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diff --git a/16064-h/16064-h.htm b/16064-h/16064-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..584adae --- /dev/null +++ b/16064-h/16064-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3809 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Carolina Chansons, by DuBose Heyward and Hervey Allen</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right; } /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .right {text-align: right; margin-right: 20%;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + .poem span.i10 {display: block; margin-left: 10em;} + .poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 6em;} + .poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 8em;} + hr.full { width: 100%; } + pre {font-size: 8pt;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, Carolina Chansons, by DuBose Heyward and +Hervey Allen</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Carolina Chansons</p> +<p> Legends of the Low Country</p> +<p>Author: DuBose Heyward and Hervey Allen</p> +<p>Release Date: June 14, 2005 [eBook #16064]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAROLINA CHANSONS***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Melissa Er-Raqabi,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (https://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<table border="0" cellpadding="10" style="background-color: #ccccff;"> + <tr> + <td valign="top"> + Transcriber's Notes: + </td> + <td> + Two variations, Sewee and Seewee, are used in this book, and have + been left as in the original.<br /> + <br /> + Where poems cross a page boundary in the original, they have been + left as one stanza except where the structure clearly indicates + otherwise. I have been unable to confirm with another source if + stanza breaks should occur in those places or not. + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h1>CAROLINA CHANSONS <br /> +LEGENDS OF THE LOW COUNTRY</h1> + +<h3>BY</h3> + +<h2>DuBOSE HEYWARD AND HERVEY ALLEN</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/logo.png" +alt="Macmillan Logo" title="Macmillan Logo" /> +</div> + +<p class="center"><!-- Page 2 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span>THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br /> +<span class="smcap">new york boston chicago dallas<br /> +atlanta san francisco</span></p> + +<p class="center">MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED<br /> +<span class="smcap">london bombay calcutta<br /> +melbourne</span></p> + +<p class="center">THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.<br /> +<span class="smcap">toronto</span> +</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + +<p class="center"><!-- Page 3 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span></p> +<h4>1922</h4> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> + + + +<p><!-- Page 4 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span></p> + +<p class="center">Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1922 +</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<!-- Page 5 --><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span></p> +<h2><span class="smcap">to john bennett</span></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><!-- Page 6 --><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span><br /></p> +<p><!-- Page 7 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span></p> + +<div style="margin-left: 25%; margin-right: 25%;"> + + +<h2>ACKNOWLEDGMENTS</h2> + + +<p>The thanks of the authors are due to the editors of <i>The London +Mercury</i>, <i>The North American Review</i>, <i>Poetry, A Magazine of Verse</i>, +<i>The Reviewer</i>, <i>The Book News Monthly</i>, and <i>Contemporary Verse</i> for +permission to reprint many of the poems in this volume.</p> + +<p>Grateful acknowledgment is also made to many friends for first-hand +information and for the loan of letters, diaries, pictures, and old +newspaper clippings.</p> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 8 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span></p><p><br /></p> +<p><!-- Page 9 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span></p> +<h2><a name="PREFACE" id="PREFACE"></a>PREFACE</h2> +<div style="margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%;"> + +<p>In a continent but recently settled, many parts of which have as yet +little historical or cultural background, the material for this volume +has been gathered from a section that was one of the first to be +colonized. Here the Frenchman, Spaniard, and Englishman all passed, +leaving each his legend; and a brilliant and more or less feudal +civilization with its aristocracy and slaves has departed with the +economic system upon which it rested.</p> + +<p>From this medley of early colonial discovery and romance, from the +memories of war and reconstruction, it has been as difficult to choose +coherently as to maintain restraint in selection among the many +grotesque negro legends and superstitions so rich in imagery and music. +Coupled with this there has been another task; that of keeping these +legends and stories in their natural matrix, the semi-tropical landscape +of the <i>Low Country</i>, which somehow lends them all a pensively +melancholy yet fitting background. Not to have so portrayed them, would +have been to sacrifice their essentially local tang. To the reader +unfamiliar with coastal Carolina, the unique aspects of its landscapes +may seem exaggerated in <!-- Page 10 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span>these pages; the observant visitor and the +native will, it is hoped, recognize that neither the colors nor the +shadows are too strong. These poems, however, are not local only, they +are stories and pictures of a chapter of American history little known, +but dramatic and colorful, and in the relation of an important part to +the whole they may carry a decided interest to the country at large.</p> + +<p>Local color has a fatal tendency to remain local; but it is also true +that the universal often borders on the void. It has been said, perhaps +wisely, that the immediate future of American Poetry lies rather in the +intimate feeling of local poets who can interpret their own sections to +the rest of the country as Robinson and Frost have done so nobly for New +England, rather than in the effort to <i>yawp</i> universally. Hence there is +no attempt here to say, "O New York, O Pennsylvania," but simply, "O +Carolina."</p> + +<p>The South, however, has been "interpreted" so often, either with +condescending pity or nauseous sentimentality, that it is the aim of +this book to speak simply and carefully amid a babel of unauthentic +utterance. Nevertheless, the contents of this volume do not pretend to +exact historical accuracy; this is poetry rather than history, although +the legends and facts upon which it rests have been gathered with much +painstaking research and careful verification. It should be kept in mind +that these poems are <!-- Page 11 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span>impressionistic attempts to present the fleeting +feeling of the moment, landscape moods, and the ephemeral attitudes of +the past. Legends are material to be moulded, and not facts to be +recorded. Above all here is no pretence of propaganda.</p> + +<p>As some of the material touched on is not accessible in standard +reference, prose notes have been included giving the historical facts or +background of legend upon which a poem has been based. These notes +together with a bibliography will be found at the back of the volume.</p> + +<p>If the only result of this book is to call attention to the literary and +artistic values inherent in the South, and to the essentially unique and +yet nationally interesting qualities of the Carolina Low Country, its +landscapes and legends, the labor bestowed here will have secured its +harvest.</p> + +<p class="right"><span class="smcap">DuBose Heyward—Hervey Allen.</span></p> + +<p> +Charleston, S.C.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">December, 1921.</span><br /> +</p> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 12 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span></p><p><br /></p> +<p><!-- Page 13 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a>[13-14]</span></p> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td align='left'></td><td align='right'><span class="smcap"><small>page</small></span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#PREFACE">Preface</a></td><td align='right'>9</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> <i>Poems</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#SEANCE_AT_SUNRISE">Séance at Sunrise</a></td><td align='right'>17</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#SILENCES1">Silences</a></td><td align='right'>20</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#PRESENCES">Presences</a></td><td align='right'>23</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_PIRATES2">The Pirates</a></td><td align='right'>25</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_SEWEES_OF_SEWEE_BAY3">The Sewees of Sewee Bay</a></td><td align='right'>34</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LA_FAYETTE_LANDS4">La Fayette Lands</a></td><td align='right'>38</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> <i>Legend of Theodosia Burr</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_PRIEST_AND_THE_PIRATE5">The Priest and the Pirate</a></td><td align='right'>42</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#PALMETTO_TOWN">Palmetto Town</a></td><td align='right'>50</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#CAROLINA_SPRING_SONG">Carolina Spring Song</a></td><td align='right'>52</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> <i>The First Submarine</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_LAST_CREW6">The Last Crew</a></td><td align='right'>54</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#LANDBOUND">Landbound</a></td><td align='right'>65</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#TWO_PAGES">Two Pages from the Book of the Sea Islands</a> </td><td align='right'>66</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> 1. <span class="smcap"><a href="#Shadows">shadows</a></span></td><td align='right'>66</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> 2. <span class="smcap"><a href="#Sunshine">sunshine</a></span></td><td align='right'>69</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> <i>Negro Poems</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#MODERN_PHILOSOPHER">Modern Philosopher</a></td><td align='right'>72</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#UPSTAIRS_DOWNSTAIRS">Upstairs-Downstairs</a></td><td align='right'>73</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#HAG-HOLLERIN_TIME">Hag-hollerin' Time</a></td><td align='right'>74</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#MACABRE_IN_MACAWS">Macabre in Macaws</a></td><td align='right'>75</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#GAMESTERS_ALL7">Gamesters All</a></td><td align='right'>76</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#ECLIPSE">Eclipse</a></td><td align='right'>81</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> <i>Poe</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#EDGAR_ALLAN_POE8">Edgar Allan Poe</a></td><td align='right'>83</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#ALCHEMY9">Alchemy</a></td><td align='right'>86</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#OSCEOLA10">Osceola</a></td><td align='right'>88</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> <i>Ashley River Gardens</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#MAGNOLIA_GARDENS">Magnolia Gardens</a></td><td align='right'>89</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#MIDDLETON_GARDEN">Middleton Garden</a></td><td align='right'>92</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> <i>Cooper River Legends</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_GOOSE_CREEK_VOICE">The Goose Creek Voice</a></td><td align='right'>95</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_LEAPING_POLL">The Leaping Poll</a></td><td align='right'>98</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#THE_BLOCKADE_RUNNER">The Blockade Runner</a></td><td align='right'>101</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#BEYOND_DEBATE">Beyond Debate</a></td><td align='right'>111</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#MARSH_TACKIES12">Marsh Tackies</a></td><td align='right'>112</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#BACK_RIVER">Back River</a></td><td align='right'>114</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#DUSK">Dusk</a></td><td align='right'>117</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'> </td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> <i>Prose Notes and Bibliography</i></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#NOTE_ON_THE_CHIMES">On the Chimes</a></td><td align='right'>121</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#NOTE_ON_THE_PIRATES">On the Pirates</a></td><td align='right'>122</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#NOTE_ON_THE_SEEWEES_OF_SEEWEE_BAY">On the Sewee Indians</a></td><td align='right'>124</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#NOTE_ON_LA_FAYETTE">On La Fayette</a></td><td align='right'>125</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#NOTE_ON_THEODOSIA_BURR">On Theodosia Burr</a></td><td align='right'>126</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#NOTE_TO_THE_LAST_CREW">On "The Last Crew"</a></td><td align='right'>127</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#NOTE_ON_POE">On Edgar Allan Poe</a></td><td align='right'>128</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#MARSH_TACKIES">On "Marsh Tackies"</a></td><td align='right'>130</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'><a href="#BIBLIOGRAPHY">Bibliography</a></td><td align='right'>131</td></tr> +</table></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 15 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span></p> +<h1><a name="CAROLINA_CHANSONS" id="CAROLINA_CHANSONS"></a>CAROLINA CHANSONS</h1> + +<h1><span class="smcap">LEGENDS OF THE LOW COUNTRY</span></h1> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><!-- Page 16 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span><br /></p> +<p><!-- Page 17 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span></p> +<h2><a name="SEANCE_AT_SUNRISE" id="SEANCE_AT_SUNRISE"></a>SÉANCE AT SUNRISE</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Place the new hands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the old hands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the old generation,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And let us tilt tables<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the high room<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of our imagination.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let the thick veil glow thin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At sunrise—at sunrise—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let the strange eyes peer in,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The red, the black, and the white faces<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the still living dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the three races.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Let a quaint voice begin:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>Voice of an Indian</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Gone from the land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We leave the music of our names,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As pleasant as the sound of waters;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gone is the log-lodge and the skin tepee,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And moons ago the ghost-canoe brought home<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The latest of our sons and daughters—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet still we linger in tobacco smoke<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 18 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span>And in the rustling fields of maize;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faint are the tracks our moccasins have left,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But they are there, down all your ways."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>Voice of a Slave</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">"We do not talk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hours in the rice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When days were long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor of old masters<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who are with us here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond all right or wrong.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only white afternoons come back,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When in the fields<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We reached the Mercy Seat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On wings of song."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>Voice of a Planter</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Nothing moves there but the night wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blowing the mosses like smoke;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All would be silent as moonlight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But for the owl in the oak—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stairways that lead up to nothing—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Windows like terrible scars—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Snakes on a log in the cistern<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peering at stars...."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>Spirit of Prophecy</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Dawn with its childish colors<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 19 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span>Stipples the solemn vault of night;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind the horizon the sun shakes a bloody fist;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mysteries stand naked by the lakes of mist;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Spirits take flight,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The medicine man,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The voodoo doctor—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Witches mount brooms.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The day looms.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Faster it comes,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Bringing young giants<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Who hate solitude,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And march with drums—<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Beat—beat—beat,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Down every ancient street,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The young giants! Minded like boys:<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Action for action's sake they love<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And noise for noise."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2"><i>Voice of a Poet</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The fire of the sunset<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is remembered at midnight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But forgotten at dawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the old stars set,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Let us speak of their glory<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before they are gone."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 20 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span></p> +<h2><a name="SILENCES1" id="SILENCES1"></a>SILENCES<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">You who have known my city for a day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And heard the music of her steepled bells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then laughed, and passed along your vagrant way,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Carrying only what the city tells<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To those who listen solely with their ears;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You know St. Matthew's swinging harmonies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And old St. Michael's tale of golden years<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far less like bells than chanted memories.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yet there is something wanting in the song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of lyric youth with voice unschooled by pain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there are breathing stillnesses that throng<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dim corners, and that only stir again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When bells are dumb. Not even bronze that beats<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our heart-throbs back can tell of old defeats.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But you who take the city for your own,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come with me when the night flows deep and kind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along these narrow ways of troubled stone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And floods the wide savannas of the mind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With tides that cool the fever of the day:<br /></span> +<!-- Page 21 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span> +<span class="i0">One with the dark, companioned by the stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We'll seek St. Philip's, nebulous and gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding its throbbing beacon to the bars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A prisoned spirit vibrant in the stone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That knew its empire of forgotten things.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then will the city know you for her own,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And feel you meet to share her sufferings;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While down a swirl of poignant memories,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Herself shall find you in her silences.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once coaches waited row on shining row<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before this door; and where the thirsty street<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drank the deep shadow of the portico<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Sunday hush was stirred by happy feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Low greetings, and the rustle of brocade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The organ throb, and warmth of sunny eyes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That flashed and smiled beneath a bonnet shade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life with the lure of all its swift disguise.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then from the soaring lyric of the spire,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the composite voice of all the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bells burst swiftly into singing fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That wrapped the building, and which showered down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bright cadences to flash along the ways<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loud with the splendid gladness of the days.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">War took the city, and the laughter died<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From lips that pain had kissed. One after one<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 22 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span>All lovely things went down the sanguine tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While death made moaning answer to the gun.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, as a golden voice dies in the throat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of one who lives, but whose glad heart is dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bells were taken; and a sterner note<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rang from their bronze where Lee and Jackson led.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The rhythmic seasons chill and burn and chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cooling old angers, warming hearts again.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ancient building quickens to the thrill<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of lilting feet; but only singing rain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flutters old echoes in the portico;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those who can still remember love it so.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_ON_THE_CHIMES">See the note on the chimes at back of book.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 23 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span></p> +<h2><a name="PRESENCES" id="PRESENCES"></a>PRESENCES</h2> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Despise the garish presences that flaunt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The obvious possession of today,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To wear with me the spectacles that haunt<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The optic sense with wraiths of yesterday—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These cobbled shores through which the traffic streams<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have been the stage-set of successive towns,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where coffined actors postured out their dreams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And harlot Folly changed her thousand gowns.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This corner-shop was Bull's Head Tavern,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When names now dead on marble lived in clay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its rooms were like a sanded cavern,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where candles made a sallow jest of day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drovers' boots came grinding like a quern,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While merchants drank their steaming cups of "tay."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Here pock-marked Black Beard covenanted Bonnet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To slit the Dons' throats at St. Augustine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bussed light ladies, unknown to this sonnet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose names, no doubt, would rime with Magdalene.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And English parsons, who had lost their fames,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sat tippling wine as spicy as their joke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Larding bald texts with bets on cocking mains,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And whiffing pipes churchwardens used to smoke.