When God sends out His company to travel through the stars,

There is every kind of wonder in the show;

There is every kind of animal behind its prison bars;

With riders in a many-colored row.

The master showman, Time, has a strange trick of rhyme,

And the clown’s most ribald jest is a tear;

But the best drawing card is the Wrestler huge and hard,

Who can fill the tent at any time of year.

His eye is on the crowd, and he beckons with his hand,

With authoritative finger, and they come.

The rules of the game they do not understand,

But they go as in a dream, and are dumb.

They would fain say him nay, and they look the other way,

Till at last to the ropes they cling.

But he throws them one by one till the show for them is done,

In the blood-red dust of the ring.

There’s none to shun his challenge—they must meet him soon or late,

And he knows a cunning trick for all heels.

The king’s haughty crown drops in jeers from his pate

As the hold closes on him, and he reels.

Oh, many a mighty foeman would try a fall with him—

Persepolis and Babylon and Rome,

Assyria and Sardis, they see their fame grow dim,

As he tumbles in the dust every dome.

At length will come an hour when the stars shall feel his power,

And he shall have his will upon the sun.

Ere we know what he’s about, the stars will be put out,

And the wonder of the show will be undone.

Oh, it was a dainty maid that went a-Maying in the morn,

A dainty, dainty maiden of degree.

The ways she took were merry and the ways she missed forlorn,

And the laughing water tinkled to the sea.

The little leaves above her loved the dainty, dainty maid;

The little winds they kissed her, every one;

At the nearing of her little feet the flowers were not afraid;

And the water lay a-whimpling in the sun.

Oh, the dainty, dainty maid to the borders of the brook

Lingered down as lightly as the breeze;

And the shy water-spiders quit their scurrying to look;

And the happy water whispered to the trees.

She was fain to cross the brook, was the dainty, dainty maid;

But first she lifted up her elfin eyes

To see if there were cavalier or clown a-near to aid,—

And the water-bubbles blinked in surprise.

The brook bared its pebbles to persuade her dainty feet,

But the dainty, dainty maid was not content.

She had spied a simple country lad (for dainty maid unmeet),

And the shy water twinkled as it went.

As the simple lad drew nigh, then this dainty, dainty maid,

(O maidens, well you know how it was done!)

Stood a-gazing at her feet until he saw she was afraid

Of the water there a-whimpling in the sun.

Now that simple lad had in him all the makings of a man;

And he stammered, “I had better lift you over!”

Said the dainty, dainty maid—“Do you really think you can?”

And the water hid its laughter in the clover.

So he carried her across, with his eyes cast down,

And his foolish heart a-quaking with delight.

And the maid she looked him over with her elfin eyes of brown;

And the impish water giggled at his plight.

He reached the other side, he set down the dainty maid;

But he trembled so he couldn’t speak a word.

Then the dainty, dainty maid—“Thank you, Sir! Good-day!” she said.

And the water-bubbles chuckled as they heard.

Oh, she tripped away so lightly, a-Maying in the morn,

That dainty, dainty maiden of degree;

She left the simple country lad a-sighing and forlorn

Where the mocking water twinkled to the sea.

Beside the wharf at Whitewaters

The loitering ebb with noon confers;

And o’er the amber flats there seems

A sleep to brood of sun and dreams.

The white and clustering cottages,

Thick shadowed by their windless trees,

Inhabit such a calm, that change

Goes by and lets her face grow strange.

And not far off, on tiptoe seen,

The brown dike and the sky between,

A shifting field that heaves and slides,—

The blue breast of the Minas tides.

A-through the little harbor go

The currents of the scant Pereau,

Drawn slowly, drawn from springs unseen

Amid the marsh’s vasts of green.

Up from the wharf at Whitewaters,

Where scarce a slim sandpiper stirs,

A yellow roadway climbs, that feels

Few footsteps and infrequent wheels.

It climbs to meet the westering sun

Upon the heights of Blomidon,—

Bulwark of peace, whose bastioned form

Out-bars the serried hosts of storm.

