the middle field and spangles it with stars, And down the hedgerow to the lane primroses crowd, All coloured like the twilight moon, and spreading like a cloud. [End Page 61] Tis the time o' the year, in early light and glad, The lark has music to drive a lover mad; The rocks are dripping nightly, the breathed damps arise, Deliciously the freshets cool and graylings golden eyes...
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