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here <i>macaronis</i>, hands a-droop with laces,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 24 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span>Dealt knave to knave in <i>picquet</i> or <i>écarté</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In coats no whit less scarlet than their faces,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While bullies hiccuped healths to King and Party,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And Yankee slavers, in from Barbadoes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drove flinty bargains with keen Huguenots.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then Meeting Street first knew St. Michael's steeple,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When redcoats marched with royal drums a-banging,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or merchants stopped gowned tutors to inquire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Why school let out to see a pirate hanging;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gentlemen took supper in the street,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When candle-shine from tables guled the dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While others passing by would be discreet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And take the farther side without remark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pausing perhaps to snuff the balmy savor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of turtle-soup mulled with the bay-leaves' flavor:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These walls beheld them, and these lingering trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That still preempt the middle of the gutter;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They are the backdrops for old comedies—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If leaves were tongues—what stories they might utter!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 25 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_PIRATES2" id="THE_PIRATES2"></a>THE PIRATES<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I stood once where these rows of deep piazzas<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Frown on the harbor from their columned pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And saw the gallant youngest of the cities<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lift from the jealous many-fingered tide.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flanked by the multi-colored sweeping marshes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the little hummocks choked with thorn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw the first, small, dauntless row of buildings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Give back the rose and orange of the dawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Above them swayed the shining green palmettoes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vocal and plaintive at the winds' caress;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While, at the edge of sight, the fluent silver<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of sea and bay framed the wide loneliness.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out of the East came gaunt razees of commerce<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Troubling the dappled azure of the seas;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While sleeping marsh awoke, and vanished under<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thrusting open fingers of the quays.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ever, and more, came ships, while others followed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Feeling their way among unsounded bars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heaping their freights upon the groaning wharf-heads,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filling their holds with turpentines and tars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 26 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span>Until the little twisting streets all vanished<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into a blur of interwoven spars.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +<h3>II</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One with the rest, I saw the commerce dwindle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High-bosomed, sturdy vessels take the main<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And leave us, with the morning in their faces,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never to come to any port again.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slowly an ominous and pregnant silence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grew deep upon the wharves where ships had lain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Laughter rang hollow in those days of waiting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And nameless fears came drifting down the night.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tides swung in from sea, hung, and retreated,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bearing their secrets back beyond our sight;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till, like the sudden rending of a curtain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The East reeled with the lightnings of a fight.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Never was a night so long with waiting.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Never was the dark more prone to stay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, in the whispering gloom, taut, listening faces<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hung in a pallid line along the bay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slowly at last the mists dissolved, revealing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A fearful silhouette against the day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Blue on a saffron dawn, a frigate lifted<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the fog that veiled her fold on fold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 27 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span>Taking the early sunlight on her cannon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In running spurts and rings of molten gold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No flag of any nation at her masthead.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Small wonder that our pulses fluttered cold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Never a shot she fired on the city,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, when the night came blowing in from sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And our ruddy windows warmed the darkness,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the surrounding gloom we heard the free<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Strong sweep and clank of rowing in the harbor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And on the wharves raw jest and revelry.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">She was the first, but many others followed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Insolent, keen, and swift to come-about,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have seen them go smashing down the harbor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loud with the boom of canvas and the shout<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of lusty voices at the crowded bulwarks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where tattooed hands were swinging long-boats out.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Up through the streets the roisterers would swagger,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Filling the narrow ways from wall to wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scattering gold like ringing summer showers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ready with song and jest and cheery call<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For those who passed; buying the little taverns<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At any cost; opening wine for all.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There were rare evenings when we used to gather<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down in a coffee-house beside the square.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 28 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span>Morgan knew well our little favored corner;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Black Beard the sinister was often there;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we have watched the night blur into morning<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While Bonnet, quiet-voiced and debonnaire,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Would throw the glamor of the seas about us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In archipelagoes of mad romance;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pointing a story with a line from Shakespeare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quoting a Latin proverb; while his glance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flashing across the eager, listening circle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fettered—blinded—held us in a trance.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Their bags of Spanish gold bribed our juries,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bought dignified officials of the Crown;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Money and wine were ours for the asking;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Orient flamed out in shawl and gown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until a sudden and unholy splendor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Irradiated all the quiet town.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Those were the days when there was open gaming,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And roaring song in tongue of every race.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Evil, as colorful as poison weeds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bloomed in the market place.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And those who should have known, shared in the revels,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And passed their neighbors with averted face.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Until one day a frigate entered harbor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And passed the city, with a Spanish prize,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 29 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span>Then insolently came-about, despoiled her,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fired her before our very eyes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the vagrant breezes left the streaming vapor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like red rust on the clean steel of the skies.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +<h3>III</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All in the sullied hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the pirates stood away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the murk and horror<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a sheer white burst of spray,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Leaving the wreck to settle<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under its winding sheet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I felt the city shudder<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stir beneath my feet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Thrilling against the morning,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As audible as song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard the city waken<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of her night of wrong.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That was a day to cherish<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Rhett and a gallant few<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Summoned the best among us;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Called for a daring crew.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">New and raw at the business,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the smithy's roar and clang,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 30 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span>We drove our aching muscles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as we worked we sang,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Until one blowing morning<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With summer on the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <i>Henry</i> to the windward,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <i>Sea Nymph</i> down alee,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Flecking the wide Atlantic<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a flaring, lacy track,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We went, as glad as the winds are glad,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To buy our honor back.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +<h3>IV</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the wooded shore-line,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the hidden rivers stray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down to the sea like timid girls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw in the first faint gray<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A burst of cloudy topsails<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go blowing swiftly by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the stars aswirl behind them<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like bright dust down the sky.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gone were the days of waiting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the long, blind search was gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a cheer we swung to meet them<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the forefoot of the dawn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><!-- Page 31 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span> +<span class="i0">Out of the screening woodland<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the open sound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The frigate crashed, then staggered<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Careening, fast aground.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">White water tugged behind us,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We felt the <i>Henry</i> reel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And spin as the hard impartial sand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Closed on her vibrant keel.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All through the high white morning,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the lagging tide crawled out,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fate held us bound and waiting,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While, turn and turn about,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We manned the fuming cannon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bartered hell for hell,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the scuppers sang with coursing life<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the dead and dying fell.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Till, like the break of fever<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When life thrills up through pain,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We felt the current stirring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the keel again.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then it was hand to cutlass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pistols in the sash.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"All hands stand by for boarding,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, close abeam and lash!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><p><!-- Page 32 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span></p> +<span class="i0">But the ensign that had mocked us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With its symbol of the dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fluttered and dropped to the bloody deck,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a white square spoke instead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Home from the kill we thundered<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the tail of the equinox,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the thrum of straining canvas,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the whine and groan of blocks.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Leaping clear of the shallows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chancing the creaming bars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We heard the first faint cheering<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the late sun limned our spars.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Safe in the lee of the city<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We moored in the afterglow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <i>Sea Nymph</i> and the <i>Henry</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the buccaneers in tow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Glad we had been in the going,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But God! it was good to come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the sky-wide loneliness<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the walls and lights of home.<br /></span> +</div> +</div> +<h3>V</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Under these shouldering rows of stone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That notch the quiet sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 33 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span>Under the asphalt's transient seal<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The same old mud-flats lie;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I have felt them surge and lift<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At night as I passed by.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Yes, I have seen them sprawling nude<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While an Autumn moon hung chill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the tide came shuddering in from sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lift by lift, until<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It held them under a silver mesh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Responsive to its will.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then slowly out from the crowding walls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have seen the gibbets grow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stand against the empty sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a desolate, windblown row,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While their dancers swayed, and turned, and spun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tripping it heel and toe;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">With a flash of gold where the peering moon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saw an earring as it swung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a silver line that leapt and died<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the salt-white sea-boots hung,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the pitiful, nodding, silent heads,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With half of their songs unsung.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_ON_THE_PIRATES">See the note on the pirates.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 34 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_SEWEES_OF_SEWEE_BAY3" id="THE_SEWEES_OF_SEWEE_BAY3"></a>THE SEWEES OF SEWEE BAY<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></h2> + +<blockquote><p><i>"And these squaws, waiting in vain the return of their husbands, +sought out braves among the other tribes, and so men say the Sewees +have become Wandos."</i></p></blockquote> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"One flask of rum for fifty muskrat skins!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A horn of powder for a bear's is not enough;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A whole winter's hunting for some blanket stuff—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ugh!" said the Sewee Chief,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"The pale-face is a thief!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ever, from the north-north-east,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The great winged canoes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swept landward from the shining water<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into Bull's Bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the poor Sewees trapped the otter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or took the giant oysters for their feast—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ever the ships came from the north and east.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Surely, at morning, when they walked the beaches,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the smoky-silver, whispering reaches,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the ships came from, loomed a land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far-off, one mountain-top, away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the great camp-fire sun made day:<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 35 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span></span> +<span class="i0">"There are the pale-face lodges," they would say.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So all one winter<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was great hunting on that shore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Much maize was pounded,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And of acorn oil great store<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was tried;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And collops of smoked deer meat set aside,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And skins and furs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And furs and skins,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And bales of furs beside.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And all that winter, too,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The smoke eddied<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From many a huge canoe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hollowed by flame from cypress trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That with stone ax and fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Sewee shaped to the good shape<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of his desire.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So when next spring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The traders came from Charles Town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bringing a gift of blankets from the king,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Sewees would not trade a pelt—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Saying, "We go to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Great White Father in his own tepee—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heap, heap much rum!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then they passed the pipe of peace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And puffed it, and looked glum.<br /></span> +<!-- Page 36 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span> +<span class="i0">The traders thought the redskins must be daft;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They saw the huge canoes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, wondering at their use,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Asked, "What will you do with these?"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the chief pointed east across the seas;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then the pale-face laughed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was a story told<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By one of Black Beard's men<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who had done evil things for gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That one morning, out at sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The fog made a sudden lift,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from the high poop, looking through the rift,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He saw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Twenty canoes, each with six warriors,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paddling straight toward the rising sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the wind made a flaw—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He swore he saw<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And counted twenty hulls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Circled about by screaming gulls—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then such a storm came down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That some prayed on that hellion ship,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he did not—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was not born to drown.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This was the tale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Told with much bluster,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 37 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span>Over ale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And oaths,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At Charles Town.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He <i>swore</i> he saw the Indians in the dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And <i>he'd be danged!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And by Christ's Mother—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Take his rings in pawn!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">But he was hanged<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With poor Stede Bonnet, later on.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_ON_THE_SEEWEES_OF_SEEWEE_BAY">See the note at the back of the book.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 38 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span></p> +<h2><a name="LA_FAYETTE_LANDS4" id="LA_FAYETTE_LANDS4"></a>LA FAYETTE LANDS<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That evening, gathered on the vessel's poop,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They saw the glimmering land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And far lights moved there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As once Columbus saw them, winking, strange;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Around the ship two darkies in a small canoe<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Paddled and grinned, and held up silver fish.