Down to the wharf at Whitewaters,

The children of the villagers

One drowsy, windless hour of noon

Deep in the green mid-heart of June,

Like swallows to a sunset pool

Came chattering, just let loose from school;

And with them one small lad of four,

Picked up as they flocked past his door.

His sea-blue, merry eyes, his hair

Curling and like the corn-silk fair,

His red, sweet mouth, made Hally Clive

Comely as any lad alive.

His father, master of “The Foam,”

Drave his tight craft afar from home;

His mother—peaceful life was hers

With Hally, safe in Whitewaters.

And in his sun-brown arms the boy

Carried his last, most cherished toy;

A small white kitten, free from fleck,

With a blue ribbon round its neck.

In the old timbers lapping cool,

About the wharf the tide hung full;

And at the wharf-side, just afloat,

Swung lazily an old gray boat.

About the froth-white water’s edge,

The weedy planks, the washing sedge,

And in and out the rocking craft,

The children clambered, splashed, and laughed,

Till presently, grown tired of play,

Up the bright road they raced away;

But in the boat, a drowsy heap,

Curled boy and kitten, sound asleep.

Warm in the sunny boat they slept.

Soon to its ebb the slow tide crept.

By stealthy fingers, soft as dream,

The boat was lured into the stream.

Out from the wharf it slipped and swung—

On the old rope one moment hung—

Then snapped its tether and away

For the storm-beaten outer bay.

In Whitewaters, in Whitewaters,

No watcher heeds, no rescuer stirs.

Out from the port the currents sweep

With Hally, smiling in his sleep.

An hour they drifted, till the boat

From the low shore one scarce might note.

The kitten climbed the prow, and mewed

Against the watery solitude.

Then Hally woke, and stared with eyes

Grown round and dark with grieved surprise.

Where were the children gone? And where

The gray old wharf, the weedy stair?

Bewildered, and but half awake,

He sobbed as if his heart would break;

Then, as his lonely terror grew,

Down in the boat himself he threw,

And passionately for comfort pressed

The kind white kitten to his breast.

Through the thin plank his hand could feel

The little eddies clutch the keel;

Lost and alone, lost and alone,

He heard the long wave hiss and moan,

He heard the wild ebb seethe and mourn

Along the outer shoals forlorn.

And now a wind that chafed the flood

Blew down from Noel’s haunted wood;

And now in the dread tides that run

Past the grim front of Blomidon,

Over the rolling troughs, between

The purple gulfs, the slopes of green,

With sickening glide and sullen rest

The old boat climbed from crest to crest.

That day in his good ship, “The Foam,”

Shipmaster Clive was speeding home;

His heart was light, his eyes elate;

His voyage had been fortunate.

“If the wind holds,” said he, “to-night

We’ll anchor under Kingsport Light;—

I’ll change the fogs of Fundy wild

For Whitewaters and wife and child.”

He marked the drifting boat, and laughed,

“What clumsy lubber’s lost his craft?”

“What’s that that walks the gunwale?” cried

A sailor leaning o’er the side.

The Captain raised his glass. Said he—

“A kitten! Some one’s pet, maybe!

We’ll give it passage in ‘The Foam’”—

Soft is the heart that’s bound for home!

“Stop for a kitten?” growled the mate:—

“Look to the sun; we’re getting late!

If we lose this tack we’ll lie to-night

A long ways off o’ Kingsport Light.”

The Captain paused irresolute;—

“To leave the helpless little brute

To the wrecked seaman’s death accurst,

The slow fierce hunger, the mad thirst,—

“I wish not my worst enemy

Such death as that! Lay to!” said he.

The ship came up into the wind;

The slackening canvas flapped and dinned;

And the ship’s boat with scant delay

Was swung and lowered and away,—

The Captain at the helm, and four

Stout men of Avon at the oar.

They neared the drifting craft; and when

They bumped against her gunwale, then

Hally upraised his tumbled head!

“My God! My boy!” the Captain said.

And now with bellying sails “The Foam”

Up the tossed flood went straining home;

The wind blew fair; she lay that night

At anchor under Kingsport Light.