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the high ship's tumble-home<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A pinnace slid,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slow, lowered from the squealing davit-ropes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And from a port a-square with lantern light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The little, leather trunks were passed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ironbound and quaint; while down the vessel's side<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With voluble advice, <i>bon voyage</i> and <i>au revoir</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The chatting Frenchmen came—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Click-clap of rapiers clipping on hard boots,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cocked hats and merry eyes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The great ship backs its yards,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With drooping sails, await,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A spider-web of spars and lantern-lights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While like a pilot shark, the slim canoe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 39 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">A V-shaped ripple wrinkling from its jaws,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slides noiselessly across the swells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leading the swinging boat's crew to the beach;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all the world slides up—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then the stars slide down—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As ocean breathes; while evening falls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And destiny is being rowed ashore.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The twilight-muffled bells of town, the bark of dogs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The distant shouts, and smell of burning wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fall graciously upon their sea-tired sense.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wide-trousered, barefoot sailors carry them to land,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tho' snake-voiced waves flaunt frothing up the beach;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The horse-hide trunks are piled upon a dune;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there a little Frenchman takes his stand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hawk-faced and ardent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While his brown cloak droops about him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like young falcon plumes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Gray beach, gray twilight, and gray sea—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How strange the scrub palmettoes down the coast!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No purple-castled heights, like dear Auvergne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the background of the <i>Puy de Dome</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But land as level as the sea, a sandy road<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That twists through myrtle thickets<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the black boys lead.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 40 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Far down a moss-draped avenue of oaks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is a flash of torches, and the lights<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go flitting past the bottle panes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A cracked plantation bell dull-clangs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The beagles bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Black faces swarm, with ivory eyeballs glazed—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Court dwarfs that served thick chocolate, on their knees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In damasked, perfumed rooms at grand Versailles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were all the blacks the French had ever seen.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Major Huger, lace-ruffled shirt, knee-breeks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A saddle-pistol in his hand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waits on the terrace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ready for "hospitality" to British privateers;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now no London accent takes his ears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No English bow so low, "Good evening, <i>sair</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I am de la Fayette, and these, monsieur,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My friends, and this, le Baron Kalb."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Welcome's the custom of the time and land—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And these are noblemen of France!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now is Bartholomew for turkeycocks,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old wines decant, the chandeliers flare up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The slave row brims with lights;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And horses gallop off to summon guests.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">After the ship—how good the spacious rooms!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How strange mosquito canopies on beds!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 41 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span>Knights of St. Louis sniff the frying yams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Venison, and turtle,—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old green turtle died tonight—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The children's eyes grow wider on the stairs.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down in the library,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Marquis, writing back to old Auvergne,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has sanded down the ink;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Again the quill pen squeaks:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"A ship will sail tomorrow back to France,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By special providence for you, dear wife;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tonight there will be toasts to Washington,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To our good Louis and his Antoinette—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There will be toasts tonight for la Fayette...."<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He melts the wax;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Look, how the candle gutters at the flame!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now he seals the letter with his ring.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_ON_LA_FAYETTE">See the note at the back of the book.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 42 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_PRIEST_AND_THE_PIRATE5" id="THE_PRIEST_AND_THE_PIRATE5"></a>THE PRIEST AND THE PIRATE<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></h2> + +<h3><span class="smcap">a ballad of theodosia burr</span></h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And must the old priest wake with fright<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because the wind is high tonight?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Because the yellow moonlight dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lies silent as a word unsaid—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What dreams had he upon his bed?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Listen</i>—the storm!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The winter moon scuds high and bare;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her light is old upon his hair;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gray priest muses in a prayer:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Christ Jesus, when I come to die<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grant me a clean, sweet, summer sky,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Without the mad wind's panther cry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Send me a little garden breeze<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To gossip in magnolia trees;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For I have heard, these fifty years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Confessions muttered at my ears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till every mumble of the wind<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Is like tired voices that have sinned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 43 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And furtive skirling of the leaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like feet about the priest-house eaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And moans seem like the unforgiven<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That mutter at the gate of heaven,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ghosts from the sea that passed unshriven.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And it was just this time of night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came a boy with lantern light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he was linen-pale with fright;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was not hard to guess my task,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Although I raised the sash to ask—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Oh, Father,' cried the boy, 'Oh, come!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quickly with the <i>viaticum</i>!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sailor-man is going to die!'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thirsty silence drank his cry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A starless stillness damped the air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While his shrill voice kept piping there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'The sailor-man is going to die'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The huge drops splattered from the sky.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shivered at my midnight toil,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But took the elements and oil,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hurried down into the street<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That barked and clamored at our feet—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as we ran there came a hum<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of round shot slithered on a drum,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While like a lid of sound shut down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thunder-cloud upon the town;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 44 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Jalousies banged and loose roofs slammed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like hornbooks fluttered by the damned;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And like a drover's whip the rain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cracked in the driving hurricane.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Only the lightning showed the door<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That like two cats we darted for;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It almost gave a man a qualm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To find the house inside so calm.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I sloshed all dripping up the stair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Up to an attic room a-glare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With candle-shine and lightning-flare—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With little draughts that moved its hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A wrinkled mummy sat a-stare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rigid, huddling in a chair.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I thought at first the thing was dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the eyes slid in its head.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">It seemed as if the Banshee storm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Knocked screaming for his withered form;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It shrieked and whistled like a parrot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Clucking and stuttering through the garret.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With-out, the mailéd hands of hail<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Battered the casements, and the gale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">About his low roof shuddered, sighing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if it knew that he was dying.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 45 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">It breathed like waiting beasts outside,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While soft feet made the shingles slide.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, like a blow upon the cheek,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The mummy's voice began to speak:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>'Give me a priest! I'm going to die!'</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Banshee wind took up the cry:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Give him a priest, he's going to die!'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old house seemed to rock with laughter,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shaking its sides and every rafter.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There was a terror in that room<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like faint light streaming from a tomb.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I tried three times before I spoke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then the bald words made me choke:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">'Be quiet, man, for I am come<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To bring you the <i>viaticum</i>!'—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I made the sign of holiness.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He rattled out a startled cry.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I whispered low, 'Confess, confess!'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His thin hands quivered with distress.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It is a bitter thing to die.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Just when a blast fell on the town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I felt his lean claws clutch me down.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It seemed as if the hands of death<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were beating at my breast for breath;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 46 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">His arms were like a twisted rope<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of rotten strands that tugged at hope.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>'Listen, my father, listen well!'</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind went tolling like a bell:<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>'She's lying fifty fathoms deep,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Where fishes like white birds go by</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Through water-air in ocean-land;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>She has a prayer-book in her hand—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Tonight she walks; tonight she spoke;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Her hair goes floating out and up,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Blown one way, with the water weeds,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Always one way, like amber smoke.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>She asks the gift she gave to me—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>This ring—I cannot get it off!'</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">His hand and hand fought like two claws—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>'I hear her calling from the sea!'</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">His terror made my own heart pause.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">His voice went moaning with the wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And groaned and rattled, '<i>I have sinned</i>,'<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And moaned and murmured at my ear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of bat-winged angels standing near.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>'The little schooner "Patriot"—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I can't forget the vessel's name;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 47 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span><i>We met her rounding Naggs Head Bank;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>We made her people walk the plank,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Twelve men whose faces I forgot.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>But there was one sweet lady there,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>With lovely eyes and lovely hair,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Whose face has stayed like pain and care.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>For every man she made a prayer;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And when the last had found the sea,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I cried to her to pray for me.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>She prayed—and took this ring, and said:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>"Wear this for me when I am dead."</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>She bowed her head, then steadfastly</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>She walked into the hungry sea.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>But silent words were on her lips,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And there was comfort in her hand;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>It was as if she walked a bridge</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That led into a pleasant land.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>All that was long and long ago,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>So long ago this ring has grown</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>To be a very part of me,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>One with my finger and the bone:'</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">His voice went trailing in a moan.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>'This is her ring—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>This is her ring!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 48 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span><i>I dare not die and wear the thing!'</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">His hand plucked at his finger thin<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if to ease him of his sin.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I gave a sudden gasping shout—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The wind that blew the window in<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had blown the candle out.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>'Quick, father, quick!</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The ring ... her name....'</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">There came a jagged spurt of flame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The window seemed a furnace door<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That gave upon a bed of ore;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thunder rumbled out the muttered<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Words that his failing tongue had uttered—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Another flash, a rending crack—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old man crumpled like a sack;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I felt his stringy arms go slack.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How could he sit so dead, so still!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While wind snouts snuffed along the sill?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">White shone his glimmering face, and dull<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sodden silence of the lull,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For when he died the wind had dropt;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And with his heart the storm had stopt,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All but a far-off mouthing sound<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That seemed to sough from underground;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While silence paused to plan some ill,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thwarted by thunder growling still.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 49 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">All in the darkness of the place<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With lightning playing on its face,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I fumbled with the corpse's ring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To which the dead hands seemed to cling;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stiffening joints were loth to play—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After awhile it came away!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out, like a sneak-thief through the gloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I tiptoed from the dead man's room;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The door behind me like a hatch<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Banged—the white splash of my match<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Made shadow shapes dance on the wall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the devil pulled the string.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The light ran melting round the ring;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Inside the worn script scrawled a-blur:<br /></span> +<span class="i2"><i>'J.A. to Theodosia Burr'</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Confession is a sacred thing!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I'll keep his secret like the sea;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ring goes to the grave with me."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_ON_THEODOSIA_BURR">See the note at the back of the book.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 50 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span></p> +<h2><a name="PALMETTO_TOWN" id="PALMETTO_TOWN"></a>PALMETTO TOWN</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sea-island winds sweep through Palmetto Town,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bringing with piney tang the old romance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Pirates and of smuggling gentlemen;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tongues as languorous as southern France<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flow down her streets like water-talk at fords;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While through iron gates where pickaninnies sprawl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sound floats back, in rippled banjo chords,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From lush magnolia shade where mockers call.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mornings, the flower-women hawk their wares—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bronze caryatids of a genial race,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bearing the bloom-heaped baskets on their heads;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lithe, with their arms akimbo in wide grace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their jasmine nods jestingly at cares—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turbaned they are, deep-chested, straight and tall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bandying old English words now seldom heard,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But sweet as Provençal.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dreams peer like prisoners through her harp-like gates,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From molten gardens mottled with gray-gloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where lichened sundials shadow ancient dates,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And deep piazzas loom.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fringing her quays are frayed palmetto posts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where clipper ships once moored along the ways,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 51 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span>And fanlight doorways, sunstruck with old ghosts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sicken with loves of her lost yesterdays.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Often I halt upon some gabled walk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thinking I see the ear-ringed <i>picaroons</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slashed with a sash or Spanish <i>folderols</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gambling for moidores or for gold doubloons.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But they have gone where night goes after day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the old streets are gay with whistled tunes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bright with the lilt of scarlet parasols,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Carried by honey-voiced young octoroons.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 52 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span></p> +<h2><a name="CAROLINA_SPRING_SONG" id="CAROLINA_SPRING_SONG"></a>CAROLINA SPRING SONG</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Against the swart magnolias' sheen<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pronged maples, like a stag's new horn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stand gouted red upon the green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In March when shaggy buds are shorn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then all a mist-streaked, sunny day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The long sea-islands lean to hear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A water harp that shallows play<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lull the beaches' fluted ear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When this same music wakes the gift<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of pregnant beauty in the sod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And makes the uneasy vultures shift<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like evil things afraid of God,<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, then it is I love to drift<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the flood-tide's lazy swirls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While from the level rice fields lift<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The spiritu'ls of darky girls.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I hear them singing in the fields<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like voices from the long-ago;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They speak to me of somber worlds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sorrows that the humble know;<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><p><!-- Page 53 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span></p> +<span class="i0">Of sorrow—yet their tones release<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A harmony of larger hours<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From easy epochs long at peace<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Amid an irony of flowers.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So if they sometimes seem a choir<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That cast a chill of doubt on spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They have still higher notes of fire<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like cardinals upon the wing.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 54 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_LAST_CREW6" id="THE_LAST_CREW6"></a>THE LAST CREW<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Spring found us early that eventful year,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeming to know in her clairvoyant way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bitterness of hunger and despair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That lay upon the town.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the sheer<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thin altitudes of day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She drifted down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the grim blockade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At the harbor mouth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trailing her beauty over the decay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That war had made,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gilding old ruins with her jasmine spray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Distilling warm moist perfume<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From chill winter shade.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out of the south<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She brought the whisperings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of questing wings.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, flame on flame,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The cardinals came,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blowing like driven brands<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 55 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span>Up from the sultry lands<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Summer's happy fires always burn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old silences, that pain<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had held too close and long,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stirred to the mocker's song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hope looked out again<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From tired eyes.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Down where the White Point Gardens drank the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rippled to the lift of springing grass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The women came;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And after them the aged, and the lame<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That war had hurled back at them like a taunt.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And always, as they talked of little things,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How violets were purpling the shade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">More early than in all remembered Springs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And how the tides seemed higher than last year,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their gaze went drifting out across the bay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To where,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrusting out of the mists,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like hostile fists,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waited the close blockade—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, dim to left and right,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The curving islands with their shattered mounds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That had been forts;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mounds, which in spite<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of four long years of rending agony<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Still held against the light;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 56 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span>Faint wraiths of color<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the breeze to lift<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And flatten into faded red and white.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These sunny islands were not meant for wars;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">See, how they curve away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bidding the voyager pause.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Warm with the hoarded suns of centuries,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young with the garnered youth of many Springs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They laugh like happy bathers, while the seas<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Break in their open arms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the slow-moving breeze<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Draws languid fingers down their placid brows.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even the surly ocean knows their charms,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And under the shrill laughter of the surf,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He booms and sings his heavy monotone.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>II +</h3> +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are rare nights among these waterways<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Spring first treads the meadows of the marsh,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving faint footprints of elusive green<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To glimmer as she strays,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Breaking the Winter silence with the harsh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sharp call of waterfowl;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rubbing dim shifting pastels in the scene<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With white of moon<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 57 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span>And blur of scudding cloud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the myrtle thickets<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sand,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The silent streams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the substantial land<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Go drifting down the tide of night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aswoon.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On such a night as this<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw the last crew go<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of a world too beautiful to leave.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only a chosen few<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beside the crew<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were gathered on the pier;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the ebb and flow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of dark and moon, we saw them fare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Straight past the row of coffins<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the fifth crew lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waiting their last short voyage<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the bay.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And, as they went, not one among them swerved,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But eyes went homing swiftly to the West,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where, faint and very few,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The windows of the town called out to them<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet held them nerved<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ready for the test.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Young every one, they brought life at its best.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><br /></span><!-- Page 58 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span> +<span class="i0">In the taut stillness, not a word<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was uttered, but one heard<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The deep slow orchestration of the night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swell and relapse; as swiftly, one by one,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cutting a silhouette against the gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They rose, then dropped out softly like a dream<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the rocking shadows of the stream.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A sudden grind of metal scarred the hush;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A marsh-hen threshed the water with her wings,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, for a breath, the marsh life woke and throbbed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, down beneath our feet, we caught the gleam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of folded water flaring left and right,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While, with a noiseless rush,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A shadow darker than the rest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drew from its fellows swarming round the quay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Took an oncoming breaker,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shook its shoulders free,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And faced the sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then came an interval that seemed to be<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Part of eternity.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Years might have passed, or seconds;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No one knew!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Close in the dark we huddled, each to each,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too stirred for speech.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our senses, sharpened to an agony,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Drew out across the water till the ache<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 59 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span>Was more than we could bear;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till eyes could almost see,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ears almost hear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And waiting there,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I seemed to feel the beach<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slip from my reach,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While all the stars went blank.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The smell of oil and death enveloped me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I could feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The crouching figures straining at a crank,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Knees under chins, and heads drawn sharply down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heave and sag of shoulders,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sting of sweat;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An eighth braced figure stooping to a wheel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Body to body in the stifling gloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sob and gasp of breath against an air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Empty and damp and fetid as a tomb.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With them I seemed to reel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beneath the spin and heel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When combers took them fair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bruising their bodies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifting black water where<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their feet clutched desperate at the floor.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And as each body spent out of its ebbing store<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of strength and hope,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I felt the forward thrust,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At first so sure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 60 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span>Fail in its rhythm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Falter slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And slower—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hang an endless moment—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till in a rush came fear—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fear of the sea, that it might win again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gathering one crew more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Making them pay in vain.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then through the horror of it, like a clear<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sweet wind among the stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I felt the lift<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And drive of heart and will<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Working their miracles until<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spent muscles tensed again to offer all<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In one transcendent gift.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A sudden flood of moonlight drenched the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pointing the scene in sharp, strong black and white.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sumter came shouldering through the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Battered and grim.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The curve of ships shook off their dim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Vague outlines of a dream;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stood, patient as death,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So certain in their pride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So satisfied<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 61 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span>To wait<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The slow inevitableness of Fate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Close, where the channel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Narrowed to the bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The <i>Housatonic</i> lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Black on the moonlit tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her wide<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High sweep of spars<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flaunting their arrogance among the stars.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Darkness again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Swift-winged and absolute,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gulping the stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Folding the ships and sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding us waiting, mute.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, slowly in the void,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There grew a certainty<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That silenced fear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The very air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was stirring to the march of Destiny.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">One blinding second out of endless time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fell, sundering the night.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw the <i>Housatonic</i> hurled,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A ship of light,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of a molten sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hang an unending pulse-beat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 62 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span>Glowing, stark;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the hot clouds flung back a sullen roar.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then all her pride, so confident and sure,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Went reeling down the dark.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out of the blackness wave on livid wave<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leapt into being—thundered to our feet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Counting the moments for us, beat by beat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the last and smallest dwindled past,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Trailing its pallor like a winding-sheet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the last crew and its chosen grave.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Morning swirled in from the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And down by the low river-wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a long unforgettable row,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Man faces tremulous, old;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Terrible faces of youth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Broken and seared by the war,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where swift fire kindled and blazed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From embers hot under the years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While hands gripped a cane or a crutch;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Patient dumb faces of women,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mothers, sisters, and wives:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the vessel hull-down in the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the waters, just stirring from sleep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifted bright hands to the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 63 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span>Hiding their lusty young dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Holding them jealously close<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down to the cold harbor floor.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There would be eight of them.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here in the gathering light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were waiting eight women or more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who were destined forever to pay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who never again would laugh back<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the eyes of life<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the old glad, confident way.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each huddled dumbly to each;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But eyes could not lift from the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only hands touched in the dawn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>"He would have gone, my man;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>He was like that. In the night</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>When I awoke with a start,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And brought his voice up from my dream:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>That was goodbye and godspeed.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>I know he is there with the rest."</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Brave, but with quivering lips,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Each alone in the press of the crowd,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was saying it over and over.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The day flooded all of the sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the ships of the sullen blockade<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 64 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span>Weighed anchor and drew down the wind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leaving their wreck to the waves.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hour heaved slowly on hour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet how could the city rejoice<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the women out there by the wall!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Night grew under the wharves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And crept through the listening streets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until only the red of the tiles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seemed warm from the breath of the day;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the faces that waited and watched<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Blurred into a wavering line,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like foam on the curve of the dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down there by the reticent sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">What if the darkness should bring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The lean blockade-runners across<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With food for the hungry and spent....<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who could joy in the sudden release<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the faces, still-smiling, but wan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turned slowly to hallow the town?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_TO_THE_LAST_CREW">See the note at the back of the book.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 65 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span></p> +<h2><a name="LANDBOUND" id="LANDBOUND"></a>LANDBOUND</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Bring me one breath from the deep salt sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ye vagrant upland airs!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over your forest and field and lea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the windy deeps that have mothered me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the heart of one who cares.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Clear to the peace of the sunlit park,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You bring with your evening lull<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The vesper song of the meadow lark;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But my soul is sick for the seething dark,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the scream of a wind-blown gull.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And bring to me from the ocean's breast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No crooning lullaby;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But the shout of a bleak storm-riven crest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As it shoulders up in the sodden West<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hurtles down the sky.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That, breathing deep, I may feel the sweep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the wind and the driving rain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For so I know that my heart will leap<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To meet the call of the strident deep,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And will thrill to life again.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 66 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span></p> +<h2><a name="TWO_PAGES" id="TWO_PAGES"></a>TWO PAGES<br /> + +FROM THE BOOK OF THE SEA ISLANDS</h2> + + +<h3><span class="smcap">page one</span></h3> + +<h3><span class="smcap"><a name="Shadows" id="Shadows"></a>Shadows</span></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There is deliberateness in all sea-island ways,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As alien to our days as stone wheels are.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Islands cannot see the use of life<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which only lives for change.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There days are flat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all things must move slowly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Even the seasons are conservative—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No sudden flaunting of wild colors in the fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only a gradual fading of the green,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the earth turned slowly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or looked with one still face upon the sun<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As Venus does—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the trees, the fields, the marshes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All turn dun, dull Quaker-brown,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a mild winter settles down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And mosses are more gray.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All human souls are glasses which reflect<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The aspects of the outer world;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 67 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span>See what terrible gods the huge Himalayas bred!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the fierce Jewish Jaywah came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the hot Syrian deserts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With his inhibitory decalogue.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gods of little hills are always tame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here God is dull, where all things stay the same.