And late that night, in gladness deep

Sank father, mother, child, to sleep,—

Where no storm breaks, nor terror stirs

The peace of God in Whitewaters.

The night was grim and still with dread;

No star shone down from heaven’s dome;

The ancient forest closed around

The settler’s lonely home.

There came a glare that lit the north;

There came a wind that roused the night;

But child and father slumbered on,

Nor felt the growing light.

There came a noise of flying feet,

With many a strange and dreadful cry;

And sharp flames crept and leapt along

The red verge of the sky.

There came a deep and gathering roar.

The father raised his anxious head;

He saw the light, like a dawn of blood,

That streamed across his bed.

It lit the old clock on the wall,

It lit the room with splendor wild,

It lit the fair and tumbled hair

Of the still sleeping child;

And zigzag fence, and rude log barn,

And chip-strewn yard, and cabin gray,

Glowed crimson in the shuddering glare

Of that untimely day.

The boy was hurried from his sleep;

The horse was hurried from his stall;

Up from the pasture clearing came

The cattle’s frightened call.

The boy was snatched to the saddle-bow.

Wildly, wildly, the father rode.

Behind them swooped the hordes of flame

And harried their abode.

The scorching heat was at their heels;

The huge roar hounded them in their flight;

Red smoke and many a flying brand

Flew o’er them through the night.

And past them fled the wildwood forms—

Far-striding moose, and leaping deer,

And bounding panther, and coursing wolf,

Terrible-eyed with fear.

And closer drew the fiery death;

Madly, madly, the father rode;

The horse began to heave and fail

Beneath the double load.

The father’s mouth was white and stern,

But his eyes grew tender with long farewell.

He said: “Hold fast to your seat, Sweetheart,

And ride Old Jerry well!

“I must go back. Ride on to the river.

Over the ford and the long marsh ride,

Straight on to the town. And I’ll meet you, Sweetheart,

Somewhere on the other side.”

He slipped from the saddle. The boy rode on.

His hand clung fast in the horse’s mane;

His hair blew over the horse’s neck;

His small throat sobbed with pain.

“Father! Father!” he cried aloud.

The howl of the fire-wind answered him

With the hiss of soaring flames, and crash

Of shattering limb on limb.

But still the good horse galloped on,

With sinew braced and strength renewed.

The boy came safe to the river ford,

And out of the deadly wood.

And now with his kinsfolk, fenced from fear,

At play in the heart of the city’s hum,

He stops in his play to wonder why

His father does not come!

GluskÂp, the friend and father of his race,

With help in need went journeying three days’ space.

His village slept, and took no thought of harm,

Secure beneath the shadow of his arm.

But wandering wizards watched his outward path,

And marked his fenceless dwelling for their wrath.

They came upon the tempest’s midnight wings,

With shock of thunder and the lightning’s slings,

And flame, and hail, and all disastrous things.

When home at length the hero turned again,

His huts were ashes and his servants slain;

And o’er the ruin wept a slow, great rain.

He wept not; but he cried a mighty word

Across the wandering sea, and the sea heard.

Then came great whales, obedient to his hand,

And bare him to the demon-haunted land,

Where, in malign morass and ghostly wood

And grim cliff-cavern, lurked the evil brood.

And scarce the avenger’s foot had touched their coast

Ere horror seized on all the wizard host,

And in their hiding-places hushed the boast.

He grew and gloomed before them like a cloud,

And his eye drew them till they cried aloud,

And withering like spent flame before his frown

They ran forth in a madness and fell down.

Rank upon rank they lay without a moan,—

His finger touched them, and their hearts grew stone.

All round the coasts he heaped their stiffened clay;

And the seamews wail o’er them to this day.

The poet took his wheel one day

A-wandering to go,

But soon fell out beside the way,

The leaves allured him so.

He leaned his wheel against a tree

And in the shade lay down;

And more to him were bloom and bee

Than all the busy town.

He listened to the Phoebe-bird

And learned a thing worth knowing.

He lay so still he almost heard

The merry grasses growing.