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No change on these sea-islands!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The huge piled clouds range<br /></span> +<span class="i0">White in the cobalt sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The moss hangs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the strong, tiring sea-winds blow—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While day on glistering day goes by.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The horses plow with hanging heads,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slow, followed by a black-faced man,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Indifferent to the sun;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The old cotton bushes hang with whitened heads;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there among the live-oak trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peep the small whitewashed cabins,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Painted blue, perhaps, and scarlet-turbaned women,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ample-hipped, with voices soft and warm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the lean hounds and chocolate children swarm.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Day after day the ocean pumps<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The awful valve-gates of his heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Diastole and systole through these estuaries;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tides flow in long, gray, weed-streaked lines;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 68 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span>The salt water, like the planet's lifeblood, goes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if the earth were breathing with long-taken breaths<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we were very near her heart.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No wonder that these faces show a tired dismay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Looking on burning suns, and scarcely blithe in May;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spring's coming is too fierce with life;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And summer is too long;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The stunted pine trees struggle with the sand<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the eyes sicken with their dwarfing strife.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There are old women here among these island homes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With dull brown eyes that look at something gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And tight silver hair, drawn back in lines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like the beach grass that's always blown one way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With such a melancholy in their faces<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know that they have lived long in these places.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The tides, the hooting owls, the daylight moons,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The leprous lights and shadows of the mosses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The funereal woodlands of these coasts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Draped like a perpetual hearse,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And memories of an old war's ancient losses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dwell in their faces' shadows like gray ghosts.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And worse—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The terror of the black man always near—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The drab level of the ricefields and the marsh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lends them a mask of fear.<br /></span> +</div></div><p><!-- Page 69 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span></p> + + +<h3><span class="smcap">page two</span></h3> + +<h3><span class="smcap"><a name="Sunshine" id="Sunshine"></a>Sunshine</span></h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is a different page.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Do you suppose the sun here lavishes his heat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For nothing, in these islands by the sea?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No! The great green-mottled melons ripen in the fields,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bleeding with scarlet, juicy pith deliriously;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the exuberant yams grow golden, thick and sweet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And white potatoes, in grave-rows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With leaves as rough as cat tongues;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pearly onions, and cabbages<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With white flesh, sweet as chicken meat.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These the black boatmen bring to town<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On barges, heaped with severed breasts of leaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Driven by <i>put-put</i> engines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down the long canals, quavering with song,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With hail and chuckle to the docks along,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seeing their dark faces down below<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reduplicated in the sunset glow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While from the shore stretch out the quivering lines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the flat, palm-like, reflected pines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That inland lie like ranges of dark hills in lines.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And so to town—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Weaving odd baskets of sweet grass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lazily and slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To sell in the arcaded market,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where men sold their fathers not so long ago.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 70 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">For all their poverty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These patient black men live<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A life rich in warm colors of the fields,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sunshine and hearty foods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Delighted with the gifts that earth can give,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And old tales of <i>Plateye</i> and <i>Bre'r Rabbit</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the golden-velvet cornpone browns<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Underneath the lid among hot ashes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the <i>groundnuts</i> roast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Round shadowy fires at nights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With tales of graveyard ghost,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While eery spirituals ring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And organ voices sing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sticks knock maddening rhythms on the floor<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To shuffling youngsters "cutting" buck-and-wing;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dogs bark;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dog-eyed pickaninnies peek about the door.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sundays, along the moss-draped roads,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The beribboned black folk go to church<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By threes and twos, carrying their shoes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With orange turbans, ginghams, rainbow hats;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then bucks flaunt tiger-lily ties and watchet suits,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Smoking cob pipes and faintly sweet cheroots.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wagons with oval wheels and kitchen chairs screech by,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Joseph-coated white-teethed maidens sit<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Demurely,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the old mule rolls back the ivory of his eye.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 71 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soon from the whitewashed churches roll away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the live oak trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rivers of melancholy harmonies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Full of the sorrows of the centuries<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The white man hears, but cannot feel.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But it is always Sunday on sea-islands.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plantation bells, calling the pickers from the fields,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are like old temple gongs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the wind tells monodies among the pines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Playing upon their strings the ocean's songs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ducks fly in long, trailing lines;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Skeows <i>squonk</i> and marsh-hens <i>quank</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the tidal flats and rushes rank on rank;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On island tufts the heron feeds its viscid young;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the quick mocker catches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From lips of sons of slaves the eery snatches,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And trolls them as no lips have ever sung.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! It is good to be here in the spring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When water still stays solid in the North,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the first jasmine rings its golden bells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the "wild wistaria" puts forth;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But most because the sea then changes tone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Talking a whit less drear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It gossips in a smoother monotone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whispering moon-scandal in the old earth's ear.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 72 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span></p> +<h2><a name="MODERN_PHILOSOPHER" id="MODERN_PHILOSOPHER"></a>MODERN PHILOSOPHER</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They fight your battles for you every day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The zealous ones, who sorrow in your life.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Undaunted by a century of strife,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With urgent fingers still they point the way<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To drawing rooms, in decorous array,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And moral Heavens where no casual wife<br /></span> +<span class="i0">May share your lot; where dice and ready knife<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are barred; and feet are silent when you pray.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But you have music in your shuffling feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And spirituals for a lenient Lord,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who lets you sing your promises away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">You hold your sunny corner of the street,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And pluck deep beauty from a banjo chord:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Philosopher whose future is today!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 73 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span></p> +<h2><a name="UPSTAIRS_DOWNSTAIRS" id="UPSTAIRS_DOWNSTAIRS"></a>UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The judge, who lives impeccably upstairs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With dull decorum and its implication,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has all his servants in to family prayers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And edifies <i>his</i> soul with exhortation.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Meanwhile his blacks live wastefully downstairs;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not always chaste, they manage to exist<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With less decorum than the judge upstairs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And find withal a something that he missed.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This painful fact a Swede philosopher,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who tarried for a fortnight in our city,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Remarked, one evening at the meal, before<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We paralyzed him silent with our pity—<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Saying the black man living with the white<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had given more than white men could requite.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 74 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span></p> +<h2><a name="HAG-HOLLERIN_TIME" id="HAG-HOLLERIN_TIME"></a>HAG-HOLLERIN' TIME</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Black Julius peered out from the galley fly;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind Jim Island, lying long and dim;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">An infra owl-light tinged the twilight sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As if a bonfire burned for cherubim.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dark orange flames came leering through the pines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then the moon's face, struggling with a sneeze,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Along the flat horizon's level lines<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her nostrils fingered with palmetto trees.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Her platinum wand made water wrinkles buckle;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Old Julius gave appreciative chuckle;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"It's jes about hag-hollerin' time," he said.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I watched the globous buckeyes in his head<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Peer back along the bloody moon-wash dim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To see the fish-tailed water-witches swim.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 75 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span></p> +<h2><a name="MACABRE_IN_MACAWS" id="MACABRE_IN_MACAWS"></a>MACABRE IN MACAWS</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">After the hurricane of the late forties,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peter Polite says, in the live-oak trees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were weird, macabre macaws<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ash-colored cockatoos, blown overseas<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From Nassau and the West Indies.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These hopped about like dead men's thoughts<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the draggled Spanish moss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Preening themselves, all at a loss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Preening faint <i>caws</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shrieking from nostalgia—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With dull screams like a child<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Born with neuralgia—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And this seems true to me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fitting the landscape's drab grotesquery.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 76 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span></p> +<h2><a name="GAMESTERS_ALL7" id="GAMESTERS_ALL7"></a>GAMESTERS ALL<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The river boat had loitered down its way;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The ropes were coiled, and business for the day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was done. The cruel noon closed down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cupped the town.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stray voices called across the blinding heat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then drifted off to shadowy retreat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the sheds.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The waters of the bay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sucked away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In tepid swirls, as listless as the day.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silence closed about me, like a wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Final and obstinate as death.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until I longed to break it with a call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or barter life for one deep, windy breath.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A mellow laugh came rippling<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the stagnant air,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lifting it into little waves of life.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, true and clear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I caught a snatch of harmony;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sure lilting tenor, and a drowsing bass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Elusive chords to weave and interlace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 77 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And poignant little minors, broken short,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like robins calling June—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then the tune:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Oh, nobody knows when de Lord is goin ter call,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Roll dem bones</i>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It may be in de Winter time, and maybe in de Fall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Roll dem bones</i>.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But yer got ter leabe yer baby an yer home an all—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>So roll dem bones</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh my brudder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh my brudder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh my brudder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Roll dem bones!</i>"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">There they squatted, gambling away<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their meagre pay;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fatalists all.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I heard the muted fall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of dice, then the assured,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Retrieving sweep of hand on roughened board.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I thought it good to see<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Four lives so free<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From care, so indolently sure of each tomorrow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And hearts attuned to sing away a sorrow.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, like a shot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out of the hot<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 78 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span>Still air, I heard a call:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Throw up your hands! I've got you all!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It's thirty days for craps.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Come, Tony, Paul!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now, Joe, don't be a fool!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I've got you cool."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I saw Joe's eyes, and knew he'd never go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not Joe, the swiftest hand in River Bow!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Springing from where he sat, straight, cleanly made,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He soared, a leaping shadow from the shade<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With fifty feet to go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was the stiffest hand he ever played.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To win the corner meant<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Deep, sweet content<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among his laughing kind;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To lose, to suffer blind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Degrading slavery upon "the gang,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With killing suns, and fever-ridden nights<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind relentless bars<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of prison cars.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He hung a breathless second in the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The staring road before him. Then, like one<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who stakes his all, and has a gamester's heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">His laughter flashed.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He lunged—I gave a start.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God! What a man!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 79 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The massive shoulders hunched, and as he ran<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With head bent low, and splendid length of limb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I almost felt the beat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of passionate life that surged in him<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And winged his spurning feet.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And then my eyes went dim.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Marshal's gun was out.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw the grim<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Short barrel, and his face<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Aflame with the excitement of the chase.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He was an honest sportsman, as they go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He never shot a doe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or spotted fawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or partridge on the ground.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, as for Joe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He'd wait until he had a yard to go.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, if he missed, he'd laugh and call it square.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">My gaze leapt to the corner—waited there.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now an arm would reach it. I saw hope flare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the runner's face.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, like a pang<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In my own heart,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The pistol rang.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The form I watched soared forward, spun the curve.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"By God, you've missed!"<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 80 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Marshal shook his head.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No, there he lay, face downward in the road.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"I reckon he was dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before he hit the ground,"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Marshal said.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Just once, at fifty feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A moving target too.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That's just about as good<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As any man could do!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A little tough;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But, since he ran,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I call it fair enough."<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">He mopped his head, and started down the road.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The silence eddied round him, turned and flowed<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Slowly back and pressed against the ears.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until unnumbered flies set it to droning,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, down the heat, I heard a woman moaning.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> "Contemporary Verse," prize poem for 1921.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 81 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span></p> +<h2><a name="ECLIPSE" id="ECLIPSE"></a>ECLIPSE</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once melodies of street-cries washed these walls,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glad as the refluent song<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of cheerful waters from a happy spring<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That shout their way along;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Such cries were born in other days from lips<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A spirit taught to sing. Now it is gone!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Memory expects those hymns for shrimp and prawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or the mellifluous chaunt from the black gorge<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Orpheus inside a murky skin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who looked the gold sun in the eye<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While garden mists grew thin,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And intoned "<i>Hoppin' John</i>!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">As when the shadow of the gray eclipse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Haggards the countryside,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When moon-fooled birds have nothing more to say,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And soft untimely bats begin to slide;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As darkness sweeps the morning light away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">So silence brushes music now from lips.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh! Can it be the songless spirit of this age<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Has slain the ancient music, or that ears<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 82 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span>Have harsher thresholds? Only this I know:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The streets grow more discordant with the years;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And that which bids the huckster sing no more,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Will drive the flower-woman from the door.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 83 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span></p> +<h2><a name="EDGAR_ALLAN_POE8" id="EDGAR_ALLAN_POE8"></a>EDGAR ALLAN POE<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Once in the starlight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the tides were low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the surf fell sobbing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the undertow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I trod the windless dunes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Alone with Edgar Poe.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Dim and far behind us,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a fabled bloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the myrtle thickets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the swaying gloom<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hung the clustered windows<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of the barrack-room.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Faint on the evening<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tenuous and far<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the beauty shaken<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From a vagrant star,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Throbbed the ache and passion<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of an old guitar.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Life closed behind us<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a swinging gate,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 84 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span>Leaving us unfettered<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And emancipate;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Confidants of Destiny,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Intimates of Fate.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I could only cower,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silent, while the night,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Seething with its planets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Parted to our sight,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Showing us infinity<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In its breadth and height.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But my chosen comrade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tossing back his hair<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the old loved gesture,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Raised his face, and there<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Shone the agony that those<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Loved of God must bear.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Oh, we heard the many things<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silence has to say;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He and I together<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As alone we lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Waiting for the slow, sweet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miracle of day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When the bugle's silver<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Spiralled up the dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 85 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span>Dew-dear, night-cool,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the stars were gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I arose exultant,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a man new born.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But my friend and master,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heavy-limbed and spent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Turned, as one must turn at last<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the sacrament;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And his eyes were deep with God's<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Burning discontent.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_ON_POE">See the note on Poe.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 86 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span></p> +<h2><a name="ALCHEMY9" id="ALCHEMY9"></a>ALCHEMY<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">Some souls are strangers in this bourne;<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Beauty is born from such men's discontent;<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Earth's grass and stones,<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Her seas, her forests, and her air<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Are seas and forests till they mirror on some pool<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Unusually reflecting in an exile's mind,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Who tarries here protesting and alone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then they get strange shapes from memories of other stars<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The banished knew, or spheres he dreams will be.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Thus is the fivefold vision of the earth recast<br /></span> +<span class="i8">By ghostly alchemy.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">But there are favored spots<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Where all earth's moods conspire to make a show<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of things to be transmuted into beauty<br /></span> +<span class="i8">By alchemic minds.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Such is this island beach where Poe once walked,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">And heard the melic throbbing of the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">With muffled sound of harbor bells—<br /></span> +<span class="i10">Bells—he loved bells!<br /></span> +<span class="i4"><!-- Page 87 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span>And here are drifting ghosts of city chimes<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Come over water through the evening mist,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Like knells from death-ships off the coasts of spectral lands.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">I think some dusk their metal voices<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Yet will call him back<br /></span> +<span class="i4">To walk upon this magic beach again,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">While Grief holds carnival upon the harbor bar.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Heralded by ravens from another air,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The master will pass, pacing here,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Wrapped in a cape dark as the unborn moon.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">There will be lightning underneath a star;<br /></span> +<span class="i6">And he will speak to me<br /></span> +<span class="i6">Of archipelagoes forgot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Atolls in sailless seas, where dreams have married thought.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_ON_POE">See the note on Poe.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 88 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span></p> +<h2><a name="OSCEOLA10" id="OSCEOLA10"></a>OSCEOLA<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></h2> + +<h3><span class="smcap">An Epitaph</span></h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The feathers of the eagle-bonnets ride upon the north wind;<br /></span> +<span class="i2">The sachems and their totems have perished in the fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the valleys and the rivers and the mountains that you fought for<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Beats the quick desire.<br /></span> +<span class="i2">In the happy hunting ground of proven warriors,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">You have passed the pipe of peace at council fire<br /></span> +<span class="i2">With the pale-face and the Zulus' mighty chieftains—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Rest with dead desire.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> The Indian Chief, Osceola, lies buried at Fort Moultrie.</p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 89 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span></p> +<h2><a name="MAGNOLIA_GARDENS" id="MAGNOLIA_GARDENS"></a>MAGNOLIA GARDENS</h2> + +<h3><span class="smcap">A Prose-Poem</span></h3> + + +<p>In the spring when the first midges dance and warm days lure the +last-year's butterfly, the scarlet of the cardinals begins to flicker +through the ivory smoke of the mosses. Then the alligator leaves his +winter ooze, and the widening "O" of the ripple which his gar-like nose +makes, travels slowly across the sullen ponds, where the pendant +gonfalons of the mosses kiss their imaginary duplicates, hanging head +downward in the red water.</p> + +<p>When the first frog honks with the bull-voiced trumpet of resurgent +spring, the jasmine rings its little hawk-bells, golden harp notes +through the forest; and the usurping wistaria assumes the purple, +reigning imperial and alone, flaunting its <i>palidementum</i> in a cascade +of lilac amid the matrix of the mosses. Its sleek, muscular vine-arms +writhe round the clasped bodies of live oaks as if two lovers slept +beneath a cloak, and the cloisonné pavilion of their dalliance drips a +blue-glaze of shadows overhead.</p> + +<p>Underneath this motley canopy of gray and blue, lush with the early +tenderness of leaves, the pink <!-- Page 90 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span>azaleas open light-shy eyes like pupils +of albinos, sloughing off delicate pods that smoulder, when the wind +blows, live coals among the gray of furnace ashes. Here are magenta +carpets fit for leprechauns, when crescent moons glimmer upon the ocher +ponds, and the slow fireflies light their phantom lanterns, weaving to +and fro about the ivory-orange marble of the tomb.</p> + +<p>Each April day brings opalescent waves of birds that dart like living +brands about the aisles to light the flower lamps; nonpareils, orioles, +and hummingbirds, a mist of speed upon their wings, while the blue heron +stands one-leggéd by the ponds, watching the garden till it seethes and +flames with colors from the cloaks of mandarins.</p> + +<p>High in the ancient forest the magnolias burn the perfect alban lucence +of their lamps; white are their ivory cups like priestly linen, and +fragrant with the tang of foreign citrons. An esoteric, mirrored swan +slides by like Cleopatra's barge, while drums of color beaten by a +maniac blend with old tints of Leonardo's dreams, colors that God might +see if his own lightning blasted out his eyes.</p> + +<p>This march of color chants a strange barbaric fitness of dithyrambic +chords, and moves processional <!-- Page 91 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span>across the days like some encarnadined +durbar, where a huge Ethiopian eunuch in red moon-shaped slippers and an +orange turban walks with a glittering scimetar, leading a brace of +sleepy leopards drugged and golden eyed; the caparisoned elephants swing +down a latticed street; silk shawls hang from balconies, brushing the +domed gilt of howdahs; and ruby-roped, the maharajahs sway behind the +mahout with his peavey-goad.</p> + +<p>The stark denial of the blue-ribbed sky looks down upon this garden, +where the wantonness of earth is flaunted in the spring against the face +of heaven's void sterility. Here stolid faces look ashamed. When the sun +leans on boreal wings, there is a month that lovers walk here justified, +while flower throats cry in vast choirs, "Glory to life!" and the +uplifted trumpets of vine tubas shout with noise of color set to notes +of bloom.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 92 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span></p> +<h2><a name="MIDDLETON_GARDEN" id="MIDDLETON_GARDEN"></a>MIDDLETON GARDEN</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is a garden where the Son of Heaven<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Well might walk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With all his dragon-broidered mandarins,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the plucked sound of tenor instruments,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With peacocks, kites, and little red balloons,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mirrored with incense and rice-paper lights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And old bronze lanterns on the full moon nights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the lacquered, porcelain-pink lagoons.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">If cardinals in sun-blood robes were here<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To kiss the ring of gorgeous Borgia popes;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or bold de Gama's loot from Malabar:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Topaz and ruby, chrysolite and beryl,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The golden idol with a thousand hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ropes of pearl;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They would seem lesser than these flowers are,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose masculine magnificence makes riches pale.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And yet with all its oriental hue<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There is a touch of Holland,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of canals at Loo,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where Orange William planned a boxwood maze.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The house has Flemish curves upon its eaves;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 93 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its doorways yearn for buckle-shoed young bloods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Smoking clay pipes, with lace a-droop from sleeves—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moonlight on terraces is like a story told<br /></span> +<span class="i0">By sleepy link-boys 'round old sedan chairs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In days when tulip bulbs were gold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The faint, crisp rustle of magnolia leaves<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rasps with the crackling scratch of old brocade,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The low bird-voices ripple like the laugh<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of Watteau beauties coiffured, with pomade;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here ribboned dandies offered scented snuffs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To other ghosts, beneath the giant trees—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was that a flash of rose-flamingo stuffs—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Azaleas?—was a sneeze blown down the breeze?<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This terrace is a stage set by the years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fit for the pageants of the centuries;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That fire-scarred ruin marks an act of tears—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Charm is more winsome coped with tragedies.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here flaunted tilted hats and crinolines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Small parasols, hoopskirts, and bombazines,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When turbaned slaves walked dykes in single file,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rice-fields made horizons, otherwhile.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">All, all has passed, but change,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gnawed by the rat-like teeth of avid years,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The masters, through the door, to mysteries<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond blind panels 'mid the moss-scarved trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 94 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span>Uncanny gates, where negroes faintly bold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At high noon in the tide of summer heat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stand in the draught of tomb-air deathly cold<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That flows like glacial water 'round their feet.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 95 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_GOOSE_CREEK_VOICE" id="THE_GOOSE_CREEK_VOICE"></a>THE GOOSE CREEK VOICE</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This is the low-doored house among funereal trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Where one May dusk they brought Louise,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">With music slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">And sobbing low,<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The old slaves crooning eerily.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She died asleep and weeping wearily.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">She had a poppy-strange disease;<br /></span> +<span class="i4">A beauty that was more than carnal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How durst they leave her in the charnel?<br /></span> +<span class="i4">She might be sleeping eerily!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Hush! They have locked her in the tomb,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the silences and wilting bloom;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life's melody of voices drifts away—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Mistaken!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was it an owlet in the thorns that moaned?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The churchyard moonlight turns ash-gray—<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Hush! Pale Louise!<br /></span> +<span class="i4">The dead must not awaken.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something a twittering cry is uttering.<br /></span> +<span class="i4">Is that a bird there on her breast,<br /></span> +<span class="i8">Lost in the fragrant gloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wakening to morning twilight in the tomb?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No bird—it is her folded hands a-fluttering!<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 96 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I think I should have died to see her rise<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the withered wreaths<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And spider-cluttered palls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of her dead uncles' funerals,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While streams of horror fed the blue lakes of her eyes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I known I would have died to see her rise.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Over the fields a voice calls from the tomb,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Pleading and pleading drearily,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>But all the slaves have fled</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And left her talking to her coffined dead,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>And whimpering eerily.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The young birds die</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>To see old hands thrust from the window-slit,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Clutching the light in handfuls of despair;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Stark fear has stroked the color from her hair,</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>While from the window comes</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The babbled whisper of her prayer.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Night is like spiders in her mouth;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>By day they spin a film across her eyes.</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Now night; now day—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The birds come back;</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>It is another year:</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>The withering voice they fear</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>Has nothing more to say.</i><br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But yet once more<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her kinsmen came<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 97 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span>With nodding plume and pall<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And music slow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And, sobbing low,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They fluttered back the door, and lo!—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She leaned against the slit-window<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her web-like, bony hands against the wall,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And all about her, like a summer cloud<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rippled her leprous hair,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">One bleached and shuddering shroud.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 98 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_LEAPING_POLL" id="THE_LEAPING_POLL"></a>THE LEAPING POLL</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">At early morning when the earth grows cold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When river mists creep up,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And those asleep are nearest death,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She died.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The feather would not flutter in her breath;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And those who long had watched her slipped away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Too weary then to weep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They could do that next day—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They left her lonely on the bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under a long, glistening sheet, in feeble tallow-shine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Rigid from muffled feet to swathèd head.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">This in old days before the Turkish cure<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had driven out the pox;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Next morning, while slave carpenters<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Were hammering at the oblong box,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sun revived her and she breathed again,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like Lazarus, and in later years grew beautiful,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And was the mother of strong men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">These things her father, master of an ancient place,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pondered, and read of men in antique times<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who wakened in the charnel from a trance.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Often his eyes would rest on her askance,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And fear grew on him, and strange dreams he had a-bed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 99 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till waking and asleep he turned his head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Front-back, front-back, from side to side,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Looking for Death. At last, one night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He heard crisp footfalls in his room,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And stared his soul out in the gloom,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peering until he died.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But when they broke the seals upon his will,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They found each codicil and long bequest<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Was held in trust until<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The heirs should carry out his last request—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To burn his body (naming witnesses);<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they, all eagerness to share,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Prepared to carry out this strange behest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">A pile of lightwood on the river bank,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Neighbors on horseback, and the slaves,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With teeth as white as eyeballs, rank on rank,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watched on the pyre the form wrapped in a shroud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lonely among the lolling tongues of flames—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The smoke streamed, trailing in a saffron cloud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The greedy noise of fire grew loud,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then, "whiff," the shroud burned with a flare:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The dead man's eyes looked down<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like china moons upon the crowd.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They saw him slowly shake his head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The thing denied that it was dead,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While from the blacks arose a babblement of prayer.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 100 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Surely the head must stop—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Not till the fire caved!