He lay so still he dropped asleep;

And then the Muse came by.

The stars were in her garment’s sweep,

But laughter in her eye.

“Poor boy!” she said, “how tired he seems!

His vagrant feet must follow

So many loves, so many dreams,—

(To find them mostly hollow!)

“No marvel if he does not feel

My old familiar nearness!”

And then her gaze fell on his wheel

And wondered at its queerness.

“Can you be Pegasus,” she mused,

“To modern mood translated,

But poorly housed, and meanly used,

And grown attenuated?

“Ah, no, you’re quite another breed

From him who once would follow

Across the clear Olympian mead

The calling of Apollo!

“No Hippocrene would leap to light

If you should stamp your hoof.

You never knew the pastures bright

Wherein we lie aloof.

“You never drank of Helicon,

Or strayed in Tempe’s vale.

You never soared against the sun

Till earth grew faint and pale.

“You bear my poor deluded boy

Each latest love to see!

But Pegasus would mount with joy

And bring him straight to me!”

He woke. The olden spell was strong

Within his eager bosom;

And so he wrote a mystic song

Upon the nearest blossom.

He wrote, until a sudden whim

Set all his bosom trembling;

Then sped to woo a maiden slim

His latest love resembling.

A wind blew up from Pernambuco.

(Yeo heave ho! the “Laughing Sally”!

Hi yeo, heave away!)

A wind blew out of the east-sou’-east

And boomed at the break of day.

The “Laughing Sally” sped for her life,

And a speedy craft was she.

The black flag flew at her top to tell

How she took toll of the sea.

The wind blew up from Pernambuco;

And in the breast of the blast

Came the King’s black ship, like a hound let slip

On the trail of the “Sally” at last.

For a day and a night, a night and a day;

Over the blue, blue round,

Went on the chase of the pirate quarry,

The hunt of the tireless hound.

“Land on the port bow!” came the cry;

And the “Sally” raced for shore,

Till she reached the bar at the river-mouth

Where the shallow breakers roar.

She passed the bar by a secret channel

With clear tide under her keel,—

For he knew the shoals like an open book,

The captain at the wheel.

She passed the bar, she sped like a ghost,

Till her sails were hid from view

By the tall, liana’d, unsunned boughs

O’erbrooding the dark bayou.

At moonrise up to the river-mouth

Came the King’s black ship of war.

The red cross flapped in wrath at her peak,

But she could not cross the bar.

And while she lay in the run of the seas,

By the grimmest whim of chance

Out of a bay to the north came forth

Two battle-ships of France.

On the English ship the twain bore down

Like wolves that range by night;

And the breaker’s roar was heard no more

In the thunder of the fight.

The crash of the broadsides rolled and stormed

To the “Sally,” hid from view

Under the tall, liana’d boughs

Of the moonless, dark bayou.

A boat ran out for news of the fight,

And this was the word she brought—

“The King’s ship fights the ships of France

As the King’s ships all have fought!”

Then muttered the mate, “I’m a man of Devon!”

And the captain thundered then—

“There’s English rope that bides for our necks,

But we all be English men!”

The “Sally” glided out of the gloom

And down the moon-white river.

She stole like a gray shark over the bar

Where the long surf seethes forever.

She hove to under a high French hull,

And the red cross rose to her peak.

The French were looking for fight that night,

And they hadn’t far to seek.

Blood and fire on the streaming decks,

And fire and blood below;

The heat of hell, and the reek of hell,

And the dead men laid a-row!

And when the stars paled out of heaven

And the red dawn-rays uprushed,

The oaths of battle, the crash of timbers,

The roar of the guns were hushed.

With one foe beaten under his bow,

The other afar in flight,

The English captain turned to look

For his fellow in the fight.

The English captain turned, and stared;—

For where the “Sally” had been

Was a single spar upthrust from the sea

With the red-cross flag serene!

A wind blew up from Pernambuco,—

(Yeo heave ho! the “Laughing Sally”!

Hi yeo, heave away!)

And boomed for the doom of the “Laughing Sally,”

Gone down at the break of day.