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then from the very top<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The loosened poll came with a leap,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bounding three times, it took the river-steep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down, down the river bank—all they<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ran after it like school boys for a ball.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">God! How the thing could roll!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It seemed the devil kicked the leaping poll.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At last it stopped at bay,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Staring across a tidal flat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where spider lilies frightened day.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They buried it within a lonesome wood,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With trembling hands, beneath a foreign stone.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But there were some who said<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It moved its lips;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when they went away, the earth stirred<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they heard it moan.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now it comes leaping down the tunnel roads<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the moss hangs like stalactites,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Screaming out curses, snapping at the toads;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Negroes who pass there on the moonless nights<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Behind them hear a sound that stops their breath.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The keen wind whistles through its teeth,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the white skull goes bounding by<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Looking for Death.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 101 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span></p> +<h2><a name="THE_BLOCKADE_RUNNER" id="THE_BLOCKADE_RUNNER"></a>THE BLOCKADE RUNNER</h2> + + +<h3>I</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Three years!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Since I had seen the city, in the time<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We waited through the tenseness of the hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While nerves were zither strings<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For fate to jar upon:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">All through that night we counted old St. Michael's chimes<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now three o'clock—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bells spoke as they had on marriage days,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With high and silver-happy tongues<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Yet somehow they had gained an irony,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For out across the quiet April bay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Grim, new-built forts grinned at old Sumter<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through the morning mist—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><i>One—two—three—four—</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And no sound yet! Then—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thirty minutes like a life too long;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A red flash dirked the night;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I thought a voice cried, "DOOM";<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That was the gun that killed a million men.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">God! How the city woke!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With what a rush of wonder in her streets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 102 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span>"<i>Burr</i>" of strained voices, earthquakes of feet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tramping to rolling drums,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The crowd swept to the Battery.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Roofs were black with gazing folk in knots,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Leveling their spyglasses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like phalanx spears,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From sea wall to the chimney tops.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Over the rippling harbor came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The growling, bull-dog bark of culverins,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Red rockets curved and plunged<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the dawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The world seemed drunk with confidence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That day—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Some secret nervousness about the slaves;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">What they might think or say;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But they did neither;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The bugles shouted at the Citadel.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hours were punctuated by glad bells,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soon to be hid away,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And gales of laughter came from gardens,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where bright tear-dashed eyes must weep farewells<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The braver lips refused to falter—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Mouths then seemed only made to kiss<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For men in gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who left the ancient houses of proud names,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through magic gates upon that magic day<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the lost cause was still-born in its hope.<br /></span> +</div></div><p><!-- Page 103 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span></p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I had gone—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It seemed no man's work then—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To buy supplies from "good friends" at the North—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Two years at old St. Louis and then down the river,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Past winking lights of towns and federal rams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In flat-boats with a precious freight of barrels,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Marked for the Yankees; but one night<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We supped past their last fort<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And floated down to Vicksburg through the dark.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How dull the lanterns glimmered at the quay!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But there was welcome, too,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Proud, thankful hands,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To take the medicine and powder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And unload sorghum barrels<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That we might change to quinine and to gold,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If we could ever get them to Nassau.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The column which they printed in the "News"<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On wall-paper, first made me think<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That it was worth-while man's work after all.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Then, out across the miles of leaguered states,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Through pine-barrens where frowsy men in gray<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lay with their wounded in the haggard camps—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A glimpse of old times in Atlanta<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a last febrile glow in well-loved eyes.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Now rolling in flat cars, trundling to the sea,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Back of the bull-head, wood-devouring engines.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 104 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">At last by night to Charleston<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Just before the iron ring closed—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ours was the last freight train of the war,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before the anaconda squeezed;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I had won (perhaps) if we could get<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Those precious barrels to England or Nassau.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">How changed my city was—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The grass grew in her streets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there were blackened ruins raw with fire;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A few old darkies crept along her ways;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The busy thunder of the drays was gone;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And ruin spoke with statue lips.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only a glimmering candle lurked in landward windows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dim through shimmering shutter chinks—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silence—silence was over all—no bells—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">St. Michael's were in hiding,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And St. Philip's spoke another voice,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And rung a blatant dirge to bluecoats, far<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a>In old Virginia, with Lee's batteries.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The miles of cotton rotted on the wharfs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the <i>Swamp Angel</i> belled with distant shocks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like earthquake jars;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">There was heat-lightning in the sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That God had never made,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From our sea-island batteries;<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 105 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span>And once a shell fell somewhere in the town<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a despairing scream that hope was dead.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Such were the streets—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And it was starving time in houses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where fat generosity once ran amuck,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">No fires in inns, no cheerful bark of hounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Or stroke of social hoofs upon the stones.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the long docks bit the black water<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like old loosened fangs that held the sea<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In one last grinning jaw-clamp of despair.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I knew those docks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When at the hour of noon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A molten clangor shivered cheerful air<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And thousand ship-bells rang—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And now—only a drifting buoy-bell rung<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The knell of hope with its emphatic tongue,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cut loose by the blockaders<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To wander down the harbor in despair.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Close in the shadow of a warehouse lay<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blockade-runner with her smokestacks gray,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Back-raking like her masts, and up her hatches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Came voices, and the furnace-light in patches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beat on the sails, and there alone was life—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><br /></span><!-- Page 106 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span> +<span class="i0">The stevedores sang muffled snatches, and a strife<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of bales and barrels streamed down her yawning hold;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Cotton more valuable than money,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And barrels of the St. Louis sorghum and molasses,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Honey to lure the bees of English gold.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Three days she lay, this arrow-pointed boat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a light gold necklace, beaded at her throat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something there was about her like a stoat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That lies in wait to make a silent rush,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there was something in her like a thrush,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For she had paddle-wheels, each like a wing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She had a long hornet stern that seemed to hold a sting.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sometimes her paddles slowly turned,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For they kept steam up, waiting for a gale.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It seemed as if the slim boat chafed and yearned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To go hell-tearing under steam and sail.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The oily water churned<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And made a <i>slap-slap</i> to the paddles' stroke;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a high painted canvas screen cut off<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The blue haze of the lightwood smoke.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">On the third evening, just at sunset, came<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A scud of driving cloud; the lightning's flame;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sun glared from a vicious, misty socket,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And in the moaning twilight curved a rocket<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While a blue flame blurred and frayed<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 107 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span>At Castle Pinckney; thus we knew the storm<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Had shifted the blockade.<br /></span> +</div></div> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out from the docks we shot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Into the screaming night;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We steered by lightning's light;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The paddles beat a mad tattoo;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The gridded walking-beam<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pumped up, pumped down,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against the misty gleam;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Faster and faster jets the stand-pipes' steam.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the white water whirls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Astern in phosphorescent whorls—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It swirls<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then leads backward green with light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of streaming foam across the velvet night.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">By the last lightning flare,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That must be Sumter, bare<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Against a torn cloud like a rag;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But now the wind begins to flag,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And as it fails the engines lag;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then comes a low hail from the mast<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Avast"—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Again the engines slow—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then stop—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we were drifting like a log<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 108 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span>As silent as a drowned corpse<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the sea-set tide,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Muffled in dripping fog.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">No word from all the ship—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She seemed asleep—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Only the cluck of water and the feel<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of grim Atlantic rollers at the keel,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nuzzling two fathoms deep;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They made her heel.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The porpoise played about our copper lip.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It seemed as if they were<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The only living things in all that blur,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And we—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The only ship upon an ancient sea.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">When suddenly a laugh broke through the spell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It was so near<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our pulses lapsed a heart-beat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Struck with fear.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The curtains of the fog were blown apart;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Stark in the sallow moonlight's metal day,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The white decks of a Yankee frigate lay.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw the glint of moonlight on her bell;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She was not twenty fathoms length away.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A man's face leaped out in the cherry glow<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of match flame in the hands he cupped<br /></span> +<span class="i0">About the pipe whose curling wreaths he supped.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 109 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Clang!" like a fireman's gong<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Our engine signals rang;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The paddles thrashed into a frothy song;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Five ship's lengths we had forged along<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before their bugles sang.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">We had ten long lengths on them<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Before their ship began to swerve.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The rabid screw was frothing at her stern;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But I could feel the verve<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of our blithe timbers tremble; every nerve<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of our good race-horse ship<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For open water seemed to yearn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">That was a Titan's race;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The answering rockets snaked it down the coast,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dying like scarlet worms<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the fog-wreaths; but we gained,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And when her flaming cannon stabbed the mist<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They thundered at our ghost.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So we were gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With cotton in our furnace,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Once the aft-stacks flared,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And then we plied pitch-pine<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dampened with turpentine,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Until the black sea glared—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But we had gone—<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 110 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Over the world's round shoulder<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thrust the dawn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Their ugly, black masts dipping it hull down.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Three days the paddles beat while we drove on!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">And I had won;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For on the fourth day as I sat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the black coffin-shadow of a boat,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The burning decks a-wash with lime-white sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I saw the graybeard lookout swell his throat<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And utter forth a glad and bronze hurrah,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"<i>Land Ho</i>!" he cried—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">We lined the windward side<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To cheer the washing palm tops of Nassau.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> <a href="#NOTE_ON_THE_CHIMES">See the note on the chimes at back of book.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 111 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span></p> +<h2><a name="BEYOND_DEBATE" id="BEYOND_DEBATE"></a>BEYOND DEBATE</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Out from the wrought-iron gate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miss Perdee drives in state;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miss Perdee wears the thin smile<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the sleeves of 1888.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Miss Perdee's face is stifled as a sonnet;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon her wire-tight hair a duck-shaped bonnet<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nests, nodding with a <i>cachepeigne</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of violets on it.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">East Bay, some tea and talk, them home by King.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The horses have an antiquated plod;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The team is old, but not too old to balk<br /></span> +<span class="i0">If driven north of Broad.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Miss Perdee wears the sure air of a queen,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Which only queens and Perdees can achieve.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The Perdees had blue blood in Adam's veins<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When Adam had the rib he gave to Eve.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Back through the wrought-iron gate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miss Perdee drives in state.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Miss Perdee lives down on the Battery!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Beyond debate.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 112 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span></p> +<h2><a name="MARSH_TACKIES12" id="MARSH_TACKIES12"></a>MARSH TACKIES<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Browsing on the salty marsh grass,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Barrel-ribbed and blowsy-bellied,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With a neigh as shrill as whistles<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And their mouths red-raw from thistles,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I have seen the brown <i>marsh tackies</i>,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hiding in the swamps at Kiawah,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the gray mosquito patches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gory on their shaggy thatches.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Balky, vicious, and degenerates,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They are small as Spanish jennets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But their sires were with El Tarab,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he conquered Andalusia<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For the Prophet and the Arab;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they came with Ponce de Leon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When the Spaniard made a <i>peon</i><br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a Christian of the Carib.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Peering from palmetto thickets<br /></span> +<span class="i0">At some fort's coquina wickets,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Startled Indians saw them grazing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thunder-stamping and amazing<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the beasts from other stars,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When they galloped down savannas,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And their masters seemed centaurs<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the new white metal blazing.<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 113 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">Thus they came, these little beasts,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With the men-at-arms and priests,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the west with Coronado<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When he reached the Colorado,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the east with bold De Soto<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In the search for El Dorado,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And they packed the bells and toys<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That the chieftains loved like boys;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Struggling through the swamps and briars<br /></span> +<span class="i0">After dons and tonsured friars;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dying in the forests dismal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till the shrill of silver clarion<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Brought the buzzards to the carrion<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Round the smoke of lonely fires<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In a continent abysmal.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">So De Soto left them dying,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Heedless of their human crying;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here he turned them loose to die<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Underneath a foreign sky;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But they lived on thicket dross,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On the leaves and Spanish moss—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And I wonder, and I wonder,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I hear the startled thunder<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of their hoofs die down the reaches<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of these Carolina beaches.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> <a href="#MARSH_TACKIES">See the note at the back of the book.</a></p></div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 114 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span></p> +<h2><a name="BACK_RIVER" id="BACK_RIVER"></a>BACK RIVER</h2> + +<h3><span class="smcap">"Medway Plantation"</span></h3> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Back River! What a name<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For yesterdays come back again today,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Reborn to be tomorrows still the same—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A landgrave built it when the English came;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Then men made houses well<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With cunning hands.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And service wore a nearer, feudal guise—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Witness the stone where "Rose,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A faithful servant," lies.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0"><i>Parnassus</i> stretches east, beyond that<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The plantation once called <i>Ararat</i>;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But they have gone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Forgotten as an ancient drinking song;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the old houses, dull and roofless,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Gape, with their doorways<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like a dumb mouth toothless,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With snake-engendering rooms that wall in fear,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Silent, down forest roadways loved by deer.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Sometimes at nights<br /></span> +<span class="i0">These skeletons of houses flash with lights,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 115 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span>And shadow-horsemen ride,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chasing wraith-deer<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With eery cry of hounds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And shuddering cheer;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the moon makes her rounds,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glimmering through windows dead<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As the dead eyes in a dead man's head;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And there is heard a misty horn—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down in the woods,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the moss-draped solitudes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The voodoo rooster crows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While owls hoot on forlorn.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">But <i>Back River</i> wears a different face;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It has not changed;—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Time seems to love the place;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Though all about it he has ranged,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here he has not<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Touched with his wand of rot—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Something of its immortal live-oak sap suffuses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Its sturdy men and houses and transfuses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Change into state.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sunny hours wait at strange behest.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here restless Time himself has come to rest.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The golden ivory of primeval light<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dwells in its Spanish moss,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Falling in living cascades from the trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 116 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span>And who goes there in summer hears the bees<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Booming among the Pride of India trees,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Dull grumbling tones,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">A deaf man dreams,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like far-off rumbling sound of boulder-stones<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Washed down by headlong streams.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">This is Time's temple;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Here he sleepy lies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Watching the buzzards circle in the skies,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While shrubs slough off the pod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Making a carpet delicate<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of petals strewn upon the sod,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fit for the silver slippers of the moon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Upon the streets of Nod.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I saw him once asleep<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Down by the dark ponds<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where alligators creep.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">He had been fishing with a willow withe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And by him lay his hourglass and scythe,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resting upon the grass;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">They lay there in the sun,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And through the glass the sands had ceased to run.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 117 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span></p> +<h2><a name="DUSK" id="DUSK"></a>DUSK</h2> + + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">They tell me she is beautiful, my City,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That she is colorful and quaint, alone<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Among the cities. But I, I who have known<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her tenderness, her courage, and her pity,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Have felt her forces mould me, mind and bone,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Life after life, up from her first beginning.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">How can I think of her in wood and stone!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To others she has given of her beauty,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her gardens, and her dim, old, faded ways,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her laughter, and her happy, drifting hours,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Glad, spendthrift April, squandering her flowers,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The sharp, still wonder of her Autumn days;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Her chimes that shimmer from St. Michael's steeple<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Across the deep maturity of June,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Like sunlight slanting over open water<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under a high, blue, listless afternoon.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">But when the dusk is deep upon the harbor,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She finds <i>me</i> where her rivers meet and speak,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And while the constellations ride the silence<br /></span> +<span class="i0">High overhead, her cheek is on <i>my</i> cheek.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I know her in the thrill behind the dark<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When sleep brims all her silent thoroughfares.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She is the glamor in the quiet park<br /></span> +<span class="i0"><!-- Page 118 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span>That kindles simple things like grass and trees.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wistful and wanton as her sea-born airs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bringer of dim, rich, age-old memories.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Out on the gloom-deep water, when the nights<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Are choked with fog, and perilous, and blind,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">She is the faith that tends the calling lights.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hers is the stifled voice of harbor bells<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Muffled and broken by the mist and wind.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hers are the eyes through which I look on life<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And find it brave and splendid. And the stir<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Of hidden music shaping all my songs,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And these my songs, my all, belong to her.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 119 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span></p> +<h2><a name="NOTES_AND_BIBLIOGRAPHY" id="NOTES_AND_BIBLIOGRAPHY"></a>NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 120 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span><br /> +<!-- Page 121 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span></p> +<h2><a name="NOTES" id="NOTES"></a>NOTES</h2> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<p class="center"><a name="NOTE_ON_THE_CHIMES" id="NOTE_ON_THE_CHIMES"></a>NOTE ON THE CHIMES</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">To Accompany "Silences"</span></p> + +<p>The bells of Charleston, like the bells of London Town, have a peculiar +interest. St. Michael's bells and clock were brought from England in +1764. When the British evacuated Charleston in 1782 they took the bells +with them. A Mr. Ryhineu bought them in England and returned them. They +were rehung in November, 1783. During the Civil War, St. Michael's +steeple was the target for Federal artillery and fleet guns. In 1861 the +bells were taken to Columbia, S.C., where two of them were stolen, and +the rest injured by fire when the city was burned. Those left were again +sent to England, and recast in the original moulds. In March, 1867, they +once again rang out from the spire.</p> + +<p>St. Phillip's Church stands in the old part of the town. During the +Civil War its bells were cast into cannon. For a long time its steeple +was used as a lighthouse. It is the center of forgotten things.</p> + +<p>The bells of St. Matthew's are modern and speak of <!-- Page 122 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span>a new order, but all +the bells are the voice of the town. They speak for her silences, which +are eloquent.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<p class="center"><a name="NOTE_ON_THE_PIRATES" id="NOTE_ON_THE_PIRATES"></a>NOTE ON "THE PIRATES"</p> + +<p>The many inlets and sheltering coves of the Carolina coasts very early +made the "low country" seaboard a rendezvous for pirates and a shelter +to refit, and to bury their treasure.</p> + +<p>As early as 1565 the French from Ribault's settlement succumbed to the +temptation to plunder their rich Spanish neighbors; and in the century +before the coming of the English, the lonely bays and estuaries saw +strange ships from time to time. There was a pirate settlement by 1664 +at Cape Fear River, where Governor Sayle did not arrive until 1670 to +take formal possession for the Lords Proprietors of the colony.</p> + +<p>The Peace of Utrecht turned many privateers into pirates, ships which +had been habitually preying upon Spanish commerce since Blake's victory +at Santa Cruz in 1657, and these gentlemen of fortune were at first +welcome in the Carolinas. Nearly all the coin in circulation then was at +first brought by such doubtful adventurers, and they were regarded as +the natural protectors of the Carolinas against their powerful enemy, +the Spaniard, to the south.</p> + +<p><!-- Page 123 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span>Gradually, however, this cordial attitude changed. It was a small step +from attacking Spanish to plundering English commerce, and with the +cultivation and export of rice and indigo, the demand for a safe sea +passage grew overwhelming, while the coasts continued to be ravaged. The +royal government was slow to act. In 1684 we learn that "the governor +will not in all probability always reside in Charles Town, which is so +near the sea as to be in danger of sudden attack by pirates;" nor was +this an idle thought, for the town was blockaded by pirate ships at the +harbor's mouth, and medicines and supplies demanded while citizens were +held as hostages.</p> + +<p>In 1718 Governor Spotswood of Virginia sent an expedition to North +Carolina, which succeeded in surprising, capturing, and beheading the +notorious "Black Beard," who in company with one Stede Bonnet, had long +ravaged the coast with impunity.</p> + +<p>In August of the same year word was brought to Charlestown that Bonnet +with his ship the <i>Royal James</i> was refitting in the Cape Fear River. +Colonel William Rhett volunteered to attack him. With two sloops of +eight guns each, the <i>Henry</i> and the <i>Nymph</i>, and about 130 men in all, +he set sail, and found Bonnet at anchor in the Cape Fear River. In +making the attack, and during the encounter, all three ships ran +aground. The fight raged desperately all day between the <i>Henry</i> and the +<i>Royal James</i>, <!-- Page 124 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span>the <i>Nymph</i> being unable to get off the shoal and come +to the help of her companion ship. Bonnet finally surrendered and was +taken prisoner to Charlestown. It is this adventure which the poem +celebrates.</p> + +<p>Bonnet escaped, but was afterwards recaptured by Colonel Rhett on +Sullivan's Island. He and about thirty of his crew were hanged about the +corner of Meeting and Water Streets. Bonnet, himself, was hanged later +than his crew, after a masterpiece of invective by the judge, who +painted hell vividly. This pirate leader was dragged fainting to the +gallows, and there was much sympathy for him, as it was said, "His humor +of going a-pirating proceeded from a disorder of the mind ... occasioned +by some discomforts he found in the married state."</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<p class="center"><a name="NOTE_ON_THE_SEEWEES_OF_SEEWEE_BAY" id="NOTE_ON_THE_SEEWEES_OF_SEEWEE_BAY"></a>NOTE ON "THE SEEWEES OF SEEWEE BAY"</p> + +<p>The Seewee Indians, who lived on the shores of what is now known as +Bull's Bay, S.C., but was formerly called Seewee Bay, became +discontented with the small prices obtained from the white traders for +pelts. Seeing the ships constantly coming into the Bay from England, +they conceived the idea of building large canoes and reaching England +over the ocean. Several huge canoes, larger than any hereto<!-- Page 125 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span>fore built +by Indians, were accordingly constructed; these were loaded with the +proceeds of a season's hunting, and, manned by all the braves of the +tribe, set out in the direction from which the ships came. A gale came +up and the braves were never seen again. Their squaws gradually wandered +off to other tribes. This event took place about 1696.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<p class="center"><a name="NOTE_ON_LA_FAYETTE" id="NOTE_ON_LA_FAYETTE"></a>NOTE ON LA FAYETTE</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">To Accompany "La Fayette Lands"</span></p> + +<p>The Marquis de la Fayette, under the name of Gilbert du Motier, sailed +from Bordeaux on the 26th of March, 1777, accompanied by the Baron Kalb +and several French Army Officers. On the 14th of June, 1777, he first +landed in America on North Island in Winyah Bay, near Georgetown, S.C., +and was received at the house of Major Huger. In a letter to his wife, +written soon after his landing, La Fayette says, "I first saw and judged +of the life of the country at the house of a Major Huger." Detailed +accounts of La Fayette's landing and reception still exist.</p><p><!-- Page 126 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span></p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<p class="center"><a name="NOTE_ON_THEODOSIA_BURR" id="NOTE_ON_THEODOSIA_BURR"></a>NOTE ON THEODOSIA BURR</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">To Accompany "The Priest and the Pirate"</span></p> + +<p>In 1801 Theodosia, daughter of Aaron Burr, Vice-President of the United +States, married Joseph Alston of "The Oaks," Hobcaw Barony, S.C. They +had one son, Aaron Burr Alston, who died in 1812, the same year that +Joseph Alston was elected Governor of the State. On December 30th, 1812, +at the urgent solicitation of her father, who had just returned from +Europe, and who awaited her eagerly in New York, Theodosia set sail from +Georgetown, S.C., in the pilot-boat schooner, "Patriot." Those on board +were never seen again.</p> + +<p>The vessel, which was being fitted out as a privateer, was carrying +dismounted guns under her deck, and may have foundered in the severe +gale of January 1st, 1813.</p> + +<p>In 1869, however, a Dr. W.C. Pool attended a fisher family at Naggs +Head, Kittyhawk, N.C. In the fisherman's hut hung an oil painting of a +beautiful woman, which had been taken from an abandoned pilot-built +schooner that drifted onto the North Carolina coast in that vicinity in +January, 1813. No one was aboard and the vessel had evidently been +looted. Ladies' clothes were found in great disorder in the cabin.</p> + +<p><!-- Page 127 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span>There was also a story told by a dying sailor who confessed that he had +seen the crew of such a boat walk the plank, and that among them was a +beautiful woman who walked into the sea with a Bible or prayer-book in +her hand.</p> + +<p>The painting is in the possession of the Burr-Alston connection, and is +thought by them, on account of its striking family resemblance, to be a +picture of Theodosia Burr. The painting story has often been scouted, +but there is too much circumstantial evidence to ignore it in treating +the legend.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<p class="center"><a name="NOTE_TO_THE_LAST_CREW" id="NOTE_TO_THE_LAST_CREW"></a>NOTE TO "THE LAST CREW"</p> + +<p>The "Fish-Boat" of the Confederate Navy, which exhaustive research +indicates to have been the first submarine vessel to sink an enemy ship +in time of war, was designed by Horace L. Hundley in 1863. This boat was +twenty feet long, three and one-half feet wide, and five feet deep. Her +motive power consisted of eight men whose duty it was to turn the crank +of the propeller shaft by hand until the target had been reached. When +this primitive craft was closed for diving there was only sufficient air +to support life for half an hour. Since the torpedo was attached to the +boat itself there was no chance of escape. The only hope was to reach +and destroy the <!-- Page 128 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span>enemy vessel before the crew were suffocated or +drowned.</p> + +<p>Five successive volunteer crews died without reaching their objectives. +But the sixth crew was successful in sinking the Federal blockading ship +"Housatonic," their own craft being caught and crushed beneath the +foundering vessel. These crews went to certain death in the night time, +in such secrecy that it was often months before their own families knew +the names of the men. And now, with the lapse of scarcely more than half +a century, it has been possible to find the names of only sixteen of +those who paid the price.</p> + +<p>Because no nation of any time can point to a more inspiring example of +self-sacrifice, and because now, in a country reunited and indissoluble, +the traditions of both the North and the South are a common, glorious +heritage, the poem, which presents the final episode in the drama, is +written as a memorial to all who gave their lives in the venture.</p> + +<p class="right">D.H.</p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<p class="center"><a name="NOTE_ON_POE" id="NOTE_ON_POE"></a>NOTE ON POE</p> + +<p class="center"><span class="smcap">To Accompany <a name="Edgar_Allan_Poe" id="Edgar_Allan_Poe"></a>"Edgar Allan Poe" and <a name="Alchemy" id="Alchemy"></a>"Alchemy"</span></p> + +<p>In May, 1828, Poe enlisted in the army under the name of Edgar A. Perry, +and was assigned to Battery<!-- Page 129 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span> "H" of the First Artillery at Fort +Independence. In October his battery was ordered to Fort Moultrie, +Charleston, S.C. Poe spent a whole year on Sullivan's Island. Professor +C. Alphonso Smith, the well-known Poe authority, says, "So far as I +know, this was the only tropical background that Poe had ever seen." +That the susceptible nature of the young poet was vastly impressed by +the weirdness and melancholy scenery of the Carolina coast country, +there can be very little doubt. The dank tarns and funereal woodlands of +his landscapes, or at least the strong suggestion of them, may all be +found here, and the scene of <i>The Goldbug</i> is definitely laid on +Sullivan's Island. Here are dim family vaults, and tracts of country in +which the House of Usher might well stand.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Dim vales and shadowy floods<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And cloudy-looking woods<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Whose forms we can't discover,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From the tears that drip all over"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>was written while Poe was in the army at Fort Moultrie, and appeared in +his second volume in 1829. There are later echoes.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Around by lifting winds forgot<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Resignedly beneath the sky<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The melancholy waters lie."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p class="right">H.A.</p><p><!-- Page 130 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span></p> + +<div><br /></div> +<div><br /></div> +<p class="center"><a name="MARSH_TACKIES" id="MARSH_TACKIES"></a>"MARSH TACKIES"</p> + +<p>"Marsh Tackies" is the name given by the negroes to the little, wild +horses of the Carolina coast country's swamps and sea islands. Early +traditions say that these horses were found by the English when they +first came and that they are the descendants of runaways from the +Spanish settlements to the South about St. Augustine, or horses turned +loose by DeSoto upon his ill-fated march to the Mississippi. These +horses pick up a precarious living in out-of-the-way sections along the +coast, and are occasionally taken and broken in by the negroes. They are +the "poor horse trash" of the section.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><!-- Page 131 --><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span></p> +<h2><a name="BIBLIOGRAPHY" id="BIBLIOGRAPHY"></a>BIBLIOGRAPHY</h2> + + + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="Bibliography"> +<tr><td align='left'>Alstons and Allstons of South Carolina</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">S.C. Graves</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Annual Report of the Am. Hist. Ass.</td><td align='right'>1913</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Aaron Burr, Memoirs, Life, and Letters</td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Charleston Courier</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Old Files</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Charleston Mercury</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Old Files</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Charleston the Place and the People</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Ravenel</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Colonial History of South Carolina</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Lawson</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Defense of Charleston Harbor</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Johnson</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Diary from Dixie</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Chestnut</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Edgar Allan Poe</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Woodbury</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Edgar Allan Poe, How to Know Him</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Smith</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Edgar Allen Poe</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Harrison</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Mobile Mercury</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Old Files</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Proceedings of the American Philos. Soc.</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Vol. XXVI</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Pirates, The Carolina</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Hughson, Johns Hopkins</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'> </td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Press Pamphlet</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Submarines</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Pamphlet, Smythe, A.T., Jr.</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>South Carolina Historical and Genealogical Magazine</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Vol. XIV</span></td></tr> +<tr><td align='left'>Theodosia</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Pidgin</span></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAROLINA CHANSONS***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 16064-h.txt or 16064-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/0/6/16064">https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/0/6/16064</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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